Posts Tagged With: paranormal

Chapter reveal: ‘Ashamet, Desert-Born’ by Terry Jackman

Ashamet-CoverTitleAshamet, Desert-Born

Genre: Fantasy/adventure/romance/paranormal

Author: Terry Jackman

Websitewww.terryjackman.co.uk

Publisherwww.dragonwellpublishing.com

Find out more on Amazon

A desert world. A warrior nation that worships its emperor as a god. But for Ashamet, its prince, a future filled with danger…

Ashamet is confident his swordsmanship, and his arranged marriage, will be enough to maintain the empire’s peace. But when a divine symbol magically appears on his arm, closely followed by an attempt on his life, he no longer knows who to trust. Worse, the strange attraction he feels toward a foreign slave could be another trap. As events unravel, too fast,Ashamet must find out if this innocent young male is a tool for his enemies–or the magic key to his survival.

“Ashamet, Desert-Born” is a debut adventure fantasy with an exotic Arabian-style setting and elements of same-sex romance.

Chapter One

The king my father named me Ashamet. It means a copper-coloured whirlwind off the desert (colour of our own Kadduchi flesh). It’s meant to be poetic. Huh. Apart from that a princely life was pretty good – until my taster went into convulsions. Happily, they pinned it on some merchant’s less-than-healthy crawlfish. Panic over then; I didn’t bother witnessing the execution. But I was that rarity, a single offspring, and I’d been a single step from danger, and I didn’t have an heir yet.

Quite enough to make my father’s mind up; I was sentenced to be married…

Now, a thread of moisture trickled down my backbone as I took my seat again for yet another day upon the royal dais, formally escorted by my Uncle Raggesh. I had picked a sleeveless tunic in my lightest silks, a minimum of jewels, my thick, black hair lay braided at one shoulder, but it didn’t help. The Gate Hall, grandest audience chamber in our empire, had descended to a rowdy, yellow marble sweat-box.

Rag sat too, his longer robes spread out to swamp his sandalled, copper-coloured toes. Today he’d left his close-trimmed claws their natural white as mine were. Bet he wished he’d dressed like me as well. The tiny windows in the blue-enamelled arch above our heads were meant to keep this stage-like alcove cooler. Meant to, but the Gate – the famous golden screen of star-shaped so-lar lamps, at present dropped between us royals and the outer chamber – turned it back into an oven. Gods, I could have been up on a horse. In the fresh air. With a few companions I could actually trust.

I should have been receiving end-of-year assessments from my generals about our southern army’s readiness for action, given that my father had been taking more than normal interest in our southern borders lately. I suspected that our empire was again expanding.

But instead I blanked my face and scanned the throng beyond the ornate, semi-private metal filigree that dangled inbetween us.

Out there, thin coils of vapour from the ordinary iron lamps obscured the vaulted, gold and turquoise ceilings. Below, my father’s hairless, ochre-hided Kemik guard, exotic giants of our kingdoms, lined the path toward us, fangs retracted peaceably. The flame-reflections dancing off their breast-plates were the only movement there but outside them… Alpha Lords of every size and shade and all their twittering attendants skittered back and forth like termites, and the piled-up offerings destroyed the last pretence of taste the place had ever managed. I jerked my beard-point at the nearest jumble. ‘Look at it, we’ve swapped the Gate Hall for the Grand Bazaar.’

My uncle didn’t blink. ‘Show some grace. They’re your wedding gifts.’

I might have growled. It didn’t help that he was right. With five days still to go my marriage had progressed from bore, to stinking torment. Every perfume in the world was up my nose today, but none of them could mask the ripened bodies. Worse, my sword arm itched like seven hells, and with so many watchful eyes I had to curb an uncouth urge to scratch it.

Muffled creaks, from chains and pulleys underneath our feet. The Gate began to shiver upward, to disclose… ‘Gods, forget bazaar. It’s a cattle market!’

A pair of pure-bred white camels were being tugged forward, their plate-like pads scraping over the marble. Their willowy necks hung with ropes of pearls? Was the sheer volume of these eccentricities meant to make up for their inanity? As if it heard, one of the brutes chose to relieve itself, while the lordly fool in front attempted to pretend he neither heard, nor smelled, the ‘splop’ of brittle yellow crap behind him. Rag’s long nose pinched shut as brown-robed clerks made clucking noises. Slaves were chivvied forward. I think I sighed. ‘At least the colour complements the marble.’

Raggesh choked behind his drooping moustache. ‘Keep it down, Ash.’

I’d have given him a sharp retort except a guard distracted me with, ‘Highness? There’s a message from the outer gates.’

I tossed the message tube back at him and unrolled the paper. ‘Oh joy, the bride’s finally turned up… horsemen, eight baggage carts and three horse-drawn litters? My fingers tightened, crumpling the flimsy paper. I relaxed with conscious effort. ‘How many crones have they sent with her? No wonder they’re so late, they couldn’t use a desert route with those things.’

‘Uh.’ My uncle watched the frantic sweeping, quite ignoring my reaction. I obliged him with a beaming smile instead. At least my mouth did. She was here then, the daughter of our newest vassal-king, Farad of Sidass.  The bigger picture: the last of our smaller, paler, snubber-nosed Chi cousins were finally merging into the empire; a fading dynasty was being swallowed by a newer, fiercer bloodline. From where I sat I was stuck with her, unless she proved infertile.

Small chance of that. Females were rare enough. There was nothing rarer than one barren. I resisted growling at the luckless messenger. ‘Have someone send a message to the Inner Palace, to the closter-eunuchs. Tell them to unbar their doors, their future mistress is arriving.’ Though they’d very likely known as soon as I had, maybe sooner. They’d been looking forward to it.

I read on, since cleaning up the hall had halted the proceedings. Heavens forfend a lord should step in something. ‘Looks like the rumours about King Farad’s health could be true; he’s not with them.’

‘Uh.’ Rag at his chatty best. ‘Prince Effad?’

‘Not him either. This says Prince Thersat leads her escort. That’s the lesser son, right? The one who wasn’t there for the surrender?’

‘Uh.’ Rag  (another lesser son, and cut accordingly, to centre our succession) raised a lordly finger. The next noble was ushered in. The Gate lowered.  More gems.  They moved him on.

‘So what do we know about this Thersat?’

The Gate lifted again. One out, one in. Another gift, then Rag could answer. ‘At the time we assumed he’d been wounded, but now we’re told he’s “prone to illness”.’ Rag maintained his bland expression.

I drew breath. ‘Farad can’t travel, Effad’s tied to his side, so we’re lumbered with a permanent invalid?’

‘Uh,’ denoted end of topic as the Gate reopened.

‘Great.’ The cursed itching made a fresh assault. It had to be insect bites. I looked about for some distraction and spied a short, bald figure, absent from the court since summer; yes, the tubby Sheshman, copper-skinned but built more Chi than Kadd, and strident in his household’s blue and orange. Ah, and something loomed behind him.

My spirits rose. If anyone would bring me something more amusing, surely it was Sheshman, of the rolling gait and wicked chuckle. There was more trader there than noble, so my father said. More pirate too, he’d added, laughing.

I must have grinned. I felt my uncle’s disapproval so I faced toward the lord approaching, nodding gravely, like a bigger, younger copy of my stately father. But I glanced aside again to guess what Sheshman might have brought me. Four slaves were moving up a heavy-looking, box-like… something… swathed in dull grey fabric. Hmm. A cage? An animal? The male knew better than to insult his prince – and thus his king – with something paltry.

Meanwhile, the slightly slimmer northern Chi in front of us, distinguished by his nose, his browner hair and pale red skin, had bent a creaky knee before us. I shouldn’t have frowned, but it was difficult to see how the Chi, so often weaker than the other races, had been dominant so long, for all their boasts of direct bloodlines from the Ancestors. As for this one, kneeling made him look like a slave. Our own Kadduchi lords would never kneel, except to Father. Though of course these gifts were really for my father; vying for the notice of our gods-protected Voice of Heaven.

Possibly my frown grew darker; certainly my thoughts did. If I was ever crowned – I tried not to plan that far ahead – I figured their loyalty to me would be less certain. The lord before us, backing off again, looked troubled; probably convinced his present hadn’t thrilled me. ‘What was it?’ I muttered.

Rag almost shook his head. ‘Deeds to an orchard,’ he gritted. ‘Listen, will you!’

‘What-’ Now I was offended.

‘Wine, nephew, and Sultaki brandy.’

‘Ah.’ A gift worth having.

Despite his flash of temper Rag gazed calmly outward. To those who watched, he was my father’s only sibling, and his twin and his most loyal kinsman. Or to put it bluntly he was here to keep his royal nephew out of trouble. Headstrong was the least I knew they said about me; unpredictable, both in or out of battle. Rash, impetuous, a wicked sense of humour? Gods, I hoped so. Almost thirty now, and still no wiser? I ignored the carping. Sober was for years yet to come. And there was only one more presentation left before I got to see that odd-shaped box of Sheshman’s.

I turned back to my duty long enough to marvel at the antique bowls a Kemik lord brought forward. They were delightful; translucent porcelain, hand-painted by a master. Not a gift one would expect from any of the rough-skinned Kemik either, who were prone to value battle gear or horses. In fact the only gift of real taste I’d seen all morning. ‘A rare possession. I am honoured, sir.’ They moved him off. I signalled to the clerk that he record my personal approval. Now for Sheshman.

‘My prince, I bring you every prayer for your approaching marriage.’ Old Sheshman bounced up, bowed outrageously, then watched me. Ah, the sight of simple, honest motives. Bribery. Ambition. Life-blood of the palace. Earlier I’d read his beaming smile with interest, now I noticed it had faded. Second thoughts? What had the scoundrel brought me?

Despite my sudden doubts I felt my back and shoulders loosen. Moments in the old rogue’s company and I was feeling more myself, I almost burst out laughing. Well, Sheshman was both small and round, a difficult shape to look dignified. It was amusing to see him try though. He squared his shoulders, sucked in his paunch beneath one of those bright sashes he loved, and waved a lordly hand. The slaves, their cropped heads lowered, brought their burden up the outer steps and forward to my feet, then grounded it on recessed legs and cowered.

It seemed to float above the floor. Silently I awarded him marks for detail, and waited for more. He actually lowered his voice. ‘My prince, I bring you a rarity I never thought existed.’ The old fool waved again. Two slaves pulled free the heavy draperies. I started frowning; couldn’t help it. First a puzzle, now a riddle? It was a cage right enough; rounded; big enough for a large hound. But this thing was a fantasy, its bars were curled and gilded. And there was silk now, white, stretched taut inside it. A silk-lined cage? I found I’d leaned toward it. Sheshman’s eyes had sharpened, and his face gone solemn.

‘Well?’ I challenged, but I smiled. I couldn’t help that either.

‘Well enough, I hope, my prince.’ He drew a breath. ‘Perhaps.’ He glanced around. ‘Would the prince deign to open it himself?’ The fellow offered a key, from around his own neck.

Rag had straightened, in surprise or in alarm, but Sheshman wouldn’t leave alive if there was anything in there to hurt me. Besides, the key was silver. I rather thought I’d guessed the secret. Not so tempting as it had been but a well-presented trifle, and the cage, and lowered Gate, would block the view of those outside it more or less politely. So I stepped down and took the key (and the unspoken challenge) and turned it in the lock.

Sheshman was murmuring in my ear by then, his voice gone knowing. ‘Your wedding duties draw close, my prince, and your subjects know you will perform with taste and honour. But afterwards…?’

I caught the bars and pulled. Hot air rushed past me as the twin doors of this almost-cage unfurled like curving wings about me, neatly blocking the interior from anyone not right before them. The light rushed in.

There was indeed a figure; half knelt, half seated on the silken cushions. Loose white trousers were the only clothing, as I’d guessed. And silver shackles, delicate as bracelets, etched with three-point royal stars. The chain that linked them had been pegged into the cage’s flooring. And the head was ritually gift-wrapped, mummy-like, in white silk wrappings.

‘Such as this would stir the blood of any male, much less my prince, whose appetite is fabled.’ The murmur made me turn my head. The beady eyes looked up at me, expectant, earlier nerves forgotten.

I drew a breath. ‘I may be about to marry, my lord, but I haven’t yet gone blind.’ I let my voice turn cold. ‘Nor stupid. This is no youth.’

“This” was too tall, even crouched as he was. The chest, the hands and arms stretched down toward the cage’s flooring all had shape, and muscle. Maybe twenty summers? Bodyslaves were usually at least a few years younger: newly-adult: left untouched, kept very private like a female. Hells, a bodyslave was often more exclusive. After all a contract with a female – where the cursed female wasn’t royal – could be drawn up for as little as a single year. Then her family would repossess her and consider bids from other males fit to breed with.

But this one… kept apart this long, till only ten years less than I was? Virgin white and silver, on a full-grown male? What did Sheshman take me for?

Behind me Rag had risen. Sheshman’s face, which should have been as yellow-eyed and copper-hued as mine was, turned a nasty shade of umber, likely both embarrassment and fear, but he stood his ground. ‘My prince, I swear to you, I swear he’s still a virgin: more than that, a holy male, taken as an infant, grown behind high walls. I would not cheat you, highness.’ Sheshman weighed my mood and laid a final hand down. ‘My prince, I trust you to decide my honesty.  I’ll wait upon your judgement. If you judge him less than I have said, I’ll… send my youngest son to grace your chambers, to expunge the insult.’

Had I blinked? I’d heard that Sheshman kept a real trader’s superfluity of children, but my eyes and ears said he favoured that one. Give him into bondage? He’d never offer – not unless… My eyes slid back toward the cage.

I’d thought him painted. Now I saw he wasn’t. Wherever Sheshman found him it wasn’t in any of our kingdoms, not with skin like creamy marble that looked unreal in the lamplight. I followed the line of his neck and shoulder, the swell of his chest. His skin looked… fragile, and there was no sweat, though when I’d opened it I’d felt the metal cage was hotter than this alcove; never good. Surely he barely breathed, there was so little movement. One leg was tucked beneath him, the other raised before. Unusual, but graceful. Then I saw the triple-knotted cord about his waist. My breathing deepened. Truth, or lies, a very fine body.

Trust my fond uncle to spoil the moment. ‘Keep your pants on, Ash. Believe this, you’ll fall for anything.’ Dry amusement on the surface. Mockery beneath?

I defended any outward sign of interest. ‘Might be fun finding out, though.’

‘Huh. You haven’t even seen the face yet.’ Ever the cynic.

My own thoughts shifted. ‘Curious, uncle? I’ll oblige you,’ I said outrageously. I stepped forward, right into the opening, and reached up to the wrapping. The knot, loose at the nape of the neck, slid free between my fingers. One gentle tug and the silk fell away in rippling folds.

The head revealed stayed lowered, the eyes hooded. The hair, far from cropped, was long enough it would have brushed his shoulders, lighter coloured even than the Chi; not braided of course but tied back loosely. I had disarranged it somewhat. Below that a high forehead and good cheekbones framed curious brows, more delicate arches than our upswept wings. No sign of any beard, nor hair upon the chest, the face as pale as the body.

Still no movement? Perhaps the slightest swaying. As if the chains helped keep him upright? I caught the jaw and jerked it upward, gasped to feel a child-like softness, but then the eyelids lifted too, a reflex surely for he didn’t seem to focus.

Wide grey eyes, like still winter pools. Rag stirred, but I’d forgotten he was there. The eyes blinked twice, all up and down – no inner storm-proof membrane? – then gazed back at me as if he was my equal. I should have felled him, or had him whipped. Instead I stared back. My mouth dried up. I felt light-headed. This creature was weak, and confused, and more? Yes, surely. How much more though?

Curse these bites, my grip had tightened in reaction so I let my fingers drop away. I didn’t want my tougher skin to mark that silk-thin whiteness.

The lips parted. A tiny frown formed between the arched brows. ‘Are you… a vision? Or a nightmare?’

Faint, and husky. I doubted anybody else had heard him. ‘Call me either one too loud, they’ll cut your tongue out,’ I said softly.

He just looked back at me with those eyes. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Real..?’ His gaze lowered to the shackles at his wrists. ‘I saw this. I saw…’ Again his voice tailed off to silence. Then the white chest heaved, one huge, shuddering gulp of air. The tethered arms began to shake.

‘Call my slave master,’ I ordered. Someone scurried.

The world returned around me. Despite being shorter Rag was practically breathing down my neck. Indecent. I was stung to comment. ‘Put your tongue away, eh, uncle? If you’ve seen enough, I’ll shut this up again.’

Rag recovered with a warrior’s speed of reflex. His mouth did close, but only to reopen. ‘Aye, best keep it hid. There’ll be enough laughter as it is.’

He didn’t believe Sheshman, then. Not unreasonable, I conceded. To myself, not out loud. How in all the world could any male stay innocent this long past adult? But that face, those eyes. I’d never seen such innocence, even in youths whose balls weren’t dropped yet. And his words… My thoughts rebounded. If it was an act, it was a damn good one. And if that was so, I’d see both Sheshman and his slave regretted their performance. I shut the cage and turned. ‘I’ll weigh your claims,’ I said curtly.

Sheshman backed away as Medishel bustled forward, my half-Chi slave master, a swollen, amber echo of my own appearance in a red and yellow outer robe and broad yellow sash.  When I jerked my head he pulled at one door of the cage, peered in cautiously, then backed his head out and latched the thing up again. His manners were as excellent as ever. Not a word, not a look, just a polite, ‘My prince?’

‘Take him away, Medi. See if he’s ill, or drugged. Best keep him separate, in case, until I give you other orders.’

Medishel bowed, caught the key and waved to Sheshman’s slaves. The cage was carted off, which caused a lot of heads to turn, and furtive whispers. I wondered sourly how long it would take for the rest of the tale to spread. Have you heard the latest? Sheshman actually claimed he’d found a twenty-year-old virgin. Gods, how many of these visiting lords would ask each other if they had a complete fool for a prince, if he was even tempted to believe such rubbish.

But in my heart I think I always believed, right from the start. Some things can’t be weighed, or measured, can they?

Categories: Paranormal Romance | Tags: , | Leave a comment

A Hidden Element, by Donna Galanti

?????????????????????????????????????????????Title: A Hidden Element

Genre: Paranormal Suspense

Author: Donna Galanti

Website: www.ElementTrilogy.com

Publisher: Imajin Books

Purchase on Amazon

In A Hidden Element evil lurks within…

When Caleb Madroc is used against his will as part of his father’s plan to breed a secret community and infiltrate society with their unique powers, he vows to save his oppressed people and the two children kept from him. Seven years later, Laura and Ben Fieldstone’s son is abducted, and they are forced to trust a madman’s son who puts his life on the line to save them all. The enemy’s desire to own them—or destroy them—leads to a survival showdown. Laura and Ben must risk everything to defeat a new nemesis that wants to rule the world with their son, and Caleb may be their only hope—if he survives. But must he sacrifice what he most desires to do so?

CHAPTER 1: The Beginning

Silent dark hung under a star-filled sky.

The dark deepened as they headed into the forest. Ancient conifers towered over them, blocking out the moon. Rain fell cold and lifeless. The nearest town of Benevolence, Oregon, was five miles northwest.

Caleb Madroc’s father stood across from him, waiting for his people to gather their belongings. Their pale faces glowed like orbs within gray hooded robes as they waited for his father’s instruction.

“We head toward town,” his father ordered. Caleb opened his mouth, but there were no words for his feelings of anger and loss at suddenly leaving the only home he’d ever known. It raged inside him, a tumult of emotion he must quell for now. At least his own black hair, like his face, was a constant reminder of his mother to his father. This made him glad.

Caleb shut his mouth and nodded, stepping in behind his father. Rain fell cold and lifeless. He fell behind as he helped the womenfolk with their bags. One young female sent him a furtive, desperate look as she touched his hand in passing.

I’m so scared. What will happen to us?

He smiled at her. Keep your thoughts to yourself. It’s safer this way. All will work out once we settle. She bit her lip, her eyes full of tears, and nodded looking back down at her feet.

“Father, how much further? Some of the younger females are struggling,” Caleb said.

His father’s eyes stung him through the mist rising up from the forest floor. They were eyes so different from his, and from his mother’s. Caleb had often seen sadness and pity for his father in his mother’s eyes. The day he had found her dead in the well her eyes held only nothingness.

“Can’t we stop and rest, Adrian?” A few in the group grumbled. They looked wet and tired, a sea of gray flowing before him. His father glowered at their weakness. As Caleb scanned the sodden crowd a female smiled at his father, holding the promise of submission. Perfect for his father, who wanted to breed another son to take his place. A worthy son.

“We do not stop.” His father’s voice rose over the line of people before him, and he smiled back at the female and a strange sense of relief washed over Caleb. If his father did create a new prodigal son to groom it might remove his first born from his watchful eye.

With that thought, anguish over his mother’s absence hit him fresh again. At eighteen and bigger than his father, he still needed his mother. She had been his kindred spirit, like Uncle Brahm. But now he was alone in this strange place. No longer did he have someone to be his true self with. He must step carefully.

His father continued to scan his flock. They stood still and silent, conveying their subservience. He nodded, apparently satisfied with their response. “You all took the oath to come here. Hard work lies before us in breeding our new community. Understood?”

They nodded in a collective wave.

Just like you bred with Aunt Manta while your wife lay dead? Caleb spewed out in his head without thinking.

His father moved closer, until his flaring nostrils touched his. Caleb stepped back, but his father gripped his arm. Dozens of eyes watched their battle.

Do not ever mention my brother’s wife’s name again, Son.

His father’s fingers pinched him hard and his hot breath pulsed across his face, but Caleb couldn’t stop. Mother’s dead because of you. And what about Aunt Manta? Did you kill her, too?

I didn’t kill anyone. And your mother should have been more careful.

You let her travel alone. She fell and died because she was alone.

It was your well, Caleb, she fell into. Your hideaway you carelessly covered up. Your fault.

His father’s accusations stabbed him with painful truth. He sucked in his breath. My fault. Yes. My fault.

He looked around the watchful crowd as his head reeled with the agony of what he had done. His people stared back at him, their thoughts hid behind blank faces. Why did they come? Didn’t they have dreams and wants and needs of their own, too? Or were they all obedient drones of his father?

His father thrust his arm away and turned around, plunging faster through the woods. Caleb hesitated then followed behind, trying to keep up. He envisioned himself standing still until everyone glided around him, leaving him to remain alone under a watchful moon.

Branches snagged his robe shooting him back to reality. His father’s people followed in silence. If they didn’t obey there would be consequences. As Caleb knew. He had no special privilege here as Adrian’s son.

At last his father stepped out onto a paved road. It stretched far into the distance, where welcoming lights beckoned them across the final mile. They reached the main intersection of town. A car flashed by. A radio blared. Faces stared out at them. He stared back. They were so different from himself and yet…not.

He broke his gaze realizing how out of place this group looked late at night. The people here wore jeans and shirts, the shapes of their bodies outlined under tight clothes. The female’s curves called to him, unlike his people who clothed themselves in shapeless robes to discourage free sexual thoughts. They were now to breed only with those chosen for them.

His father led them single file down the sidewalk. A handful of people sat behind windows drinking. They pointed at them as they walked by. “Gillian’s Bar” flashed in neon green above the doorway in the late evening hours. A man and woman, heading into the bar, stepped back from the sidewalk to watch them pass. Freaks, he heard the man say. And his father erased the memory of the encounter from these strangers’ minds in the seconds it took to pass them.

“Father,” Caleb whispered in his ear. “Where are we going?”

A large building rose at the far end of a parking lot. “Ray’s Lots” blinked over and over.

“Here is where we go.”

A woman pushed a cart filled with bags to her car, the only car left in the lot. She stopped and stared at them. Her hair framed her face in tight curls. A blue and white striped dress strained to contain her breasts and belly.

“Good evening, brothers,” she said with a hesitant smile.

His father motioned for them to stop. He smiled at her. She smiled back.

“Good evening, madam,” his father drawled.

“God bless you.” She grabbed his father’s hand. Caleb swallowed a laugh at the way his father looked at her with such a serious, doting face.

“And God bless you, my child.”

“What church are you with?” The woman fingered a cross at her neck. “Are you having an event in town?”

His father had said a church was the perfect cover. One of the many cultural ways learned before infiltration. All part of his father’s master plan.

“It’s the Church of Elyon,” his father said.

The woman took her hand away and frowned. “Never heard of it. You’re not one those crazy cults are you?”

Caleb stepped to his father’s side. Let me work her mind, Father. “What’s your name, Madam?”

“Sally.”

“I’m Caleb Madroc.” He shook her hand hoping his father didn’t have some depraved mission in mind. Caleb wanted to get food for their hungry group and shelter and have as little interaction with these town people as possible. “We’re simple folks. Our bus broke down outside of town. We seek food and a place to stay nearby. Can you help us?”

“What a nice young man you are. Of course I can help you.” She abandoned her cart and pulled Caleb toward the store. “My cousin runs this store and can stock you up with food. And the Mercenary Motel is down the street.”

He didn’t understand her eagerness as she dragged him along then it was made clear by his father’s mirthful laugh. His father had probed her mind and now controlled it—she would do whatever he commanded.

Caleb followed her into the store. Their people streamed in behind. Sally dragged him to a counter where a short red-faced man scowled at them. “Ray, these folks are here in town from a wonderful church. Their bus broke down and they need food.”

Within seconds Ray’s frown changed to a wide grin as Caleb’s father continued his mind games. “Come in, come in. Time to close up anyhow.” He flicked the sign on the front door and shut off the lights outside.

“Thank you,” his father said. “I need food here for my flock before we find a place to stay.”

“Help yourself to anything you want.” Ray ran his hands over shelves. “Pretzels, baked beans, cereal, Ding Dongs. We even sell the word of the Lord.” Sally and Ray beamed at them.

His father directed everyone to gather food and drinks. Sally and Ray stood by the counter, their minds blank except for what his father put into them. He dared not combat his father’s powers. Not here. Not now. But someday.

“Ray, I need all your money now,” his father said.

Ray clapped his hands together. “Of course.” He pulled money from a nearby metal box.

When his father’s bag burst full of items he handed it to a community member and cocked his head at Ray and Sally. “Time to go now, my new friends.” He motioned his people out the door. Ray and Sally stood with stupid smiles on their faces as the group filed out into the parking lot. All, except his father.

“Come on, Father,” Caleb pleaded, the dark knot in his stomach hardened. “Our job here is done.”

“Not quite.” His father moved toward the smiling cousins, a book in his hand. The Holy Bible. He thumbed through it to a passage and looked up smiling. “As for God, his way is perfect, is it not?”

“The word of God is true,” Sally sang out, clutching Ray’s hand. Her cousin nodded.

“Ray, isn’t Sally lovely? Look at her.” His father pointed at the heavy set woman.

Ray turned to Sally. His pants bulged and Sally’s eyes widened. She tugged on her dress top.

“Have your way with her Ray, you know you want to.”

“Father,” Caleb whispered, clutching at him but his father stayed his hand.

Ray licked his lips and nodded.

“Sally, unzip your fine dress and show Ray what you’ve got.”

Sally stepped out of her dress in a motion more fluid than one would have thought possible given her size. Her belly oozed over her thighs and her bra cut into her mountainous breasts. Ray panted, tapping his hands against his skinny legs.

Caleb moved toward the door.

“Stay, Son, I want you to watch this.”

“I won’t.”

“You will or you know what will happen.”

Caleb stopped and sighed, looking down at the floor. Eyes watched from the parking lot.

“Look.”

Caleb focused on the dirt in the floor cracks. His muscles twitched with anger. His father thrived on his hate, wanted him to hate—wanted his son to be a Destroyer like him. They had hidden their true selves for so long and now were free here to unleash it. Not Caleb. He refused to give in to the dark inside. He tried to release the hate for his father, but it now filled his every pore. He made a vow right then and there, he’d never allow himself to be controlled. No matter the consequences.

He finally looked up. His father nodded, pleased, and turned back to his playthings. Ray massaged his crotch. Sally moaned, squeezing her mammoth breasts, and stepped out of her underwear.

“Take her, Ray. Bend her right over the counter. Dive into all her lushness.”

“Lush, yes.” Ray moved toward Sally, fumbling to unbuckle his pants. She squealed with glee and bent over the counter to receive him, her white bottom rising like a pitted sea of blubber. Ray mounted her, forged a path through her two white mountains, and slapped up against her in his glory.

“Lordy, Lordy,” Sally sang out as she bounced up and down.

“Now that’s wholesome entertainment.” His father jabbed him. Caleb jerked away. “They’re both enjoying it.”

Caleb clenched his fists and shoved them in his pockets. “Can we go now?”

“Yes, Son, only one more thing to do.”

His father pulled out something that looked like a handle. He flicked it open to reveal a small knife he must have picked up in the hardware section. He placed it next to Ray on the counter. Sweat flicked off the red-faced man’s forehead as he plunged into buttery flesh.

“Ray, enjoying yourself?”

Ray grunted and grabbed on to Sally’s hips, sinking into her expanse. She moaned again in delight as her buttocks shuddered.

“Good. When you’re done fucking, kill the bitch.”

His father strode out the door, pulling Caleb along with him.

“Father, no.” Caleb struggled against him as his father shoved him hard through the door. Caleb spiraled his thoughts into Ray’s brain. Stop, Ray! She’s your cousin, your family!

Ray stopped his thrusting as if listening to Caleb, but his father’s punch to his face ended his brain probe. Caleb staggered back, blood gushing from his nose. Ray straightened his head and rammed into Sally with a loud groan. Caleb drew his hand back but his father’s fingers crushed his forearm. He fell to his knees. Blood spattered down his gray robe. The flock widened their circle, silent and watching. His father led as both law maker and enforcer.

“These lowly forms of life must be controlled,” his father said. “We’ve studied their ways. Now, this first act is how we begin their demise and our rule. We will grow in number with our selected breeding and thrive as these useless beings die out. Watch this historic moment, Son, for anyone who turns away will be marked weak…and unworthy.”

All eyes turned to the inside of the store as the desperate carnal scene played out to the end.

“I hate you,” Caleb whispered, watching the forced lovers before him.

His father smiled at him in satisfaction.

Ray arched his back with a moan and finished his business. Sally squealed and pressed up against him. And when Ray raised his knife and plunged into Sally in new ways, she squealed again. And again. Her blood ran onto scuffed tiles and still she squealed. And then she stopped.

Tears filled Caleb’s eyes and he closed them against the evil scene.

His father laughed. “Don’t you see, Son?” He shook The Holy Bible at him. “I am their Way, their Truth, their Life—and Death.”

Caleb did not answer. He remained inside his dark prison and swore someday he would end his father’s rule.

 

 

 

 

Categories: Supernatural, Suspense, Thriller | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Knight Blindness, by Chris Karlsen

GIVEAWAY: Leave a comment below for a chance to win an eset of Heroes Live Forever and Journey in Time along with a swag bag. The swag bag will be a small tote with the book covers screened on, a “medieval style” bracelet and a package of soap leaves shaped like rose petals. 
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Ready for battle, Medieval English knight, Stephen Palmer, charges into the French enemy’s cavalry line. Heeding a warning given months before, he hesitates as he comes face-to-face with the knight in the warning. Struck down in the year 1356, he finds himself landing in the year 2013. Grievously wounded, he’s taken to a nearby hospital. Confused by the new world surrounding him, he attempts to convince the staff he’s from another time, only to find they think him mad.
Rescued by friends, who, to his surprise, have also come through time, he must find a way to function in this odd modern England. He is quickly enchanted by the kind Esme Crippen, the young woman hired to tutor him. She too is enchanted by him. Tempted to deepen the relationship, she hesitates thinking him adorable, but mad. He must discover the means for getting her to believe the truth, all the while, unknown to him, he didn’t come forward in time alone. The enemy knight has also traveled to 2013.
French noble, Roger Marchand, doesn’t question why the English knight who charged him hesitated. That fraction of a pause gave him the advantage needed and he brought his sword down upon the Englishman’s helmet hard, unhorsing the knight. He moved to finish the Englishman off when the world changed in a rush of sensations as he is ripped through time.
Seeking a reason for the terrible event, he enters a nearby chapel. There, thinking God has chosen him for a quest to turn French defeat that day in 1356 to victory, he sets out to find the English knight. The man he is convinced holds the key to time. If he returns to the day of the battle, he can warn his king of mistakes that snatched victory from them.
Purchase on AMAZON
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Chapter One

Poitiers, France

September 19, 1356

Cries of the injured and dying French men-at-arms filled the air as Welsh bowman cut down the initial enemy onslaught. The vibration from the second charge toward the English lines traveled up through Arthur’s powerful legs, the tremor slight against Stephen’s armored calf.

“Be still,” he ordered as the warhorse stamped his impatience.

His friend and baron he served, Guy Guiscard, said something indistinguishable over the noise.

Stephen leaned closer. “What?”

“We cannot hold them here, even on the high ground, not with their superior numbers.”

Both eyed the grassy gap between theirs and the French held plateau. Unfurled enemy banners flapped in the breeze, a colorful swell that continued up the expanse.

“Maybe not but we can blanket the field with their blood,” Stephen said, exchanging a smile with Guy.

Black-robed priests, who had earlier busied themselves blessing bows and swords now busied themselves taking confessions, offering prayers, and the Holy Eucharist. A decade before, at Crecy, he believed himself invincible—a young man’s arrogant mantle. Today’s hard battle would leave few unscathed. When the fattest of the churchmen approached, Stephen looked to the dying below. They’d prayed too. He turned to the priest and waved him off.

On the other rise, squires stood and took the reins from a contingent of French cavalry who’d dismounted. They retained their arming swords, axes, and morning stars. Behind them, line after line of mounted knights amassed on the grassy gap.

“They’re saving the best horsemen for the initial cavalry charge,” Stephen said.

He and Guy were in Edward of Woodstock–the Black Prince’s column. They’d be the first to challenge the cavalry charge.

“I’m tired of watching the devils parade around foolishly thinking they cannot lose,” Guy said.

Stephen flipped his visor down, the sound of the battle dimmed by the drone of his rapid breathing inside the steel helm. The waiting was worse than fighting. He glanced over at Prince Edward. “Let us be done with this. Give the order,” he said low.

The prince straightened in his saddle as more of the enemy climbed the hill in front of their column. Then, the French cavalry charged. No longer a mere tremble of vibration, the ground quaked with the bruising the soft earth took from the oncoming horses. They rode over the men on foot and made for the breach in the hedge where Edward sat.

English arrows darkened the sky. A deafening roar rose from below as the arrows found their marks. Horses screamed as multiple shafts pierced their hides. Those who didn’t fall reared, bucking their riders off. Others bolted, crushing French and English alike.

Edward gave the signal. The prince’s column charged into the butchery. Arthur slid on the grass wet from a lingering morning mist, blood, and the entrails of eviscerated horses and men. To Stephen’s right, Basil Manneville, best friend to Guy, went down. His horse had taken an ax to the chest as Basil leaped the hedge.

Guy, several strides ahead, turned and rode to his aid. Stephen spun Arthur around, spurring him hard to help. His pursuit was cut off by a mounted enemy knight. The Frenchman came at him with his long sword, which Stephen maneuvered away from then quickly pivoted to engage.

The long sword was never his favored weapon and Stephen faced the knight with his shorter arming sword drawn. The Frenchman shielded his sword and drew his morning star. Trained by Stephen since he was a colt, Arthur didn’t flinch or shy from the charge. He bared his teeth at Stephen’s cue, ready to bite either the enemy or his horse. The Frenchman’s mount danced to the left. The knight’s position altered a fraction leaving a vulnerable space open under his arm between the back and breastplates of his armor.

Stephen plunged his sword deep into the Frenchman’s side, striking ribs then soft tissue. The knight swung once with his morning star and then fell from his mount. The strike missed.

Several lengths off, enemy soldiers had Guy surrounded. As Stephen reversed direction to ride to his aid, he caught a flash of orange and black in his peripheral vision. Guy’s warning from Yuletide the year before came back to him. Beware the black cat in a field of orange.

The image closed in on him. He turned and saw the

Frenchman’s surcoat, a panther on a background of orange silk.  Stephen hesitated for a split second as the warning became real. The French knight raised his sword high. Stephen brought his up.

A second too late.

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Dark Lullaby by Mayra Calvani

Dark Lullaby by Mayra CalvaniTitle:  Dark Lullaby
Genre: Supernatural/Psychological Thriller
Author: Mayra Calvani
Publisher: Mayra Calvani
Pages: 250
Language: English

At a tavern one Friday night, astrophysicist Gabriel Diaz meets a mysterious young woman. Captivated by her beauty as well as her views on good and evil, he spends the next several days with her. After a while, however, he begins to notice a strangeness in her…especially the way she seems to take pleasure in toying with his conscience.

The young woman, Kamilah, invites him to Rize, Turkey, where she claims her family owns a cottage in the woods. In spite of his heavy workload and the disturbing visions and nightmares about his sister’s baby that is due to be born soon, Gabriel agrees to go with her.

But nothing, not even the stunning beauty of the Black Sea, can disguise the horror of her nature…

In a place where death dwells and illusion and reality seem as one, Gabriel must now come to terms with his own demons in order to save his sister’s unborn child, and ultimately, his own soul.

Purchase your copy at AMAZON.

First Chapter:

Prologue

From across the tavern she watched him.

Adorable, that’s what he looked to her, with those mellow brown eyes, those rebellious waves falling carelessly over his forehead, down the sides of his neck.  Ragged, eccentric hair. He didn’t have lashes.  What he had were black velvet Spanish fans.  A man had no business with lashes like that. He was tall, well over six feet, and slender like a cheetah. But the best were his eyes.  They were generous and kind; they were ingenious; they inspired trust; they had that special spark.  They had angel.

To the Spaniards, having angel meant a lot more than being handsome or beautiful.  A woman might be beautiful, but if she didn’t have angel she was as memorable as a drop of water in the sea.  On the other hand, an ordinary-looking woman with angel would captivate.  A man or woman must be born with angel. It could not be learned. It was not a physical attribute.  It was in the voice, in the words, in the aura.

Yes… he had angel.

The sight of him was already reason enough to melt her distraction, her perpetual restlessness.  But what pulled her to him like a newborn to a breast was a single mental image he’d had while waiting at the table for his friend to arrive.

Over a tall glass of dark beer, almost in a state of stupor, his eyes fixed down on the flickering candle, he had envisioned a young woman humming a lullaby and pushing a pram in a beautifully wooded park.  A lovely young mother, yes, the picture of ecstatic bliss, once in a while leaning over the pram to murmur soft words and coo at the baby.  And the lullaby, what a lovely lullaby. Never in all her existence had she heard such a sweet and maternal lullaby.

When the vision was over he had blinked, startled, as if waking up from a distasteful and deeply disturbing nap.  He had appeared sickened.  He had taken a deep draught of his beer as if it were a drug.

But the image of the young mother had nailed itself permanently in her mind.  What a gentle smile she’d had, what wonderful radiance emanated from her face, from her very being.

His friend had arrived, and he was passionately arguing about the higher good, about vigilantism, about good and evil.

What innocent arrogance!  Good and evil!

Fascinating.

She put the palm of her hand over the flickering candle and closed her eyes until the pain became unbearable.

Yes, hurt me, burn me, scorch me, for only in feeling do I exist.

She opened her eyes and pulled back her hand.  Then she ran her tongue along the palm, soothing the tender flesh.

It would be impossible to keep away from him.  Already she could feel the texture of his stubble.  Even if freshly shaved his chin would be slightly rough, she knew it.  Already she could drown herself in the sensation of her hands through his hair.  They would tangle through his thick waves, drive her impatient with longing.

And of course, the thrill of tempting him a little, a little more, more more more….

Playfully make him fall.

Now his friend called him Gabriel.  His name was Gabriel!

This was too much. Surely it must be a sign.

She bit her lower lip until a bit of blood flowed into her mouth.  Gabriel.

Once again she closed her eyes to savor the intensity of the moment.  It was like subterranean heat, this sensation coursing through her.  She had fallen in love with the angel Gabriel.  That’s what he was, an angel.  With those eyes, an angel.

Perfectly enthralled, she watched him some more, stared at the movement of his lips some more, listened to his passionate words as if she were listening to God.  His looks, the beauty and honesty pouring out of his eyes, his silly proclamations about the higher good—all these had captivated her.

And the woman of his thoughts, yes, the lovely young woman humming the lullaby.

Yes… the young mother.

 

Chapter 1

 

Gabriel Diaz took a long sip of beer. Then, almost regrettably, he put the glass down. He wished his glass were bottomless so he could relish his precious prime Belgian beer forever. At almost ten dollars a bottle, Belgian beer was his most expensive vice.

Yet the buzz it gave helped him deal with Liz and her wild ideas. “You’re blind, Liz. Reading all those sociology books has shredded your spirit.”

“That’s not true. You’re only mad at me because I was fifteen minutes late,” Liz said.

“Not at all. I was enjoying my beer and meditating.” A fast-paced Middle Eastern melody was playing. He drummed his fingers in time with the music. “I only want justice.”

The tavern was quite packed by now. With so many colleges and universities around, it was a popular place among students, especially on Friday nights. Gabriel loved the smell here. Old wines, the sweet tang of anise, the strong aroma of Turkish coffee. Yet there was something gloomy about the place. The flickering candles on the tables cast eerie shadows on the walls, making the faces appear pale and distorted, malevolent even.  Old paintings of historic Ottoman battles hung from the walls; figures killing each other with long and pointed spikes against dark and desolate landscapes. He could clearly discern Christian bodies impaled on stakes.

“You’re an idealist.” Liz sadly shook her head. “Justice doesn’t exist. But you’re obsessed with it.”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t you feel a sense of ease, a perfect sense of meaning, every time a serial killer is fried at the chair?”

“Yes, I do, but—”

Yet Gabriel went on, shifting in his seat and leaning forward over the table. “Let me ask you something. Let’s say a serial killer is—based on some trivial technicality—set free. Everybody knows he’s guilty. Everybody knows he’ll kill again. Would you—if you could, if you knew you wouldn’t be caught—eliminate him?”

“That’s beside the point, Gabriel. That would be murder. The act of premeditated killing, whatever the reason, would turn me into a being as corrupt as the killer.” Liz lifted a glass of red wine to her lips. She was calm, as if she were a patient and good-willed teacher talking to a raging child.

“Then archangels are murderers.”

“Don’t bring religion into this. You don’t believe in archangels.” Liz eyed him scornfully. “Human beings have made certain laws, and these laws are to be obeyed. If there weren’t laws, the world would be in total chaos.”

“Laws, laws, laws. You and your laws. Laws were made to favor the criminals, and you know it!” he burst out, making an impatient gesture with his hands. “Think of the good of the innocent people. Think about all the future murders you would be preventing. The hell with the laws. Justice. The good of the many. The end justifying the means.”

“Oh, no, not the higher good again!”

“That’s right. The higher good.”

“That higher good of yours is dangerous. It’s anarchistic. Goodness is subjective. Do you think a serial killer doesn’t have his own concept of goodness? What makes you think his is wrong and ours is right? We are forever impaired by our feelings.” She flinched, expecting another outburst from him.

He simply shrugged.

“I don’t know if I should have another beer,” Gabriel said. “I’ve already had two.”

“Beer will be your downfall.”

Gabriel made a face, a typical gesture that made her smile. Poor Liz. He suspected it would be a lot better for her if they didn’t see each other again. Or at least if they didn’t see each other so often. They had been together for three years and broken up only four months ago.

Love? From her part it had been obvious. From his part he had never been quite sure, and he figured if you’re not sure, it can’t be love. But they had stayed friends, which was more than fine with him. In fact, he was still experiencing a bit of ‘after-divorce’ blues, though this feeling was nothing compared to the overwhelming sense of freedom. They had never been married, of course, but they had become so close it felt to him as if they had.

He could tell she still had romantic feelings for him from her eyes; the way they lit up every time she saw him.  The main problem had always been her jealous, suspicious nature, though now that they were apart she did a good job at concealing it.

“You want another sophisticated Belgian beer?” she mocked gently. “Order one. My treat.”

Gabriel ignored her jibe. “Elena’s due to give birth within a month. I’m going to fly to Brussels to be with her.”

For a moment he closed his eyes and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. Only minutes ago, he’d had the strangest daydream. He’d been sitting here, quietly sipping his beer, and then the vision had invaded his brain. He had pictured his sister Elena pushing a pram in a lushly beautiful yet desolate park, cooing and humming a lullaby to the baby, smiling and happy.

He had watched her from a distance, as if he were a far-off spectator. She had wandered round and round, every so often leaning over to peer inside the pram and whisper loving words to the baby. It was only at the end, when he had actually looked inside the pram himself, that he realized it was empty.

It had been empty all along.

Liz sobered up instantly. “So you’ve decided to go? That’s great, Gabriel. She’ll be so happy. Did you already tell her?”

He nodded. “A few days ago.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Very good—for now.”

Three years ago Elena had given birth to a baby girl. The baby, however, had died a couple of hours after delivery. Unusually rare situation, inflammation of the placenta or something. Maybe he was more worried about his sister’s pregnancy than he had thought. Over the phone, she was always overly positive and enthusiastic. Too optimistic to be genuine. His precious Elena, the eternal optimist, protecting him from her own fears, from her own pain.

“Gabriel.”

He blinked. “Hmm.”

It was past eleven o’ clock. He was tired, sedated by the beer, and he still had lots of reading to do. Along with a colleague of his, he was writing a paper about the internal structure of neutron stars, and the research was staggering.

“You okay?” Liz asked, placing her hand over his. She pressed it lightly, comfortingly. “Everything will go all right this time, you’ll see.”

“I hope so.” Automatically his body reacted at her touch. After their break-up, he felt awkward when they had physical contact, even though Liz always acted natural about it.

Liz was getting her master’s in Library Studies. Her rebellious brown hair was forever trapped in a long braid down to her waist. She had kind eyes, big and brown and luminous, which she heightened with black kohl and mascara. An intricately carved St. Christopher silver medal, the size of quarter, hung from a chain around her neck, a gift from him last Christmas.

He grinned, suddenly feeling a pang of old love. She had always known how to press the right buttons to distract him from distressful subjects.

“But then freedom—free will—doesn’t exist!” he said so loudly a few heads turned in his direction. “Actions resulting from desire cannot be free. Remember, freedom is to be found only in rational action. Any action possesses moral worth only when it is done for its own sake. In other words: justice for its own sake. When we kill that serial killer in that chair, we’re doing it for justice’s sake! It is rational! It is right!”

“Wrong. We’re doing it because it makes us happy. There’s no such thing as rational action. Our feelings, our desires are forever involved, and because our emotions are involved the action becomes irrational. It becomes worthless.”

Gabriel shifted in his seat, incredulous. “How can you not believe in free will?”

Too heated up for his own good, Gabriel was about to spew forth a cutting rejoinder, when the most captivating woman he had ever seen approached the table where he and Liz were arguing.  The stranger stood behind Liz, gazed down at him, and smiled.

Gabriel felt her magnetic force take control of his soul.

 

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Book Spotlight: Shades of Twilight

Author: Martin Sharlow
Title: Shades of Twilight
Publisher: kindle edition
Genre: Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Romance
Language: English
Publication Date:
e-book only
Purchase Here at Amazon
http://www.amazon.com/Shades-of-Twilight-ebook/dp/B003ZDO7NU/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1295417646&sr=1-2

Book Synopsis:
Melissa has waited her whole life to move out and start her own. This is her first summer after graduating and now she has her own place and a job. Everything she wanted is starting to happen.

Until the accident.

When the most gorgeous guy she has ever seen saves her life, he also forever changes it. What do you do when you find out that life as you have always known it isn’t real, and the man you love is a vampire, out to save you from something worse?

Excerpt
The lights came back on in the theater, and still half the people hadn’t left yet. The first portion got up and left the moment the credits came up, but the rest sat in their seats and talked about everything they’d just watched. A few of the last people leaving let their eyes linger on Michael as they walked out, but most didn’t even seem to notice him any longer. I guess they were more wrapped up in their new world of vampires and werewolves. I couldn’t blame them, really. Bella’s world looked all romantic and fun. Somehow even with a horde of vampires trying to kill her, the movie seemed to make it a cool thing. I realized that, had I been Bella and that was my life, it wouldn’t seem so cool anymore. At the moment, though, it did. Her romanticized life seemed preferable to mine, and yet a part of me knew I wouldn’t leave mine right now even if it were possible.
I looked over at Michael to see him sitting there staring at me. I wondered what he was thinking, if he thought I was his Bella, or was he just amused that I had the need to escape into fantasy. I noticed a kernel of popcorn stuck on his shoulder, then one in his hair, and couldn’t help wonder how they got there.
“Are we done yet?” He asked with a bit of hope in his eyes. “Or are we going to go get another ticket and watch it again?”
He looked so adorable right now, just sitting there with popcorn in his hair. I wasn’t sure what it was or why he so appealed to me right then, but without thinking I found myself pressing my lips against his silky soft ones. His lips warmed to the touch of mine, as we kissed.

Author Bio
Martin Sharlow was always a storyteller. In his youth he used to play roleplaying games and usually he was the game master. That allowed him to create and modify stories and then tell them to his captive audience in the form of a game. Because of this and the many fantasy books he read, Martin went the next step and started writing fantasy novels.
Recently, however, Martin changed genres to vampire romance as he got bitten by the vampire bug. This happened after picking up one of the latest novels and finding himself hooked on it. Today Martin has written two vampire romance novels, and is in the process of writing many more.
Martin currently lives in Vancouver, WA with two of his three children, who help to keep him grounded in reality.
You can visit Martin Sharlow at http://www.wix.com/targoun/martin
Visit Martin’s tour page
http://www.pumpupyourbook.com/2010/12/30/shades-of-twilight-virtual-book-tour-january-11/

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