Author: Andrew

  • All or None by Aurora Lee Thornton ~ Blog Tour & Excerpt

    Today we welcome Aurora Lee Thornton to the Land of Make Believe, who’s stopped by for a chat about xyr journey as a writer, xyr characters in xyr new release, All or None, and a peek into xyr fridge… because why not? 😉

    All or None - Aurora Lee Thornton

    AQG: When did you know you wanted to write, and when did you discover that you were good at it?

    ALT: I didn’t know I wanted to write as like, a career until middle school – which is also when I found out I was good at it, ha ha. I had been writing long before then, it just never occurred to me that I was a writer until one of my English teachers had me join the school’s team for a state writing competition called Power of the Pen. I ended up placing in the top 50 in the state, so that was pretty encouraging. And the year after that, I think, I placed second nationally in the Scholastics Arts and Writing Awards so I thought, “hey, I’m probably pretty good at this.”

    AQG: If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?

    ALT: You were not ready to send out query letters just because publishers told you they like Scholastics winners. I still have these handwritten query letters (with responses) from when I was in middle school/ just starting high school because I find them hilarious now.

    AQG: Tell us something we don’t know about your heroes. What makes them tick?

    ALT: Roy has such a hard time with book learning because he has ADHD and dyslexia. I kind of allude to the dyslexia, but he doesn’t really have the language to explain or know that he has ADHD.

    It doesn’t come up much in the story, and due to soulmates being a thing there’s no real lexicon for queer identities in the world, but Kalo is demisexual. I plan to explore this (and some other aspec characters!) more in-depth in later books, but for now it’s just word of god.

    AQG: Who has been your favorite character to write and why?

    ALT: Hult, no question. She was never actually supposed to graduate from entitled bully, but ended up taking on a life of her own as the story unfolded. Now I couldn’t see the story without her quips and lovably violent nature. Honestly, she’s just one of my favorite characters period.

    AQG: What qualities do you and your characters share? How much are you like them, or how different are they from you?

    ALT: Most my characters get something from me – Kalo ends up as a writer, for example. Roy got a little bit more than most though – he’s actually named for me!

    He was only supposed to be a secondary character in what is now the second book in the series, and sometimes I am lazy in naming minor characters by rearranging the syllables in my name and giving them a little flourish. So that was where I got the name ‘Royiora’.

    Other than that Roy and I also share a love of the theater and both have ADHD.

    AQG: What’s in your fridge right now?

    ALT: A lot of beer. It’s not even that I drink a lot – actually, it’s the opposite! I’m a lightweight, and I get mix-and-match six-packs to try them, and then I don’t. So they kind of just… accumulate, oops.

    All or None by Aurora Lee Thornton

    In a world where everyone has a soulmate, uniquely powerful mage Royiora and reluctant assassin Kalo collide in the worst of ways.

    Royiora Daralkaen, the only mage alive able to use all five kinds of magic, has a near idyllic childhood in the country of Porescalia – before war breaks out with their antagonistic neighbors, Kloria.

    Kalo Porla, a naturally magic-proof individual known as a Null, is trained to be as an assassin by the authoritarian empire known as the Domain.

    When Kalo and his partner assassin are sent to kill a mage and his apprentice, it starts a journey neither man was prepared to begin.

    | Amazon | Universal Link | Goodreads |

    Excerpt

    All or None

    Is this our destination? Roy considered, but chose to wait to find out.

    His assumption turned out to be correct, as Kalo sighed in relief when he saw it, leading the way right to the door and knocking.

    A woman of Kalo’s race answered it, even with the same red skin and gray hair. She laughed and pulled his soulmate into a hug when she saw him, before pulling back and flicking his ear with something even Roy recognized as an admonishment.

    The assassin replied something tiredly, walking past the woman with the slight limp he’d had for the past week or so.

    Then she turned to the mage, and in perfect Porescalian said, “And you must be my brother’s soulmate. Hello, I’m Rela.”

    Roy flinched in surprise, then cleared his throat and shook the proffered hand, “Yes, uh… I’m Royiora.”

    “Do you shorten it?” Rela asked, ushering him inside, “I read most Porescalian men do.”

    “Um, yes,” the Porescalian man replied, “I usually go by Roy.”

    The horned woman nodded, half pushing him past high vaulted halls into another room, “You must be freezing – come on, let’s get you something warm to drink. I’m sure you have plenty of questions Kalo couldn’t answer.”

    Roy didn’t get a word in until after Rela had taken the borrowed coat and replaced it with a surprisingly warm blanket, sitting him at a table in what appeared to be a study or classroom with the promised hot drink.

    “There are warmth runes inside the stuffing,” someone said, and then a strange looking man with six arms and blue skin hung down from the ceiling. Unlike Rela and Kalo, he had purple glowing eyes, and held out one of his arms, “Hello, I’m Xia – Rela’s one of my soulmates, and this is our home.”

    “Uh, hello,” the mage said, shaking as he looked up at the rest of the man’s insectoid body clinging to the ceiling, “I’m… Roy.”

    “Nice to meet you, Roy,” Xia said, skittering over a bit to lower himself to the ground, “Rela and I took the trouble of learning your language some time ago, as our other two soulmates appear to be Porescalian as well.”

    “And Kalo asked me to translate his soul writing when we were kids,” Rela said, sitting across from Roy, “He was so very excited to meet you, you know. Though, judging by the state of the two of you, I’m guessing it wasn’t under happy circumstances.”

    “Not… exactly, no,” Roy said, feeling comfortably warm for the first time in a while. He took a sip of the drink – it was oddly nutty, but enjoyable nonetheless, “Uh… what… is Kalo?”

    Rela snorted, “A bit of a pain in the ass, honestly.”

    Xia laughed, and went over to the chalkboard in the room. He cleared it with a bit of arcane magic, and started drawing, “Kalo is what we call a ‘null’ – magic doesn’t affect him, and he can absorb it to fuel pseudo-magic abilities of a limited range.”

    The strange insect man pulled back to reveal the celestial star, with words written underneath each point.

    “Divine magic gives him self-regenerative abilities and invisibility,” Xia said, pointing to Radzmia’s crystal throne, then moved on to Pelzz’s obelisk, “Arcane provides mental acuity and teleportation,” onto Ruelop’s spring, “Physical resistance and enhanced senses,” Guulruf’s nine-pointed star, “Physical strength and shadow walking,” and finally, Forea’s whirlpool, “And physical speed and water breathing.”

    “They identified him and our cousin when they were five,” Rela said, smiling, “We were all so excited – the government provided us stipends for their education and care. Us, a little provincial family of no repute.”

    “So it’s an…” Roy struggled to keep up as the warmth and stillness worked on relaxing him to the point of drowsiness.

    “That’s what they told us,” the woman snorted, taking a drink, ears flicking, “But when they were twelve, they went to the Institute.”

    “Where they train them to be tools of the Trinity,” Xia sighed, coming back to the table.

    Kalo

    “The… Trinity?” Roy asked.

    “Our leaders, Frezians like Xia,” Rela supplied, then shook her head. She looked up at the mage, “Let me tell you about what happened to my brother.”

    Kalo was so glad to finally lay down on a pad and sleep without worrying about being attacked. Rela had said she’d talk to Royiora, explain things, and he trusted her to do so.

    His sister and Hult might be the only people he trusted anymore.

    The null didn’t know how much time had passed before there was a gentle touch on his shoulder, and his soulmate saying his name softly.

    Kalo sighed, forcing himself to sit up and turn to look at the mage.

    Royiora frowned at him, then his eyes lit up gold and he hesitantly reached up and laid a hand on the null’s cheek.

    The assassin understood, but still hesitated himself before kissing his soulmate. It wasn’t like the time when he’d had to stop Royiora from killing them both by causing a cave in – it was slow, deceptively intimate.

    He only took enough to heal his current injuries before pulling back.

    The mage was still frowning at him. Royiora’s gaze fell – to the arm which used to have Kalo’s soul writing on it.

    The assassin sighed, and unwrapped it. What did you go and tell him, Rela?

    Kalo held the arm out, rough, burnt skin obviously clear of writing on display.

    His soulmate reached out hesitantly, gentle fingertips brushing over the scarred skin. Then he took a sudden breath, hand jerking back as if he were the one burned.

    Kalo looked up to see the other man crying. He shook his head, reaching out without thought to cup his soulmate’s face and brush away the tears with his thumbs, “No, don’t – don’t cry over me. I don’t deserve that.”

    Royiora stared up at him, and something like resolve seemed to enter his eyes. He pushed up, barely hesitating before kissing Kalo himself.

    At first, the null didn’t know how to react. This wasn’t an exchange, it wasn’t necessary. It couldn’t be affection – so what was it?

    And then Royiora’s hand brushed over his burns again, and it clicked – sympathy.

    About the Author

    Aurora Lee Thornton

    Aurora is a nonbinary, asexual writer with a new goal in life: to write the queerest books possible. (And yes, xe means gay, but also weird is good too.)

    Xe loves dragons and fantasy, and someday hopes to complete a (soft) science fiction novel as well. Currently, xe lives with xyr two cats.

    Where to Find Aurora

    | Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon |

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  • All the Right Places by Wayne Goodman ~ Blog Tour & Excerpt

    Please welcome Wayne Goodman to the Land of Make Believe. Wayne is here today to share his new collection of speculative fiction, romance, and historical fiction short stories.

    All The Right Places:

    I live in the San Francisco Bay Area with my partner Rick May (and too many cats). My writing has tended to be historical fiction with a focus on LGBTQ+ characters. When not writing, I like to play piano music from the Gilded Age with an emphasis on Women, Black, and Gay composers.

    Since October 2018, I have hosted Queer Words Podcast, conversations with queer-identified authors about their works and lives (www.queerwords.org). Each week I release at least one 20-30 minute episode featuring writers from the barely-known to the well-known. We talk about their queer experiences as well as their literary works. If you are a published, queer-identified author and would like to be featured in a future episode, you can write to: [email protected].

    From time-to-time I submitted short stories to anthologies or collections. Some got accepted and printed, many received polite rejections. After a few years my compilation of shorter works grew to a point where I wanted to publish them together. “All the Right Places” contains eleven pieces that take place starting in the near future and chronologically progressing to the near past.

    One piece of public art that has fascinated me sits at London’s Piccadilly Circus. Atop a circular pedestal, the statue of Anteros (usually mislabeled Eros) has acquired a mystique for bringing potential lovers together. I find it so compelling that two of the stories begin and end there (the title story and “Nice Day for a Picnic”).

    Here is an excerpt from “Nice Day for a Picnic,” which takes place in 1895 London. The narrator sought employment based on a school friend’s recommendation.

    A large brass knocker in the shape of a bull’s head dominated the otherwise ordinary slab of wood. I lifted the thing’s head expecting it to moo or snort, but it merely created a loud “thud” when I let it free.

    A moment later, the door opened a hand’s-width, and a rather tall woman in a conservative, high-collar frock addressed me through the narrow gap. “May I be of assistance?” Her voice sounded somewhat deep for a woman.

    “Oh, yes, please,” I stammered. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who gave me this calling card.” I retrieved it from my pocket and slipped the card through the opening. She snatched it from my fingers, examined it quickly and handed it back. Her expression remained placid, neither acknowledging nor denying that I was at the correct place. “His name, ma’am, is Algernon. Algernon Fitzhugh.”

    Her already arched eyebrows raised even higher. “I see. Well. You had better come in then, Dear Heart.” She opened the door fully and walked away along a narrow entrance hall. I have been referred to as “Love,” “Sir,” “Master,” “Mister,” and “Sweetie,” but never “Dear Heart.”

    Once inside, I could see that her manner of dress appeared quite odd. She wore neither corset nor bustle, and the puce-coloured dress seemed nearly vertical in its lines. Her chestnut hair appeared to have been plopped atop her head and knotted with a grey bow, yet it still managed to cover her ears.

    She led me to a cosy sitting room with a few plush high-back chairs and a low table. Pointing her rather large hand, she indicated one of the chairs, and I sat down nervously. As I looked about the dark-panelled room, I could see stacks of ornamented china plates and cups, all in a creamy shade of light blue.

    “It’s Wedgwood, Dear Heart,” the woman explained, “Old Josiah himself once lived here and left some of his handiwork be­hind. Would you care for some tea?”

    When I looked into her eyes for the first time, I realised they matched the colour of the china almost exactly. “Yes, ma’am. If you please, ma’am.”

    She elevated her chin as if looking for stray dust on the ceiling. “Please do not call me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel rather like an old lady. Mrs. Borden is the name, if you please.”

    “Oh, as in Mrs. Borden’s?”

    “Yes, Dear Heart, the very one.” She disappeared through a swinging door.

    What had Algie gotten himself into? This mysterious woman, this mysterious home, this mysterious life. I just hoped he had not fallen victim to the undertow of immorality.

    “Here you go, Dear Heart.” Mrs. Borden returned carrying a silver-plate tea tray with two Wedgwood cups. She set it on the low table. “I’ve already taken the liberty of putting milk and sugar in the cup. I know how you Oxford boys like yours sweet.” A hint of a smile wrinkled her face.

    “How did you know I attend Oxford?”

    The smile broadened. “Because of your acquaintance with young Algernon, of course.” She poured from the teapot a cupful each. “I’m afraid your friend is out on business at the moment, but you’re welcome to keep me company until he returns.”

    “Thank you. Thank you very much indeed, Mrs. Borden.” I looked about the room. “Will Mr. Borden be joining us? I don’t want to seem improper.”

    The woman’s smile turned into pursed lips, “There is no Mr. Borden.” She stirred using a small silver-plate spoon, which called attention to the size of her hand, especially with the pinkie ex­tended. Two taps on the rim and she set the spoon back on the tray.

    “Oh, I am truly sorry to hear that.”

    “No, Dear Heart,” she placed the same rough, warm hand with slightly hairy knuckles upon mine. “There never was a Mr. Borden,” and she winked at me. I wanted to pull my hand back but did not wish to seem rude to my hostess, and it remained under her cover until she finally decided to take her tea.

    All the Right Places - Wayne Goodman

    “All the Right Places” is a collection of short stories, most written for submission to anthologies or collections. Starting in the near future and proceeding to the near past, men interact with other men in the pursuit of love and companionship.

    All the Right Places

    | Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon CAN | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Smashwords | Goodreads |

    Giveaway

    Wayne is giving away a $25 iTunes gift card with this tour – enter via Rafflecopter:

    a Rafflecopter giveaway

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    Excerpt

    Rumpspringa Meme - Wayne Goodman

    Gary had never seen the likes of the boy who just walked into Mixer, one of the more recent bars to open in Chelsea. He had a farm-hewn look, like he just stepped down from a tractor clench­ing a dried stalk of wheat grass between his teeth.

    Something about this stranger seemed intriguing, invit­ing, al­luring. So out-of-place in this ultra-modern wash of dark walls, neon strip lights and fake smoke. The designer had set up the en­trance so that each person walk­ing in would emerge into the main room from a cloud of fog, like walking out of a dream.

    And this seemed much like a dream to Gary. A hayseed hick in a flashy lower Manhattan gay bar. The kind of thing he used to watch at home on video late at night when he couldn’t make a good connection at the bar. Just like in the dream, or video, the bucolic lad walked up to him.

    “Hello, I’m Elmo,” the farm boy thrust out his rough-looking right hand, presumably to shake with Gary. Unfor­tunately, the surprisingly-different name sent him into a giggle fit. “Did I say something wrong? I’m awfully sorry if I did. Perhaps I should just leave now.” Elmo turned to go.

    “No, wait, Elmo,” Gary managed to blurt out before he started laughing again, almost spilling the pricey drink he had fought the jaded crowd to purchase. The liquid in the glass glowed blue in the light of the plexiglass bartop. “Can I buy you a drink? Are you even old enough to be in here?”

    The farm boy had a very fresh and youthful appearance, except for the roughness of his palms. Elmo gazed down into those work-worn hands before responding, “I am not in the habit of accepting charity from strangers, but,” and he glanced up at Gary’s shirt and then his face, “I believe I am prepared to try something new to­night. Oh, and yes, I just turned 21 last week. What are you drinking, sir?”

    “A Blue Moon,” Gary responded as he pointed his free hand at the glass. “Two things”–he held up two fingers–“First off, this is not a drink for rank beginners, and two, if you call me ‘sir’ again, the deal’s off.” Elmo looked down. “Hey, up here, man. My name is Gary.”

    Elmo looked up and smiled. “Thank you… Gary.”

    And Gary returned the smile. Possible fantasy scenarios began to form in his overcharged imagination. “Do you like beer?”

    “Of course!” Elmo’s smile widened. “We have all kinds of beer at home: Apple Beer, Ginger Beer, Root Beer –”

    “Do any of them have alcohol?” Gary interrupted.

    “Oh, no,” his moppy head shook side to side, “we’re not sup­posed to drink alcohol.”

    “But you do, Elmo, don’t you?”

    A wicked smile spread across his face, “Oh, yeah, sure, but please don’t tell my pa.”

    Gary gently grasped Elmo’s arm. “Don’t you worry your­self none, Elmo, your secret is safe with me.” He then turned to the bartender and ordered a lite beer. Once he had fin­ished settling, he took the bottle in his free hand and turned back to Elmo. “I wish we could find a place to sit and chat, but this bar is so crowded.”

    “What about there?” Elmo pointed to a café table where two nattily-dressed men had just stood up.

    “Well, aren’t you my little lucky charm, Elmo.” He guided them to the recently-abandoned seats. “So… what brings a nice young boy like you into a filthy old place like this?” Once he had set the two drinks on the table, he waved his arms around to indi­cate the space.

    “Oh, no. This is far from filthy. If you want filthy, I can show you the cow stalls.” Elmo’s head rotated around as he took in the new surroundings. “And why did you start laugh­ing when I told you my name?” He confronted Gary directly.

    “Oh”–he smiled–“it’s not a name you hear very often. The only Elmo I ever knew was the one on Sesame Street.”

    “Is that far from here? Is it in Manhattan?”

    Gary burst out laughing. “Are you for reals? Or are you just pranking me?”

    “I’m not sure I understand what you are asking me, sir–Gary.” His wide eyes suggested his innocence to be sincere. “Where I live, there are quite a few of us–Elmos, that is. In fact, folks usually call me Elmo Number 2, or just Number 2 for short.”

    “You are just full of surprises, Elmo Number 2.” Gary grinned. “At first I had to suppress the urge to tickle you all over.” He wig­gled his fingers and moved his hands up and down.

    “Why would you want to do that?” Elmo sipped at the beer.

    “Well, a few years back there was this toy that… oh, never mind.” Elmo seemed focused on Gary’s shirt. “Is there some­thing wrong with my shirt? You keep looking at it.”

    “Oh, no.” He blushed. “It’s the color. It’s what drew me to you.”

    “Blue. Blue is what made you bee line from the door up to me and tell me your name?” Elmo nodded his head. “Think you could you help me out with a bit of an explanation?”

    “Oh, sure,” he took another sip of the beer, “And thank you for this. It’s not bad. You see, at home, that shade of blue has a special significance for us.”

    “Home?” Gary gave him the once over once again. “And where might that be, Elmo?”

    “Lancaster, of course!”

    “Of course. I should have known. And you pronounce it way different from what I am used to. We say Lan-caster, but you call it ‘Lank-a-ster.’”

    “Really? I’ve never heard it pronounced any other way.”

    “Uhn huhn,” Gary started searching out other faces, just in case this cute little fantasy disappeared into a dust cloud. “So… what brings you to New York, Elmo Number 2?”

    The farm boy giggled, “Number 2. It sounds so different when you say it.” He giggled again. Perhaps it was the beer kicking in. “I’m on Rumspringa. Are you familiar with that?”

    “Is it some new drug?” Gary stared down into his drink.

    “Oh, no, silly. It’s my time to discover what the outside world has to offer before I commit to my adult life.”

    “I think I saw a movie about that. Are you Amish or something?”

    “Sort of. We like to call ourselves Pennsylvania Dutch, but it’s very similar. My folks are more modern than some of the other groups.”

    “Obviously.”

    “Obviously?”

    “Don’t you people ride around in horse buggies? No elec­tric­ity, no cell phones.”

    “Oh, that’s the older ones. We’re not so strict like that anymore.”

    “I see,” Gary’s eyes wandered over Elmo’s body anew as fan­tasies began to redevelop. “So… you’re in New York to see the sights?”

    Author Bio

    Wayne Goodman has lived in the San Francisco Bay Area most of his life (with too many cats). He hosts Queer Words Podcast, conversations with queer-identified authors about their works and lives. When not writing, Goodman enjoys playing Gilded Age parlor music on the piano, with an emphasis on women, gay, and Black composers.

    Where to Find Wayne Goodman

    | Facebook | Facebook Author Page | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon |

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  • Healing Lance by M.D. Grimm ~ Blog Tour and Excerpt

    Today we welcome M.D Grimm to the Land of Make Believe to share a little bit about Lance, in her new release, Healing Lance!

    Good day lovely readers! Thank you for joining me. I am M.D. Grimm and I am here to promote my newest release, “Healing Lance.” This is the first book in the “A Warrior’s Redemption” trilogy. This is a bit of a “pet project” that I am overjoyed to finally reveal to the world. The next two books, “Forgiving Lance” and “Avenging Lance” will be released in August and September, respectively.

    So… what can I say about Lance? He’s complicated for sure. He’s probably one of the most complicated characters I’ve written so far. He wasn’t always that way.

    In my first outline for the story, he was very different. He was more like a jaded, war weary soldier that had done many brutal things and decided to change his ways and seek redemption. While elements of that remained, his personality and his backstory changed drastically. Now, it was more like he was a child awakening from a nightmare. And yet the nightmare was real and all the crimes he’d committed needed to be recognized and he needed to atone. This change allowed me to play with his personality and his perspective a lot more than in the original. He’s simplistic in his thinking and yet also perceptive and interested in the world around him. He was basically numb for the majority of his formative years and only really started to live when he finally rebelled against the warlord that “formed” him.

    I have always been interested with the dichotomy between villain and hero. Sometimes the difference is minute and the separating line is thin. Lance is equal parts victim and victimizer. He’s villain and hero. Throughout the trilogy, I explore the two sides as Lance himself tries to understand who he is and who he wants to be. It’s a question, I’m sure, we all ask ourselves at least once in our lives. Who am I? What is my purpose?

    Other questions might be: Am I who I make myself? Am I what other people say I am? If others consider you a monster, are you?  Do you become what others say you are or are you only what you think you are? I also question the ideas of redemption and forgiveness. I find that the best fantasies are those that revolve around human follies.

    I don’t think such questions have any definite answers. It’s all nuanced and complicated, and it was interesting to explore these aspects and themes within the story.

    Lance certainly has monstrous qualities. And yet he can be kind and gentle and compassionate. He’s a beast in battle and yet finds childlike joy in cuddling a puppy. He’s a boy that was molded into a weapon that became a man with a lifetime of guilt and the need to redeem himself.

    Can we truly redeem ourselves? Can we seek and receive forgiveness if we truly regret our past actions? Are there crimes that can never be forgiven?

    I think the answers to such questions are individualized. It would be too easy to say that there were “right” or “wrong” answers. Everyone has their own criteria.

    Lance might have started as a rather generic war-weary soldier but he became something more. Writing his story took me on a fascinating journey, and I fell a bit more in love with him with each book. I hope you will to!

    The next two books in the trilogy, “Forgiving Lance” and “Avenging Lance” are available for preorder at Amazon and Smashwords. I also have a newsletter that I try to send out monthly with all the goodies you can expect in the future. If you’re a fan of my book “Leopold” (Saga of the Bold People 1) then you might be excited to learn that the sequel, “Legacy” will be out in October 2020. More information can be found at my website.

    I also plan on republishing my entire Shifter Chronicles, On Wings Saga, and Eye of the Beholder in 2021, with updated and expanded text for most of them. Keep your eyes peeled for those!

    I hope you stay safe and healthy, and may dragons guard your dreams,

    M.D. Grimm

    Healing Lance

    A baby’s laughter.

    A mind uncaged.

    Lance is known as Scourge, the warrior in the black armor, the dog of the warlord Ulfr Blackwolf. He was just a boy when Ulfr found him and molded him into the perfect weapon. He slaughters and pillages on command, merciless and numb, devoid of emotions. Then a baby girl laughs at him during a raid.

    And everything changes.

    When Gust, a talented healer, is out deer hunting and stumbles across a magnificent horse bearing a mortally wounded rider, he has no idea that his life is about to change forever. Gust applies all his skills to his patient, determined to save the rider’s life, and is rewarded when the man opens his eyes.

    As friendship, and more, bloom between warrior and healer, so does the danger over the horizon. Ulfr has not forgotten, and Lance must take his first steps on the long road to redemption.

    | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Smashwords | Universal Buy Link |

    Giveaway

    M.D. is giving away a $10 Amazon gift card with this tour – enter via Rafflecopter:

    M.D. is giving away a $10 Amazon gift card with this tour – enter via Rafflecopter:

    a Rafflecopter giveaway

    Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47137/?

    Excerpt

    Healing Lance meme

    Chapter One

    The baby shouldn’t matter. But she did.

    He easily held her small body in his broad hands. He knew the baby was a girl because she was naked. She kicked her legs as if she wanted to dance, and her wide amber eyes gazed at him in seeming fascination. He stared down at her, wondering why she didn’t scream. Didn’t babies scream? Adults certainly did when they saw him. He didn’t like the sound. All he wanted to do was silence the noise.

    The baby stared at him a moment before her mouth curled up at the corners, and she laughed. He froze at the unusual sound. With eyes alight, she grabbed her feet and continued to laugh. It was… all the things foreign to him. It wasn’t cruel or dark but careless, showing a freedom he’d never known. She wiggled in his hands, her pale, pink body flush with life and potential.

    Battle roars and the cries of the dying met his ears again, in stark contrast to the little life he held. He wrenched his gaze away from her and looked around the charred hut and over the collapsed roof. The light from the fires consuming the village illuminated the destruction and the blood splattered on the walls and floor. It was a view he was accustomed to, one he understood. The weight of his sword was one he only noticed when it wasn’t there. He returned his gaze to the baby. This was something he didn’t understand. She was confusing.

    She laughed again as goosebumps broke out over her body. She was cold. He scanned the area and spotted a blanket that only had blood on one corner. He wrapped her as best he could, another thing unfamiliar to him, and his black armored gloves made the action awkward. Then he pressed her against his steel chest. He wanted her to survive. He didn’t know why—he just knew he didn’t want her to die.

    “Please….”

    A young woman lay on the floor at his feet, one he thought was dead. It appeared she had only been knocked out. She lay on her side, one arm stretched out to him, her normally golden skin sickly pale. Her dark brown hair was short, barely reaching past her ears, and one side of her head was caked with blood. The southern part of the kingdom of Grekenus didn’t seem too fond of hair as most of the men in the village were bald and beardless while the women grew hair no longer than their chins.

    “Please don’t kill her,” she said, dark eyes wide and dazed. “Don’t kill my daughter. Please, I beg you.”

    She spoke in Spart, the native language of the kingdom. He knew it well enough to communicate effectively.

    He looked at the baby and then back at the woman. If he wanted the baby to survive, she needed a caretaker. Since the woman was her mother, who better? He strode over to the woman where she struggled to rise and grabbed her arm. She winced at his grip as he tugged her to her feet. He shoved the baby into her arms before dragging her outside.

    “What are you—?”

    “Silence,” he said curtly. He observed the chaos through the smoke and beyond the fires. The broken dead littered the ground and fire ate everything it touched. A horse galloped toward them, one that belonged to the village since there was neither a saddle nor bridle on the beast. He let go of the woman and pointed to the ground.

    “Stay.” Then he strode in front of the horse and held up his hands. The beast reared on her hind legs, neighing in fright. Unlike with humans, he knew how to speak to horses. It wasn’t long before he’d calmed her and had her under control. He petted her neck and muzzle, whispering kind words. The frantic look in her eyes eased, and he led her over to the woman and the baby. She swayed on her feet and had stayed where he told her to, not that he’d doubted she would. The hope for escape let her trust him.

    He quickly found a length of rope and looped it around the horse’s nose and neck.

    “Get on.”

    She didn’t question him this time. She struggled to follow his command, and he realized the horse was just too tall for her to mount without help. He shoved her up, and she sat unsteadily on the horse’s back, her daughter clutched to her chest. She stared at him, and he noted the blood from her head now stained the side of her face and dress. She would see nothing of his face since his black armor covered every piece of flesh, and his eyes were barely visible through the narrow visor slit of the helmet.

    “Go.” He slapped the horse’s rear and the mare bolted. The woman leaned over the horse and let the mare lead them away from death.

    Another warrior, part of the warband, nocked an arrow and leveled it at her. He strode over and kicked the warrior’s knee, sending the man crashing to the ground with a scream of pain. The arrow flew wide. Another warrior was about to give chase on horseback, and he dashed over to grab the sword from his hand before shoving the warrior off the saddle. A few other attempts were made to stop the fleeing woman, and he stopped them all, causing various injuries and not caring in the least. He had no affinity to any of the warriors in the warband. He had no affinity to anyone… except the tiny girl.

    He still couldn’t figure out why. He wondered if he ever would.

    He stood there, on the muddy ground soaked with blood, staring after the woman. The smoke burned his throat and stung his eyes. The scent, the noise, the mess of battle he knew like he knew his name. He’d never been curious about anything beyond his current life. Now he did.

    He hoped she took good care of her daughter.

    “Lance!”

    He blinked and turned around. The warlord Ulfr, known throughout the Nifdem Empire as Mad Blackwolf, stalked over to him, expression like a thundercloud, his black, bushy beard and thick head of hair obscuring most of his ruddy face. He wasn’t as tall as Lance, although he was much broader, and there wasn’t a weak bone in his burly body. The quality of his black long-sleeved tunic, trousers, and boots showed a hard but fruitful life, and a few glistening red splatters indicated he didn’t leave all the fun to his warriors.

    A few of the warriors that Lance had attacked hobbled after their commander, scowling and muttering curses. All the men sported beards of one length or another. Lance remained clean shaven since the helmet made having a beard quite painful as it tugged on the strands and chafed his skin.

    “You will explain to me why you disobeyed a direct order!” Ulfr said when he reached Lance. He spoke in Taris, the official language of the empire. His clenched fists and tight jaw indicated his fury, and the rest of the men and women in their warband cowered at such a sight.

    Not Lance. He didn’t feel fear.

    Lance took off his helmet, long honey blond hair sticking to his face, pressed there by the constriction of the helmet and sweat glistening on his pale skin. Frosty blue eyes stared at Ulfr, eyes hollow from years of war and brutality. Yet, if Ulfr had looked closer, he would have seen a spark of life newly lit in the void.

    Lance tucked the helmet in the crook of his arm and smoothed back his hair, the armor grinding and clanking.

    “I didn’t want the baby to die.”

    Ulfr blinked. “What?”

    Lance frowned. He knew Ulfr had heard him clearly enough. “I did not want the baby to die,” he said, slower this time. “She couldn’t survive on her own, so she had to have her mother with her.”

    Men and women gathered around them, filthy warriors stained with the evidence of their raid and slaughter. Everyone wore trousers and tunics, though some of the women chose more form-fitting clothing that extenuated their feminine attributes. The ethnicities in Ulfr’s band were as varied as the colors of their wardrobes. Though none dared wear purple or, worse, silver and purple combined. A person could be killed for being so presumptions. Only imperial royalty wore those colors.

    Several men were retying their trousers, having violated their victims before killing them. Lance observed the crowd with a detached eye. He knew what would happen now. He’d known it the moment he made the decision to save the infant.

    “You disobeyed me!” Ulfr gripped the collar of Lance’s breastplate and yanked him closer until their faces were inches apart. “You showed mercy when I told you all to slaughter those who don’t give us tribute. These people spat on us as if they were better, and so they deserved their punishment. You’ve followed my orders before, Lance. Why not now?”

    “I told you.”

    Ulfr shoved him away. Lance stumbled back two steps before standing still, like an oak tree against a high wind.

    The complete slaughter of a village or town wasn’t what Ulfr usually did. He wouldn’t raid if they paid him. Normally, if they resisted, Lance would only kill one or two people to make a point, and then the villagers would hand over whatever Ulfr wanted to make him go away. This village had done that in the past, and yet they recently decided to fight back against Ulfr’s protection racket. They paid the ultimate price, an example to all who dared defy Mad Blackwolf.

    The village was close to the border between the kingdoms of Grekenus and Cairon, and mostly safe from the ravages of the civil war, since it was deep into the protective territory of one of the kings. And yet sometimes, like that day, warlords got through. Ulfr’s band had had scuffles with army units now and then over the years that gave Lance more of a challenge, but none recently.

    “You disobeyed me for a wench and her spawn?”

    “I did not want the baby to die,” Lance repeated.

    “You will go after her.” Ulfr pointed in the direction the woman had fled in. “You will redeem yourself and escape my wrath but only if you go now.”

    “No.”

    Every single man and woman there gaped, eyes wide.

    Ulfr’s eyes bulged and his face grew red. “You ungrateful maggot! Who raised you? Trained you? Who saved you from becoming crow food or sold into slavery? You owe me your loyalty!”

    Lance stared at Ulfr. Yes, all he said was true. But there was no way Lance could ever hold his sword over the neck of that baby and kill her. Her laugh echoed in his mind and seemed to unlock something. Something scarred shut.

    No, she would live.

    He dropped his helmet to the bloody mud, followed by his sword, which had taken countless lives without mercy or hesitation. He stood before the warriors, those he’d trained and slaughtered alongside. Despite living with them, killing with them, he didn’t know them at all. He never cared to.

    “I am done,” he said.

    Author Bio

    M.D. Grimm has wanted to write stories since second grade (kind of young to make life decisions, but whatever) and nothing has changed since then (well, plenty of things actually, but not that!). Thankfully, she has indulgent parents who let her dream, but also made sure she understood she’d need a steady job to pay the bills (they never let her forget it!).

    After graduating from the University of Oregon and majoring in English, (let’s be honest: useless degree, what else was she going to do with it?) she started on her writing career and couldn’t be happier.

    Working by day and writing by night (or any spare time she can carve out), she enjoys embarking on romantic quests and daring adventures (living vicariously, you could say) and creating characters that always triumph against the villain, (or else what’s the point?) finding their soul mate in the process.

    Where to Find M.D. Grimm

    | Website | Facebook | Goodreads | QueeRomance Ink | Liminal Fiction | Amazon |

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  • A Fine Mess by Angel Martinez ~ Blog Tour and Excerpt

    A Fine Mess by Angel Martinez ~ Blog Tour and Excerpt

    Please Welcome the amazingly talented Angel Martinez to the Land of Make Believe. This is a real treat. If you’ve never read an Angel Martinez book, you REALLY need to start. A Fine Mess is part of a series so you might want to start at the beginning, but enjoy this guess post to see what you’re missing.

    GUEST POST:

    Heckle Numerous is an imp who once belonged to a powerful prince of Hell. Now a free imp, he’s finally been learning to read—at a much faster pace than a human would, but it still takes time. A short Heckle fic, by reader request:

    Location: Aboard the Brimstone

    Time: Directly after The Hunt for Red Fluffy

    Sometimes, to practice making the letters sit still, Heckle read books for small human kids. They had short sentences and lots of…space, what Captain Shax called white space on each page. Also, there were pictures, though he was careful only to tell certain people about how he loved the pictures. Some were better than others, but the colors were always bright and cheerful.

    He understood by now the thing humans did in stories, where animals stood in for people, especially when the storyteller was making a point. There was a word for that, one he didn’t always remember. It wasn’t narrative distance that the captain sometimes talked about—Heckle had looked up the term and wasn’t sure Captain Shax was using it right. Animorphing? No, that was something else.

    Sometimes in the stories, the animals wore clothes, which was cute in, say, Jemima Puddleduck, but in this story’s pictures it just looked silly. They’d painted the cat with a white ruff, not of fur, but the kind that humans wore centuries ago made of starched linen. The rat was wearing a suit that didn’t have any believable way to deal with his tail—Heckle knew firsthand what the human artist had drawn wouldn’t work.

    “It’s just pretend,” he reminded himself, going back to the page with the final confrontation and blowing out a slow breath, his hooves kicking against the crate he perched on.

    “You all right there, little bit?” Mac called over from where he was working on the next project, whatever it was.

    Always something, though. Mac could never sit still for long and his brain was always spinning around the next improvement, the next necessary build. This was a box? A frame for something? Heckle wasn’t sure yet.

    “Yeah…it’s…” Heckle shook his head. “Humans are weird sometimes.”

    “Humans are weird most of the time.” Mac looked up from bending a piece of metal with his bare hands. “Except Corny. He’s a sensible person.”

    “‘Preciate that, Mac,” Corny called over from where he was brushing Rosa.

    Heckle nodded, trying to think of a way to explain why the story irritated him. “This Little Red Hen—you know the story, right?” He knew Mac would hear every word even if he’d gone back to work and he waited until Mac nodded. “I get why she’d be angry. She had to do all the work and take care of her kids. Um, chicks. But then she finally has this nice bread and she’s just mean about it.”

    Mac frowned, tightening a bolt. “You wanted her to share the bread?”

    “Well…no. Maybe if the others had been busy doing something for everybody else too. Like if they all had jobs on the farm. But they didn’t do anything.” Heckle turned the reader over in his hands, trying again. “She shouldn’t have to share. It’s her bread. But if that was me? I’d just have the bread with the kids. I wouldn’t wave it around and make sure everyone knew they weren’t getting any. Even if they were lazy.”

    “That’s because—” Mac stopped to lift another beam into place, one as thick around as Heckle’s waist. “You have a kind heart unlike so many characters in human fables.”

    “Oh, it’s one of those. I see.”

    Fluffy padded over to rest her head on the crate next to Heckle and he pointed out the cat in the ruff to her. “That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? You’d never wear that, would you?”

    She turned her head and let out a disgusted sneeze-growl before she flowed up onto the crate and curled around Heckle.

    “That’s what I thought.”

    “Give it here, sweetheart.” Mac held his hand out for the reader. “Some fables aren’t as bad. Let’s find you a better one.”

    He tapped on the screen delicately, his fingers too large for Heckle’s settings, and finally handed the reader back.

    The screen showed a cover page with a border of beautiful flowers and the title, The Lion and the Mouse.

    Snuggled back against Fluffy, his heart full to the very top with the knowledge that Mac knew him better than he did himself sometimes and that he cared so much even in the little things, like story selections. Warm, understood, loved—Heckle held the screen out so Fluffy could see too and began to read to her.

    A Fine Mess - Angel Martinez - Brimstone

    Angel Martinez has a new queer space opera comedy out, book seven in her Brimstone series: “A Fine Mess.” And there’s a giveaway!

    Beware the demon prince who’s sick and tired of running.

    Federico Duomo is dead, to begin with. But this is only the first bit of Shax’s problems resolved. Powerful crime lords and an obscenely wealthy oligarch are still determined to destroy him and his crew, and Fluffy’s original owner may be coming after the Brimstone now, too. It would be splendid to be able to take on one thing at a time.

    Adding to the external conflicts, life on board the Brimstone has only grown increasingly stranger. Shax has no idea what to do with the seven partly human children that Heckle rescued from slavers. Heckle himself has grown short-tempered, even with Mac. Someone from Julian’s past catches up to them on Barbary. It’s enough to put a demon off his cinnamon buns.

    Shax isn’t panicking, though. In fact he’s had it up to his handsome royal nose with the people he loves having to live in constant fear. The fox has turned at bay and the Brimstone’s enemies are in for a shock. The demon prince of thieves is coming for them.

    About the Series:

    Due to circumstances completely within his control, Shax, the Demon Prince of Thieves, has fled, er, emigrated from Earth to seek his fortunes out in the galaxy. Who said Science Fiction always has to be serious?

    | Amazon | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | QueeRomance Ink | Bookbub | Goodreads |

    Giveaway

    Angel is giving away a $25 Mischief Corner Books Gift Card with this tour. Enter via Rafflecopter:

    a Rafflecopter giveaway

    Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47134/?

    Excerpt

    A Fine Mess

    “Captain Cream Puff, Glkix is on the line for you.” Ms. Ivana kept her voice to a throaty purr, probably in deference to the early hour.

    While Shax had been expecting the call, he would’ve preferred at least one more cup of coffee beforehand. “Thank you, my dear. Put her through to my comm, please.”

    He arranged himself in his desk chair to appear calm and unaffected, coffee mug in one hand for any necessary sardonic or thoughtful sipping. A brief flicker through the relays, and Glkix’s image hovered above the holo plate on his desk. Her blue-black hair swept up and pinned with obsidian, her gray-green face smooth and serene, his mother’s personal assistant was as elegant as ever. Few people would have picked up the tightness around her eyes, and only if they’d known her as long as Shax had. Not good news, then.

    “Good morning, highness. Your royal mother sends greetings.”

    “Thank you, Glkix. Please convey my filial greetings in return.” Shax’s nerves got the better of him. He sipped. “You have something for me?”

    Incomprehensible data flowed across the screen as Glkix typed. “We were able to track her genetic material through registered bloodlines and make discreet inquiries regarding missing stock. Her lineage is well-documented and highly prized among certain demon lords, highness.”

    Is this flattery or an explanation of methodology? Sometimes it’s so hard to tell. “Yes? Do you have an answer, or is this just an update on progress?”

    Glkix cleared her throat, eyes glued to the data stream. “An answer, highness. Your hellcat belongs to Baphomet, Lord of Beasts.”

    Hell’s shiny, pointy gates. Inside, Shax ran in little circles screaming. Outwardly, he sipped. “I see. Does he know I have her?”

    “Abject apologies, highness. I’ve little data on that.” Glkix ducked in a strange sort of seated bow. “We know that Lord Baphomet was visiting a forested moon near Opal when the hellcat in question—”

    “Fluffy.”

    “Pardon, highness?”

    Though he knew she’d never approved of his names for his pets, he persisted. “My hellcat’s name is Fluffy.”

    Glkix cringed. “Er. Yes. When Fluffy was stolen from her pride.”

    “Do we know by whom?”

    “No, highness. Not yet.”

    Shax drummed his fingers on his mug and forced himself not to sip. Control. Control. “And m’lord of beasts? Where is he now?”

    “Hunting, highness. In his ship, Cornuta.” Glkix shook her head. “We are trying to redirect wherever possible, Prince Shax.”

    “Understood.” All too well. “Thank you for the information. Mother can’t possibly be paying you enough.”

    “I live to serve, highness.” She executed her seated bow again, and Shax cut the connection.

    Carefully, he placed his mug on the desk. Pushed back his chair. Bent over his knees and screamed into his hands for a solid forty-five seconds.

    Of course, he should have known better. Boots pounded down the corridor almost before he’d stopped, and his door whooshed open. Through his fingers, he spotted Ness in the doorway with his wings mantled in a fierce defensive position and his plasma pistol drawn. Julian, knives out, slid in under Ness’s wing and dove behind the trunk Shax had pulled from the closet earlier.

    “Shax? Everything all right?” Ness ventured after a stunned and puzzled silence.

    Julian vaulted the trunk to sit on its lid. “We thought something was murdering you.”

    “No murders.” Shax sat up and forced himself to draw in a slow breath. “Not yet, at any rate.”

    Instead of acknowledging him, Ness turned to Julian. “I don’t think it was an angry scream.”

    “Right.” Julian nodded. “No prince-in-a-snit smoke. I’d say frustration, except there was definitely a squeaky note to it.”

    “You’re both vastly entertaining and should consider taking this on the road.” Shax scowled at each in turn. “But this is serious.”

    Ness flipped and reflipped his wings as he folded them before sitting on the bunk. “Perhaps you could enlighten us, love.”

    “Fluffy…” Shax paused as the hellcat in question trotted through the open door to butt her head against him almost hard enough to knock him from his chair. “Yes, you’re a good girl. Who’s the best Fluffums? Ahem. Fluffy was stolen from Baphomet.”

    “I’m gathering that’s not good.” Ness let her waving tail run through his hand, careful of the sickle blade on the end, his expression unreadable.

    “ISE lists Lord Baphomet as a class IV demon lord. Not of the highest rank, so he’s able to leave Sol system,” Julian offered softly. “Unpredictable, motivations unclear; do not, under any circumstances, engage.”

    “While Enforcement and I disagree on many things, that’s a frighteningly apt assessment.” Mug back in hand, Shax took a fortifying sip. “He may be hunting us and, I’ll be honest, this is definitely cause for alarm. Mum and Glkix have apparently been sending him off in various directions, but he will find us at some point.”

    The crinkle in Ness’s forehead showed the first sign of real concern. “Is he family? Do you know him well?”

    Shax waved a hand at the universe. “All demon lords are family in a sense. I don’t believe we’re directly related, mind you. And Mum would never allow association with the more, ah, nature-oriented demons. Mud and dust and sticks in your hair…”

    “That’s a no, then,” Julian drawled. “This may sound absurd to you, our lovely prince, but could you contact him? Let him know what happened?”

    A cold iron weight lodged in Shax’s stomach and the backs of his eyes burned as he choked out, “But he’ll want Fluffy back.”

    Everyone lunged toward him with huffs and other distressed sounds, and he found himself surrounded by arms and wings, with a huge hellcat head in his lap.

    “Shax. I’m so sorry,” Julian whispered. “Please don’t cry.”

    “I most certainly am not.” Of course, a hot teardrop chose that moment to splash onto Julian’s hand.

    Ness stroked his hair. “We know you love her. But she had a pride once, didn’t she? Maybe a family?”

    “Of course.” Shax shook himself and swiped at his eyes. Part of him wanted to collapse against them and howl like a six-year-old demon, but he was the captain, and there was such a thing as dignity. “Of course. And better to inform him than to have him come after us in a rage. I’ll… send the message.”

    About the Author

    Angel Martinez

    Angel Martinez is the pen name of a writer of several genres who writes both kinds of queer fiction – Science Fiction and Fantasy. (What? There are others?) Currently living part time in the hectic sprawl of northern Delaware, (and full time inside the author’s head) Angel has one husband, one son, at least one cat at any given time, a changing variety of other furred and scaled companions, a love of all things beautiful and a terrible addiction to the consumption of both knowledge and chocolate.

    Where to Find the Author

    | Website | Facebook (Personal) | Facebook (Author) | Twitter | Goodreads | QueeRomance Ink | Amazon |

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  • Champion of the Gods – Box Set

    Champion of the Gods – Box Set

    Box Sets. The final stage of a series. These are the five books in the Champion of the Gods series. Joined together for the first time ever for just $9.99.

    Series Blurb:

    It took the Seven to create the world, each to rule their own. Until one wanted to control it all.

    In the Great War of ancient times the God of Death sought to rule the world. He almost succeeded, but the Champion of the Six, destroyed the bridge into the world and closed the Eight Gates of Neblor. Some thought forever.

    But he returned. 

    His servant, Meglar, surprised his enemies and all the great wizards who opposed him. The Six chose a new Champion to save the world. Young and untested, Farrell struggles to unite those who oppose the God of Death. With each confrontation, however, his task seems ever more impossible.

    Buy Links:

    Universal Link: https://www.bklnk.com/B08D3LQLR7

    Amazon.UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08D3LQLR7

    Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08D3LQLR7

  • Power Inversion by Sara Codair ~ Blog Tour and Excerpt

    Power Inversion - Sara Codair

    Sara Codair has a new queer supernatural/urban fantasy book out, Evanstar Chronicles book two: ‘Power Inversion.” And there’s a giveaway!

    But first, an…

    Introduction

    The main character, Erin, dreams potential futures. Their cousin, Mel, is a telepath. Sometimes, when they sleep in the same house, their minds synch up and Mel dreams the same thing as Erin. In this scene, Erin has just dreamed a future in which Mel’s body is destroyed, but their soul survives shattered into hundreds of pieces and scattered across the multiverse.

    The dream sequences were getting a little too long and since this potential future never came to pass, I decided to remove it from the sequence. As a result, I also had to delete Mel’s reaction to it. However, the scene in which Erin helps Mel get through the panic attack the dream triggered showed how Mel and Erin’s relationship had flipped from Power Surge to Power Inversion. In Power Surge, Mel was usually the one helping Erin. Now Erin is returning the favor for Mel.

    Deleted Scene:

    I woke to a soft knock on the door between my room and Mel’s. When I didn’t immediately reply, the knocking grew louder. The bed shook as Bessie leapt off it, plopped over to the door, and woofed.

    “Mel? It’s not locked unless you locked it,” I half-yawned, half-shouted.

    “Erin?” Mike slowly opened the door and peeked in the room. His glasses were crooked, and his hair stood up even more than usual. I was pretty sure the Hulk pajamas he was wearing were actually mine.

    “Is Mel okay?” I sat up too quickly, and the room spun. My head throbbed. 

    “Panic attack. I think. I can’t reach her.” Mike took a few more steps into the room. “Are you well enough to help?”

    I stood up slowly. My brain felt like it was swollen and pulsating against my skull. The room tilted with every step I took. Mike met me about half way and caught me as I tripped over a pile of the shredded, dirty, pajamas I’d worn during last night’s fight.

    I swallowed my pride and awkwardness and let him support me while we walked through the round door, into Mel’s room.

    “You really think I can reach her when you can’t? I think she likes you better.”

    Mike smiled as he helped me over the threshold between. “You and her have a special connection. You spend a lot of time in each other’s heads.”

    “I think you and her do that too. Maybe more so. You live together. And you…” I decided it would be less awkward if I didn’t finish that sentence.

    Mike sighed. “It’s not about which one of us is closer to her. Your brain is different from mine. Mel says mentally chatting you is like talking with another telepath.”

    “Mel never told me that.” I had to stop walking a minute and let my head stop spinning.

    Mike guided forward towards Mel. “Sometimes when you get used to lying, to hiding things, it gets very hard to be open and honest, especially when you come across things you don’t understand.”

    Mel sat with her back against the headboard, arms wrapped around her knees, pressing them up to her chest. She was shaking, choking on tears. Her eyes were open, swirling, and not blinking.

    I let go of Mike and carefully lowered myself so I was sitting next to Mel.

    “I’ve never seen her this bad. It’s like she can’t hear anything I say or think and doesn’t even realize when I touch her,” said Mike. He sank down on the foot of the bed, turned, and made eye contact with me. “You’ve made her hear you from almost a mile away. Make her hear you now.”

    You’re breathing like a honking goose is stuck in your throat, I thought as loudly as I could.

    Mel made a sound somewhere between a snort and bark, an almost laugh that got crushed by panic on the way out, which meant she could hear my thoughts.

     My instinct was to back away. If she were me and someone got too close, I’d lash out without even knowing who it was.

    But Mel wasn’t me.

    I inched closer, moving Mike’s pillow and leaned so my back was against the headboard and my shoulders were a hair away from Mel’s. I looked at the room, at her obnoxious yellow curtains, the survivors of an old stuffed animal collection Bessie was gradually decimating, the dresser with the heart shaped mirror, and Mike, sitting at the foot of her bed, in my pajamas, way too confident in my ability to help his fiancé through the worst panic attack I’d ever seen. I held all that in my head and put my hand over hers. Just like the other times, I imagined our veins were HDMI cables transmitting image and sound. I’m here. So are you.

    I leaned my aching head against hers and replayed the present moment over and over.

    Eventually, her muscles relaxed a little. What you…saw…happen to…me. It’s….worse than…dying.

    It’s not going to happen, I thought right back at her.  I’ll make sure it doesn’t. Trust me.

    “I’m trying,” said Mel, her breathing regulating enough to form words. “But I’m afraid.”

    Do you have to be a monster to fight one?

    Erin Evanstar is a demon hunter, a protector of humanity from nightmarish predators that feed on people’s fears and flesh. They are settling into their dual life of being a teen and hunting demons.

    When a tentacled horror abducts Erin’s partner, José, Erin and their family go on the hunt to get him back. But Erin gets an ultimatum: help the Fallen Angels bring on the apocalypse or watch José die. Erin will do anything to save José, but fighting monsters comes with a grim price–becoming one themselves.

    Warnings: Violence, Death, Death of a Minor Character, Temporary Death of a Main Character, Mention of Past Abuse, Mention of Miscarriage, Pregnancy of Side Character, Self-harm, Suicidal Ideation, Guns, Grief, Kidnapping/abduction, alcohol use, brief depiction of humans enslaved by a supernatural creature 


    Where to Find Power Inversion

    NineStar Press | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

    Giveaway

    Sara is giving away a $10 Amazon gift card with this blog tour. Enter via Rafflecopter:

    a Rafflecopter giveaway

    Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47130/?


    Excerpt

    Power Inversion meme

    White graduation caps fell from the sky like flakes of vaporized Demon. High school was a beast, and I’d vanquished it like every monster I’d fought, with one exception—myself.

    This moment deserved savoring.

    Breathing deliberately, I slowed my perception of time until the caps seemed as if they were falling through cold honey on their way to the ground.

    The late-spring sun beat down on me, but a breeze kept the temperature bearable. Some tassels lilted southeast—away from the towering clouds bruising the northwest sky. The weather wasn’t going to hold much longer, but I was okay with that. Thunderstorms awoke something wild in me—a pulse-racing, dance-around-like-no-one-can-see-you kind of wild—a rush of adrenaline almost as good as what I’d get from battling a Troll or sparring with Mel.

    With my sense of time slowed down, the distant thunder sounded like a lion purring. The clouds glowed purple as lightning forked through them like an X-ray, temporarily revealing a mass of tentacles undulating in the clouds.

    Mel, did you see that? I thought as loudly as I could, hoping my telepathic cousin would hear me.

    I’d seen a lot of different Demons in the three months I’d been hunting them, but based on the stories and the Lexicon, the massive tentacled ones only materialized in oceans, and they certainly could not fly. Yet, every time lightning flashed, there they were, waving as if violent updrafts were a gentle breeze.

    My heart sped up. My hands closed into fists. Mel didn’t reply.

    I shut my eyes, opening my mind so I could feel all the energy around me. Most humans were blobs of buzzing heat, but Mel, a hybrid of human, Angel, and Elf, had a hotter, more intense aura with a spritz of simultaneously depressed and optimistically peppy texture. I found her near my Elven grandmother, who felt like a condensed thunderstorm.

    Mel? Niben? Can you hear me? Did you see that?

    Of course, there was a good chance they were both shielding. What telepath would have their mind open to other people’s thoughts when there were so many other people around?

    One who hasn’t been able to properly shield in months. Mel’s melodic yet squeaky voice was a welcome presence in my mind. Shut down the hyper drive. You’re giving me a headache.

    I exhaled over the course of ten seconds, willing my sense of time back to normal.

    A garbled din of stretched-out voices morphed to something more akin to a clattering avalanche of pots and pans. A shoulder jostled mine. The corner of a graduation cap crashed into my head.

    Erin? What had you wanted to tell me?

    There were tentacles in the clouds, I thought at Mel, turning in the general direction I sensed her in.

    I crashed into José, who, of course, stood right next to me.

    “You okay?” he asked. Tears glistened in his midnight eyes and trickled down his sun-kissed cheeks. One snagged on the crooked tip of his nose. He clutched two graduation caps, his and mine, so tight that the scars on his knuckles were visibly stretched.

    “Yeah. Are you?” I wondered if I should tell him what I’d seen. He’d been hunting Demons longer than me, but he also thrived on keeping school and the supernatural as two separate entities. And what if they hadn’t been tentacles? What if the storm had just appeared that way with the lightning in slow motion? I didn’t want to ruin his day if there wasn’t an actual threat.

    “I’ll miss everyone.” He stuffed the caps under his arms and hugged me. While I wanted to celebrate because I’d made it out alive, he mourned the loss of a place that had been a haven to him for four years.

    I leaned my head on his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat, trying to let his steady warmth calm the worry growing in my mind. José’s body was a rock in the sense that it was hard and athletic, but also because it anchored me when I felt as if my mind was running away.

    Have you ever watched a storm with time slowed that much? asked Mel.

    I shook my head before I remembered there were dozens of people between her and me. No. Do storm clouds in slow motion look like tentacles?

    José kissed my hair and whispered, “Are you talking to Mel?”

    I nodded.

    “Is she okay?”

    “She’s having trouble shielding. We should go meet up with her and the others anyway.” I stepped away from him and walked uphill.

    Students, who wore white graduation robes, and their parents, who were dressed mostly in summer dresses, slacks, and collared shirts, were clumped all over Saint Patrick’s sprawling lawn.

    José draped his arm over my shoulder as I wove around groups of people. The pressure was calming, lulling panic monsters back to sleep with its warm weight. I glanced up at the clouds. They were closer and darker. The wind sped up, stealing programs from a dozen people’s hands. The clouds lit up with lightning, but I didn’t see any tentacles.

    Mel’s voice popped back into my head. I don’t sense anything in the clouds, and neither does Niben. I guess she’s been restraining the storm for half the ceremony. Perhaps you were seeing her power mingled with it?

    Maybe. Some tension unraveled from my chest. I’d heard stories about my grandmother, Niben, controlling storms, but I’d never seen her do it. In fact, I’d never witnessed her do any magic unless she was modeling something she wanted me to try. She’d come on a few hunts, but she’d just watched with her unblinking feline eyes and later quizzed me on what I did right and wrong. For all I knew, her fabled storm magic could resemble tentacles.

    About the Author

    Sara Codair

    Sara Codair is an author of short stories and novels, which are packed with action, adventure, magic, and the bizarre. They partially owe their success to their faithful feline writing partner, Goose the Meowditor-In-Chief, who likes to “edit” their work by deleting entire pages.

    If Sara isn’t writing, they’re probably teaching, swimming in the lake, reading fantasy, or walking their dog.

    Where to Find the Author

    | Website| Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon

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  • The Stark Divide: by J. Scott Coatsworth ~ Blog Tour and Excerpt

    The Stark Divide - J. Scott Coatsworth

    [Andrew’s note: I read this when it first came out. If you haven’t had read it yourself, now is a good time to pick it up]

    J. Scott Coatsworth has a new queer sci fi book out book one in the Ariadne Cycle: “The Stark Divide.” This is a re-release.

    Some stories are epic.

    The Earth is in a state of collapse, with wars breaking out over resources and an environment pushed to the edge by human greed.

    Three living generation ships have been built with a combination of genetic mastery, artificial intelligence, technology, and raw materials harvested from the asteroid belt. This is the story of one of them—43 Ariadne, or Forever, as her inhabitants call her—a living world that carries the remaining hopes of humanity, and the three generations of scientists, engineers, and explorers working to colonize her.

    From her humble beginnings as a seedling saved from disaster to the start of her journey across the void of space toward a new home for the human race, The Stark Divide tells the tales of the world, the people who made her, and the few who will become something altogether beyond human.

    Humankind has just taken its first step toward the stars.

    Get It On Amazon

    Giveaway

    Scott is giving away a $25 Amazon gift card with this tour, and a signed paperback trilogy of the Oberon Cycle (Skythane, Lander and Ithani) – two winners! Enter via Rafflecopter for a chance to win.

    a Rafflecopter giveaway

    Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47131/?

    Excerpt

    “Dressler, schematic,” Colin McAvery, ship’s captain and a third of the crew, called out to the ship-mind.

    A three-dimensional image of the ship appeared above the smooth console. Her five living arms, reaching out from her central core, were lit with a golden glow, and the mechanical bits of instrumentation shone in red. In real life, she was almost two hundred meters from tip to tip.

    Between those arms stretched her solar wings, a ghostly green film like the sails of the Flying Dutchman.

    “You’re a pretty thing,” he said softly. He loved these ships, their delicate beauty as they floated through the starry void.

    “Thank you, Captain.” The ship-mind sounded happy with the compliment—his imagination running wild. Minds didn’t have real emotions, though they sometimes approximated them.

    He cross-checked the heading to be sure they remained on course to deliver their payload, the man-sized seed that was being dragged on a tether behind the ship. Humanity’s ticket to the stars at a time when life on Earth was getting rapidly worse.

    All of space was spread out before him, seen through the clear expanse of plasform set into the ship’s living walls. His own face, trimmed blond hair, and deep brown eyes, stared back at him, superimposed over the vivid starscape.

    At thirty, Colin was in the prime of his career. He was a starship captain, and yet sometimes he felt like little more than a bus driver. After this run… well, he’d have to see what other opportunities might be awaiting him. Maybe the doc was right, and this was the start of a whole new chapter for mankind. They might need a guy like him.

    The walls of the bridge emitted a faint but healthy golden glow, providing light for his work at the curved mechanical console that filled half the room. He traced out the T-Line to their destination. “Dressler, we’re looking a little wobbly.” Colin frowned. Some irregularity in the course was common—the ship was constantly adjusting its trajectory—but she usually corrected it before he noticed.

    “Affirmative, Captain.” The ship-mind’s miniature chosen likeness appeared above the touch board. She was all professional today, dressed in a standard AmSplor uniform, dark hair pulled back in a bun, and about a third life-sized.

    The image was nothing more than a projection of the ship-mind, a fairy tale, but Colin appreciated the effort she took to humanize her appearance. Artificial mind or not, he always treated minds with respect.

    “There’s a blockage in arm four. I’ve sent out a scout to correct it.”

    The Dressler was well into slowdown now, her pre-arrival phase as she bled off her speed, and they expected to reach 43 Ariadne in another fifteen hours.

    Pity no one had yet cracked the whole hyperspace thing. Colin chuckled. Asimov would be disappointed. “Dressler, show me Earth, please.”

    A small blue dot appeared in the middle of his screen.

    Dressler, three dimensions, a bit larger, please.” The beautiful blue-green world spun before him in all its glory.

    Appearances could be deceiving. Even with scrubbers working tirelessly night and day to clean the excess carbon dioxide from the air, the home world was still running dangerously warm.

    He watched the image in front of him as the East Coast of the North American Union spun slowly into view. Florida was a sliver of its former self, and where New York City’s lights had once shone, there was now only blue. If it had been night, Fargo, the capital of the Northern States, would have outshone most of the other cities below. The floods that had wiped out many of the world’s coastal cities had also knocked down Earth’s population, which was only now reaching the levels it had seen in the early twenty-first century.

    All those new souls had been born into a warm, arid world.

    We did it to ourselves. Colin, who had known nothing besides the hot planet he called home, wondered what it had been like those many years before the Heat.

    ###

    Anastasia Anatov leafed through her father, Dimitri’s, old paper journal. She liked to look through it once a day, to see his spidery handwriting and remember what he had been like. It was a bit old and dusty now, but it was one of her most cherished possessions.

    She sighed and put it away in a storage nook in her lab.

    She left the room and pulled herself gracefully along the runway, the central corridor of the ship, using the metal rungs embedded in the walls. She was much more comfortable in low or zero g than she was in Earth normal, where her tall, lanky form made her feel awkward around others. She was a loner at heart, and the emptiness of space appealed to her.

    Her father had designed the Mission-class ships. It was something she rarely spoke of, but she was intensely proud of him. These ships were still imperfect, the combination of a hellishly complicated genetic code and after-the-fact fittings of mechanical parts, like the rungs she used now to move through the weightless environment.

    Ana wondered if it hurt when someone drilled into the living tissue to install the mechanics, living quarters, and observation blisters that made the ship habitable. Her father had always maintained that the ship-minds felt no pain.

    She wasn’t so sure. Men were often dismissive of the things they didn’t understand.

    Either way, she was stuck on the small ship for the duration with two men, neither of whom were interested in her. The captain was gay, and Jackson was married.

    Too bad the ship roster hadn’t included another woman or two.

    She placed her hand on a hardened sensor callus next to the door valve and the ship obliged, recognizing her. The door spiraled open to show the viewport beyond.

    She pulled herself into the room and floated before the wide expanse of transparent plasform, staring out at the seed being hauled behind them.

    Nothing else mattered. Whatever she had to do to get this project launched, she would do it. She’d already made some morally questionable choices along the way—including looking the other way when a bundle of cash had changed hands at the Institute.

    She was so close now, and she couldn’t let anything get in the way.

    Earth was a lost cause. It was only a matter of time before the world imploded. Only the seeds could give mankind a fighting chance to go on.

    From the viewport, there was little to see. The seed was a two-meter-long brown ovoid, made of a hard, dark organic material, scarred and pitted by the continual abrasion of the dust that escaped the great sails. So cold out there, but the seed was dormant, unfeeling.

    The cold would keep it that way until the time came for its seedling stage.

    She’d created three of the seeds with her funding. This one, bound for the asteroid 43 Ariadne, was the first. It was the next step in evolution beyond the Dressler and carried with it the hopes of all humankind.

    It also represented ten years of her life and work.

    Maybe, just maybe, we’re ready for the next step.

    ###

    The crew’s third and final member, Jackson Hammond, hung upside down in the ship’s hold, grunting as he refit one of the feed pipes that carried the ship’s electronics through the bowels of this weird animal-mechanical hybrid. Although “up” and “down” were slight on a ship where the centrifugal force created a “gravity” only a fraction of what it was on Earth.

    As the ship’s engineer, Jackson was responsible for keeping the mechanics functioning—a challenge in a living organism like the Dressler.

    With cold, hard metal, one dealt with the occasional metal fatigue, poor workmanship, and at times just ass-backward reality. But the parts didn’t regularly grow or shrink, and it wasn’t always necessary to rejigger the ones that had fit perfectly just the day before. Even after ten years in these things, he still found it a little creepy to be riding inside the belly of the beast. It was too Jonah and the Whale for his taste.

    Jackson rubbed the sweat away from his eyes with the back of his arm. As he shaved down the end of a pipe to make it fit more snugly against the small orifice in the ship’s wall, he touched the little silver cross that hung around his neck. It had been a present from his priest, Father Vincenzo, at his son Aaron’s First Communion in the Reformed Catholic Evangelical Church.

    The boy was seven years old now, with a shock of red hair and green eyes like his dad, and his mother’s beautiful skin. He’d spent months preparing for his Communion Day, and Jackson remembered fondly the moment when his son had taken the Body and Blood of Christ for the first time, surprise registering on his little face at the strange taste of the wine.

    Aaron’s Communion Day had been a high point for Jackson, just a week before his current mission. He was so proud of his two boys. Miss you guys. I’ll be home soon.

    Lately he hadn’t been sleeping well, his dreams filled with a dark-haired, blue-eyed vixen. He was happily married. He shouldn’t be having such dreams.

    Jackson shook his head. Being locked up in a tin can in space did strange things to a person sometimes. I should be home with Glory and the boys.

    One way or another, this mission would be his last.

    He’d been recruited as a teen.

    ###

    At thirteen, Jackson had learned the basics of engineering doing black-tech work for the gangs that ran what was left of the Big Apple after the Rise—a warren of interconnected skyrises, linked mostly by boats and ropes and makeshift bridges.

    Everything north of Twenty-Third was controlled by the Hex, a black-tech co-op that specialized in bootlegged dreamcasts, including modified versions that catered to some of the more questionable tastes of the North American States. South of Twenty-Third belonged to the Red Badge, a lawless group of technophiles involved in domestic espionage and wetware arts.

    Jackson had grown up in the drowned city, abandoned by his mother and forced to rely on his own intelligence and instincts to survive in a rapidly changing world.

    He’d found his way to the Red Badge and discovered a talent for ecosystem work, taking over and soon expanding one of the rooftop farms that supplied the drowned city with a subsistence diet. An illegal wetware upgrade let him tap directly into the systems he worked on, seeing the circuits and pathways in his head.

    He increased the Badge’s food production fivefold and branched out beyond the nearly tasteless molds and edible fungi that thrived in the warm, humid environment.

    It was on one of his rooftop “gardens” that his life had changed one warm summer evening.

    He was underneath one of the condenser units that pulled water from the air for irrigation. All of eighteen years old, he was responsible for the food production for the entire Red Badge.

    He’d run through the unit’s diagnostics app to no avail. Damned piece of shit couldn’t find a thing wrong.

    In the end, it had come down to something purely physical—tightening down a pipe bolt where the condenser interfaced with the irrigation system.

    Satisfied with the work, he stood, wiping the sweat off his bare chest, and glared into the setting sun out over the East River. It was more an inland sea now, but the old names still stuck.

    There was a faint whirring behind him, and he spun around. A bug drone hovered about a foot away, glistening in the sun. He stared at it for a moment, then reached out to swat it down. Probably from the Hex.

    It evaded his grasp, and he felt a sharp pain in his neck.

    He went limp, and everything turned black as he tumbled into one of his garden beds.

    He awoke in Fargo, recruited by AmSplor to serve in the space agency’s Frontier Station, his life changed irrevocably.

    ###

    A strange sensation brought him back to the present.

    His right hand was wet. Startled, he looked down. It was covered with blood.

    Dressler, we have a problem, he said through his private affinity-link with the ship-mind.”

    About the Author

    J. Scott Coatsworth

    Scott lives with his husband Mark in a yellow bungalow in Sacramento. He was indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine. He devoured her library, but as he grew up, he wondered where all the people like him were.

    He decided that if there weren’t queer characters in his favorite genres, he would remake them to his own ends.

    A Rainbow Award winning and runs Queer Sci Fi, QueeRomance Ink, Liminal Fiction, and Other Worlds Ink with Mark, sites that celebrate fiction reflecting queer reality, and is a full member member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA).

    Where to Find the Author

    | Website | Personal Facebook | Author Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads |
    QueeRomance Ink: Liminal Fiction | Amazon |

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  • Facets of the Nether: by William C. Tracy ~ Blog Tour and Excerpt

    Please welcome William C. Tracy to the Land of Make Believe as he shares his adventures in world building in celebration of his new Queer/MMF sci fi/fantasy/steampunk tale, book two in the Dissolution Cycle: “Facets of the Nether!”

    Ficlets – Little Extra Story Bits

    Worldbuilding is one of my favorite things when writing a story, and the more I write in the Dissolutionverse, the more I get to do. The Dissolutionverse now includes Facets of the Nether, along with the first book, The Seeds of Dissolution, the upcoming third book, Fall of the Imperium, four novellas, a novelette, and several short stories. While putting too much worldbuilding in one place can turn off readers and clutter up the story, having so many different little stories means I can keep worldbuilding and making my universe more complex and real. One of the ways I do this is my adding little tidbits of information at the start of all my chapters. They tie into the chapter in some way, but also give pieces of a wider story, and even reference characters and places that are in other stories. So here I’m going to share a few of the most interesting tidbits that run through the Dissolutionverse:

    1. The Timeline: Most of the stories I’ve written take place between 979 and 1004 A.A.W. (After Aridori War). One novella takes place in 953, one short story happens in 632, and one (as yet unreleased!) short story occurs just before the Aridori War (B.A.W.). Here are some other interesting dates that I’ve written down over the years…
      • 224 B.A.W.: Treatise on the six Houses
      • 203 A.A.W.: The founding of Gloomlight prison in the midst of a Lobath city
      • 483 A.A.W.: Call for offensive use of the Symphony
      • 726 A.A.W.: The Pixies species enter the Great Assembly of Species
      • 856 A.A.W.: A study on relations between the ten species
      • 883 A.A.W.: Slithen has a dream of the Dissolution
      • 919 A.A.W.: The first formation of the Life Coalition
      • 939 A.A.W.: Origon Cyrysi born
      • 952 A.A.W.: The Lobhl species enter Great Assembly of Species
      • 962 A.A.W.: Rilan Ayama born
      • 972 A.A.W.: The Methiemum-Sathssn war of trading rights
      • 979 A.A.W.: Ket discovers how to mechanically hear the Symphony
      • 1003 A.A.W.: Origon Cyrysi pilots the first space capsule
      • 1004 A.A.W.: Present  day
    2. On the Festuour homeworld: – Festuour is almost an anomaly among the ten homeworlds with its dense air and crushing weight.  Where one would feel light and graceful on Etan, that same person would drag their feet on the Festuour homeworld.  Perhaps this is why it is inhabited by such fearsome predators.  In contrast, the folk of this homeworld tend to be lighthearted, inquisitive, and jovial.

      Excerpt from “A Dissertation on the Ten Species, Book IV: Festuour”


  • On the relationship between maji and merchants: – In recent cycles, some merchants have cried foul against the maji raising prices on portal creation. While the portals are the only way to link our homeworlds together, they are also a drain on the already overworked houses of the maji. But I feel passing this cost on may have a worse result. By driving away the traveling merchants who connect our different cultures, I believe we may generate much more contention and even war among the ten species that make up our coalition of worlds.

    From a travelogue of Morvu Francita Januti, Etanela explorer and big game hunter


  • On the creation of System Beasts:– System Beasts will form a new type of service to the members of the Great Assembly of Species. They can be geared in a number of roles, from laborer or draftbeast, to social secretary or aide for those with disabilities, or even items of luxury. The possibilities are nearly limitless, as the constructs can be quite intelligent and take orders well. I look forward to seeing how the people of the Nether receive and apply System Beasts to make their lives easier.

    From a proposal by Mandamon Feldo, majus of the Houses of Healing and Potential


  • On the geology of the Nether: – People commonly wonder how the floor of the Nether is made of dirt, instead of the substance of the columns. By the influx of inhabitants, flora, and fauna through portals, and over thousands of cycles, soil accumulated. I have visited deep windswept gullies, far away from any habitation, where the true Nether floor gleams like crystal in the light from the walls.

    Morvu Francita Januti, Etanela explorer and big game hunter
  • You can see how much I like dropping little things like this throughout my stories. Morvu, from the last quote, got so many little notes written about her I decided to make her the mother of the viewpoint character in Journey to the Top of the Nether, where the heroes climb the miles-high wall of the Nether to see what’s at the top. I already know there’s going to be a follow-up adventure to that one!

    I’ve got loads more little tidbits hidden away. You’ll have to read through all the books to find them all!

    Facets of the Nether

    The Dissolution approaches.

    Sam has saved the Assembly of Species, but at a terrible cost. Locked in his apartment, his memories gone and his best friend abducted, he is once again crippled with anxiety. Meanwhile, Enos struggles to free her brother from imprisonment, alone for the first time in her life. Her true species has been revealed, and there are hints the deadliest of her kind survived an ancient war.

    But the Nether contains more secrets. A musical chime disrupts daily life, signaling changes to its very fabric. To solve this mystery, Sam must face his anxiety and confront truths about his memories and unique abilities. Only then can he save his friends from the machinations of the Life Coalition, by understanding the reality behind the Facets of the Nether.

    Where to Find Facets of the Nether

    Amazon | Bookbub | Goodreads

    Giveaway

    William is giving away a $10 Amazon gift card with this tour. Enter via Rafflecopter for a chance to win:

    a Rafflecopter giveaway

    Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47129/?

    Excerpt

    Facets of the Nether Meme

    – The appearance of a new house of the maji is not to be as surprising as its origin. My apprentice, who firmly appeared to be of the House of Communication, is the one who is showing me these new things, at my age. Truly, the Nether is changing.

    Journal of Origon Cyrysi, Kirian majus of the Houses of Communication and Power

    A chime erupted through the Imperium, as if all the crystal plates in the world rang and shattered at once. Samuel van Oen held his ears and, through the window of his mentor’s apartment, watched a flight of alien birds split and scatter at the noise.

    “What was that?” Sam dropped his hands from his ears as the sound stabilized into a deep, clear tone he felt in his gut. It was loud, but not as unbearable as it had been. Deep in the back of his mind, the Grand Symphony responded to the noise like a tuning fork against a plate of metal. The different rhythms fractured and multiplied at the chime, like the whole world was vibrating.

    No one answered his question, as Majus Cyrysi was out again. The Kirian had spent more time in the libraries of the Spire than in teaching Sam, not that he was ever particularly good at teaching.

    The tower of the House of Communication vibrated beneath Sam’s feet as the sound lessened to a background hum. The music normally playing in its halls had ceased during the explosion of sound, but now picked up fitfully, warring with the chime’s resonance. The flock of birds—with crests of orange, and three scaly wings down each side of their body—swooped in an irregular pattern, disrupted by the noise.

    Sam went to the window and looked down. To one side, dust fell from the strange stone bridge that ran from the middle height of the House of Communication to the immense wall of the Nether. He’d been out on it before, as it was a curiosity of this House, and maji occasionally used it to take in the view. There were a few maji on it now—a tall Etanela and two Methiemum—looking up at the immense wall of the Nether, bathed in blues and purples like a titanic sheet of ice.

    On the ground far below, people milled around in confusion. Sam guessed the bell-like sound wasn’t normal, but he’d only been in this place a little under two months. Before that, things became blurred and hazy in his mind. The presence that had rooted through his head took many of his memories. He remembered Earth, and that he had stayed with his aunt after something happened to his parents. Their faces refused to come to mind. Thinking about what happened at the Dome of the Assembly made him seek the silence of Majus Cyrysi’s apartment, and he couldn’t stop. He was obsessing about what he could have—should have—done differently. He was slowly spiraling down to a place of solitude and loneliness, and his body wouldn’t obey his deeper wish to break the cycle.

    Sam jumped back from the window as someone banged on the door. A spike like an icicle in his gut went through him. Sweat pricked his forehead.

    Don’t be someone new.

    It could only be one of a few people, but his throat threatened to close at the thought of explaining why he was sitting here alone, staring out a window. How long ago had Majus Cyrysi left?

    Sam put one eye to the peephole in the door, then sagged in relief. It was Enos. He could ask her about the sound digging its way into his head.

    He opened the door and let his friend in, looking her over. There were bags under her eyes and she hadn’t combed her long black hair.

    “You haven’t slept either, have you?” said Enos.

    Sam let out a burst of air. It wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s what I was going to say.” He pulled her into the room by her hand, quickly closing the door. The hall should be familiar, but it didn’t feel like the right day to go outside. Again.

    “You hear that too, right? Do you know what—”

    Enos shook her head. “No idea. I was about to ask you. People are running around like mad. I don’t think anyone knows.”

    Then why would she think I knew? He stared at the closed door.

    Enos followed his gaze, then took his other hand. “It’s been a ten-day since you left Majus Cyrysi’s apartment.” She winced as if she had a headache. Probably that irritating chime. It was like a dull drill, pressing against the back of his head.

    Sam frowned. Now wasn’t the time to talk about going out. Couldn’t Enos see he had other things on his mind?

    “Before this noise started I was trying to remember…remember—” He bit his lip and focused over her shoulder. It was something about Earth. He’d almost had it.

    “Remember what?’ Enos asked, bringing his focus back. “Is it connected with the attack on the Assembly? Or about the new themes you hear in the Symphony? Can they help us find Inas?”

    Sam shook his head. He was letting Enos down.

    She won’t want to be with me anymore.

    He knew it wasn’t true, but the fact beat against the inside of his head. Inas had been the other side of a scale, balancing him. Without him, everything was harder.

    Author Bio

    William C. Tracy

    William C. Tracy is a North Carolina native and a lifelong fan of science fiction and fantasy. He self-published his Dissolutionverse space opera books and has one epic fantasy published with a small press.

    He also has a master’s in mechanical engineering, and has designed and operated heavy construction machinery. He’s trained in Wado-Ryu karate since 2003, and runs his own dojo in Raleigh. He is an avid video and board gamer, a reader, and a writer.

    In his spare time, he cosplays with his wife such combinations as Steampunk Agent Carter and Jarvis, Jafar and Maleficent, and Doctor Strange and the Ancient One. They also enjoy putting their pets in handmade costumes and making them cosplay for the annual Christmas card. Get a novelette by signing up for William’s mailing list at http://williamctracy.com, or follow him on Twitter at https://twitter.com/wctracy for writing updates, cat pictures, and martial arts.

    Where to Find William C. Tracy

    Website | Facebook (Personal) | Facebook (Author) | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon

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  • PEACEMAKER: by EM Hamill ~ Blog Tour and Excerpt.

    Peacemaker - E.M. Hamill

    E.M. Hamill has a new queer sci fi book out, book two in the Dalí Tamareia series: “Peacemaker.”

    Third-gender operative Dalí Tamareia thought their life as an ambassador ended when they joined a galactic intelligence agency. When they’re yanked out of the field and tapped to negotiate the surrender of deadly bio-engineered warriors who crashed into hostile territory, Dalí is thrust headfirst back into the tumultuous world of galactic diplomacy.

    Dalí has faced Shontavians before, but not like these. The stranded mercenaries are highly intelligent and have an agenda of their own. Dalí can’t afford to be distracted from the negotiations by their own demons or the presence of a charming diplomat with a mysterious past.

    As a brewing civil war threatens to derail the entire mission, Dalí must use all their skills to bring this dangerous situation to a peaceful end—but the Shontavians may not be the biggest monsters at the table. Someone is determined to see Dalí and their team dead before they discover the brutal truth hiding in the wreckage.

    NineStar Press | Amazon | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Smashwords | Goodreads


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    Excerpt

    Peacemaker

    I took a quick turn in the cleanser to rid my skin and hair of the tacky residue left by the decon spray. In the warmth and vibration, I shuddered as the last of the physical characteristics I’d adapted to pass as male shifted back into my neutral, sexless state. My crewmates didn’t expect me to assume a gender, something for which I remained grateful. Without hormone stimulation to drive the change, the process was more painful, and my shoulders complained against the grind of bone and muscle.

    I tamed my wavy brown mop as best I could, drawing it into a short, braided queue at the back of my neck before putting on the dress black uniform hanging in my quarters. The white starburst of diplomacy blazed in holographic relief on my left shoulder with the multiarmed spiral of the Remoliad’s sigil on the opposite sleeve.

    To be back in the uniform of an ambassador felt strange. Transient reflections in the narrow window showed a me I hadn’t acknowledged in over two years. I barely recognized the echo of who I used to be, a transparent ghost against the stars outside.

    The reason I had been pulled out of the field began to make sense, though I still didn’t know what the assignment entailed. Time to find out.

    At the closed door of Sumner’s ready room, I tugged at the tunic’s high collar, squared my shoulders, and tapped on the panel to request entry.

    “Commander. Permission to enter?”

    “Granted.” The door slid aside with his verbal acknowledgment. I stepped through.

    Silhouetted by the flicker of busy data screens behind the desk, Sumner wore a black uniform with insignias of diplomatic service similar to mine but without the starburst rank of ambassador. Instead, he wore the pips of an officer in the Remoliad Fleet on the high neck of his collar. He stared at the screen of a PDD, his expression dark and troubled.

    Sumner glanced up and a crooked grin formed on his lips as he rose. “Ambassador Tamareia. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

    His vocal inflections sounded almost normal, but his eyes still held frost. We were never this formal with each other, a sign of the tension between us.

    “I haven’t seen me in a long time either. It feels very strange.” I took a deep breath. “I would like to apologize for my insubordination, especially for what I said in med bay, Commander. I was out of line.” Embarrassment burned in my cheeks, and I lowered my gaze. “I owe Melos and Ziggy more than an apology. I was under the influence on a mission, and I put the lives of my teammates in danger. I will accept the consequences of my actions as you deem appropriate.”

    “Grab a chair.” He gestured opposite his desk, and I sat. “I think I owe you an apology as well. I’ve gotten used to autonomy. When some bureaucrat tells me to drop whatever I’m doing and pull my operatives in the middle of a potentially productive mission, it pisses me off. The order to recall you came from so far over my head I got vertigo. The rest is just the frost on the comet, and it pushed me over the line.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the vendetta remark.”

    “No, you were right. I needed to be reminded why I’m here. You promised only that I will be involved when we take them down, not that I would be the instrument.” No matter how badly I wanted the privilege, I had a bigger job to do. “Who told you to recall me?”

    His mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “The Remoliad security council.”

    My eyebrows threatened to merge with my hairline. “The security council has authority over the Penumbra?”

    “Technically. My superior answers to the secretary general, but it’s almost unheard of to receive a direct order from any office.”

    “I don’t understand.” I frowned. “Did my mother have anything to do with this?”

    “No, Ambassador Urquhart isn’t involved as far as we can tell. We checked since the order was so specific. But I just received more details.” He handed me the data device he’d been scowling at when I came in. “Against all previous declarations of disdain for galactic alliance, the Ursetu recently issued an emergency petition for their planet to become a member of the Remoliad.”

    I narrowed my eyes at him and took the PDD. “I saw something about that in my debriefing file. The crown princess is dead?”

    “Yes. The queen and her grandson, Prince Razaxha, are still alive.”

    “What happened? Was the planet attacked?”

    “Yes and no.” He swept his hand and a heads-up display swirled into view between us. “I’ll warn you up front, this is brutal.”

    The wreck of some immense ship blighted the forested grounds of a ziggurat-like palace, silhouetted against the backdrop of a sharp black mountain. Columns of smoke and flames traced the outline of warped and twisted debris. The recording lens zoomed in on a section of the disaster where tiny flashes of light sparked and died. As the picture enlarged, I sat forward in shock.

    “Enhance this area.” Sumner circled the spot on the heads-up and spread his fingers. The portion of the holovid expanded, grainy, blurred, and blocked by foliage, but I made it out plainly enough. Enormous, gray-skinned figures piled out of the wreckage.

    Shontavians.

    The four-armed beings appeared unstoppable as they swatted aside the Ursetu and their guns, snatched up the soldiers with their sharp-taloned hands and—

    A psychic memory of the taste of blood and entrails hit me so hard I fought the urge to vomit.

    “Stop the playback!” I drew heavy breaths through my nose until the nausea passed and my heart stopped pounding. Sumner swept his hand over the enlarged holo, reducing details to a safe distance as my mind attempted to process what I’d seen.

    A ship hadn’t crashed in the middle of an Ursetu city. It was the orbiting laboratory where Shontavians were engineered and kept isolated until their sale to whomever bought their mercenary services. It crashed into the planet or was deliberately brought down.

    By whom?

    The Ursetu faced monsters of their own making—huge, intelligent creatures with the serrated teeth and claws of a predator, created solely for fighting wars. And they had a craving for sentient meat.


    Author Bio

    E.M. Hamill

    Elisabeth “E.M.” Hamill is a nurse by day, unabashed geek, chocoholic, sci fi and fantasy novelist by nights, weekends, and whenever she can steal quality time with her laptop. She lives with her family, a dog, and a cat in the wilds of eastern suburban Kansas, where they fend off flying monkey attacks and prep for the zombie apocalypse.

    Her other books include the acclaimed sci fi novel Dalí, the snarky urban fantasy Nectar and Ambrosia, and several short works of fiction. Visit www.elisabethhamill.com for a full list of literary work.

    Author Website: https://www.elisabethhamill.com

    Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/EMHamill

    Author Twitter: @songmagick

    Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16592440.E_M_Hamill

    Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/e-m-hamill/

    Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00JY0FV8S

    LOGO - Other Worlds Ink
  • Guest Author: Anne Barwell

    Anne Barwell's Website and Blog: Drops of Ink

    Today I get to welcome back a long time friend. Anne Barwell and I have known each other for years. A librarian with a library system in New Zealand, Anne made it possible for my Champion of the Gods series to be available in her library system. Anne is here today to talk about Slow Dreaming which re-released after her publisher returned to her the rights to her books.

    Welcome back to the World of Make Believe, Anne!

    Slow Dreaming

    Thanks for hosting me today.

    Slow Dreaming is a story close to my heart for several reasons.  Firstly it’s set in Petone, where I grew up.  I’ve sat on the same wall along the waterfront that Jason and Sean do, and I’ve skimmed shells along the water.

    My dad and I used to walk along there regularly, so Jason’s memories of doing that with a father he isn’t sure he’ll see again drew on my own experiences—except for the fact that the waterfront has changed a lot in his time from the present.  My dad passed away seven years ago, and revisiting that scene brought back a lot of memories, so it felt right to dedicate the book to him.

    Local readers will be able to spot several landmarks in this story.  Many of the stories I read are either set in different countries, or in different parts of New Zealand. I’m aiming to do something about that and have two contemporary romances coming out in 2020 set in the same area, and an urban fantasy/paranormal romance in 2021 which takes places in Wellington.

    Secondly I’ve always loved stories about time travel, and I’m a big fan of the timey wimey.  So being able to set one locally was fantastic.

    This story is my first foray into time travel, but it won’t be the last.  I do have other stories planned in this series, and Sean and Jason’s adventures are only just beginning.

    Click to buy Slow Dreaming by Anne Barwell at your favorite eBook stores.

    Blurb:

    A Tempus Institute Story.

    Should he change the past for love?

    As an agent for the Tempus Institute, Jason Adams’ task is to observe the past, not change it. But when he’s sent to 21st-century Wellington, New Zealand, during the last week of aspiring songwriter Sean Henderson’s life, Jason finds he can’t just watch from a distance. He and Sean quickly become friends and then lovers, and when the song that’s haunted Jason for years connects them in a way he never anticipated, he’ll risk changing history for the chance of sharing a future with Sean.

    Author’s note:  This story was originally published in 2012 by another publisher. This edition has some added content, and uses UK/NZ spelling to reflect its setting.

    Click here to buy Slow Dreaming at your favorite eBook seller.

    Excerpt:

    Sean pulled his jacket tighter around himself as a shiver went through him. His old gran would have said someone had walked over his grave. “Who the hell are you, Jason, and what’s so secret that you can’t be honest about where you’re from?”

    “No one special.” Jason bit his lip then looked out to sea. The crests of the waves were almost white, closer to a dirty grey, as though hiding secrets of their own. “I’m not asking for anything from you, Sean, and I promise I don’t mean you any harm. I just thought… I’m only here for a few days and I’d rather not spend them alone. That’s all, and all it’s ever going to be.”

    Something about Jason tugged at Sean. He moved closer, his instincts winning out over his better judgment. Whatever Jason was involved in, whatever this assignment was, it was eating at him. He sounded as though he could do with a friend. Sean could do that. In fact, it might be just what he needed too.

    “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I like you, Jason. I’m probably crazy, but there’s something about you that screams at me that I want to get to know you better.”

    “Yeah, okay.” Jason smiled wanly. He reached out and tentatively took Sean’s hand in his. “I can’t tell you the specifics of my assignment, or about this article I’m writing, but I won’t lie to you, not anymore.”

    Sean nodded and squeezed Jason’s hand, the skin-to-skin contact a welcome warmth. “Where are you from, Jason?” Surely the question wouldn’t conflict with the rest of Jason’s whole need-to-know thing?

    “Here,” Jason said softly. “Not some other country like I told you, but here.”

    “Here?” Sean raised one eyebrow. He couldn’t help but glance out towards the harbour again. “But you just said you never thought you’d see the sea. You can’t live around here and claim to never have seen it. We’re in a small country surrounded by water.” He shrugged. “Ruth’s lived here since the sixties. She says this beach looks much the same now as it always has and that it’s just the suburb itself that’s changed. Petone used to be all secondhand shops. Now it’s cafés and the like.”

    “I guess a kid’s memory of a place is different from the reality of it so it wasn’t quite what I expected.” Jason’s eyes glazed over. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m not very good at explaining myself, am I?”

    “I thought you were a travel writer,” Sean teased, regretting the words when Jason bit his lip and turned away.

    “Yeah, well, I never said I was a good one,” he murmured.

    About Anne

    Anne Barwell lives in Wellington, New Zealand.  She shares her home with Kaylee: a cat with “tortitude” who is convinced that the house is run to suit her; this is an ongoing “discussion,” and to date, it appears as though Kaylee may be winning.

    In 2008, Anne completed her conjoint BA in English Literature and Music/Bachelor of Teaching. She has worked as a music teacher, a primary school teacher, and now works in a library. She is a member of the Upper Hutt Science Fiction Club and plays violin for Hutt Valley Orchestra.

    She is an avid reader across a wide range of genres and a watcher of far too many TV series and movies, although it can be argued that there is no such thing as “too many.” These, of course, are best enjoyed with a decent cup of tea and further the continuing argument that the concept of “spare time” is really just a myth. She also hosts and reviews for other authors, and writes monthly blog posts for Love Bytes.  She is the co-founder of the New Zealand Rainbow Romance writers, and a member of RWNZ.

    Anne’s books have received honourable mentions five times, reached the finals four times—one of which was for best gay book—and been a runner up in the Rainbow Awards.  She has also been nominated twice in the Goodreads M/M Romance Reader’s Choice Awards—once for Best Fantasy and once for Best Historical.

    Where to Find Anne

    Website & Blog | Facebook | Facebook Group | Joint Facebook Group | Twitter

    Click here to sign up for Anne’s newsletter.

    Anne Barwell's Facebook Group: Anne's Books and Brews