A FAR GONE NIGHT: Guest Post by Author John Carenen

A FAR GONE NIGHT

Guest Post by John Carenen

"Stephen King writes that he starts his novels with the question, "What if?" and goes from there. What if some guy wakes up in his Montana village and everyone is dead - except him? What if a little girl gets lost in the Maine woods and is being tracked by something dangerous? What if a politician were honest? (I just made that one up.) Mostly.

So for my debut novel, Signs of Struggle, I ventured into that general area and asked myself the question, "What is the absolutely worst thing that could happen to me?" It didn't take long to come up with the answer. The answer was that the absolutely worst thing that could happen to me would be to lose my wife and daughters. I took that scenario and then asked myself what would I do if that happened? And that answer came pretty quickly, too. I would question my faith, I would drink a lot, and I would have a lot of anger seeking an outlet. Also, I would probably relocate from Georgia and move back to Iowa, where I am from. I would take my Bulldog with me in my pickup truck after I had sold everything, and just retreat into familiar territory, similar to Nick Adams in the short stories by Hemingway. End of story.

But that wouldn't be all that interesting once I had moved back. So I began to embroider the situation. What if, while driving therapeutically in the lovely Iowa countryside, my protagonist comes upon a beautiful, bloody woman running down a country lane, screaming for help? And thus the story was on. The rest of the story began to take shape. There were secondary, quirky characters:  Lunatic Mooning, Ojibwe owner of The Grain o' Truth Bar & Grill; Bunza Steele, barmaid/wrestler wannabe; Sheriff Harmon Payne, irritable keeper of the peace; and others. I began to like my characters, who took on surprising twists of their own, and I began to write faster and faster to see what Thomas O'Shea, my protagonist, would do next, given his penchant for drinking and violence.

The story ended after 296 pages and that was that. But it wasn't. My publisher and several readers wanted to know more about Thomas. More about his background, more about his love life, more about Lunatic and Bunza and others. I meant Signs of Struggle to be a one and done novel, but that was not going to happen. So I have followed up with the sequel, A Far Gone Night where Thomas runs into more nefarious charactes and grim situations, with new characters emerging here and there, where more of his past is revealed, where more of his future is still uncertain.

Now I'm into the third Thomas O'Shea mystery, without even a working title, and I hope to have it finished in time for release next autumn. I'm halfway in, and I don't know for sure how it's going to turn out. So what else is new?"

   

About the book

A FAR GONE NIGHT

Author: John Carenen

Publication Date: September 9, 2014

Neverland Publishing

Formats: eBook, Paperback

Genre: Mystery

Series: A Thomas O’Shea Mystery (Book Two)

READ AN EXCERPT.

 

Suffering from insomnia, wise-cracking tough guy Thomas O’Shea goes for a late-night stroll through the peaceful streets of Rockbluff, Iowa, and finds himself pausing downtown on the bridge that spans the Whitetail River. When he glances downstream, something catches his eye…something that looks like a body. He scrambles down to the riverbank, pulling the body of a young girl from the water. The girl is naked, with two bullet holes in the back of her head. Ever suspicious of law enforcement, O’Shea chooses not mention the bullet holes when Deputy Stephen Doltch, on routine patrol, discovers him at the river’s edge. When the coroner’s report lists the cause of death as “drowning,” Thomas goes into action.

Confronting the coroner, he is met with hostility. But then the coroner and his wife disappear, along with the body of the dead girl. Once again, Thomas gears up to find answers that will reveal who put the bullets in the girl’s head, why she was killed, and her identity, which may hit a little too close to home.

Teaming up with his friend Lunatic Mooning and Clancy Dominguez, an old buddy from his Navy SEAL days, Thomas and the other two men join together to bring justice to the dead girl, a quest that takes them to the Chalaka Reservation in Minnesota, seedy businesses adjacent to the Chalaka Casino, and straight into the world of organized crime.

A fast-paced story, laugh-out-loud moments and familiar, quirky characters from Carenen’s debut novel, Signs of Struggle, contribute once again to the complex world of Thomas O’Shea. Enter…if you dare.

 

 

About the Author

John Carenen, a native of Clinton, Iowa, graduated with an M.F.A. in Fiction Writing from the prestigious University of Iowa Writers Workshop and has been writing ever since. His work has appeared in numerous popular and literary magazines, and he has been a featured columnist in newspapers in North and South Carolina. A novel, Son-up, Son-down was published by the National Institute of Mental Health.

His debut Thomas O’Shea mystery novel, Signs of Struggle, was published in October of 2012. A Far Gone Night, the long- anticipated sequel, continues the exploits of the enigmatic protagonist and the quirky characters of Rockbluff, Iowa.

John is currently an English professor at Newberry College in Newberry, South Carolina. He and his wife live in their cozy cottage down a quiet lane in northern Greenville, South Carolina. He is a big fan of the Iowa Hawkeyes and Boston Red Sox.

For more information please visit John Carenen’s blog. You can also connect with him on Facebook and Goodreads.

 

 

A Far Gone Night Blog Tour Schedule

Tuesday, November 3

Spotlight & Giveaway at Peeking Between the Pages

Friday, November 7

Spotlight at Layered Pages

Monday, November 10

Review at The Discerning Reader

Wednesday, November 12

Spotlight at CelticLady’s Reviews

Friday, November 14

Guest Post at Mina’s Bookshelf

Wednesday, November 19

Spotlight at The Bibliophilic Book Blog

Thursday, November 20

Review at Book Nerd

Tuesday, November 25

Review at Griperang’s Bookmarks

Wednesday, November 26

Interview at Boom Baby Reviews

Thursday, November 27

Spotlight at Girl Lost in a Book

Friday, November 28

Review at A Book Geek

Review at With Her Nose Stuck in a Book

 

 

  

GLOBAL PREDATOR by Jack MacLean: Excerpt & Giveaway US

 

GLOBAL PREDATOR

By Jack MacLean

Legend Publishing

September 19, 2014; $10.38 paperback; $2.51 Kindle

ISBN- 978-1783014859

AISN: B00L5M4L0C

 

NEW POLITICAL-THRILLER FROM THE

PRIZE-WINNING FOREIGN NEWS CORRESPONDENT

High above the mountains surrounding the beautiful Swat Valley in Pakistan a Global Predator drone circles, waiting to unleash its Hellfire missiles. In GLOBAL PREDATOR by Jack MacLean (Legend Publishing; $10.38 paperback; $2.51 Kindle), the National Security Agency pursues the trail of Osama Bin Laden’s deputy Ayman al-Zawahiri. When a recording reveals new clues about al-Zawahiri’s plans, the NSA’s hunt for the international criminal escalates. A special intelligence team, led by Faiza Azhad an agent on a personal vendetta, plots to catch him at a meeting of high-ranking al Qaeda leaders.    

Meanwhile, the local Taliban have been stepping up their attacks on anyone who dares to educate women. The situation is growing desperate; foreign aid organizations have closed their doors to the Pakistanis. All except English aid worker Sally Hodges. Despite the constant threat of the Taliban, Sally remains in Pakistan determined to build schools to help young women achieve an education. All she lacks is capital, which is why she’s agreed to a gift from her old flame Wilkins—a man hiding his own dark reason for being in Pakistan. When Sally is taken hostage at her school, Wilkins has an opportunity to redeem himself—if only he can escape from his own Taliban captors.

As Faiza continues to hunt al-Zawahiri, the clock is counting down to the terrorist rocket attack. Can the Taliban be stopped? GLOBAL PREDATOR is an adrenaline-fueled race through the mountains of Pakistan to a shattering conclusion.

JACK MACLEAN is the pen name of a prize-winning former foreign correspondent for a British newspaper with firsthand experience of Asia. He is the author of eight non-fiction works.

 

 

GIVEAWAY (US only)

The publicist is graciously offering one copy of Global Predator to one lucky follower of this blog. Please, leave a comment in the section below, including your email address. The contest is open to US residents only. Good luck!

***

 

 

Excerpt from

GLOBAL PREDATOR

By Jack MacLean

A convoy of three dented and mud-spattered SUVs roared up the forest track and jerked to a halt at a clearing overlooking the valley they had just left. A thickset, clumsy man in his late fifties climbed out of the middle vehicle breathing heavily. He peered through the thick pebble glasses perched on a large bulbous nose, scouring the track along which they had just travelled. He grunted in approval. No one was following. Meanwhile, the three vehicles edged forward until they were hidden from sight under a clump of pine trees. One of the drivers emerged with a pair of large army binoculars and handed them deferentially to the older man. He held them in front of his glasses before awkwardly removing them and then adjusted both lenses of the binoculars. First, he raised them to search the clear blue skies above and then lowered the binoculars to examine a village set in the valley below among a patchwork of irrigated fields. Families were out in the fields scything the autumn wheat harvest and bundling the stalks ready for threshing. Then he turned the binoculars to examine a large compound dominated by a domed white mosque. It lay a few miles to the west of the village and was surrounded by a high wall which formed a rough rectangle. At the corners were small guard platforms.

It was still mid-morning and a stiff breeze was pushing a bank of clouds from the west. The group of watchers waited in expectant silence. After twenty minutes, the wind brought the wailing sound of a call to prayers. Then almost a minute later, they heard a faint sound of a small motor engine and the watchers tilted their heads upwards, searching the sky for the source of the sound. There was nothing visible. Then, as the call to prayers ended, they saw streaks from two small silver missiles targeting the compound. Seconds later, the sound of two blasts echoed across the valley. The explosions created a cloud of dust and debris as the mud brick buildings shattered. The cloud swiftly rose into the air and then the debris fell as quickly. The mosque seemed to have survived intact. Then they could hear a new sound, a steady whop-whop from helicopters. A group of six Cobra attack helicopters appeared and within minutes they could hear the intermittent sound of the machine-gun fire.

‘Pakistani soldiers,’ whispered one of the men watching. The older man nodded.

‘Allah has shown his mercy to you. Blessed is the name of the Prophet,’ the younger man said sounding excited. ‘They were coming for you but they failed again.’

Al-Zawahiri shook his head slowly. He did not share his followers’ enthusiasm. Instead he felt a familiar intense anger begin to burn inside. The Americans had somehow been tracking him and only a messenger carrying an urgent warning to flee had saved them. He had no known whether to trust the Pakistani or not. The Pakistanis had helped him escape their own attack but next time he might not escape in time. Another hour and the messenger would have arrived too late.

From the compound there was a hesitant and sporadic return of fire. Three of the helicopters lying low over the fields began strafing the walls of the compound. In the fields the farmers and their families stood and stared. A few figures began running back to their houses, while out of the compound, youths dressed in white robes and skull caps ran out and fled towards the village. In the seminary, another scattered group of men armed with a collection of guns and old rifles began firing wildly.

Within minutes, soldiers in dark olive and khaki combat gear were climbing down ladders and dropped from the three helicopters as they hovered above the fields outside the seminary. Soon the troops began running towards the mosque. A pick-up truck and a minibus which tore out of the gates on to the road leading to the village were strafed by gunfire from other helicopters hovering just above the compound. Men piled out of the jeep moments before it exploded. The watchers could see more soldiers rappelling down from the helicopters into the compound. Three minutes later, the rhythmic bursts of gunfire suddenly stopped. The helicopter’s wings stopped rotating. It seemed that resistance within the compound had ceased.

Al-Zawahiri slowly lifted the binoculars away from his eyes. Tears blinded his eyes and he let them trickle into his thick white beard. He murmured some instructions to the driver beside him. He went to the SUV hidden under the trees and returned carrying carpets which he laid down. The other members of the convoy joined the older man and the driver in kneeling down on the carpets prostrating themselves towards Mecca. The elderly Egyptian then sat up and began addressing the group. They listened in reverential silence awaiting his guidance. He spoke clearly and slowly. First he offered thanks for their deliverance and then he spoke of revenge.

‘If we get martyrdom, so we achieve that we were looking for, for the flag of Jihad will never fall down until the Day of Judgment as we were informed by the prophet of Allah (peach and blessings be upon him). Oh brothers, if we die, we meet with our beloved ones, because the gardens of my Lord are prepared for us, and its birds flap their wings around us. So they await us in the eternal residence. Verily, Allah has chosen us for his call. Brothers, go ahead and don’t look back, your path has been covered in blood. By the divine mercy of Allah, I call on the prophet thrice blessed be his name, to recognize the sacrifice of these martyrs. They are enjoying their reward in paradise but we here who have been saved must now prepare their revenge. By this hand, I swear that Satan’s attack against a school, a place of holy learning will be avenged. These invaders will regret what they have done and will curse themselves for the use of these drones. We will turn them against our enemies and see them weep over the destruction wrought on the children they claim to be protecting. Before the next Eid we will see them weep tears of blood at their folly. We will find a school and turn the sword of our enemies against their own bodies.’ Then he stopped and raised his hand and brought it down in a savage chop.

Excerpted from the book GLOBAL PREDATOR by Jack MacLean.  Copyright © 2014 by Jack MacLean.  Reprinted with permission of Legend Publishing.  All rights reserved.

LAST WORDS, A Coleridge Taylor Mystery by Rich Zahradnik: Excerpt

 

 

LAST WORDS

By Rich Zahradnik

A CHILLING RETRO-MYSTERY BROUGHT TO YOU

BY A STUNNING NEW VOICE  

In March of 1975, as New York City hurtles toward bankruptcy and the Bronx burns, newsman Coleridge Taylor roams police precincts and ERs. In LAST WORDS by Rich Zahradnik (Camel Press, $12.49 paperback; $4.95 Kindle), Taylor searches for the story that will deliver him from obits, his place of exile at the Messenger-Telegram. Ever since he was demoted from the police beat for inventing sources, the 34-year-old has been a lost soul. A break comes at Bellevue, where Taylor views the body of a homeless teen picked up in the Meatpacking District. Taylor smells a rat: the dead boy looks too clean and he’s wearing a distinctive Army field jacket. A little digging reveals that the jacket belonged to a hobo named Mark Voichek and that the teen was a spoiled society kid up to no good, the son of a city official. Taylor’s efforts to learn Voichek’s secret put him on the hit list of three goons who are willing to kill any number of street people to cover tracks that just might lead to City Hall. Taylor has only one ally in the newsroom, young and lovely reporter Laura Wheeler. Time is not on his side. If he doesn’t wrap this story up soon, he’ll be back on the obits page—as a headline, not a byline, in Rich Zahradnik’s LAST WORDS.

 

This mystery novel features a groovy soundtrack with classic 70s music. Check it out in the link below!

https://play.spotify.com/user/lastwords-playlist/playlist/0M23FUcciaAuJVTDDMaFmv

Praise for Rich Zahradnik

“Last Words sizzles like the fuse on a powder keg. Hero reporter Coleridge Taylor is gritty and unstoppable as he plumbs the mean streets of New York City during its darkest days.”

– Paul D’Ambrosio, author of Easy Squeezy, winner of the Selden Ring Award and a Pulitzer Prize gold medal finalist

“Rich Zahradnik is a superb craftsman…Rich in intrigue.”

–Jeff Clark-Meads, author of The Plowman and Tungol

“I didn’t realize how much I missed seedy gritty corrupt crime-ridden New York City of the 1970s till I read Zahradnik’s debut thriller. Last Words captures the palms-out politicians, the bully cops, the not-so-hapless homeless, the back-stabbing reporters of a city on the brink. The pace speeds up; the whispers and clues and leads all come together for a big empty-the-revolver and fling-the vodka bottle finale. Well worth the trip back in time.”

–Richard Zacks, author of Island of Vice and Pirate Hunter

About the author

 

RICH ZAHRADNIK is the author of the Coleridge Taylor Mystery series published by Camel Press. He was a journalist for 30-plus years, working as a reporter and editor in all major news media, including online, newspaper, broadcast, magazine and wire services. He held editorial positions at CNN, Bloomberg News, Fox Business Network, AOL and The Hollywood Reporter, often writing news stories and analysis about the journalism business, broadcasting, film production, publishing and the online industry.

In January 2012, he was one of 20 writers selected for the inaugural class of the Crime Fiction Academy, a first-of-its-kind program run by New York’s Center for Fiction. He has been a media entrepreneur throughout his career. He was the founding executive producer of CNNfn.com, a leading financial news website and a Webby winner; managing editor of Netscape.com, and a partner in the soccer-news website company Goal Networks. Zahradnik received his B.A. in journalism and political science from George Washington University.

***

Excerpt from

LAST WORDS

By Rich Zahradnik

The orderly rolled the gurney onto an elevator. Taylor stepped on, too. The orderly read his press pass. It expired in three months, and if Taylor couldn’t get back on the police beat by then, he’d lose it and all the access it gave him. Doors all over the city would slam shut. The thought chilled him.

“Coleridge Samuel Taylor.”

“Just Taylor.” He hated the literary ornamentation of his name.

“Name’s Jackson.”

The autopsy room looked like any operating theater with its silver-domed lights, trolleys of medical instruments and glass- fronted metal cabinets. The acrid smell of disinfectant was even stronger here.

A second orderly came in and helped Jackson shift the wrapped body onto a table, both of them grunting.

“Jesus, this body is frozen stiff,” Jackson said.

The second orderly shrugged and left, as if moving bodies was his only job.

“You said he died of exposure, right?” Taylor leaned in.

“Yeah, but he feels like ….” The orderly frowned. “The last time a body came in frozen solid like this was when a jumper went into the Hudson back in January.” He pulled the sheets open near the neck. The corpse was still dressed and the orderly fingered the material of the outer clothing. “The coat and sweater are cold but not frozen.” He slid his hand inside the sweater. “The undershirt feels like it’s iced right to him. The skin is frozen.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Taylor looked from the orderly to the body on the slab. “It’s like he froze from the inside out. Or his outer clothes were put on after he froze.” He made a note of this. “Be interesting to hear what the pathologist makes of it.”

“Not much if he thinks he’s cutting a homeless boy. How are you going to do a story on a dead nobody?” The orderly sighed and turned away.

I’ll find out what makes him a somebody. Getting frozen in your underwear and dressed by another person might do the trick.

“You gotta be a big somebody to get your death notice in the papers here.”

This victim’s story already bothered him. The boy was going to disappear. Taylor was watching it happen. No last words for the family. No notice taken anywhere by anyone. It had happened before, with Billy. This was going on now in Taylor’s city. There was no excuse for it.

“When did the body come in?”

“Night watch. Three, four in the morning.”

“You’re just now rolling him in?”

“No room at the inn. Kept the body outside in the ambulance.”

“What if they got another call?”

“Couldn’t. No one to replace the driver’s going off shift. Poor bastards had to take a cab back to their house. These budget cuts are just crazy. So we kept him cold out there. The guys just came back to get their wagon.”

“Where’d they pick him up?”

“The Meatpacking District.” Jackson looked at the body again. “I’ll tell you one thing. I doubt they’ll be cutting today. It’s going to take a whole shift to defrost him. Very strange. Or plain bad luck.”

Only the facts interested Taylor. They’d explain how this boy froze from the inside out, the cause and effect. Nothing unlucky. Nothing strange.

Jackson pulled off the sheet. The dead boy wore an army field jacket similar to Taylor’s. Threads hung at the edges of the rectangle above the left breast pocket where a name patch should have been.

“Whatever the name tag said, it wasn’t this kid’s,” Taylor said. “He’s too young for the military.” Could be the father’s, Taylor thought. Or maybe the boy bought it at the Army-Navy. Taylor would check all that out. The jacket had seen a lot of wear and tear. Some of that might be from life on the street.

“Now that I think of it,” Jackson said, “it looks like the one I got when I fought in Europe. You don’t see these as much. Thing never was warm enough.”

Jackson was right. The boy’s jacket featured lapels instead of a circular collar and the fabric looked thinner. The kid wore dungarees, patched the length of both legs, more patches than jean material really. The “V” of a blue sweater, probably wool, showed under the jacket.

Jackson nodded at Taylor’s jacket. “You a vet?”

“No.”

“Just like the look?”

“No.” The implication stung, as if his was a fashion statement. His brother, trained to fight somewhere cold in Europe, was ordered to Vietnam. Billy didn’t need the heavy jacket, or didn’t want to pack it, or had wanted to leave something behind with his older brother. Taylor wasn’t sure which. He gave it to Taylor and never came back. Maybe because of the question, the teenager became his brother Billy for a moment. Another kid forever lost to his family. The boy was the same height, though slighter and younger. What was younger when you were dead?

The orderly was saying something, forcing Billy’s face to fade, replaced by that of the dead boy. This face was smooth, without lines, and the nose straight. His lips were full, almost pouting, and his gray eyes looked directly into the bright overhead lights, unblinded and blind. His hair was thick, long and clean, which was odd. If this kid was homeless, it should have been matted and dirty.

“Look at this.” Jackson pointed to the jacket’s right sleeve.

More than twenty national flags were sewn down the outside of the right arm of the field jacket, from the shoulder to the cuff. France, Italy, USA, East Germany, Canada, the USSR, West Germany, Red China, and countries some Taylor couldn’t identify.

Taylor walked around the table. “Same on this side. No unit or rank. Those were cut away a long time ago. Just more flags. It’s like the UN.”

Thousands of army field jackets hung in the closets of New York vets, the families of the dead and even ex-hippies, but none would look like this one. Taylor knew people would remember it. This was starting to look like a story he could follow.

Jackson left the room. Taylor checked the boy’s left hand, leaned in to get closer and used his Bic pen to lift the fingers. They were smooth, almost feminine, with telltale signs of civilized living—clean, well-trimmed fingernails. Not a speck of dirt under any of them. The fingers on the right hand were the same. This kid wasn’t homeless, or hadn’t been for long. The field jacket would lead to someone who knew him, who could tell his story. He listed the countries of the flags he could ID and descriptions of those he couldn’t.

“I thought we were rid of you, Taylor.” Dr. R. Martin Quirk, the assistant coroner, stood inside the door. Taylor looked from Quirk’s long face to the stubby fingers that seemed imperfect instruments for prodding inside bodies, even dead ones.

“This kid wasn’t homeless,” Taylor said.

“What do you know? Don’t turn this John Doe into another of your page one specials. I’ve got six homicides in the cooler, bodies piling up in the emergency room—high priority, cops shooting civilians—and five accidentals, old people who froze to death in their apartments. I’ve got to cut them all anyway. They won’t let me put ‘unpaid Con Ed bill’ as cause on the death certificate.”

“Will you at least check the ‘missing’ list?”

Quirk always claimed to be overworked, but he was just plain lazy.

“That’s a cop’s job.”

“They won’t.”

“I’m not their master, thank Christ. Why don’t you do it? You’re the reporter.”

Taylor decided not to disabuse him of that notion. From his jacket’s right pocket, he pulled out and opened the collapsible Polaroid he carried for capturing a scene when a click was faster than taking notes. A snap-flash and Taylor held the instant photo, a black square until it developed. In two minutes, chemicals and metals would resolve into a color picture of the dead boy’s face. He needed it to track down who the kid was.

“I’ll call you to get cause of death.” He put the developing picture in his coat pocket next to his wallet and went straight through the double doors without glancing back.

Why didn’t the boy show the wear and tear of rough living? He might have been a recent arrival on the street, a runaway who didn’t bargain on the freezing weather and died almost as soon as he ran. A sad story. Newspaper readers loved sad stories, even if they said they didn’t.

Excerpted from the book LAST WORDS by Rich Zahradnik.  Copyright © 2014 by Rich Zahradnik.  Reprinted with permission of Camel Press.  All rights reserved.

"Elizabeth Isaacs' THE HEART OF THE ANCIENTS" Release Party & Giveaway

THE HEART OF THE ANCIENTS, the third and final book in The Kailmeyra series is being released on November 11th!

Pick up your copy today!

Exclusively on

 

The Kailmeyra Chronicles: Book Three—
Following Nora and Gavin’s defeat of the Dokkalfar, the kingdom has flourished and brought hope to its people.

But looks can be deceiving.

Like wisps of death, darker emotions seep into unexpected places. Now the nighttime holds fresh horrors for Gavin as Nora’s visions of the future invade her dreams. Though Nora can’t remember them, she knows Gavin sees her mind as clearly as his own. Noticing the affects her nightmares have on him, Nora warns Gavin of the dire consequences of altering fate. But she fears he’ll do whatever it takes to assure her visions don’t come true—even going against all he believes.

When Nora and Gavin discover Mia, the new Empress of the Dokkalfar, is growing stronger, they return to Earth sooner than planned. But Nora's old home isn’t what it used to be. Civilization has plunged back into the Dark Ages and the Earth is on the brink of annihilation.

As Nora and Gavin find themselves at the Edge of the World, doubt plagues them. Are they walking a path which alters fate or one elaborately planned by the enemy?

If you haven't read the Kailmeyra series, the first one is on sale this month for only $0.99! 

If Nora Johnson hadn't been on campus that day she would have never known her true destiny. Helping her friends move into the dorm that she wanted to call home, Nora accidentally collides with mysterious stranger, Gavin Frey. His very first touch sends flames through her heart. The world seems different--something within her has changed.

She tries to resume her mundane life, but she is now consumed with the one whose very presence ignited her soul, the one with eyes of emerald. Nora soon learns that an energy buried deep within has been unleashed. She now wields unimaginable power and has become Gavin's source, his strength.

Her newfound joy is shaken when she discovers that Gavin is not who he appears to be, and she has been thrust in the middle of a war of mythical proportions. Negativity allows all things evil to flourish, the earth is under siege. The fate of creation hinges on the power within her heart. Will she be strong enough to survive?

A gripping tale of unbounded love and ancient power, The Light of Asteria will take you on an epic adventure filled with war, treachery, and demons, as well as unimaginable delights.

Available on: 
 

 

In celebration of all the fun, Elizabeth is giving away signed copies of the entire series and a $25 gift card! Just fill out the Rafflecopter below, and good luck! 

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