Showing posts with label virtual book tour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label virtual book tour. Show all posts

Thursday, June 18, 2015

Interview: Intuition by Anna Durand




What inspired you to become an author?

I've always made up stories in my head, which I often acted out with my Barbie dolls. By the time I was a teenager, I decided to try writing down my stories, and I wrote a few novels back then. A few years later, I threw out those original books, but I never stopped making up stories. I finally got serious about writing after a car accident, when I was laid up with nothing to do. That's when I first wrote Willpower, the novel that would eventually become my first published romance.

Do you have a specific writing style?

My style is quirky, with plenty of humor. Even when my characters are pinned down by the villain with no way out, they manage to crack jokes about their situation. I also lean toward the weird and, as I've slowly realized, toward the steamy end of the spectrum. I like heroines who've had traumas in their past but remain spunky, and who aren't afraid to throw a few punches.

Do you write in different genres?

My romances have been paranormal so far, but I'm working on a hot contemporary romance too. I'm also experimenting with an urban fantasy story.

If yes which is your favorite genre to write?

Romance is my passion. I love happy endings, and I love exploring romantic relationships—but I also enjoy torturing my characters, to make them earn that happily ever after.
How did you come up with the title for your latest book?

Intuition is the second book in the Psychic Crossroads series, and the first book was called Willpower. Since the sequel focuses on the same two characters, I wanted a title that would be a natural complement to the first book's title. Willpower was about Grace finding her inner strength and rediscovering her psychic abilities, hence the title. Intuition continues her journey, but I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise by explaining what intuition has to do with it!

Do you title the book first or wait until after it’s complete?

Most of the time, the perfect title pops into my brain before I start writing. Sometimes, though, I struggle to find the right one until after the story's complete and I have a better feel for the theme. The titles for my Reborn series came to me beforehand, and the titles actually inspired the stories themselves. I had the title Reborn to Avenge well before I'd even worked out the basic plot.

What is your current “work in progress” or upcoming projects?

I'm finishing up a paranormal romance called The Mortal Falls, and I'm also working on a hot contemporary romance tentatively called Fired Up. Then there's Reborn to Conquer, the final installment in the Reborn series. I also have plans for the third book in the Psychic Crossroads series, which will feature one of the secondary characters from the first two books, Sean Vandenbrook. I have a page on my website devoted to my upcoming projects—it even includes a running tally of my progress.

Can you share a little of your current work with us?

** Excerpt from Intuition, Chapter Three **

She bit her lip. "Remember, just because Sean can heal you doesn't mean you can take crazy risks. I expect you to come home in one piece. Don't make me have to rescue you again."

Her features tensed, darkened by a reaction that baffled her. What had she said?

"I'll be careful," David said. He spun away and grasped the door knob. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

"Yes." The word burned on her tongue, but she had to say it. He needed to hear it.
He yanked the door open.

Humid air whispered over her, cloying and hot. Her socked feet slid across the wood floor, heavy and stiff, unwilling to let her lift them even while she closed the distance to David. Her hand lighted on his arm and she soaked in the heady warmth of him. Her fingers caressed the firm ripples of his muscular body, tracing the lines up his arms and onto his back. Before he left, she yearned to etch him into her memory.

Fear crunched her heart in its icy fist. The vision. Tesler. Blood slicking her hands. Pain searing her chest. His pain. His blood.

He might not come home this time. Remember.

She explored him with both hands, relishing the contrast between hard muscle and tender flesh. As the fabric of his shirt rasped across her palm, a shiver vibrated through her. Even through the barrier, his heat spread into her palms. It poured into her body, dousing the tension, snuffing out the fear.

"Go," she murmured. "I'll be okay, and Sean needs you more than I do right now."
His body tensed. His muscles undulated, igniting a tingle in her hands. It unfurled through her body in a blistering, aching wave that tightened something deep inside her. Oh God. She gnawed her lip, battling the urge to drag him into the house. Slam the door. Jam the deadbolt. Fall on her knees and plead with him to stay here, with her.
He whirled around and crushed her against him.

His kiss consumed her in a fiery torrent that scorched away reason and doubt. Her body wilted against him as his lips sparked firecracker explosions inside her. Every ounce of his passion and anguish rushed through her mind and body, a gift of sensation that stole the breath from her. The world gyrated around her. A delicious ache washed through her body. Her legs quivered, on the verge of buckling. Heat flushed her skin. Her chest heaved. Oh David.

He pushed her away and stomped out the door.

Do you have a song or playlist (book soundtrack) that you think represents this book?

Music is a huge part of my writing process. I listen to orchestral film scores while I'm writing—except when I write love scenes. Then I have a specific set of music that gets me in the right mood. And there are always certain songs that make me think of a certain character or that exemplify the tone of the book. For Intuition, these songs evoked characters or story elements for me:
·       Control (Delta Goodrem)
·       The Divide (Grace Potter & the Nocturnals)
·       Skyfall (Adele)
·       Locked Within the Crystal Ball (Blackmore's Night)
·       Awakening (Delerium)
·       Natural (Rob Thomas)
·       Demons (Brian McFadden)
·       On the Run (Natalie Imbruglia)
·       Something to Believe In (Linda Eder)



Intuition
Psychic Crossroads
Book Two
Anna Durand

Genre: paranormal romance

Publisher: Jacobsville Books

Date of Publication: 6/15/2015

ISBN: 978-1-934631-71-3 
ISBN: 978-1-934631-74-4
ASIN: B00XK88MB8

Number of pages: 270
Word Count: 106,000

Cover Artist: Lisa A. Shiel,
Five Rainbows Services

Book Description:

Book 2 in the multi-award-winning Psychic Crossroads series

Ultimate power comes at the ultimate price.

Torn apart by their haunted pasts, Grace Powell and her fiancĂ© David Ransom are struggling to reclaim their passionate bond. She yearns for a normal life — one without danger and paranormal powers — but David can't renounce his obsession with hunting down rogue scientist Karl Tesler, who abducts and tortures psychics. David endured Tesler's tactics himself, but despite what Grace believes, he's not out for revenge.

Tesler covets her unprecedented abilities and her connection to a vast and mysterious source of psychic energy known as the Golden Power. He will stop at nothing to possess her, and David will do anything — even abandon and lie to her — to protect Grace from the mad scientist.

With a psychic stalker on her trail, Grace charges into a desperate mission to uncover the truth about David's obsession and his secret past. But Tesler's agents are closing in on her, and a terrifying new enemy is rising…

As events drive Grace and David toward a battle of epic proportions, they must risk everything — their relationship, their lives, and even their souls — to defeat an enemy who wields unspeakable psychic power. Can a bond borne of true love save them, and the world?

Available at Amazon   Smashwords   iTunes   Google Play

Excerpt:

Grace Powell slammed the front door. The cool air inside the house flushed away the sultry October heat pasted to her skin. She stalked across the living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom. She fumbled for the light switch, her fingers slipping off the plastic. Dammit. No one but David Ransom detonated her temper like this. She flicked the switch, and light flooded the room. The bed stood empty, the sheets crumpled at the foot.
They'd fled the house in a near-panic, racing from their home to the Cincinnati airport with tires screeching, all because of a thirty-second phone call David received at one a.m. Another tip from a questionable source. Another threadbare clue in his quest for vengeance. Another search that yanked him away from Grace. Away from their home, their life.
The emptiness of the bed tore at her heart like tiny claws. Sharp. Hot. Fresh tears pricked her eyes, and she gnawed her lip to stave off the downpour. No crying.
She fingered her engagement ring. A tear sneaked out of her eye to roll down her cheek, painting a hot trail on her skin. No crying, dammit.
She resisted the impulse to tap into their telepathic bond and check on her fiancé. It was an invasion, one she understood all too well, but how else could she know David was all right? She had to trust their latent connection, however faint, to warn her. If he stumbled into trouble, though, what could she do from here, over a thousand miles away?
Her heart clenched. Losing her parents ripped her world asunder. She could not lose David too. Her head told her she wouldn't, yet the fear chilled her down to the essence of her being.
She trudged into the bedroom, kicking off her shoes. The lonely tear crept into her mouth, infecting her tongue with a salty tang. She tugged the cell phone out of her jeans pocket and tossed it onto the bedside table. Her muscles, stiff and sore, begged for a rest. She collapsed onto the mattress on her back. Her gaze hit the ceiling, where little acoustic balls clung to the paint, stuck there against their will. I know the feeling.
When they'd reached the security checkpoint at the airport, she'd longed to plead with David to stay. Instead, she cranked her lips into a smile, pecked a kiss on his cheek, and all but shoved him through the gate. Her stomach wrenched into knots recalling that moment, as he strolled into the main terminal. When he paused to glance back, she prayed he would change his mind. But he simply waved, then strode out of sight.
Grace rolled onto her side. Her nose bumped into David's pillow. She drew in a long breath. The spiciness of his aftershave flooded her senses, along with another scent—a subtle, masculine smell unique to David. Indescribable. Delicious. Warmth suffused her, seeping into her heart and mind, smoldering in parts of her that ached for him. She inhaled another draft of his scent, her body responding as if he were there, caressing her. He may drive her nuts at times, but…
Oh, the way he kissed. Her lips tingled from the memory of it.
A chill whispered over her skin. Every hair on her body stiffened. Her sixth sense burst out of its slumber, clanging alarm bells in her psyche. Someone is here.
She bolted upright and whipped her head left and right. Nobody there. She swung her legs off the bed and pushed up onto her feet, nabbing her .357 Magnum revolver from the bedside table. A chill trickled down her spine. Eyes watched. Invisible, ethereal, but real. She turned toward the doorway. Nothing lurked there.
Why couldn't she pin down the source of the sensation? Her paranormal radar was blanked out, as if overwhelmed by  input.
Psychic energy crackled through her. Behind you. She whirled around, thrusting the gun up, clamped in both hands, and confronted—
The lamp.
Hell. She'd let her unease blossom into paranoia. Nobody hunted her anymore. Probably. Tesler wouldn't find her here.
Her cell phone buzzed. A text message had arrived.
David. She snatched up the phone, tapping the screen until the message popped up. As she scanned the words, a shiver rattled through her.
"Come to me," it said, "I can help you. 1325 Meroz Road."
She didn't recognize the phone number the message came from, and no name was given. Oh sure, she'd rush right out to the address texted to her by an anonymous whackjob.
The phone buzzed again. Another text message: "Your lip is bleeding."
Her lip? She dabbed a finger on her mouth. It came away wet. Blood stained her skin. How did the texter know she bit her lip? Her heart pounded. Without moving, she searched the shadows for a figure, a camera, something to explain this, though she knew she'd find nothing. A thick curtain shielded the window. The person sending the messages could either see through solid objects or had another means of viewing her. Extrasensory means.
The phone tumbled from her hand, clattering on the floor.
No, she was jumping to conclusions. An intruder must've stolen into the house. With the revolver in hand, she sprinted out of the bedroom, down the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the living room. Vacant. All vacant. She rushed back to the bedroom and dug through the closet, scoured the dresser, even dropped onto her belly to investigate the space under the bed. No cameras. No stealthy intruders. Not a damn thing. Which left her with one unthinkable possibility.
Maybe she should call the police.
What for? They couldn't help her with this kind of problem.
"You belong with me."
She jumped. Her head smacked into the bed frame. She clutched the gun tighter. Where had the voice come from?
No, no, no, not again. Nausea swelled in her stomach, bile rising high in her throat. The voice did not originate in this room, or from outside. The source was much, much closer. Someone rammed the words into her mind.
A psychic intruder just hacked her brain.



About the Author:

Anna Durand is a multi-award-winning writer, a freelance librarian, and an audiobook addict. She specializes in sexy romances, both paranormal and contemporary, featuring spunky heroines and hunky heroes. In her previous life as a librarian, she haunted the stacks of public libraries but never met any hot vampires hunting for magical books.







Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Cobbogoth Excerpt and Giveaway




Memory Lapse


Standing before me was a woman with tangled hip-length hair—hair the color of blood. Her eyes shone like amethysts. She reminded me of a painting Uncle Jack made for me as a child—the Opalian Eye from the Cobbogothian legends, their prophetess. As her eyes shone down upon me, I remembered her name—Totherma. She watched me carefully. Then, lifting her arm, she pointed to my right. I looked and saw a woman covering her face and crying.
Turning back to Totherma, I watched her enter through a doorway, walk down a corridor, and stop in front of another doorway. I went to follow, but something made me look down. My hands were covered in blood, and the floor sparkled with shards of glass. I smelled something pungent and musty, something burning.
Looking up, I saw the woman pointing into the doorway where she stood. I hurried to meet her when my path was suddenly blocked by people. They wore white.
Angels? I wondered.
They huddled around something, and I knew that whatever it was had caused that salty, burning smell.
I struggled to get by them, trying to see what she wanted me to see. I stood as tall as I could reach, but it wasn’t enough. I looked for Totherma until our eyes met. Understanding, she lifted her arm, and with the motion of her hand, I rose up off the ground. I could see over the group of people into the center of the circle . . .
What I saw made me scream.

“Honey! Honey are you alright?” I was being shaken awake. Panting and sweating I turned toward the dim light, blinking my eyes several times.
In and out, Nor. In and out. I tried to shake the last image from my mind.
As my eyes focused, a pretty woman with blue-black hair and honey-colored eyes began to materialize.
Completely disoriented, I became aware that I was not on solid ground. “Who . . . where . . . where am I?” I blurted out, as I pushed my back against what appeared to be a leather seat.
“You’re on a bus heading toward Boston. Ring a bell?” she smiled.
“Uh, no actually.”
“Give yourself a minute to wake up. Looks like you’ve been through some kind of an adventure recently,” she soothed as she brushed wet hair back from my face.
I stiffened under her touch.
With an understanding look, she dropped her hand. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . .” she reached up and touched my hair again. This time, however, she came back with a handful of debris. “You’ve got something in your hair.”
          I patted my head as well. Rather than sleek, smooth hair pulled into a tight braid, like I was used to, everything felt frizzy and matted. “What the—?”
“Let’s see, I’m sure I’ve got a mirror in here somewhere.” The woman dug around in a deep purse, then handed me a palm-sized compact.
As I took it, something caught my eye; a charm attached to a thin leather bracelet dangled from my wrist. I held it up in front of me and fingered the charm. It was a small, circular stone, white and speckled black—merlinite. “Where did this come from?” I mumbled.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that one. Hairbrush?” the woman offered.
“Yeah, thanks,” I took the brush. “It’s just, I recognize this stone from my geology final this morning, but I have literally no idea where it came from.”
“I’m sure it will come to you. Don’t worry,” she tried to look reassuring.
Finally, I opened the compact to check out my hair.
“What—what happened to me?” My hair was a ratted cloud, strewn with dead leaves and twigs. There was dirt smudged across my left cheek and my eyes were smeared with mascara, revealing several of the long, white-blonde lashes I worked so hard to hide.
“Like I said, you look like you’ve had an adventure recently.” The woman peeked into the mirror beside me. 
“Uh . . . no, I look like I spent the night in the woods!”
“Mmmm . . . true. Let me help you. What’s your name?”
“Norah Lukens,” I said, frantically dragging my fingers through my hair and loosening the rest of my braid. “There is no way I’m letting James see me like this.” 
“Calm down, honey. Look, I’ve got everything you need right here.” Again, the woman was rummaging through her purse.
I balanced the compact mirror on my knees and began working on my hair again. I’d just gotten most of the knots out, when I scooped it back into a messy ponytail and caught sight of a long, thin cut just above my collar bone. Strands of my hair were stained burgundy and caked to my neck where the blood had dried.
“Oh my gosh!” Leaning into the mirror, I scoured my brain for how this could’ve happened. For some reason, I was drawing a complete blank on anything after talking with Professor Anderton at my geology final.
A complete blank. That was a first.
“Here we go. Face toilettes and make up—oh dear! What happened to your neck!” the woman cried.
“I—I honestly don’t know.”
“Belmont, Belmont Center Station next.” The bus driver’s voice sliced through our conversation, as we pulled up the street toward my home town.
“Oh no,” I groaned, “this is my stop.” As the familiar buildings passed, my heart jumped into my throat. I glanced out the window looking for any sign of James.
“It’s alright, don’t worry.” The woman patted my arm. “Hold still, and I’ll have you looking glamorous in no time.”
I gave her a doubtful look, but realizing she was my best chance, I collapsed into the seat back. “I doubt the word ‘glamorous’ will ever be used to describe me. I’ve been called ‘ghost girl’ and ‘powder-face,' but never glamorous. Though I do appreciate your help, just the same.”
“What? I think you’re a beautiful girl!” She finished smoothing my hair. “Seriously, women the world over would kill for your porcelain skin, your natural platinum hair, and those eyes! I don’t think I’ve ever seen that color of green before. It’s like peridot, or kiwis.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Gee . . . thanks.”
“Whoever this James guy is, he must be pretty important, huh?”



Cobbogoth 
 By Hannah L Clark 
Genre: YA Fantasy romance 

 Book Blurb: 

To seventeen-year-old Norah Lukens, the Cobbogothians were just a myth. But after her archeologist uncle's brutal murder, and being asked to translate one of his old research journals for evidence, she begins a journey to discover the truth for herself. 

Chasing the myth her uncle was obsessed with, Norah learns that his murder was a cover up for something far more sinister. If she hopes to save others from suffering the same fate he did--including the peculiarly magnetic James Riley--she must head to Iceland in order to find out the truth once and for all. If she succeeds, she'll gain the one thing she's always longed for. But if she fails, not even the gods can help her. 

Book site: www.cobbogoth.com 

Cobbogoth Facebook Page: 



About the Author: 

Hannah L. Clark was raised in the very small town of Oak City, UT with seven sisters and one brother. She spent most of her childhood daydreaming, writing stories, building forts, chasing after boys, and working really hard to earn money. (With six older sisters, her parents were really poor by the time she came along.) 

In spite of great learning difficulty brought on by dyslexia, Hannah graduated from high school with honors and was awarded a scholarship in English to Utah Valley University. In 2006 she graduated from UVU with her Bachelor’s degree in English Literature and immediately began two of her most exciting adventures yet: Motherhood and writing her first novel. 

Five and a half years later, Hannah completed Cobbogoth, a Young Adult Fantasy-Adventure novel, and book one in a seven book series.    

She currently lives in Pleasant Grove, Utah with her husband Michael, and their son. Hannah actively seeks to inspire kids and adults by speaking about her experiences of becoming an author in spite of dyslexia. 

Hannah still daydreams, writes stories, builds forts, chases after her boys, and works really hard to earn money. 

Favorite Quote: "Whatever you think you can or can't do, you're right." -Henry Ford 

Visit her online:





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Friday, May 04, 2012

THE AFFAIR OF THE PORCELAIN DOG Excerpt


THE AFFAIR OF THE PORCELAIN DOG

CHAPTER ONE
Wednesday, July 3, 1889

Wednesday’s letter arrived in the evening post—a brief but pointed
threat scrawled across ordinary white stationery in a startling lavender
ink. But Goddard hadn’t filed this one neatly behind the gilded cigarette
box on the mantel with its predecessors. Instead, he had cast it down
like a gauntlet onto the table between our twin armchairs. Hours later it
remained like an uninvited guest.

“‘I know what you are.’” Goddard picked it up and read aloud.

“‘Soon, the police will know as well. Unless.’”

“Unless what?” I asked.

Not that it mattered. Cain Goddard, a.k.a. the Duke of Dorset
Street, did not negotiate with blackmailers. At that moment, his entire
network of spies, cracksmen, bludgers, urchins and whores was
scouring London in search of the person who dared threaten a criminal
of his stature. When they found him, his skin wouldn’t be worth a
farthing. But what if they didn’t find him? I imagined being led away
in shackles, never again to put my feet up on the mahogany desk before
the window, run my fingers over the leather-bound volumes lining the
walls, or drape myself across the olive-colored velvet divan where
Goddard had taken my hand and asked me to stay. At that time, I swore
I would never return to Whitechapel. But even Whitechapel would be
preferable to prison—and prison it would surely be, should the police
learn the nature of Goddard’s and my domestic arrangement.


The grandfather clock in the vestibule struck eleven. Goddard
fingered his mustache thoughtfully, then shrugged.

“To convict us of criminal sodomy, dear boy,” he said, patting my
cheek on his way to the drink cart, “would require evidence that simply
does not exist. Whisky?”

I nodded.

I relaxed as the liquor burned its way toward my stomach. We’d
been discreet. Only Goddard’s manservant had any inkling I was
anything but a confidential secretary. Though the man had never liked
me, Goddard paid too well for him to go telling tales.

“To convict me, on the other hand,” he continued.

“What?”

How he could laugh when the cold fingers of panic were
reaching for my throat was anyone’s guess. Thus far, no one outside of
Goddard’s tight coterie connected Dr. Cain Goddard, the self-effacing
night lecturer at King’s College, with the hated, feared Duke of Dorset
Street. But once the police had him for buggery, it would all come out.
Even if I did manage to slip away into the night, I’d be back on the
streets—two years older, broke, and far too spoilt to go back to selling
my arse.

“Ah, the mistakes of youth,” Goddard said. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t
come to this, but now that it has, how fortunate I am to have a nimblefingered
young protĂ©gĂ© to set things right.”

He glanced at me over the cut crystal glasses.

“You can’t mean me,” I said.

“Come, now. I need you, Ira. Not to warm my bed this time or run
messages on the wrong side of town. I need you to retrieve something
for me, something I’d feared lost, but which has now been found. My
freedom, and, I daresay yours, depends on it. Can I depend on you?”
I looked around our beloved morning room. The armchairs in front
of the fireplace, the rack of expensive, unused rifles over the doorway,
the dearth of gewgaws and knick-knacks with which most people felt
the need to litter their living spaces—after two years ensconced in
this unspeakable luxury, how could I go back to doorways and dosshouses?
“I—I suppose,” I stammered.


“Excellent. My carriage is waiting outside. The driver will take you
to a pawnshop on Dorset Street, where you will find a black porcelain
hound of unusual repugnancy. Bring it back, and our blackmailer won’t
have a wooden leg to stand on.”

“That’s all?”

I laughed. A simple burglary in my home territory. With my talent
for locks, it would be easy. Goddard smiled. It was a rare expression, but
it transformed his purposefully bland face into something beautiful.

“Do this, and you’ll have roast beef and Islay malt for breakfast,
lunch, and dinner for the rest of your days, and all the books of Greek
art your delicate arms can carry.”

The tightening in my chest eased. It’s sad how easily I can be
convinced. But being a mere two years off the streets, the simple
promise of even these small luxuries was enough to fortify me for the
task.

“But who’s sending the letters?” I called as he stepped out into the
vestibule to fetch my coat. “What does he want?”

What he came back with was not my coat, but he draped it around
my shoulders anyway.

“Never mind that, dear boy,” he said, buttoning the ratty tweed
across my chest. “Just get the dog.”

“In this?”

In addition to its shabby condition, the so-called coat was much
too large and stank of another man’s tobacco. Moreover, it was July and
anything heavier than linen was going to be hotter than hell. Goddard
liked to dress me up sometimes, but never in secondhand rubbish ten
years out of fashion.

And never in tweed.

Ignoring me, Goddard tucked his Trinity scarf beneath the collar
and the lavender letter into my trouser pocket with a satisfied nod.

“The pockets are deep and have more give than a whore’s
bedsprings. Besides,” he said with a smirk, “it’ll make you look like
Andrew St. Andrews.”

“St. Andrews!” I sputtered.

That meddling popinjay of a detective had never rolled up his
sleeves to pick a lock, or hiked up his coat-hems to keep from tripping
across a doorstep. Being the third son of an earl, he’d never had the need
to burgle. And if he were to do it for kicks, he’d no doubt commission
a special garment for the adventure.

The question at the front of my mind, though, was why Goddard
would compare me at all to someone he so loathed. The question was
answered by Goddard’s teasing chuckle.

“St. Andrews, indeed,” I grumbled.

Goddard patted my arse, slipping my silver flask into the pocket
of the coat. There was a faint tinkle as the flask hit bottom. He’d even
remembered my picklocks.

“Remember,” he said. “A porcelain dog, half as long as your
forearm, black as sin and twice as ugly. Now go.”

With a sniff, I swept the horrible thing around me. Then, feeling a
bit ashamed—it was an easy job, after all, and most of the time, Goddard
didn’t ask much of me—I pecked him on the cheek. When the carriage
pulled away from the big house on York Street with me inside, Goddard
was still standing in the doorway, running his fingers thoughtfully over
his jaw, a little smile pulling at the edges of his lips.

What self-respecting housebreaker sets off wearing a Trinity scarf,
you might ask? Blame Goddard’s sentimental streak. He had taught at
Cambridge once, and though he refused to talk about the experience
itself or the circumstances of his dismissal, the scarf meant a great deal
to him. You might also wonder what sort of imbecile takes a shiny
private hansom to the building he intends to burgle. A necessity, I’m
afraid, unless he intends to walk. The pawnshop stood nearly five miles
away in Miller’s Court, and no cabbie in his right mind ventured down
that wicked quarter mile after dark. The streets were deserted, and the
weather was clear. Not half an hour later, we had left the red brick
houses and well-tended gardens of York Street behind, and the rubbishstrewn
East End closed around us in a cocoon of filth and desperation.

I instructed the driver to let me out in front of the Blue Coat Boy
pub, two blocks removed from my destination. An excited throng had
gathered around the entrance—another fight, no doubt—and I was able
to pass by unnoticed. Closer to the shop, jolly old Do-As-You-Please
Street, possibly the most lawless quarter mile in London, was quiet.
I strode up to the front door as if I owned the place—the only way
to break into a building in plain sight—slipping my picklocks into
my hand. Seconds later, I nudged the door shut behind me. Silence
descended, and I relaxed, knowing I’d be able to go about my work in
peace.

The word “dollyshop” might conjure images of china-faced pretties
with real hair for a little girl to comb, and blue eyes that open and close.
This shop belonged to a grubby matron who doled out ha’penny loans
against objects that were hardly worth that. Crates of rust-scabbed metal
were stacked as tall as a man along the back wall. The other walls were
lined with ill-fitted shelves, bowing under haphazard loads of mildewencrusted
boots, stiff and stained rags, salt-encrusted horse collars, and
what appeared to be bones. In the center of the room, piles of rubbish
sat where they’d been dropped, layers of dust testifying to how long
they’d been there. An attempt had been made to organize some of it
into bins, but the bins were already overflowing with towers of detritus
threatening to topple at the slightest breath. The dog could have been
anywhere in that mess.




The Affair of the Porcelain Dog

Author: Jess Faraday

Pages: 240
Pub Date: June 2011
ISBN 10: 1-60282-230-1
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-230-6

Description

London 1889.

For Ira Adler, former rent-boy and present plaything of crime lord Cain Goddard, stealing back the statue from Goddard's blackmailer should have been a doddle. But inside the statue is evidence that could put Goddard away for a long time under the sodomy laws, and everyone's after it, including Ira's bitter ex, Dr. Timothy Lazarus. No sooner does Ira have the porcelain dog in his hot little hands, than he loses it to a nimble-fingered prostitute.

As Ira’s search for the dog drags him back to the mean East End streets where he grew up, he discovers secrets about his own past, and about Goddard's present business dealings, which make him question everything he thought he knew. An old friend turns up dead, and an old enemy proves himself a friend. Goddard is pressing Ira for a commitment, but every new discovery casts doubt on whether Ira can, in good conscience, remain with him.

In the end, Ira must choose between his hard-won life of luxury and standing against a grievous wrong.

The Affair of the Porcelain Dog has been short-listed for a Lambda Award in the category of "Gay Mystery."
http://www.lambdaliterary.org/llf-news/24th-annual-lambda-literary-awards/

Women of The Dark Streets


Contains
The Trickster Codex by Jess Faraday

Author: various authors
Edited by Radclyffe and Stacia Seaman
Pages: 336
Pub Date: March 2012
ISBN 13: 9781602826519
Genre: lesbian paranormal anthology

Description

Enter a midnight world of the supernatural—a world of vampires, werewolves, witches, ghosts, and demons. A seductive world limited only by your imagination, full of dark fantasies, hidden desires, and sexy women who rule the night. Edited by award-winning editors Radclyffe and Stacia Seaman, Women of the Dark Streets presents all new tales of the paranormal from your favorite Bold Strokes authors.




About the Author:


Jess Faraday is the author of one novel, three book translations, a handful of short stories, and numerous nonfiction articles.

She is a graduate of the University of Arizona (B.A.) and UCLA (M.A.). Since then, she has earned her daily bread in a number of questionable ways, including translation, lexicography, copyediting, teaching high school Russian, and hawking shoes to the overprivileged offspring of Los Angeles-area B-listers.

She enjoys martial arts, the outdoors, strong coffee and a robust Pinot Noir.

Website: http://www.jessfaraday.com

BSB Author Page

Twitter:@jessfaraday

Facebook: Jess Faraday

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Virtual Book Tour for An Unexpected Evening


I figured since I now have a Virtual Book Tour Business- Bewitching Book tours- that I ought to schedule my own tour just to see how things work out.

If you'd like to see who else is touring through Bewitching Book Tours or you'd like to learn more about the new business venture and possibly become a host or an author on tour visit http://www.bewitchingbooktours.blogspot.com/

I am still scheduling tour stops for my short erotic paranormal ebook-

The tour will run throughout February.

I have a review pdf available for those who wish to review it.

I will be able to giveaway ebooks from my backlist as well as some goodies at some stops along the tour.

I am available for guest blogs and interviews.
If you'd like to host a stop email me.

Here's the book info:

Samuel is a centuries-old vampire who prefers to be a recluse. He is always afraid of losing control and becoming the monster he once was. Falling in love with a young witch has pushed his boundaries and pulled him out of his comfort zone.

Katerina always encourages Samuel to be more open, to let loose, and to really "live" instead of only existing in the shadows.

One night, he finally grants her wish . . . in ways she never imagined.


Scheduled Tour Stops


February 1 Guest blog at Erotica for All

February 2 Guest Post and Giveaway at Leilani Loves Books


February 7 Interview at Words of Wisdom from the Scarf Princess http://wowfromthescarfprincess.blogspot.com/

February 16 review at My Overstuffed Bookshelf
http://myoverstuffedbookshelf.blogspot.com/

February 17 Interview at Full Frontal Fantasy
http://www.fullfrontalfantasy.com/

February 17 Guest blog and Giveaway
http://bookofsecretsblog.com/

February 18 Guest Post and Giveaway at Bitten by Paranormal Romance http://www.bittenbyparanormalromance.com/

February 19 Guest Blog at The Enchanted Book
http://theenchantedbook.blogspot.com/

February 22 Interview at Urban Girl Reader
http://www.urbangirlreader.com/

February 28 Interview at My Eclectic Bookshelf
http://www.myeclecticbookshelf.blogspot.com/



Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Eternal Desire Release Day



Join me at the Night Owl Romance Blog for a chance to win a Fang-tastic Books t-shirt and free download of my new release Eternal Desire

http://nightowlromanceblog.blogspot.com/2009/10/neither-here-nor-there-by-roxanne.html

This kicks off a virtual book tour that will continue through the end of the month.

See the complete tour schedule here, join me often because there are lots of giveaways:

http://fang-tasticbooks.blogspot.com/2009/10/monday-musings-october-5th-2009.html


Other quick news:


I have some stories that will be part of The Better Sex Fiction contest in November


And the new issue of Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine is available which contains an interview with moi.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Eternal Desire Virtual Book Tour Schedule

Ocotber 7th Guest Blog and Giveaway at Night Owl Romance Blog Readers will have a chance to win a Fang-tastic Books t-shirt and a download of Eternal Desire




Ocotber 8th Guest Blog at Mary Eason's Blog http://www.maryeason.blogspot.com/




October 9th Guest Blog http://stormyglenn.blogspot.com/


October 12 Review of Eternal Desire will be up at Authors by Authors and an interview with me will be posted on the 14th there as well



October 13 Eternal Desire promo day at VampChix, also offering a giveaway


October 13 Guest blog at Ashley Madden's Bibliophiles ‘R’ Us http://www.nightdweller20.wordpress.com/




October 14 and 15 Book Party, Signed Print Giveaway and Interview at Nights of Passion http://www.nightsofpassion.wordpress.com/



October 15 Guest Blog at http://www.vampirebooks.blogspot.com/


October 16 Guest Blog at http://www.morbid-romantic.net/


October 19 Guest Blog and Giveaway at Sci Fi Guy. I'll be giving away a free pdf download of Eternal Desire along with a Fang-tastic Books desk set-mousepad, notepad and pen


October 21 Guest Blog at http://www.valeriejpatterson.wordpress.com/


October 22 Interview with me at Shapeshifter Seductions


October 23 Interview with me at Vampire Phile


October 26 Week long Eternal Desire/Roxanne Rhoads event at The Write at Home Mom


October 26 Guest Blog at http://www.fantasygirlreviews.blogspot.com/

October 27 Interview at http://www.ellzreadz.blogspot.com/


October 29 Guest Blog at http://www.razloversbookblog.blogspot.com/


October 30 Free Book Friday Final Stop at Fang-tastic Books giving away a Fang-tastic Books tote bag full of fanged goodies including a Blood Ties Season One DVD and Blood Books, Book One by Tanya Huff, a copy of The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions, which contains two of my “confessions”, and a signed print copy of Eternal Desire along with bookmarks and some other author goodies.