The Tour Stop
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![]() Dead City
-- EXCERPT: The door opened, and the object of my reflections strode in. Black vest today and gray yoga pants. He kicked off his shoes and rolled his head on his shoulder to stretch the muscles. “You ready?” he asked. Terse tone, check. He always started out this way. “Yep.” “Okay, let’s see what you remember from the other day.” I launched myself at him, not giving him a moment to think, but he grabbed me around the waist easily and flung me to the ground before landing on top of me, arms braced on either side of my head, body in plank position so it was mere inches from mine. “Not good enough.” His eyes glittered, and his gaze fell to my lips. “Try harder.” There was a bite to his words, and then he’d pushed off me and leapt to his feet. Shit, the man was agile. Large and muscled like a wildcat, like the panthers we’d seen on the documentaries at the cinema if panthers were silver and blond with twilight eyes. He circled me as I stood. “I’m going to attack you now, Echo,” he warned. A shiver went up my spine, because hell if that wasn’t a hint of glee in his tone. “I’m going to attack you, and you need to defend.” His hair had fallen forward into his eyes, and he peered at me from behind the tendrils, his eyes super dark beyond his spectacles. My pulse fizzed, and adrenaline leaked into my limbs. “Wait, what?” We hadn’t played this game before. “You know the moves. If you lose your staff if you’re up against the Breed, what do you do?” Was that a growl to his tone? “Um, Emory.” His chest was rising and falling rapidly. “Run.” Run? And then he was charging me. I leapt out of the way just in time to avoid the crash of his body and launched into a run; the room was big, but with him in residence, it felt way too small. I leapt over the horse and grabbed hold of the rings hanging from the ceiling, using them to swing myself over to the rock-climbing wall. My fingers grazed the nooks, gaining purchase long enough to hang and drop, turn and twist to kick him in the gut. My foot connected but didn’t come away because he had my ankle. My gaze shot up to meet his, and his lips curled slowly. It was a primal smile, a smile of triumph and ownership. “Okay, you win.” I hopped on one leg while he continued to hold the other. “I do?” He kept hold of my ankle with one hand and grabbed my calf with the other, pulling me closer. “Shit.” My heart was thudding faster now, but not with exertion, with fear, because when I looked into his eyes, the Emory I knew wasn’t there. “Emory? You win. You can let go now.” He canted his head and released my ankle to grab my thigh. “You think a Breed will let you go? You think a scuttler will let you go?” My pulse was hammering in my throat now as I scanned the face I’d known for years and found nothing familiar aside from the features. His fingers tightened on me. “The Breed will catch you, and they’ll fuck you.” He yanked my leg suddenly and hard enough to knock me off balance and bring me to the ground. He came with me, his weight landing on my body, pushing it into the mats. A growl vibrated against me, and my fear spiked and twisted into something else, something untamed and dangerous. He inhaled, and the pupils behind his glasses dilated. His gloved hand slid up my body to tangle and fist in my hair almost painfully. Tears stung my eyes, and my body began to tremble, but this … this wasn’t fear, it was anticipation. What was this? What was happening right now? His thigh slipped between mine, pushing up against my crotch, and my body was suddenly on fire. “Emory?” His name was a breathless explosion. He tensed, and the hand in my hair flexed, tearing a gasp from me. He blinked slowly as if waking from a daydream, and then his face, his beautiful face, contorted in horror. “Echo?” “Emory?” He leapt off me as if he’d been burned and turned away, bracing his hands on his head. He took several steps away from me and then lowered his arms. His back straightened, and when he turned to face me, his expression was closed. “Get up.” He looked down on me coolly. “Training is done for the day.” ![]()
GIVEAWAY!
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by Kathy Kimbray Genre: YA Fantasy Release Date: May 28th 2019 Summary: A squandering emperor. A handsome stranger. A reluctant heroine. And the ancient magic that will capsize a kingdom. Seventeen-year-old Meadow Sircha watched her mother die from the wilting sickness. Tormented by the knowledge that the emperor failed to import the medicine that would have saved her, she speaks out at a gathering of villagers, inciting them to boycott his prized gladiator tournament. But doing so comes at a steep cost. Arrested as punishment for her impulsive tongue, Meadow finds herself caught up in the kind of danger she’s always tried to avoid. After a chance meeting with an enigmatic boy, she’s propelled on a perilous trek across the outer lands. But she soon unearths a staggering secret: one that will shift her world—and the kingdom—forever. Filled with longing and heart, surprise and wonder, A SHIFTING OF STARS is the first book in Kathy Kimbray's gripping Of Stars trilogy. ![]() AMAZON LINK: https://tinyurl.com/
CHAPTER ONE
I should not be here. I’m foreign to this village of broken rooftops and dull stone walls. I brush my fingers over a pillar. Its coldness burns my skin, makes me pause.
Go home.
The words sing loud like a taunt as moonlight slithers across my shoulders. The parchment digs like thorns in my palm. I imagine its shape, every fiber and ink blot.
Something moves near my feet and I jump. It’s just a rat, one of hordes from the city. They’ve grown bolder during these past few seasons, always darting out of alleys and running by arches, desperate—like us—to fill their bellies.
As it squeaks away, nails tapping in rhythm, I inspect the darkened street before me. Lamplight glows from a crooked post, but the shadows are still and the windows are empty. A leaf-strewn house looms in the distance, enticing me over the cobblestone ground. That house is the reason I’ve ventured so late into this weary part of town. Beside me, buildings cringe with moss. Walkways glisten with dirty puddles. Teetering balconies slouch from walls with garments strung between casements like cobwebs.
But that smell.
I halt to sniff the air. It wafts from the dwelling ahead of me. It winds from beneath its splintered panes—the pungent scent of broth and ale.
I wish it were stew.
Saliva brims on my tongue at the thought of meat cooked with spices and oils. The last time venison passed my lips, my mother was alive, my father smiled, and the future stretched before us, unending. Those were the days of Emperor Komran, a king who lived and bled for his people. I barely remember the white of his beard or how he limped through the fields during harvest. And it’s the same with my mother. I’m losing her, too. The curve of her cheek. The shade of her tresses. When she died, we set her afloat in the Geynes, and I sat on the bank with my toes in the water, not wanting to break that connection to her.
It’s a year tonight.
My chest starts to cave, but I fight and I fight to be still, to not cry. At least the dead are not hungry, not in turmoil. They do not see what Centriet has become.
I urge my feet toward the house. Komran would never have driven me here. When he reigned, our streets were routinely swept, and fountains dotted the well-kept pavements.
And medicine was--
A loose stone clacks. Forgetting my thoughts, I dart to an alcove. Since Komran’s son became our emperor, soldiers lurk where you’d least expect them.
In the dark, I steady my breaths, in and out. Not that I’m breaking any laws—that I know of. I listen to the night: crickets chirping, a soft breeze, and the whinny of a horse that’s so indistinct, perhaps it’s from Sledloe, the next village over.
I wait longer, just to be safe. Many of the soldiers are kind, though not all. Father says they’ve been granted more powers, but that we won’t know what it means for a while.
I hate not knowing. Just like tonight. I hate not knowing what awaits in the house. When the street remains silent, I rejoin the road, but my ankles wobble when I try to walk.
So I jog.
It soothes my jangled nerves, and I reach the house, breathless and flushed. Planks board the four square windows; rust from the nails seeps into the woodgrain. The stones are all different sizes and shapes, charred by the remnants of a long-ago fire. Ivy clings to the rutted surface, its end pieces curling like ribbon from the door.
You should leave, Meadow.
But I raise my fist. All I need to do is knock. I’ve already abandoned my stonebrick at dusk without letting Father know where I have gone. The loss of my mother hits me anew—the pain a reminder of why I have come here. That I’ve come to move on, to at last let her go. Even though I’m not sure what that means anymore.
Or if I can.
“Are you here for the Gathering?”
The question shatters the bracing air. Someone’s behind me and I spin to face him, shrouding myself with my long dark hair. But I’m wrong. There are two. One’s tall and strapping. The other is smaller in every way. As they chance another step, I notice that they’re young—about my age, seventeen.
“Why I’m here is not your concern,” I say.
“We do beg your pardon,” the smaller boy says. He has a scar on his brow like a cutlass. And another on his forearm, dark as molasses. He gestures to the vacant street behind him. “Have you ever visited Yahres before?”
“Yes,” I say, though my words are false. It’s safer to make them believe I’m a local.
“And your name?” asks the boy, but I shake my head at the same time his companion lets out a grunt.
“Don’t bother,” he snaps. “We leave tomorrow.”
The smaller boy nods, looking slightly embarrassed.
“We watched you for a bit,” he tells me.
“And what did you see?” I ask.
He smiles. One of his teeth is chipped. “We assumed you’d turn back many times.”
My pulse quickens at their presumption, especially since it’s mostly true. The slums of Yahres are outside the walls. My home lies inside in the village of Maytown. In Maytown we’re warned to always tread wisely in places like Yahres, Florian, and Sledloe. Perhaps that’s why I’d appeared so unsure. Yet neither of the pair looks remarkably dangerous.
“You proved us wrong,” the boy continues.
“No hard feelings,” I say.
He laughs. “Come inside with us.”
He holds out a hand, but I back away.
“Forgive me,” he says, withdrawing swiftly, color blotching his cheeks. “We lodge with the man who hosts these gatherings . . . and I noticed you had a parchment to read.”
“You saw?” I jolt, clutching it tightly, blood surging through my legs and arms. Since Mother’s passing, it happens quite often. My heart beats fast, and I need to run.
“You don’t have to read it,” he says.
I swallow.
“Although you can if you want to, of course. Unless you didn’t come here for the Gathering?”
“I doubt she’s here for anything else.”
It’s much too hard to read his expression, but the taller boy speaks with a dash of disdain. He sidesteps his friend with two no-nonsense strides.
“You don’t know my business,” I say.
“Oh, please.” He comes in close, reaching past me, and the scent of leather and steel is intense. It reminds me of sitting in my father’s workroom when he’s mending quivers for the elder archers. The boy raps on the door with his knuckles. Three times, then nothing. The way we’re supposed to. “Of course you’re here for the Gathering,” he says, as metal grinds and a peephole opens.
My need to bolt escalates.
“Get in. You’re the last,” says the face inside. The cumbersome timber shifts outward before us. It breaks the leaves and they flutter in spirals.
“After you,” the tall boy says.
The parchment feels like a stone in my hand. It dawns on me how stifled this is—this narrow black corridor, deep in the kingdom.
I brush the still-dangling leaves to one side. The passageway stretches a good twenty paces. I could perish in there and no one would find me.
“Are you waiting for something?”
“No,” I say.
Ignoring the boy, I stoop to enter, trying to focus my thoughts on the brickwork. The blocks have eroded from years of scuffing. They smell like lichen and tarnished copper. Light spills through the distant doorframe, and our guide clears his throat to urge us on. I double my pace, though the boys hang back. The weight of their presence behind me is strong.
About the Author
She loves summer, dancing and dreaming up big ideas. A SHIFTING OF STARS is the first book in her thrilling new YA fantasy series. ![]() Primal Possession
-- EXCERPT: Saskia willed herself to stop trembling but it was damn near impossible. Especially when the huge, intimidating man stopped in front of her, pinned her in place with a piercing gray stare, and went absolutely still. It was as though he were carved out of stone. His nostrils flared as if in slow motion and her heart beat a frantic tattoo in her chest as he inhaled and she watched his expression change from one of mild curiosity to a look of raw, primal hunger. He looked like he would devour her. She had seen one or two Alphas from a distance, but never before had she stood in such close proximity to one. Even more impressive than the trademark expensive clothing they wore, which she had only ever viewed from afar, this one up close radiated power and dominance in a way she had never experienced before. He was undeniably attractive, in his perfectly tailored gray suit, but the way he was staring at her—like a cat eyeing a mouse—was distinctly unnerving. Breathe through your mouth, her mother had always warned her. If an Alpha’s pheromones reach you and he’s a breeding match, it will all be over. He’ll go into rut, you’ll go into estrus, and you’ll be powerless to stop him. It’s imperative that you don’t smell him. Saskia squeezed her eyes shut; the only way she could think of to escape that penetrating gaze he was leveling on her. But even against the sudden dark backdrop of her closed eyelids, his face remained as though imprinted in her mind. His long, shaggy black hair. His slightly hooked nose. His full, sensuous lips. The stubble coating his square, tense jaw. And those eyes… those iron-gray eyes which seemed to see right down into her soul. Saskia concentrated on breathing through her mouth until he interrupted her with a growl. “I thought I told you to look at me.” With a supreme effort, she forced her eyes back open and herself to meet his stare head-on. Determined not to cower or show any sign of fear, she lifted her chin and took a deep breath. Too late, she realized her mistake. ![]()
GIVEAWAY! ![]() Crashing Together
-- EXCERPT: Addi “You’re in over your head and you know it.” Leigh lifts her frozen margarita to her lips and eyes me over the sugar rim. “I am not.” I roll my eyes and look around the smoky bar. I don’t know why I even let Leigh talk me into coming here. It’s dark, a little sketchy, and the millions of fog machines fill the place with smoke so thick you’d think they allowed cigarettes in here. “You’re in denial, Addi. You can’t even look at me.” I snap my eyes back to her. “It’s hard to see with all this smoke.” I wave my hand around for dramatic effect. I’m so in denial but she doesn’t need to know that. Leigh laughs and rolls her eyes. “Yeah okay girl, whatever you say.” “The drinks are delicious though.” I raise my glass before bringing to my lips to it, licking the sugar rim. It’s as if a storm is brewing, ready to take over at any minute, inside my belly. Awake at night, I stare at the ceiling as it flips and twists, growing worse. The storm named Cole. He fills my bloodstream, running through my veins, and follows me everywhere I go. No matter what I do, I can’t stop it. I was a fool thinking I could and I’m a fool now as I sit here and let it happen. I’m falling hopelessly in love with Cole. It’s unreal, consuming, and lighting me on fire from within. I’ve never felt anything like it before. The more I see him, the more I want. And Leigh is absolutely correct. I’m in over my fucking head. ![]()
GIVEAWAY! Synopsis:Lukas Richter is a San Francisco police detective with a cybernetic eye and heightened senses. He can detect the same autonomous responses as a polygraph machine, so he has a leg up in determining guilt. In An Eye for a Lie, his first full-length novel, Richter is accused of murder and the evidence seems incontrovertible, including a bullet that was somehow fired from his gun when he claims he was nowhere near the crime scene. In the background, San Francisco is aflame over Richter's shooting of an unarmed Asian man, an incident some are calling "the Asian Ferguson." Can Inspector Richter convince a plucky and suspicious FBI agent of his innocence in the face of overwhelming accusations and public persecution?
Read an excerpt:"All units, active shooter in progress, be advised perp is SFPD . . ." The police frequencies in Vessa's sedan couldn't get enough of the situation. She was hardly in her car before the address where Richter was came over the air. She headed there immediately, lights flashing, accelerator floored. He was in a townhouse on ninth, near Tehama, only a handful of blocks from the Hall of Justice. The entire area was cordoned off and blanketed with police cars. Vessa badged her way through and got to Commander Bayes who stood with Deputy Chief Forrest several yards from the front door. The townhouse was painted lime green and the entrance stood ajar. "Commander, what's the situation?" Vessa asked. "He's holed up in there," Bayes shook his head toward the house. "Got a hostage." "A hostage? You're kidding." "Wish I was. Teenage girl, still up there. He let the rest of the family go." Now, Bayes shook his head a different way, indicating Vessa should look near one of the ambulances. There was a man and a woman, firmly behind police lines. Both were slender with brown hair and the woman wore a red sweater. She was crying and the man and a paramedic were trying to comfort her. "Commander, none of this makes sense. Can you imagine Richter taking a hostage? It doesn't feel right." "C'mon, Agent Drake," Bayes said. "None of us can say we really know him now." Vessa frowned up at the building. Between her and the front door lay perhaps twenty feet of tarmac and parked cars. Bayes turned to Forrest and they conferred. Before Vessa even knew what she was doing, she was off --crossing the street at a sprint. "Hey!" Bayes yelled. Forrest pointed. "Stop her!" It was too late. She broke away from the lines and was at the door before anyone could grab her. She pushed the dark portal open and slipped inside, shutting it behind her, closing it fully so it locked. Inside, it took a couple of minutes for her eyes to adjust to the pale strobe lights coming through the front blinds and door windows. She was in an open living room. It was small and closely furnished with a dining room capping it off near the back of the building. She guessed the kitchen would be around the corner. To her right, a staircase led upward. The landing was dark. Vessa had taken her gun out without consciously realizing it. Now, she stared at it in the undulating red and blue lights. What was she going to do with it? Shoot her lover when she found him? She holstered the gun. "Oh, Luke," she said softly. As if in answer, something moved above her, making a dull thud on the floor. She startled. Slowly, she made her way up the stairs. "Luke?" she called. "I'm coming upstairs." There was no answer. At the top of the stairs were three doors. Two were dark and closed. Wan light traced the outline of the third door. She opened it cautiously. "Luke?" The door creaked on its hinges to reveal a seemingly empty bedroom. The air was stale although the room was tidy and sparsely furnished with a queen-sized bed and two nightstands. The fluorescent lights from the street diffused around the edges of a thick curtain drawn across a large window. The occluded light wasn't strong enough to dispel the rooms shadows. "Luke?" Vessa noticed she was whispering. She cleared her throat and spoke with as normal a voice as she could muster. "Luke? Where are you?" "Here," came a reply. She was practically on top of him by that time. He sat with his back to a wall across from the foot of the bed. Vessa jumped. "Oh! You startled me." He was staring at her. She half expected his evil eye to glow in the dimness but instead, she saw only normal dark eyes glittering from his outlined face. He sat with his knees bent and his arms resting between his legs. In his hands was a mass of blackness-his gun. That ugly piece of metal was a cursed reminder of what was going on and why they were here, facing each other in this shadowed space. Vessa craned her neck around but didn't see anyone else. "Where's the girl?" Richter watched Vessa intently for several seconds before answering. "The couple's outside. I let them go." "No, apparently there's still a teenager in here somewhere." Richter's gaze dropped to the carpet in front of him. "That would explain why it's just you and not SWAT. They think I have a hostage. Well, I don't." "You have me." His head snapped up. "You're not a hostage. Why are you here, anyway?" "I'm here to get you. I don't want them gunning you down." "You're here to arrest me, Special Agent Vessa Belle Drake?" "Oh, Luke. We'll figure this out." Richter brought the gun up in his right hand and pressed it to the underside of his chin, angled back toward his brain. Vessa gasped. "No!" She was rooted to the spot, eyes wide. He stared at her. "I guess whether I do it or SWAT does it, it's still death by cop." Tears burned her eyes. "No, Luke. No. Why would you even think it? There must be some mistake. There must be some reason why those bullets matched." "I won't be locked up. I won't be put back in the cage and poked and prodded, and studied to death this time." Vessa remembered the shaking man sweating beside her in his bed at night. Even though he didn't speak of them, she knew he was having nightmares. Was it possible he was actually capable of pulling that trigger? Her chin throbbed where he'd bitten her. She couldn't stand this. How could she have been so wrong? She was never wrong. She swallowed. Never before had she fallen for a guilty man. How was she so blinded by hubris that she could feel this way about Richter when he was a merciless killer? He stared at her, gun in his hand. He didn't move. She shook slightly with the emotions flooding her. Here she was, at the cusp of what she felt was the most important moment in her life. The man she loved sat before her, ready to take his own life if she didn't do or say the right thing next. She was paralyzed-absolutely paralyzed. All her training, and here she was, a shaking, paralyzed ball of nerves. She burst into tears. How utterly professional. Richter frowned. Vessa's nose and eyes ran uncontrollably and she heaved great sighs. She didn't dare wave her arms around and wipe her face. Instead, she simply stood there and let her emotions pour down her cheeks. Richter sighed. He lowered the gun. He dropped it with a thud to the carpet and kicked it toward her. "How am I supposed to kill myself with you crying like that?" She rushed to pick up the weapon and tucked it into the small of her back, under her blazer. She faced Richter, this time allowing herself to wipe the fluids from her face with her hands and sleeves. She could only imagine how many shades of fired she would be if Bully Benson had seen her outburst. She almost felt like declaring herself unfit for duty on the spot. "I can't stand it," she said. "I can't lose you this way." He said nothing. What was there to say? They stared at each other. Tears fell from her eyes until the momentum of her outburst ran its course and she finally managed to get a grip on herself. Richter sat, inordinately relaxed, leaning against the wall, hands folded innocently between his legs. "What now?" he asked. She glanced toward the thick curtains shielding them from the snipers across the street. "I'll have to cuff you. Then you won't be seen as a threat. Keep your head down, and I'll stay between you and them." He craned his neck and looked over the bed toward the window. He watched the dark cloth for several seconds. "Is your eye working? What do you see?" "It's working," he said. "And, I see only reflections. Your temperature is up, though." She came over and stood beside him. "Stay low," she said softly. He got up and they crossed the room with him crouched low. They entered the windowless landing. Vessa closed the bedroom door behind them. She looked at the other two doors. The girl was probably behind one of them, asleep or with her headphones on, completely oblivious. Vessa pulled her cuffs out. Richter stood tall. "All right?" she asked. She needed him to cooperate. She wasn't about to subdue such a large man in such a small space. "Just a second," he said. He bent and kissed her. They embraced. Vessa wanted the floor to open up and swallow them so they could stay like this forever. Of course it did not, and the moment had to end. He straightened up again, turned his back to her, and extended his arms behind him so she could easily cuff him. "I didn't shoot him," he said. Before she could even think about it, Vessa responded. "I know. I believe you." *** Excerpt from An Eye for a Lie by Cy Wyss. Copyright 2019 by Cy Wyss. Reproduced with permission from Cy Wyss. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:Cy Wyss is a writer based in Indianapolis, Indiana. She has a Ph.D. in computer science and her day job involves wrangling and analyzing genetic data. Cy is the author of three full-length novels as well as a collection of short stories and the owner and chief editor of Nighttime Dog Press, LLC. Before studying computer science, Cy obtained her undergraduate degree in mathematics and English literature as well as masters-level degrees in philosophy and artificial intelligence. She studied overseas for three years in the UK, although she never managed to develop a British accent. Cy currently resides in Indianapolis with her husband, daughter, and two obstreperous but lovable felines. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, and walking 5k races to benefit charity.
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