Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Spring Fling #Giveaway Hop! The P.U.R.E. by Claire Gillian #ContemporaryRomance #Thriller

Thanks to I Am A Reader Not A Writer & Eve's Fan Garden for hosting yet another hop to give away some goodies! This time I have an ecopy of The P.U.R.E. up for grabs!


The P.U.R.E. 

Release Date: April 16, 2012
Target Reader: Adult
Keywords: Contemporary Romance, Romance, Thriller/Suspense

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No one ever said Gayle Lindley's first job would be a killer.

Fresh out of college, Gayle’s career path should follow the yellow brick road straight to the top. Thanks to a menial errand gone wrong, a wayward tongue, and a randy supervisor who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, Gayle’s stuck in corporate hell.

Discovering a company secret only turns up the heat.

The one part of her life not going down in flames is her friendship with the gorgeous, but intensely private, Jon Cripps. Jon would make the perfect consolation prize for Gayle’s pity party if dating a co-worker wasn’t career suicide. Then again, with all Gayle has been through, maybe falling in love is the lucky break she needs.

Hitting the cool sheets with Jon soothes her mind and body, but it also enrages whoever’s behind the smokescreen she’s uncovered at work. Someone is willing to kill to protect their secrets, and Gayle and Jon are the targets.

With both her heart and livelihood at stake, Gayle’s early career-limiting moves could turn into life-terminating ones.

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Be sure to check out Purely Relative (The P.U.R.E. #1.5)!!

As always, be sure to check out the linky list below & best of luck!!!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Zazen - #AtoZChallenge

"The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work."

- Emile Zola 


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YA Dystopia

Somewhere in Della’s consumptive, industrial wasteland of a city, a bomb goes off. It is not the first, and will not be the last.

Reactions to the attacks are polarized. Police activity intensifies. Della’s revolutionary parents welcome the upheaval but are trapped within their own insular beliefs. Her activist restaurant co-workers, who would rather change their identities than the world around them, resume a shallow rebellion of hair-dye, sex parties, and self-absorption. As those bombs keep inching closer, thudding deep and real between the sounds of katydids fluttering in the still of the city night, and the destruction begins to excite her. What begins as terror threats called in to greasy bro-bars across the block boils over into a desperate plot, intoxicating and captivating Della and leaving her little chance for escape.

Zazen unfolds as a search for clarity soured by irresolution and catastrophe, yet made vital by the thin, wild veins of imagination run through each escalating moment, tensing and relaxing, unfurling and ensnaring. Vanessa Veselka renders Della and her world with beautiful, freighting, and phantasmagorically intelligent accuracy, crafting from their shattered constitutions a perversely perfect mirror for our own selves and state.



I went to work and a guy I wait on said he was leaving. He said everyone he knew was pulling out.
"Canada is just not far enough. Mostly Mexico. A bunch to Thailand. Some to Bali.”
He always orders a Tofu Scramble and makes me write a fucking essay to the cook. No soy sauce in the oil mix, no garlic, extra tomato, no green pepper. Add feta. Potatoes crispy and when are we going to get Spelt. He holds me personally responsible for his continued patronage. I hope he dies. I’d like to read about it.
My brother Credence says people who leave are deluding themselves about what’s out there. I just think they’re cowards. Mr. Tofu Scramble says I should go anyway, that it’s too late. I want to but I can’t. Maybe when the bombs stop, or at least let up.
Nobody thinks it’ll stay like this. I call it a war but Credence says it isn’t one. Not yet. I say they just haven’t picked a day to market it. Soft opens being all the rage. My last few weeks down at grad school it was so bad I thought everything was going to shake itself apart. I tried to focus on my dissertation, follow the Diaspora of clamshells but every night it got worse. It’s not any better here—here, there, now, tomorrow, next Wednesday—geologically speaking it’s all the same millisecond.
The gentle rustle of armies crawling the planet like ants. Anybody with any sense knows what’s coming.
I was in yoga yesterday and this girl started crying. Raina, who teaches on Mondays, went over, put her hands on the girl like a faith healer, her fingers barely grazing the shoulders. She closed her eyes and let the girl cry while she breathed.
Everyone was watching like they were going to see sparks or something. I was anyway. I would have liked that. The girl calmed down. Her breath was hard and her eyes swollen. Raina talked about being okay with how you find yourself on the mat and I thought there’s no one here who’s okay with that. If you took the roof off we would all look like little gray worms, like someone lifted the rock; too close, hot bent and wet. Well, maybe not hot because of the mud but that’s still what I thought when the girl was crying. I was glad it wasn’t me.
Credence says if half the privileged white marketing reps in my yoga class voted for something other than reductions in their property tax, something might actually happen. I’d like to see something happen. Something big that wasn’t scary, just beautiful. Some kind of wonderful surprise. Like how fireworks used to feel. Now I’m no better than a dog.
Still, there’s something true in that yoga manifestation thing because I feel different when I believe different things. Only I don’t know how to go back to feeling how I did because I can’t re-believe. When the first box-mall-church went up in the blackberry field I wanted some kind of rampant mass stigmata with blackberry juice for blood. It didn’t happen. It’s not going to. They win; they just roll, pave and drive over everything that’s beautiful: babies, love and small birds. On summer nights with the windows open I hear joints cracking like crickets.
I wake up sometimes and feel the nearness of something but then it’s gone and I’ve started to wonder if it was ever there. Lately, I’ve become afraid that the feeling I used to feel, like something good was waiting, is what people mean when they say “young” and that it is nothing more than a chemical associated with a metabolic process and not anything real at all.
I waited on Mr. Tofu Scramble. He had a date at lunch and they both ordered blackberry smoothies. Vegan. I thought about slipping his date a note telling her that he was a big old cheese eater when she wasn’t around. But who am I to stand in the way of love?
I went into the kitchen and pulled a five-gallon bucket out of the fridge. They stack the tofu in soft blocks at the bottom of a bucket of water. With dirty hands I scooped out the tofu and threw a handful into the blender, little white clay hearts. Then I filled it to the brim with blackberries. I pressed the “chop” on the blender because it’s louder and takes longer and in a second the blackberries stained those little white hearts and turned them dark as a bruise. I left the blender on. It took over the restaurant. Everyone tried harder and harder to ignore the noise but the more they did, the longer I let it run. There should be some price to pay for all of this ugliness, especially the pretty kind; especially the kind you don’t always see.
Mr. Tofu Scramble looked around and I thought, yeah, that’s right, it’s you, you Big Old Cheese Eater When She’s Not Around. His cheeks reddened and his jaw shifted side to side. He started to look so much like a little kid staring down at dirty candy that I turned the blender off. It’s not all his fault. It’s not his fault he’s in love and wants quiet blackberries. It’s just not his fault.
Even Credence fell in love and got married although I think he secretly wants a medal for falling in love with a black woman. Our parents were so proud. Now, if I could only abandon my heterosexual tendencies as uninvestigated cultural preconditioning and move in with some sweet college educated lipstick-dyke bike mechanic, they could all finally die happy.
I’ve lived with Credence and Annette for almost three months now. At first I thought that because Annette was black I wasn’t ever supposed to get mad at her. It was like living with an exchange student that spoke English really well.
“Jean-Pierre, what do they call baseball in France?”
“Annette, do you like macaroni and cheese?”
“Daisuke, how is the rebuilding going?”
Credence has a missionary belief in community organizing. He says, “grass roots” like bible thumpers say Jesus.
Credence and I stopped a Wal-Mart from opening once. It was earlier in the year and it lasted about a minute. Four months of door-to-door organizing, leafleting, town meetings, petitions, land-use hearings, senators, phone calls, cold, free doughnuts, and sermons to the choir in the rain with balloons whipping around our faces in the wind while we chant and people drive by in heated sedans and look confused. Take pictures and send it out to everyone who couldn’t come to the rally.
And it worked. For about a minute. It’s hard to do the same thing twice. It’s hard to feel the same way you did, especially when you really want to. We just set them back a couple of months on their timetable. Chipped teeth, flags, crosses and white sugar.

Monday, April 29, 2013

The Younger Gods - #AtoZChallenge

"People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind."

- William Butler Yeats 


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The Younger Gods
The Dreamers #4

The four elder gods Dahlaine, Zelana, Aracia, and Veltan have ruled over Dhrall for eons. Every 25,000 years, the siblings pass on their duties to a quartet of young gods so that they can rest. But as the next changing of the gods approaches, the elder gods are faced with a potential catastrophe: an enemy has arisen from the vast wasteland in the center of Dhrall and is bent on conquering the entire realm and using all its inhabitants as nourishment for its minions. The Vlagh, as it is called, is a wellspring of evil, continually birthing nightmarish insectoid monstrosities to make up her army. But as the final battle looms closer, one of the elder gods begins losing her sanity. As the gods desperately search for ways to stop the Vlagh -- and rein in their unstable sibling -- heroes turn up in the unlikeliest places. 



It was well past midnight, and Zelana was standing alone on the balcony of what big brother Dahlaine called his ' War Chamber. ' It seemed to Zelana that those fancy names had always been one of Dahlaine ' s failings. For some reason he seemed to feel a need to give almost everything some kind of stupendous title. If he ' d spend as much time solving a problem as he usually spent coming up with a name for it, things might go a bit smoother for him.
Right now, however, Zelana was trying to swallow some very peculiar events. It seemed that they had a mysterious helper who could pull miracles out of her hat ' or sleeve ' without any kind of warning at all.
Down in baby brother Veltan ' s Domain, Longbow had been plagued with a series of very peculiar dreams which were being rammed into his mind by an entity he always called ' our unknown friend, ' despite the fact that he ' d told Zelana and the others that he recognized the voice ' but he couldn ' t quite attach a name to the speaker. Zelana knew that Longbow ' s mind was too sharp to start getting fuzzy about something that important, so it was quite obvious that ' unknown friend ' had been tampering with him in ways Zelana could not even begin to comprehend.
There was one thing that was abundantly clear, however. Not only could ' unknown friend ' erase memories, she could also break ' or just ignore ' some very important rules. Zelana and her family were not permitted to kill things. ' Unknown friend, ' however, had manipulated the members of the Trogite Church with her ' sea of gold ' and lured them into a confrontation with the Creatures of the Wasteland. Then, when the two enemy forces were locked in what would almost certainly have turned out to be a war of mutual extinction, ' unknown friend ' had obliterated them all with an enormous wall of water that she ' d pulled up from about six miles down below the face of the earth.
It seemed that their friend had powers that Zelana could not even imagine, although she was almost positive that their friend was using the Dreamers to assist her.
The more Zelana thought about it, the more certain she became that Eleria ' s flood and Yaltar ' s twin volcanos had also originated in the mind and imagination of ' unknown friend. ' 
The involvement of the Dreamers had been confirmed when the children ' s shared vision had mentioned ' a fire unlike any fire we have ever seen, ' which had produced the blue inferno that had obliterated what had almost certainly been an entire hatch of the Vlagh.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Xebec from Call of the Sea - #AtoZChallenge

“…try to write the best you can without worrying too 

much about other things in advance.” 

– Qui Xiaolong 


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Call of the Sea
Fantasy / Romance

Elysandra Winters has always yearned for a life of adventure on the rolling seas and is willing to do whatever it takes to fulfill her dream. When her Privateer father continually refuses to allow his only daughter to sail, Ellie defies him, disguises herself as a boy, and goes in search of a captain who will give her a chance to prove her worth. 

Thanks to the cursed selkie blood coursing through his veins, Daniel O'Rourke needs the sea to survive. After giving up on his humanity and spending three years in seal form, he decides to give his human side another chance. Daniel goes in search of a job and a sense of normalcy, earning himself a position aboard Captain Winter's ship, The Siren's Call. However, his new captain's first assignment has nothing at all to do with sailing, and everything to do with his headstrong young daughter. 

Years later, when the leader of a band of bloodthirsty pirates murders Captain Winters, Daniel and Elysandra's lives come crashing back together with the force of a hurricane. Both experts in deception, they must find a way to trust each other in order to quell the raging storm between them or have any hope of hunting down the captain's killer.



“Sails to the stern, Captain!”
The call from the crow’s nest jerked Daniel’s attention toward the top mast and the crewman pointing behind them.
Captain Winters lifted the spyglass, peered through it. “Lateen sails, no colors. Looks like a Xebec.” Lowering the glass, his gaze swept to Daniel. “All hands at the ready.”
“All hands at the ready!” Daniel shouted across the deck of the brigantine. “Step handsomely, men!”
The Captain rested a hand on Daniel’s sleeve. “Take the helm, Daniel. I want you at the wheel if there’s to be a fight.”
Daniel nodded, looking to the man he’d grown to admire. “Aye, Captain.”
In his years with Winter’s Shipping, Daniel had done well for himself, rising in rank from cabin boy to first mate. For reasons he could never be sure of, the Captain had kept his secret for eight years. That moonlit night had changed everything for Daniel, and he vowed to repay the Captain for the kindness he’d shown.
Daniel took the wheel from the helmsman. “Go help Walters with the leeward yards, Jacobs.”
The toothless Jacobs bobbed his head. “Aye, sir.”
Glass in hand, Captain Winters joined him on the quarterdeck. “They’re shallow on the draft and coming at us with a bone in their teeth. We won’t outrun them.”
Daniel turned the wheel hard to starboard, steering The Siren’s Call toward her swift pursuer. “Then we best outgun her, Captain.”
The Captain’s blue eyes sparkled with light. “That’s a plan if ever I heard one, lad.” He stepped toward the rail and shouted across the deck. “Mind the yards and keep those sheets tight, men! Hold close to the wind!”
The Xebec closed in.
“She’s flying a Roger, Captain!” Another call from the crow’s nest.
Daniel cursed. Corsairs.


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Friday, April 26, 2013

Want - #AtoZChallenge

“The writing of a novel is taking life as it already exists, not to report it but to make an object, toward the end that the finished work might contain this life inside it and offer it to the reader. The essence will not be, of course, the same thing as the raw material; it is not even of the same family of things. The novel is something that never was before and will not be again.”

—Eudora Welty


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YA / Contemporary Romance

Julianne counts the days until she can pack her bags and leave her old-money, tradition-bound Southern town where appearance is everything and secrecy is a way of life. A piano virtuoso, she dreams of attending a prestigious music school in Boston. Failure is not an option, so she enlists the help of New England Conservatory graduate Isaac Laroche to help her.

She can’t understand why he suddenly gave up Boston’s music scene to return to the South. He doesn’t know her life depends on escaping it. Julianne must face down madness from without, just as it threatens from within. Isaac must resist an inappropriate attraction, but an indiscretion at a Mardi Gras ball-the pinnacle event for Mobile’s elite-forces their present wants and needs to collide with sins of the past.

Will Julianne accept the help she’s offered and get everything she ever wanted, or will she self-destruct and take Isaac down with her?



The following exchange happens between 17-year-old Juli and her new 27-year-old piano teacher, Isaac. The two have been squaring off as she tries to figure him out, but so far, he’s done nothing but shut her down. Here, we begin to see him crack.


Morning brings more rain. Isaac and I discuss my strengths—dexterity and technique—as well as my shortcomings—interpretation and emotion.
“It’s probably because you’re used to Uncle Robert, but, Julianne, you need to loosen up. Mechanics will only take you so far. The Conservatory panel wants to see youyour interpretation of the piece. These composers are all dead. They’re not gonna come after you for tweaking their stuff.”
The only composer whose work I can come close to making my own is Rachmaninoff. I tell Isaac this. I watch as he transforms from a full-grown adult into a kid on Christmas morning.
All in one breath, he says, “Okay, see? We can work with this. We can incorporate some of his pieces into your audition. What are your favorite ones? Could do the second or third symphonies. Probably not the Prelude in C Sharp Minor, it’s overplayed. Along with the Paganini. But the Etudes-Tableau or the Moments Musicaux.”
“Jeez, who plugged you in?”
He paces back and forth like a maniac, then stops abruptly and swivels to face me.
“‘Without color it is dead.’”
“‘So you make music live. Without color it is dead.’ Why didn’t I think of this before? Rachmaninoff was talking about interpreting and performing other composers’ works. Said he could approach their stuff better because he was a composer too and knew the composer’s mind. ‘You can make contact with their imaginations, knowing something of their problems and ideals. You can give their works color. That is the most important thing for me in my interpretations, color.’”
“And you’re going to compose. Your interpretations lack color, so invent some. If I can’t make you feel other composers’ works, we’ll see if you can feel your own.”
“Um, okay.”
“By tomorrow.”
“Are you kidding me?”
That’s so unfair.
“Nope. Look, I know you spend all hours of the day and night out here. Put that time to good use—”
“Whoa, wait. How do you know how much I’m in here?”
“Have to drive by your house to get just about anywhere. Nine times out of ten, your light is on.”
“Creeper much?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m usually late getting in from the symphony rehearsals, and I do have a life.”
Yes, a life you won’t tell me anything about.
“Don’t change the subject. There any Rachmaninoff you can play right now?”
“I’m a little rusty, but I can give it a shot.” I take a deep breath.
This is my moment to impress him. If I do, maybe he’ll let me in.
I begin the Etude-Tableau no. 2 in C. It’s a relatively quiet piece, but technically difficult. For the next few minutes I’m lost. I will my left hand to do what it’s supposed to. When I finish, I hear the clock tick like a metronome. I sing a little ditty in my head, “Tick tock, goes the clock. Tick tock, tick tock …” and I wait for his judgment like a gladiator in the ring, wondering if my performance gets me a thumbs up or down; live or die; mercy or none.
A wicked blush burns my ears when I look up just the tiniest bit. He hasn’t moved. At all. I have no idea what this means. “Well?”
Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, he looks like he wants to kill someone. Slow as molasses, he draws up his mouth on one side into a sexy smile.
“Well,” he drawls, “you’ve been holding out on me.”


Purchase Links:

Inkspell Publishing (paperback and digital)
Page & Palette (independent bookstore – paperback)
Powell’s (independent bookstore - paperback)
Barnes and Noble (paperback and Nook)
Amazon (paperback and Kindle)
Book Depository (paperback)
Kobo (digital)
All Romance eBooks (digital)
Bookworld – Australia (digital and paperback)
Angus & Robertson – Australia (digital and paperback)

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Vampire Academy - #AtoZChallenge

I write when I'm inspired, and see to it that I'm inspired at nine o'clock every morning. 

- Peter De Vries


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Vampire Academy
Vampire Academy #1

St. Vladimir’s Academy isn’t just any boarding school—it’s a hidden place where vampires are educated in the ways of magic and half-human teens train to protect them. Rose Hathaway is a Dhampir, a bodyguard for her best friend Lissa, a Moroi Vampire Princess. They’ve been on the run, but now they’re being dragged back to St. Vladimir’s—the very place where they’re most in danger...

Rose and Lissa become enmeshed in forbidden romance, the Academy’s ruthless social scene, and unspeakable nighttime rituals. But they must be careful lest the Strigoi—the world’s fiercest and most dangerous vampires—make Lissa one of them forever.



I felt her fear before I heard her screams.
Her nightmare pulsed into me, shaking me out of my own dream, which had had something to do with a beach and some hot guy rubbing suntan oil on me.  Images—hers, not mine—tumbled through my mind: fire and blood, the smell of smoke, the twisted metal of a car.  The pictures wrapped around me, suffocating me, until some rational part of my brain reminded me that this wasn’t my dream.
I woke up, strands of long, dark hair sticking to my forehead.
Lissa lay in her bed, thrashing and screaming.  I bolted out of mine, quickly crossing the few feet that separated us.
“Liss,” I said, shaking her.  “Liss, wake up.”
Her screams dropped off, replaced by soft whimpers.  “Andre,” she moaned.  “Oh God.”
I helped her sit up.  “Liss, you aren’t there anymore.  Wake up.”
After a few moments, her eyes fluttered open, and in the dim lighting, I could see a flicker of consciousness start to take over.  Her frantic breathing slowed, and she leaned into me, resting her head against my shoulder.  I put an arm around her and ran a hand over her hair.
“It’s okay,” I told her gently.  “Everything’s okay.”
“I had that dream.”
“Yeah.  I know.”
We sat like that for several minutes, not saying anything else.  When I felt her emotions calm down, I leaned over to the nightstand between our beds and turned on the lamp.  It glowed dimly, but neither of us really needed much to see by.  Attracted by the light, our housemate’s cat Oscar leapt up into the open window.
He gave me a wide berth—animals didn’t like dhampirs, for whatever reason—but jumped up on the bed and rubbed his head against Lissa, purring softly.  Animals didn’t have a problem with Moroi, and they all loved her in particular.  Smiling, she scratched his chin, and I felt her calm further.
“When did we last do a feeding?” I asked, studying her face.  Her fair skin was paler than usual.  Dark circles hung under her eyes, and there was an air of frailty around her.  School had been hectic this week, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d given her blood.  “It’s been like…over two days, hasn’t it?  Three?  Why didn’t you say anything?”
She shrugged and wouldn’t meet my eyes.  “You were busy.  I didn’t want to…”
“Screw that,” I said, shifting into a better position.  No wonder she seemed so weak.  Oscar, not wanting me any closer, leapt down and returned to the window where he could watch at a safe distance.  “Come on.  Let’s do this.”
“Come on.  It’ll make you feel better.”
I tilted my head and tossed my hair back, baring my neck.  I saw her hesitate, but the sight of my neck and what it offered proved too powerful.  A hungry expression crossed her face, and her lips parted slightly, exposing the fangs she normally kept hidden while living among humans.  Those fangs contrasted oddly with the rest of her features.  With her pretty face and pale blonde hair, she looked more like an angel than a vampire.
As her teeth neared my bare skin, I felt my heart race with a mix of fear and anticipation.  I always hated feeling the latter, but it was nothing I could help.  A weakness I couldn’t shake.
Her fangs bit into me, hard, and I cried out at the brief flare of pain.  Then it faded, replaced by a wonderful, golden joy that spread through my body.  It was better than any of the times I’d been drunk or high.  Better than sex—or so I imagined, since I’d never done it.  It was a blanket of pure, refined pleasure, wrapping me up and promising everything would be right in the world.  On and on, it went.  The chemicals in her saliva triggered an endorphin rush, and I lost track of the world, lost track of who I was.
Then, regretfully, it was over.  It had taken less than a minute.
She pulled back, wiping her hand across her lips as she studied me.  “You okay?”
“I…yeah.”  I lay back onto the bed, dizzy from the blood loss.  “I just need to sleep it off.  I’m fine.”
Her pale, jade-green eyes watched me with concern.  She stood up.  “I’m going to get you something to eat.”
My protests came awkwardly to my lips, and she left before I could get out a sentence.  The buzz from her bite had lessened as soon as she broke the connection, but some of it still lingered in my veins, and I felt a goofy smile cross my lips.  Turning my head, I glanced up at Oscar, still sitting in the window.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I told him.
His attention was on something outside.  Hunkering down into a crouch, he puffed out his jet black fur.  His tail started twitching.
My smile faded, and I forced myself to sit up.  The world spun, and I waited for it to right itself before trying to stand.  When I managed it, the dizziness set in again and this time refused to leave.  Still, I felt okay enough to stumble to the window and peer out with Oscar.  He eyed me warily, scooted over a little, and then returned to whatever had held his attention.
A warm breeze—unseasonably warm for a Portland fall—played with my hair as I leaned out.  The street was dark and relatively quiet.  It was three in the morning, just about the only time a college campus settled down, at least somewhat.  The house in which we’d rented a room for the past eight months sat on a residential street with old, mismatched houses.  Across the road, a streetlight flickered, nearly ready to burn out.  It still cast enough light for me to make out the shapes of cars and buildings.  In our own yard, I could see the silhouettes of trees and bushes.
And a man watching me.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Under the Never Sky - #AtoZChallenge

"You can drown a thought by expressing it in too many words."    Unknown


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Under the Never Sky
Under the Never sky #1
YA Paranormal / Dystopoia

Since she'd been on the outside, she'd survived an Aether storm, she'd had a knife held to her throat, and she'd seen men murdered. This was worse.

Exiled from her home, the enclosed city of Reverie, Aria knows her chances of surviving in the outer wasteland - known as The Death Shop - are slim. If the cannibals don't get her, the violent, electrified energy storms will. She's been taught that the very air she breathes can kill her. Then Aria meets an Outsider named Perry. He's wild - a savage - and her only hope of staying alive.

A hunter for his tribe in a merciless landscape, Perry views Aria as sheltered and fragile - everything he would expect from a Dweller. But he needs Aria's help too; she alone holds the key to his redemption. Opposites in nearly every way, Aria and Perry must accept each other to survive. Their unlikely alliance forges a bond that will determine the fate of all who live under the never sky.



They called the world beyond the walls of the Pod “the Death Shop.” A million ways to die out there. Aria never thought she’d get so close.She bit her lip as she stared at the heavy steel door in front of her. A display screen read AGRICULTURE 6—NO ENTRY in flashing red letters.Ag 6 was just a service dome, Aria told herself.
Dozens of domes supplied Reverie with food, water, oxygen—all the things an enclosed city needed. Ag 6 had been damaged in a recent storm, but supposedly the damage was minor.
“Maybe we should turn back,” Paisley said. She stood beside Aria in the airlock chamber, nervously twisting a strand of her long red hair.The three boys crouched at the control board by the door, jamming the signal so they could exit without triggering an alarm.
Aria tried to ignore their steady bickering.“Come on, Paisley. What’s the worst that could happen?” Aria meant it as a joke, but her voice sounded too high so she tacked on a laugh. That came out sounding mildly hysterical.“What could happen in a damaged dome?”
Paisley counted on her slender fingers. “Our skin could rot off. We could get locked out. An Aether storm could turn us into human bacon. Then the cannibals could eat us for breakfast.”
“It’s just another part of Reverie,” Aria said.“An off-limits part.”
“Pais, you don’t have to go.”
“Neither do you,” Paisley said, but she was wrong.
For the past five days, Aria had worried constantly about her mother. Why hadn’t she been in touch? Lumina had never missed one of their daily visits, no matter how engrossed she was in her medical research. If Aria wanted answers, she needed to get into that dome.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Showers of Books #Giveaway Hop - Tidal Whispers #PNR #Fantasy #UF

Let's celebrate water, shall we? What better book to giveaway than Tidal Whispers, a 4 story anthology by J. Taylor Publishing. Let's see the goods ...

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Tidal Whispers  
PNR / Fantasy / UF

Heart’s Desire by Julie Reece
After a terrible accident, Tessa returns to her family beach house to heal. She doesn’t expect to see her first summer crush from seven years before. Cameron, though, reappears and ignites a relationship that’s far more intense than ever before. The only problem? Summer is once again coming to an end, and this time, Tessa will have to decide whether to choose life with Cameron or to never see him again.

The Sweetest Song by Claire Gillian
Under Poseidon's rule, Circe is the most destructive siren in the Pacific ocean, her songs luring ships and their crew to their watery graves. Not Otis, the best halibut fisherman in the Alaskan waters. His ship, the Calypso, has avoided disaster each time Circe set her sights on him.

Given one last chance to deliver Otis to Davy Jones’ locker, Circe takes to land to waylay the handsome captain. Instead, it may be Otis himself who hooks the Siren.

Pearl of Pau’maa by Kelly Said
Should Miki choose to wed the local wealthy boy she doesn't love, her stomach will stop grumbling. Her soul, however, will suffocate. With one last opportunity before she must concede, she sneaks off for a final dive to her hidden crate at the bottom of the seabed. What waits for her is more than a captured lobster. It's a treasure she cannot claim without great sacrifice or true love. 

The Undergarden by Jocelyn Adams
Nixie, a water sprite, lives a solitary existence as she struggles to understand the strange world beyond her waters.  When she meets one of the pink ones, a curious boy named Wyatt, their friendship blooms into a love that can exist only upon the sands that divide his solid ground from her underwater paradise. Some love, though, once born, cannot be undone, even in the face of death.


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