Release Day Launch: The Time Traveler's Christmas by Ami Jarecki

Today we have the release day launch for The Time Traveler’s Christmas by Amy Jarecki! Check out the excerpt Amy is sharing, enter her giveaway and grab you're copy today!

A man’s life can fall apart in an instant…



Tougher than oxhide, Lachlan Wallace can take about anything except a breakup call from his wife two minutes before competing in the Karate Championship of the World. Arriving home with a loss, he agrees to watch his uncle’s cat over the holidays. Or so he thinks—until he awakes on a fourteenth-century battlefield beside a woman fighting for her life.


Never underestimate a woman’s determination…

Taken from her at the age of two, Lady Christina de Moray hasn’t seen her son in thirteen years. While traveling with Robert the Bruce’s army to exchange an English prisoner for the lad, a battle erupts. Losing the fight, Christina is rescued by a mysterious warrior while the English escape with her son yet again.

And never bet against the potency of passion…

Left with no way back to the twenty-first century, Lachlan agrees to help Christina rescue the lad from his English captors. If the heir is not returned by Christmas next, the Bruce will make his decision whom to grant the de Moray lands, including Lady Christina’s hand. Once his duty is fulfilled, Lachlan hopes to discover a way home—as long as he keeps his mind on the goal and ignores his growing love for the spirited woman who gives him her trust—and her heart.



Grab your copy today!

The Time Traveler’s Christmas

Rise of a Legend

In the Kingdom’s Name

Excerpt

Crouched in a defensive stance, Lachlan Wallace’s mind refused to focus. Sweat streamed from his brow, drained into his eyes and blurred his vision. His breathing rushed through his ears like an angry river. Everything around him moved in slow motion. He rubbed his forearm across his face and his white sleeve came back with a swath of blood.

But nothing hurt, except Lachlan’s heart.
Shifting his gaze to the time clock—five seconds left—the red numbers frozen in place while the judges consulted with each other to confirm the three points given to the American for his last kick. Maybe that’s what caused the bleeding. Lachlan didn’t care.
He switched his sights to the scoreboard. Tied, UK nine, US nine. The American contender across the mat stared with the hunger of a rabid dog. Still, Lachlan could take him. He just needed a moment to focus.
Damn. Out of the starting gates, he’d suffered a vicious kick to the gut, but that wasn’t the reason for a ton of lead sinking to his toes.
Just hang in there. I have to prove her wrong about something.
The referee sliced his hand downward—the signal to engage. Lachlan’s legs moved like four hundred pound weights hung from his thighs. The American approached, growing blurrier by each fraction of a second. Holding his defensive stance, Lachlan shifted for a countermove as his opponent slightly raised his hind foot to his toes.
A kick.
Anticipating the move, years of training took over and Lachlan spun to the right, aiming a left roundhouse kick to the American’s head. A millisecond off, the man ducked and rolled away from what could have been the kick to end the fight. Lachlan should have continued with the attack, pinning the man to the mat and issuing a three-point punch to the face, but Angela’s voice rang in his head.
“I’ve filed for divorce. John and I moved your things to Container Village on Falkirk Road. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor. You’re such a loser. Don’t try to call. I’ve blocked your phone.”
The rush of Lachlan’s breathing deafened his ears.
Who the fuck is John?
The unanswered question burst into a million stars as the American’s heel collided with Lachlan’s temple.

About Amy Jareck

An Amazon bestselling author, Amy Jarecki adores Scotland. Though she now resides in southwest Utah, she received her MBA from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Winning multiple writing awards, she is focused on the genre of Scottish historical romance. Amy loves to write steamy edge-of-your-seat action adventures with rugged men and fascinating women who weave their paths through the brutal eras of centuries past.
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Elien

Book Blast: Sapient by Jerry Kaczmarowski‏

Title: Sapient
Author: Jerry Kaczmarowski
Genre: Thriller, Young Adult
Release date: April 2015










Abandoned by her husband after the birth of their child, Jane Dixon’s world is defined by her autistic son and the research she does to find a cure for his condition. She knows her work on animal intelligence may hold the key. She also knows that the research will take decades to complete. None of it will ultimately benefit her son.

All that changes when a lab rat named Einstein demonstrates that he can read and write. Just as her research yields results, the U.S. government discovers her program. The army wants to harness her research for its military potential. The CDC wants to shut her down completely. The implications of animal intelligence are too dangerous, particularly when the previously inert virus proves to be highly contagious.

She steals the virus to cure her son, but the government discovers the theft. She must now escape to Canada before the authorities can replace her son’s mental prison with a physical one.

Goodreads

Excerpt

A young research assistant poked his head through the laboratory door and said, “We’re heading out to grab some beers. Want to join us?”


Dr. Jane Dixon brushed aside a strand of dark hair that had fallen from her ponytail. She waved the offer off without turning to face him and gave a curt, “Too much work.” I need to get out of here at a decent time to see Robbie, or I’m going to need to find a new nanny.


“Come on, Dr. Dixon. One quick drink. It’s Friday.”


She sighed and faced him, removing her dark-rimmed glasses. “How about a rain check?” She gave the younger man her best smile, but Jane knew she sounded insincere.


“Sure, a rain check.” The research assistant gave a perfunctory nod and let the door swing shut. Jane wouldn’t receive another invitation anytime soon, which was fine with her.


She put her hands in the small of her back and stretched, yielding a satisfying pop. Not for the first time, she congratulated herself on the regularity of her yoga workouts. They were one of the few distractions she permitted herself. With forty in the not-too- distant future, it was one distraction she couldn’t afford to forgo. She pulled her stool closer to her computer and checked her maze for the final time. She chuckled to herself. After all her years of education, she was reduced to playing video games with rodents. Using a virtual maze allowed her to create a level of complexity unrealistic with traditional animal intelligence testing.


Jane walked into an adjoining room with rows of cages where her subjects spent most of their day. She approached a cage adorned with a garish blue first-place ribbon. Her assistant had put it on the door as a joke. At first, it migrated back and forth as different rats outperformed others. For the past two months, it hadn’t moved.


She opened the cage and made a coaxing motion. “Come here, Einstein.” A fat, white rat dashed out the door onto her hand and scrambled up her right shoulder. His neon-blue eyes gave off an icy intelligence. The change in eye color was one of many side effects of her tests Jane still couldn’t explain. The rat whipped its tail into her hair for balance, hopping from paw to paw.


“Settle down, boy,” she said. She carried Einstein back into the lab with its virtual maze and extended her hand. He raced down her arm to the large trackball and made little jumps in anticipation of the race. As Jane clamped him gently into the metal rig that held him in place, he stopped jumping. 
Einstein differed from the other rats—he never struggled when Jane locked him in place. The other rats fought against the harness, making it difficult to complete the test preparations.

A two-dimensional overview of a simple maze flashed on the screen. Without hesitating, Einstein rolled through the maze on his trackball, completing the challenge in seconds.


“Too easy,” Jane said. “You don’t even deserve a prize.” Despite this, she stroked the rat’s head and gave him a small piece of cheese. Einstein snapped it up in his front paws. As soon as he devoured it, he pulled against his harness and chattered at Jane.


“Relax, big fella.” She tapped on her keyboard to reconfigure the course before bending down to eye level with Einstein. “Now the real challenge begins.” He stared into her sea- green eyes. The small rodent had the intense focus of a fighter about to get in the ring.


A second maze flashed on the screen. There was a straightforward solution that was long and twisting. A second solution existed, but so far, none of the rats had figured it out. The second path had two tiny virtual teleportation pads. If the rats stepped onto one of the pads, they were transported to a corresponding location in a different part of the maze. For this test, the pads would save precious seconds.


“Go,” Jane shouted, starting the timer. Einstein didn’t budge. Instead, he looked back and forth between the obvious path and the first teleportation pad.


“Clock’s ticking,” Jane said to herself in frustration.


Einstein shrieked as he noticed the decreasing progress bar. A tentative paw step forward cleared the maze overview and put him in a six-inch-high virtual hallway. He waddled straight to the teleportation pad but stopped short. He turned his gaze to Jane as his whiskers moved back and forth, up and down. Jane stared back, willing him to make the right move.


The rat rolled forward on his trackball across the pad. The screen flashed, and he teleported to within a few steps of the exit. With a final glance at Jane, he spun through the gate with twenty seconds left on the clock.


Jane clapped her hands. “You did it.” She reached toward him. He clambered up her arm, slower now that he was out of the virtual world. She gave him a piece of cheese and returned him to the steel table.


“Impressive,” she said to the empty room. At times like this she wished someone could appreciate her triumphs. Her coworkers were at the bar. And Robbie? Robbie is Robbie. The warm smile of a mother flitted across her face as she thought about her son.


Einstein broke her reverie as he scratched and clawed at an iPad on the table. “It’s like having a second child,” Jane sighed to herself. She obliged Einstein’s pestering by starting an old episode of Sesame Street. The classic show was his favorite. Most other children’s programming bored him. His second-favorite genre was as far from the Children’s Television Workshop gang as you could get. One of Jane’s more unsavory assistants had decided to play Rated R comedies on the screen in the evening when the animals were alone in their cages. The crass movies entertained Einstein for hours despite the fact he couldn’t understand any of them.


Jane’s mobile phone vibrated. A message from her nanny read, “WHERE R U!!!” She glanced at the time in the lower right of her screen and gave a sharp intake of breath. I did it again, she chided herself.


“Leaving now. Sorry.” She almost typed a sad face emoticon but caught herself. It wouldn’t be well received. She pushed Send and dropped the phone on the lab table. She pounded the results of today’s tests into her computer, not bothering to correct spelling errors as she raced to enter her observations while they were still fresh.


The phone buzzed again. Jane gritted her teeth at the unnecessary back-and-forth. These nastygrams would only delay her departure. She reached for the phone in frustration, but Einstein was perched over it, staring at the screen. She nudged the little rodent back and set her jaw as she read the text.

The screen read, “Who is Einstein?” As she struggled to make sense of the nanny’s text, her eyes scanned back to the previous outbound message. She juggled her phone, almost dropping it on the floor.


The screen read, “I am Einstein.”

Praise for Sapient

“The plot is fast-paced, thought provoking, funny at times, and kept me reading to find out what would happen next. I think that the YA audience will love it.” - Dana Bjornstad


“I loved this story and I especially liked its animal characters - Einstein the lab rat with the keen sense of humor and Bear, the one-eyed German Shepherd dog who seems to always be the butt of Einstein's jokes. And the human characters aren't half bad either.” - Cheryl Stout


“A timeless, engrossing and perfectly-paced techno thriller about the promise – and fear – of modern medical science.” - Best Thrillers

About the author

Jerry Kaczmarowski lives in Seattle with his family. He writes techno-thrillers that explore the benefits and dangers of mankind's scientific advancement. His first book, Moon Rising, was released in June 2014. His second book, Sapient, was published in April 2015.

Jerry spent the first twenty years of his professional life in the consulting industry on the West Coast. His fascination with technology is matched only by his love of stories. His books intertwine action with a keen insight into how technology will shape our lives in the coming years.
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads

El

Book Blast + Interview: R U Serious (Nashville #8) by Inglath Cooper

Title: R U Serious
Author: Inglath Cooper
Series: Nashville
Genre: Romance, Contemporary, New Adult
Publisher: Fence Free Entertainment
Publication date: February 28th 2015
Pages: 132 (kindle)
Buy links: Amazon | B&N | website






CeCe and Holden have what is sometimes unusual in the entertainment world: a good marriage. They know how lucky they are to have found each other, and with the recent scare they witnessed best friends Thomas and Lila go through, they're determined not to take any of it for granted. But life in the public eye can come with its drawbacks, and when CeCe begins to receive death threats, Holden is ready to walk away from the spotlight altogether. CeCe refuses to let fear of the unknown determine how they live and insists on not involving the police. Until, that is, the terrifying event that leaves her certain she may never feel safe again.

Goodreads

Interview

Q: You lived in Nashville for several years, in which way did it inspire you to write this series? 
A: I’ve actually never lived in Nashville. I traveled back and forth for three years from my home in Virginia, attending songwriting workshops, seminars and conferences, co-writing with other songwriters and recording songs with producers there. I was inspired to write the series when I realized that at that point in my life, with four young daughters, I wasn’t going to be able to spend as much time there as I would need to for a serious go at pitching songs to artists. That’s when I decided to go back to fiction with my Nashville love affair, and the series was born.


Q: R U Serious is the eight book so far in this series. Which one was your favorite book to write so far? 
A: I really have enjoyed writing all of them. I’ve taken some leaps with my writing in this series, mostly in terms of plot elements, things I’ve found happening to my characters that weren’t always easy to get them out of. Part Eight - R U Serious - goes back to CeCe and Holden after three books with Thomas and Lila, so that was a lot of fun to do. I worried a little about what readers might think about switching back, but the comments have been really positive. I think readers have enjoyed visiting the two of them again.


Q: How would you describe the main characters, CeCe and Holdon, in five words? 
A: Talented, fun-loving, committed, in love, dog crazy.


Q: CeCe and Holdon have a good marriage. Could you tell us how they manage to have a solid marriage while they live in the spotlights? 
A: They both realize they’ve found the one worth waiting for. Music is their life, but they both live as if it would mean nothing if they didn’t have each other. Holden is a guy who respects women and knows he’s lucky to have found CeCe. He makes her feel loved and shows her that constantly.


Q: If you could write as much books as you wanted in this series how many more would you like to write? 
A: Right now, I’m planning to write twelve. But if readers aren’t ready to leave the characters, I probably won’t be either.


Q: What kind of music do you like listening to while writing this series? 
A: I love country music, especially the pop-tinged kind, but I also love dance stuff, high energy music. If I write to music though, it has to be classical or something that drops into the background of my brain because it likes to get distracted.


Q: Whose work inspires you? 
As far as fiction writers, I’ve been inspired by so many authors. LaVyrle Spencer wrote such wonderfully emotional stories. I love Anita Shreve. Harlan Coben for the thriller stuff. Lately, I’ve enjoyed JoJo Moyes, Jane Green and Liane Moriarty.


Q: Who was your actor/musician crush when you were a teenager?
A: Oh goodness, that’s so going to date me! When I had just turned twelve or so, I was crazy about KC and the Sunshine Band. I was a member of his fan club and was so proud of my membership card! Later, I would have to say Kevin Costner. No Way Out. Oh my. And Richard Gere. An Officer and a Gentleman. Double Oh My.


Q: With which character in the Nashville series do you identify yourself the most with? 
A: Probably CeCe. She loves dogs, is passionate about dog rescue and her creativity. That’s me.


Q: Could you tell us one silly fact about yourself?
A: Silly fact. Hm. I use straight coconut oil as a facial moisturizer. I drink 2-3 juices per day and credit Joe Cross and his documentary Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead with changing my thought process on nutrition.


Q: What was your favorite book when you were a teenager? 
A: I read bags of Harlequin Presents. Those moody, rich heroes. They seemed glamorous then. And Janet Dailey wrote some great stories!


Q: What is your favorite dessert? 
A: Chocolate covered almonds.


Q: Anything you would like to say to your readers? 
A: Thank you so very much for giving my stories a try. Reading choices are so plentiful these days, and I’m always honored to hear from a new reader. I think you’re all just amazing and love your passion for a good story!

About the author

Inglath Cooper spent two years traveling to Nashville, TN learning to write lyrics and co-writing with other songwriters. Cooper is the author of the best-selling Nashville Series, and the newly released Blue Wide Sky: A Smith Mountain Lake Novel (Feb. 14, 2015). A graduate of Virginia Tech with a degree in English, Cooper now divides her time between Virginia and Florida. She is also an avid supported of no kill shelters and is on the board of the Franklin County Humane Society. 

Learn more about Cooper and her Nashville Series at  www.inglathcooper.com and connect on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads and Pinterest. 

El

Book Blast: Push (Push #1) by Claire Wallis

Title: Push
Author: Claire Wallis
Series: Push
Genre: New Adult, Romance
Publisher: Harlequin MIRA
Publication date: May 1st 2014
Buy links: Amazon | B&N | iTunes | Kobo

I feel like I am wrapped in a cyclone. Everything is whirling around me, drawing the air out of my lungs and filling me with the best kind of turmoil. Every time his tongue slides against me, a prickle in my gut tells me how right we are together. How much I need David. How much I need us.

I hope the cyclone never stops.

Emma Searfoss has spent a lifetime trying to escape her abusive stepfather. It's why she moved far away from home. It's why she's kept no ties with her remaining family. And it's why she's got a major rage problem. When her neighbor shows up to fix the kitchen in her new apartment, his enigmatic charm calms the fire in her. David is cool and collected, and he makes Emma feel safe for the first time ever. But David has his own chilling past - his six previous girlfriends have all disappeared without a trace. Emma's walking a dangerous line, but David's pull is intoxicating. And impossible to resist...

This is a new adult romance with mature content for readers 17 and up.

Goodreads

Giveaway

Tour-wide giveaway (INTL)

• $25 Amazon Gift Card
• One digital copy of PUSH via Amazon
• One audiobook of PUSH via Audible Studios

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Excerpt

I walk down the hall, past the wreck of a kitchen, and into the living room where the door buzzer startles me again by sounding a second time.

"Hold your damn hat on," I mutter as I press the intercom button. "Yes?" I ask into the small, grey box.

"Hi. Um, is this Emma Searfoss? Apartment seven?" asks a male voice.

"Yes it is. What can I do for you?" I ask. A rush of thick, syrupy relief courses through my veins. I am beyond grateful that whoever it is, it's decidedly not Michael.

"This is David. I'm here to fix your kitchen cupboards. The landlord was supposed to call you yesterday to let you know I was coming," he says. Oh. I haven't checked my cell phone since yesterday afternoon so I have no idea if Carl called me or not. For a moment I hesitate, but then I figure the guy must be legit because part of the rental agreement included refurbishing the kitchen cupboards. Right now they are a complete wreck; the doors are either falling off or missing altogether, the paint is peeling, and most of the shelves are cracked and warped. I haven't even attempted to unpack the kitchen boxes, expecting Carl to come and fix the cupboards as he promised. I'm pleased that he's decided to do it sooner rather than later. Whoever David is, he's got his work cut out for him.

"Oh, ok," I say into the grey box. "Up the stairs. Second door on the left."

"I know," he says casually as I press the door release switch. I quickly grab my purse and toss it into the back bedroom, just incase David is some kind of criminal. I almost snatch the pepper spray out of it first, but then I decide that that would be one step too close to crazy.

There is a knock at the front door, and a second later, I open it. I immediately wonder why I didn't grab the pepper spray when I had the chance.

David does not look like a cupboard fixer. Frankly, he looks a little psycho, and I wonder how stupid I am to let him waltz into my apartment without checking for a message from Carl first. But if I close the door on him now, I'm going to look like the psycho. A stupid cliché pops unwelcome into my head: "Don't judge a book by its cover." I stuff the words back into my brain, back into the mouth of every Sunday school teacher I ever had.

The only visual indication that David is actually here for the reason he claims is the belt of tools slung low around his waist. There is a hammer swaying off his left hip and some screwdrivers tucked into little loops on the right. A tape measure sits next to the hammer, and what appears to be a pair of lineman's pliers is sticking out of a small pocket to the side. There are some other tools there too, but I don't recognize them.

He catches my glance at the tool belt, and I realize that I must have some foolish look of relief on my face, because a second later he is wearing a small, lopsided grin. He looks quite pleased with himself, as a matter of fact, and I immediately think he must be a cocky bastard.

Aside from the tool belt, he is wearing a grey T-shirt, a pair of black skinny jeans, and a pair of heavy black work boots. His dark, mussed up hair is cut short, and it looks as if he forgot to shave - for the past several days. On each ear are two small silver hoops, and his arms are covered in tattoos. I can see the swirls of ink beneath his skin, but I can't tell what the images are - I don't want to look at them any longer than I already have. I don't want him to think I am checking him out. Cocky bastards love being checked out, and I refuse to give him the pleasure.

I step aside and let him into the apartment. He looks around quickly and makes a beeline towards the kitchen. I think immediately that he must be familiar with the apartment's layout because he doesn't ask where to go, nor does he hesitate.

"Come on in," I say sarcastically as he breezes past me.

"Thanks," he says without turning around. I watch him walk around the corner to the kitchen and wonder whether I am supposed to follow him in there.

"Holy hell," he says quietly. "What a mess."

"Sorry," I answer sheepishly from the living room. And, before I know it, I add, "My Grandma got stoned here the other night and was desperate for some munchies. She gets a little out of hand sometimes." The utter idiocy of my own words makes me want to evaporate. I don't even have a Grandma anymore.

In a split second he is out of the kitchen and standing in the hallway, his hand on the door frame. He looks right at me, completely stone-faced. Without a trace of mockery, he says, "I think I might like to meet your Grandma someday." He quickly turns away and slides back into the kitchen. I am silent. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

About the author

Claire Wallis has penned hundreds of magazine and newspaper articles over the last ten years, with science playing the lead role in almost all of them. Though non-fiction writing will forever be her first love, fiction has unexpectedly swooped in, hooked her by the soul, and become her true love. As a result of this coup d'état, Claire's writing career has made a complete U-turn, and instead of rocks, plants, insects and microbes, she is now putting human characters in the lead.

Claire's previous jobs include working at a limestone quarry, hawking vegetables at a farmer's market, clerking at the dollar store, and convincing new mothers that they need to renew their subscription to that parenting magazine in order for their child to survive. She lives in Pennsylvania wit her amazingly awesome husband and son.
Website | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter

El

Interview with Oliver Sparrow author of Dark Sun, Bright Moon

Title: Dark Sun, Bright Moon
Author: Oliver Sparrow
Publication date: July 2014
Buy links: Amazon











"Dark Sun, Bright Moon describes people isolated in the Andes, without the least notion of outsiders. They evolve an understanding of the universe that is complementary to our own but a great deal wider. The book explores events of a thousand years ago, events which fit with what we know of the region's history,” says Sparrow.


In the Andes of a thousand years ago, the Huari empire is sick. Its communities are being eaten from within by a plague, a contagion that is not of the body but of something far deeper, a plague that has taken their collective spirit. Rooting out this parasite is a task that is laid upon Q’ilyasisa, a young woman from an obscure little village on the forgotten borders of the Huari empire.


This impossible mission is imposed on her by a vast mind, a sentience that has ambitions to shape all human life. Her response to this entails confrontations on sacrificial pyramids, long journeys through the Amazonian jungle and the establishment of not just one but two new empires. Her legacy shapes future Andean civilization for the next four hundred years, until the arrival of the Spanish.


Dark Sun, Bright Moon takes the reader on a fascinating adventure that includes human sacrifice, communities eaten from within, a vast mind blazing under the mud of Lake Titicaca, and the rise and fall of empires cruel and kind.

Goodreads

Interview

Q: What inspired you to write Dark Sun, Bright Moon?
A: I have had a great deal to do with Peru since I first went there in 1980. Its indigenous people were isolated from external influences for perhaps 10,000 years, and the more I understood of them, the more remarkable they became to me. Again in Peru last year, ! suffered a mining accident that led to osteomyelitis, a condition which which left me stuck at home with a pipe in my arm, delivering antibiotics. That seemed to be a a good moment to turn what I had learned of them into print.

Q: There are a lot of images in your book, why are they so important for the story?
A: Dark Sun, Bright Moon is a long, dense adventure story that takes place in a physical and social environment that is wholly unfamiliar to most readers. If you are writing about Victorian London, you can evoke it with a reference to fog, hansom cabs and a creaking pub sign; if the Wild West, an author can evoke a similar tranche of clichés. The Peru of a thousand years ago has no such cultural references, however, and as a consequence, a simple picture can settle details in a person’s mind as can no number of words. Besides, I like the result.

The images mix photography with computer modeling, the whole being rendered with graphic filters into a common style. We put together a very large web site (http://www.all-peru.info) some years ago on a pro bono basis, and this required us to photograph the entire country. Most of the images comes from that source.

Q: How would you describe Dark Sun, Bright Moon in three words?
A: Uncanny historical adventure.

Q: Writing is something completely different than your normal job. So how did you become a writer?
I have become what Peter Drucker and similar gurus once advocated, a portfolio person. With the exception of some concrete ventures such as mining, my career has consisted chiefly of analyzing very complicated things and explaining them to busy people in as few words as possible. The step from scarcely-cloaked fiction to un-closeted, flaunting-itself commercial fiction was not that great. It is, too, wonderful to let rip without reference to proof – the charts, the graphs, the tables and footnotes – but to retain the disciplines of narrative coherence and of respect for the evidence. Notionally fact- based analysis of complex structures pretends that it does not rely on judgment. It does, but it is such a relief to write fiction and let the judgment fly free. So, a holiday to a country where I may very well decide to stay.

Q: You have visited Peru multiple times, which is your favorite part of the country and why?
A: In crude terms, the Andes separate the Eastern coastal desert and its icy ocean from the baking humidity of the Amazon. The pretty red little houses of the Western Andean villages given way to cloud forest in a zone which is called the “eyebrow of the jungle”. The Inca used to see this as the natural boundary of their world, believing everything lower down was corrupt, vile, deadly. I am very fond of it, however, not least as it is filled with orchids, a personal passion. Each valley has slightly different humming birds and the fuchsias they feed from; the parrots and macaws hang from different kinds of tree fern and the carpets of butterflies that occupy every moist spot that comes with a bit of sunshine also glitter differently. In the morning, vagrant patches of mist shift from pink to violet as they slide over the valley walls, and later in the day the convert to vertical
structures resembling a loaf of bread, out of which fall tiny rainstorms the size of a football field. Temperatures are equable, the humidity tolerable and relatively few things bite you if you sit on them. It is extraordinarily beautiful.

Q: Are any of the characters inspired on people you know or are they all creation of your mind?
A: I build characters out from an armature that is based on the traits that I want them to have: the big five, fluid intelligence, skills and blind spots, degree of autism, psychoticism, analytical and synthetic thinking, values-grounding. I generally put them through Myers Briggs tests to see how they come out, and to test for robustness in other ways before they get to interact with each other. If I use living people as templates, however, I find that as I prune off the here and now and the specific, they all become projections of aspects of myself. A rigorous approach puts your patrol line abreast in the plot-jungle, and not all following the same path.

Actually, I lie. Usco is probably the combination of an imaginary friend that I had when I was a child in the Bahamas and a Ridgeback dog that was my constant companion in Africa. I hope that he is as much fun for younger readers as those were for me when I was their age.

Q: Can you tell us three random facts about yourself?
A: Um. Six foot three, which makes me stand out in Andean villages, where I would guess the average height is just over five foot. I’ve generally been at my happiest in mountains, and spent the holidays of twenty years walking the Himalayas before returning to the Andes. I am delighted by orchids, and started to collect them when I was a child in Africa. These days, though, collection has strained natural populations to breaking point and I prefer just to look at them in their natural habitat.

Q:  How would you describe your main character(s) in five words?
A: Q’ilyasisa: hapless outsider transformed to social architect , eventually disembodied arbiter. Damn, that’s eight. Nine. Live with it.

Q: Why should everybody read Dark Sun, Bright Moon?
An ideal book, I suppose, informs as it entertains. Dark Sun, Bright Moon is a vigorous adventure story and you can read it at that level, but it has a rigorous internal logic that stems from the frankly bizarre metaphysic that the Andean people evolved during their ten thousand years of isolation. That in turn opens a way into a world that has never been touched upon in fiction, or indeed anything but academic archaeology. 

We have had a lot of reader feedback, which is posted at http://www.DarkSunBrightMoon.com A significant number of posts from Latin America seem to feel that we have unleashed dark forces, powers that had better have been left alone. That is nonsense, but although it is fiction, the book sticks close to what we know about intellectual life a thousand years ago. The reconstruction of the belief patterns is close enough for us to receive commendations from shamans in even the Philippines. (I had no idea that Peru trained Philippino shamans, but it appears that they do!) So, skimming the deeper material does, in my view, miss most of the fun.

A useful tip from readers is to go the Appendix after the action-man Section One: The Defence of the South, before moving into the longer and more complex second section.

Q: If you could tell all your readers something what would it be?
A: These questions of yours, fine though they are, are too general to fix the book in someone’s mind. We are a thousand years in the past, dealing with people who have no writing, no iron, no wheels, no understanding of a wider world. Nevertheless, they have insight into the nature of the universe that makes our science look timid. We – everything a reader knows – is sandwiched between two other realities, both vastly bigger than our universe, both inhabited by sentiences. Our world is a fragile thing, constructed moment by moment by one of these spaces at the direction of the other. Those directions in turn come from our own past. What has been dictates what will be. However, because nature is at equilibrium, most of the information that governs what happens next comes from unnatural activities, which in those times equates to human activity. Life establishes itself around these flows: apus, being that manage human communities for harmony, stability, permanence. Each community acquires its apus, indeed, as they do today in the contemporary Andes. The apu may be referred to as San Pedro, but there he is on his peak and the community go up to dance for him.

Apus “feed” on flows that reflect community harmony or stability. They can push this reciprocity too far, roboticising a village and quickly killing off its people. Rulers recognize the symptoms and disperse the people before this can take root. When Dark Sun, Bright Moon begins, however, a far more subtle plague is spreading across the Andes, debasing local apus and debauching their communities. It will kill the entire highland population if it is not stopped. Yachaq’, of whom today’s shamans are a poor shadow, can partly enter the parallel domains of reality. High yachaq’ who are the product of hundreds of generations of refinement, can effect meaningful change in them. Our young heroine, living in poverty with a dysfunctional family, marooned in a peripheral village on the very edge of the Andes, inherits the burden of her Grandfather’s power and is set by other major forces to breaking the plague. But in the end, she achieves far more than that.

There are two videos (4, 7 minutes) that go into this in more depth at http://www.DarkSunBrightMoon.com

Thank you so much Oliver!!

Excerpt

Chapter 1: A Small Sacrifice at Pachacamac


A priest knelt before her, a feather from his head-dress tickling her face. His musky odour of old incense and stale blood was rank, even here on the windy summit of the pyramid. Four other priests held her body tipped slightly forwards, and the pressure that this put on her tired old joints hurt far more than the fine, cold bite of the knife at her neck. Quick blood ran thick down her chin and splashed into the waiting bowl. Then the flow weakened, the strength went out of her and she died, content.


Seven elderly pilgrims had set out for Pachacamac, following their familiar river down to the coast and then trudging North through the desert sands. Two of the very oldest of them needed to be carried in litters, but most were able to walk with no more than a stick to help them in the sand. Lesser members of the community had been delegated to carry what was necessary. These would return home. The elderly would not.


The better-regarded families of the town were expected to die as was proper, sacrificed at the Pachacamac shrine for the betterment of the community. Such was to be their last contribution of ayni, of the reciprocity that assured communal harmony and health. It was also their guarantee of a smooth return to the community's soul, to the deep, impersonal structure from which they had sprung at birth.


The Pachacamac complex appeared to them quite suddenly from amongst the coastal dunes. They paused to marvel at its mountain range of pyramids, its teeming myriad of ancient and holy shrines.

Over the millennia, one particular pyramid had come to process all of the pilgrims who came from their valley. They were duly welcomed, and guards resplendent in bronze and shining leather took them safely to its precinct.


They had been expected. The priests were kind, welcoming them with food and drink, helping the infirm, leading them all by easy stages up to the second-but-last tier in their great, ancient pyramid. The full extent of the meandering ancient shrine unveiled itself like a revelation as they climbed. Then, as whatever had been mixed with their meal took its effect, they were wrapped up snug in blankets and set to doze in the late evening sun, propped together against the warm, rough walls of the mud-brick pyramid. Their dreams were vivid, extraordinary, full of weight and meaning.


The group was woken before dawn, all of them muzzily happy, shriven of all their past cares, benignly numb. Reassuring priests helped them gently up the stairs to the very top tier. In the predawn light, the stepped pyramids of Pachacamac stood sacred and aloof in an ocean of mist.


Each pilgrim approached their death with confidence. A quick little discomfort would take them back to the very heart of the community from which they had been born. They had been separated from it by the act of birth, each sudden individual scattered about like little seed potatoes. Now, ripe and fruitful, they were about to return home, safely gathered back into the community store. It was to be a completion, a circle fully joined. Hundreds of conch horns brayed out across Pachacamac as the dawn sun glittered over the distant mountains. Seven elderly lives drained silently away as the mist below turned pink.

About the Author

Oliver Sparrow was born in the Bahamas, raised in Africa and educated at Oxford to post-doctorate level, as a biologist with a strong line in computer science. He spent the majority of his working life with Shell, the oil company, which took him into the Peruvian jungle for the first time. He was a director at the Royal Institute for International Affairs, Chatham House for five years. He has started numerous companies, one of them in Peru, which mines for gold. This organisation funded a program of photographing the more accessible parts of Peru, and the results can be seen at http://www.all-peru.info. Oliver knows modern Peru very well, and has visited all of the physical sites that are described in his book Dark Sun, Bright Moon.
To learn more, go to http://www.darksunbrightmoon.com/ 

El

Book Blast + Guest Post: Death Wish (Ceruleans #1) by Megan Tayte

Title: Death Wish
Author: Magan Tayte
Series: Ceruleans
Genre: Fantasy, Young Adult
Publisher: Heaven Afire
Publication date: February 7th 2015
Pages: 305 (Kindle)
Buy links: Amazon UK | Amazon US







IN SEARCH OF THE MEANING OF DEATH, SHE’LL FIND THE MEANING OF LIFE. 

Seventeen-year-old Scarlett Blake is haunted by death. Her estranged sister has made the ultimate dramatic exit. Running away from school, joining a surfing fraternity, partying hard: that sounds like Sienna. But suicide? It makes no sense. 

Following in her sister’s footsteps, Scarlett comes to the isolated cove of Twycombe, Devon, with grand plans to uncover the truth. Alone. But she hasn’t reckoned on meeting two boys who are determined to help her. Luke: the blue-eyed surfer who’ll see the real Scarlett, who’ll challenge her, who’ll save her. And Jude: the elusive drifter with a knack for turning up whenever Scarlett’s in need. 

As Scarlett’s quest for the truth unravels, so too does her grip on reality as she’s always known it. Because there’s something strange going on in this little cove. A dead magpie circles the skies. A dead deer watches from the undergrowth. Hands glow with light. Warmth. Power. 

What transpires is a summer of discovery. Of what it means to conquer fear. To fall in love. To choose life. To choose death. 

To believe the impossible.

Goodreads

Excerpt

Waves everywhere, swirling, surging, seething – a raging melange of foam and salt and inky water biting at me, pulling at me, thrusting upon me a solitary invitation:

Death.


As I fought to remain on the flimsy polystyrene surfboard that seemed more bucking bronco than wave rider, I thought: That’s how easy it is – you just let go. Just release the grip on this world that in recent months had seemed so much an effort, and sink into the blue, beneath the waves, where chaos and fury turned to quiet and calm. Like she did.


Was drowning as they claim? I wondered. The easiest way to die – peaceful? How would it feel to give up all the dragging myself through the day, all the struggle to evade the aching void inside? A relief?

Another wave rose me up and slammed me down with breathtaking power. Its force stirred me. You could say a lot of things about Scarlett Blake – she’s a loner, she’s a wallflower, she’s a menace in the kitchen – but no way was ‘she’s a quitter’ on the list of character flaws.

‘Screw you!’ I shouted through the spray.

Funny, sounded like someone shouted back. But who else would be out in this tumultuous sea at six a.m. on a summer’s morning? Solitude was the entire point of hauling myself out of bed in the still-dark and picking my way down the cliff path to the beach just in time to see the horizon light up with the first burnt-orange glow of the rising sun. No one to see me make a damn fool of myself on my first surfing attempt.

‘Trying… yourself killed?’


Definitely a voice. Male. Angry.

Scanning the surroundings for the source proved difficult while lying stomach-to-board. On an upward surge I got a glimpse of the Devonshire cliffs that fringed the cove, all dark, jutting rocks topped by bushes of gorse, and then a flash of the beach. On a downward plummet there was nothing but eye-burning, throat-choking seawater.

‘Forward… next wave!’

The voice was closer now. There was an edge to it beyond the anger. Something raw.

My eyes picked out a black form between the waves. Someone on a surfboard, paddling it expertly seaward. I took one hand off the board to push sticky tendrils of hair from my eyes. Rookie mistake. Turned out holding on one-handed was impossible. The board shot upwards, out of my feeble grip, and then it was just me and Old Man Sea.

Kicking frantically, I tried to keep my head above the surface, but the waves were burying me, one after the other, only a second or two to come up for air before the next one hit. Far away now were thoughts of letting go – I was fighting furiously for life. Never in my seventeen years had I been so desperate. But my legs were tingling with effort, and I knew it was just a matter of time.
When the final wave broke me all I could think was, Sienna. With her name on my lips I inhaled a lungful of water and I sank…


… for all of a second before something grabbed the back of my t-shirt and hauled me upward. Coughing and spluttering, I emerged from the blue and was pulled roughly onto a board, my leg shoved over so that I straddled it. I had the fleeting thought that this board was much sleeker and more substantial looking than the one I’d just lost before my rescuer settled pretty much on top of me and started paddling toward the shore.

With him in command, we crested waves and glided down the other side with apparent ease, though I seemed unable to match the rhythm of our motion and kept taking in great gulps of brine. Over the sound of the waves and the wind and the splash of powerful arms cutting into the water to propel us along, I picked out low, irate grumblings.

‘… idiot tourists… total waste of… all we need… another bloody drama…’


Finally, we reached the shallow waters and he slid off the board and pulled me off to walk to the beach. But my legs didn’t seem willing to respond to basic instructions like ‘walk’ or even ‘stand’ and breathing between wrenching gasps had become a challenge, so he threw an arm around me and half-carried, half-walked me, dragging his board with his spare hand.

Ten steps up the beach he let me down onto the sand.

‘Head down,’ he commanded. ‘Between your legs. Cough it out.’

I did as I was told. Liquid spilled out of me with each retching cough, and the cool air I gulped in burned my throat. I fought the panic, I fought the pain, focusing instead on the shells and stones strewn around. Finally, breathing won out.

‘You okay?’

I was reluctant to look up. For starters, I knew I must look a mess – long hair plastered to my head rat-tail style, face flushed and salt-burned, eyes teary and bloodshot. And then there was the fact that this guy, whoever he was, had just saved my life, and was evidently pretty mad about having had to do so.

‘Hey, you okay?’

I lifted my head slowly. Took in broad thighs clad in black neoprene; hands reaching out, palms raised; a wide, muscular chest; a striking face – rugged, square jaw, full lips, ruddy cheeks, Grecian nose bearing a thin scar across the bridge, thick black lashes framing eyes… oh, his eyes.

I opened my mouth, tried to speak, but I was paralysed by his gaze. All at once I was home in the cottage, tucked up beneath the blue patchwork quilt of my childhood; I was watching my grandmother remove vanilla-scented fairy cakes from her powder-blue Aga; I was running through a meadow of sky-blue forget-me-nots with my sister – free, exhilarated, happy. The memories took my breath away. I felt the familiar burn in my tear ducts.

His eyebrows pulled together and he placed a hand on my trembling knee.

‘Are. You. Okay?’ he said with exaggerated care, as if he were speaking to an elderly lady having a turn at a bus stop.

I blinked, cleared my throat and managed a husky, ‘Yes. Th-thank you.’

Concern melted into exasperation.

‘What’s the deal,’ he demanded, ‘out there on your own, clearly no idea what you’re doing, children’s play surfboard… you got a death wish or something?’

I cringed. I’d known the board was short, but I’d thought it was me-sized – at five foot three, what use was some enormous board?

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You would’ve been sorry if I hadn’t seen you.’

‘I just wanted to get a feel for it. I didn’t realise it was so rough out there.’

‘Rough? That’s not rough. Not even optimum surfing weather. Piece of cake for someone who actually knows how to surf…’

He paused when he saw a tear escape my eye and roll traitorously down my cheek. Furrowed his brow, combed his fingers roughly through dark hair that was drying fast in the breeze.

‘Listen, I didn’t mean to…’

I brushed the tear away furiously. Enough with the vulnerability.


‘Right, well, thank you…’

‘Luke. My name’s Luke.’ The stress lines in his face smoothed out and his lips curved. Like this, smiling and relaxed, his scrutiny was a touch less unsettling. ‘And you are…?’

‘Thank you, Luke, for your, um, help, but I’m sure you’ve better things to do, so I’ll just be…’

Before he could protest, I launched myself to my feet. He instinctively rose with me, and my water-fogged mind registered belatedly that my rescuer was a giant of a guy – my head was at the level of his chest. As I looked up to take in his stature I staggered slightly and he reached out to right me, but I stepped backwards. I didn’t need his kindness.

He looked awkward, unsure of himself, as he towered over me. ‘Hey, will you be okay?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’ll just head home.’

‘You live close?’

I pointed vaguely west. ‘Yes, not far.’

‘Up there?’ He looked puzzled, and then interest sparked in his eyes. ‘You mean the Blake place?’


Busted. Of course being vague was pointless. My grandparents’ ramshackle cottage on the western cliff was the only building up there.

I made a noncommittal mnnnhnnn noise, but Luke was not to be deterred.


‘But that place has been empty since…’

He was looking at me now with such scrutiny that I took a further step back. I saw the cogs turning in his mind as he took in the classic green Blake eyes and then compared her – short, spiky red hair, eternally crimson lips, tall and impossibly slender – with me – petite and curvy, hair more blond than auburn reaching to the base of my spine and a pallor worthy of a vampire. His eyes widened.


‘Scarlett? Scarlett Blake!’

There was shock in his tone, and then sympathy.

Guest Post

Naming the main characters in The Ceruleans

It took my husband and me a very, very long time to come up with the names for our son and daughter. With my daughter, even once the name was set I had a giant wobble for a few days, in what has since been dubbed ‘Crazy Daisy Week’. But naming characters – now that’s something I find much easier:

Scarlett, the protagonist, was named well before I started writing. I’ve always loved the name, and I wanted her name to represent red for the passion and fire she believes she lacks – and so that she stands as a complete opposite to the blue of the Cerulean light.

Luke was an easy choice for me. I wanted a biblical name, but one you wouldn’t necessarily associate with tradition. It’s simple, it’s powerful in the sound (the mix of the labial and the hard kick of the ‘k’) and it means ‘giver of light’. Plus, I’ve never dated a Luke – essential not to name the leading man after someone you once knew!

Jude is my favourite name in the book, because the Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’ has always been one of my favourite songs. (So much so that I had to weave it into Death Wish – when Scarlett is first introduced to him she inadvertently replies, ‘Hey, Jude’, and he reaches over, touches a finger to her lips and says, ‘Please, don’t do the song. I hate it when people do the song.’) Jude, in fact, is a shortening – his birth name is Judas. Make of that what you will…

The names for these three characters came to me very quickly, and I never contemplated changing them. But I did have more of a journey naming the fourth main character, Scarlett’s sister. Sienna was the original name I gave to the character – because it’s a reddish colour, to match Scarlett, but has a mix of earthy brown in it, and because it’s a name whose sound to me suggests beauty but also, perhaps, an edge of danger – the sibilant ‘s’ sound of the snake. I’d written a few chapters of Death Wish when I decided to change Sienna’s name to Ruby, to pair with Scarlett better. But she just wasn’t a Ruby – not sweet or lovely enough. So I reverted. Then, in Book 3, I tried another switch – to Elle (long story, and to understand it you’d need to have read the whole series). But when I read back the book, it felt all wrong. She’s Sienna, and apparently there’s no changing that.

So there you have it: proof that Shakespeare’s ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet’ was just wishful thinking on Juliet’s part. No doubt had Romeo been called Roger or Reg or Humperdink, she’d have been a whole lot less enamoured…

Author bio

Once upon a time a little girl told her grandmother that when she grew up she wanted to be a writer. Or a lollipop lady. Or a fairy princess fireman. 'Write, Megan,' her grandmother advised. So that's what she did. 

Thirty-odd years later, Megan writes the kinds of books she loves to read: young-adult paranormal romance fiction. Young adult, because it's the time of life that most embodies freedom and discovery and first love. Paranormal, because she's always believed that there are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. And romance, because she's a misty-eyed dreamer who lives for those 'life is so breathtakingly beautiful' moments. 

Megan grew up in the Royal County, a hop, skip and a (very long) jump from Windsor Castle, but these days she makes her home in Robin Hood's county, Nottingham. She lives with her husband, a proud Scot who occasionally kicks back in a kilt; her son, a budding artist with the soul of a
paleontologist; and her baby daughter, a keen pan-and-spoon drummer who sings in her sleep. When she's not writing, you'll find her walking someplace green, reading by the fire, or creating carnage in the kitchen as she pursues her impossible dream: of baking something edible.

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El