Title: Only Love is Deathless

Author: Sita Bethel

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: June 8, 2020

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 78900

Genre: Fantasy, LGBTQIA+, royalty, witches, mares, wizards, demons, magic/magic users, weddings

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Sreka’s younger brother, Dobrina, is in love. The only problem is that the law forbids him from courting until Sreka is married. Sreka hires the local adventurer, Košmar, to marry him so Dobrina can wed his love. Even if he has to sleep on the couch, instead of with the crown prince on their farce wedding bed, Košmar will get to live like a king for a year. And once Dobrina is married, Sreka will quietly divorce him and send him on his way with gold for his services. Nothing says destined romance like a battle with a dragon, so Sreka and Košmar stage their first public encounter to fool the royal court. However, as fate would have it, the dragon that was supposed to be as fake as their love is real.

Excerpt

Only Love is Deathless Sita Bethel © 2020 All Rights Reserved Košmar slammed the lager to the back of his throat and sighed. The pub was alive with Shrovetide festivities. Music and playful shrieks echoed from one end of the tavern to the other while mead and vodka flowed from bottles to cups to mouths faster than hands could pour it. He glanced at the dancers, thinking maybe he had drunk enough to give dancing a try. The music changed and a cheer rang from the crowds. Everyone clapped in unison as they formed a circle on the dance floor. They wore linen garments dyed green and purple. Crowns of corn poppies, baby’s breath, and sweet basil topped the heads of both the women and the men. Košmar himself wore faded riding leathers and a felted wool cloak which had once been deep sable but now was the gray of watered-down ink. Before he could stand and sneak closer to the crowd, a lad in an ugly woolen slouch cap sat across from him. Košmar blinked, examining his cornflower-blue eyes. The lad set a key on the table between them, stood, and vanished into the crowd. Košmar picked up the key, noticing the flash of a gold coin below it. Košmar’s jaw dropped. A flaming falcon was stamped into the coin and on the other side a crown. He slipped the gold into his vest pocket and rushed to the third room in the back. The man in the woolen cap sat cross-legged in a chair near the hearth of the room. His eyes flicked upward as he gazed at Košmar. “Sit.” “Remove your cap.” Košmar dropped to the edge of the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. “The coin wasn’t enough?” “Most nobles have gold coins.” Košmar shrugged. “Very well.” The stranger stood. He tugged the cap away from his scalp and shook his head. Long strands of pure citrine glittered as they fell to his waist. The princes of Zetva were rumored to have magical hair the color of citrines or yellow sapphires. The man in front of Košmar could only be one of those two princes. “Satisfied?” “To what do I owe the pleasure, my liege?” Košmar bowed forward from his position on the bed. The prince dropped into his chair. “They say you’ll do any task for the right price.” “Most any.” Košmar chose his words. “I’m not an assassin. I’m more of an adventurer.” “I do not need an assassin. I need a husband.” “Don’t we all, but I’m sure your father, the king, would be more qualified at arranging a marriage than me.” Košmar laughed. “Everyone in the royal court is a weasel, and the neighboring kingdoms are full of ambitious vipers looking to strengthen their own positions of power. No, Košmar Marelock, I do not want you to find a husband for me—I want you to wed me.” Košmar laughed until he choked. He fell onto the mattress, coughing into his fist. The prince peered over him, long, jeweled hair hanging from his face and flashing in the hearthlight. “Not forever. I need a farce wedding and a sham spouse, and after a year or so, we’ll divorce in private, I’ll pay you for your troubles, and you can run back to your adventures.” “Farce wedding?” Košmar sucked in a breath, recovering from his outburst. “Gotta admit, I’m fascinated. Why would a prince need to fake his own wedding?” “Will you take the job or not?” “You haven’t given me enough information to decide.” “I’m the oldest.” The prince shrugged. “So you’re…” Košmar wracked his memory for what he’d heard of politics. “Prince…Dobrina?” “My little brother is Dobrina. I’m Prince Sreka.” “Pleasure to meet you.” Košmar held out his hand. Sreka hesitated before extending his hand. Košmar took it and used Sreka’s grip to pull himself to his feet before shaking their clasped hands. After the friendly greeting, he brought Sreka’s hand to his lips and kissed the prince’s knuckles. “My liege, my name is Košmar.” “I know. I sought you out, remember?” “Need to have a proper introduction if we’re going to be business partners. So you’re the oldest, but your father is in good health. Surely you have more time to find a spouse?” “Dobrina is in love. The law demands I marry first, but I have no interest in the suitors who plague me night and day. So, to rid myself of their presence and give my brother the happiness he deserves, I need a surrogate to play the role of my affectionate husband.” “Lemme get this straight. You bring me home to Dad; we hold hands and take lingering walks in the gardens at night to convince everyone we’re in love, and after we’re married, all I have to do is stick around stuffing my face and sleeping on top of a goose-down mattress? And after a year of this you’re going to pay me for the trouble?” “You’ll be sleeping on the couch within my private chambers. I have no intention of sharing my bed with a man I do not love.” “Here. Do you see this? Do you feel this?” Košmar pounded the old, sagging mattress beneath him with his closed fist. “And don’t even get close enough to smell it. I spend most my nights in a tent in the woods or on rented beds.” “My…condolences.” Sreka wrinkled his face. “Is your couch more comfortable than this?” “By far. The fibers are woven from silk imported from—” “Say no more. I’m your man.” Košmar jumped to his feet. “Let’s see, we’ll need a public introduction. How do we want to play this?” “The simpler the better,” Sreka said. “No, no. We need a story to tell. Something for the scullery maids to whisper about as they scrub pots. You should rescue me—from a dragon.” “Why? It sounds like the plot to a romance novel.” Sreka rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And shouldn’t you save me from the dragon? I’m the one you should be wooing.” “I rescue people from dragons all the time, but when do I ever get to sit back and swoon for a hero? Never. If we’re going to play the lovers, let’s have fun with it.” “But—” “Or is palace life too exciting for you already?” Sreka paused midcomplaint. He stared at Košmar for a long time. Košmar smirked. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re bored out of your skull in that castle. You’d love to play the hero for a day and scoop a handsome, swarthy stranger into your arms before carrying him off to your palace.” “You shouldn’t assume I find you handsome.” “Doesn’t matter, everyone else will. You can pretend if you don’t fancy my looks.” Košmar winked. “There’s one problem with your plan. We don’t have a dragon who will play along with our scam.” “Watch this.” Košmar walked to the fire, holding his hands to it. He gestured with his fingers and pulled a section of the flames toward him. The fire resembled freshly pulled sugar in the candy-maker’s shop. It flowered and twirled with color, and Košmar molded it into the shape of a dragon the size of a hunting hound. The flames cooled, hardening to bright, poisonous green scales. The creature roared and lunged for Sreka’s shins. When Košmar snapped his fingers, the dragon dissolved into smoke that spread between them in a gray haze. “Magic?” “Yes, an illusion. Are you familiar with the northern road leading through the Czerwony Woods and into the mountains?” “No one goes there because of bandits.” “But there is a royal hunting ground near there, yes?” “There is.” Sreka nodded. “Plan a hunting trip one week from today. Arrive at dawn, and make sure you’re near where the northern road enters the forest an hour into your hunt.” “How will I find you?” “The roars and screams should be a good indication.” Košmar grinned. Sreka mirrored him. “I confess, I’m looking forward to our official meeting.” “Until fate brings us together, my love.” Košmar dropped to one knee, kissing Sreka’s hand. “No need for theatrics when we’re alone.” Sreka averted his eyes. “Best to get into character now.” Košmar plopped onto the worn mattress beside him. “You already paid for the room?” “Yes?” Sreka twisted his jeweled hair into a rope and tucked it back into his woolen cap. “No use letting a bed go to waste. I’ll see you in a week.” Košmar rolled up in the threadbare woolen blanket and shut his eyes. “Sweet dreams, Košmar.” Košmar snorted after he heard the door shut. “Pretty funny for a prince to tell a nightmare to have sweet dreams.” Košmar kept the fire burning in the hearth but blew out the lantern on each side of the bed. The darkness hugged him close as he slept.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon

Meet the Author

Hey there, readers. It’s me, ya boi, Sita Bethel. And this is a biography where I tell you all the boring facts about my life- like how I have a degree in writing, and how my two cats, Odin and Anpu, will one day rule this land as your feline overlords. Enough of that same old, same old. Here’s the real dirt. Sita Bethel likes to wrap up like a burrito with a weighted blanket. They host coloring parties as a personal eff-you to anxiety, and read everything from trash British sensationalist novels like The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins to literary masterpieces like The Color Purple by Alice Walker. Had enough of Sita Bethel yet? If not, check out @sita_bethel on Twitter, or sitabethelfiction on Facebook, or even www.sitabethel.com.

Facebook | Twitter

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Title: Cutting Cords

Series: Cutting Cords Series, Book One

Author: Mickie B. Ashling

Publisher: Self-Published

Release Date: 6/2/20

Heat Level: 4 - Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 63,525

Genre: Romance, Contemporary, bisexual, hurt-comfort, coming out, disability, cutting

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Sloan Driscoll is a talented graphic artist but compared to his father and younger brother—all star athletes—he’s never measured up. A lifetime of insecurity leads him down dark paths. His childhood friend, Cole Fujiwara, a former major league pitcher, embodies all of Sloan’s hidden aspirations. Cole is physically fit, attractive, intelligent, and successful. Seemingly perfect. When Sloan shows up on Cole’s NYC doorstep needing a place to stay, their reunion is anything but simple. Sloan has always been drawn to Cole, but now, even though there’s a girlfriend on the periphery, the attraction seems mutual. One night, inhibitions slip away. But both men are hiding a multitude of secrets. Salvation could be found within each other’s arms. But only if they let it. Cutting Cords is the first book in the Cutting Cords Series previously published by Dreamspinner Press. This series must be read in order and all four titles will be available by September 2020. HEA guaranteed at series end. Content Warning: contains body image issues, drug use, cutting, and some BDSM elements.

Excerpt

Cutting Cords Mickie B. Ashling © 2020 All Rights Reserved The doors of the plane were shut; the engines revved and ready to go. I leaned back and plugged in my earphones, increasing the volume so I could hear nothing but Queen blaring out Bohemian Rhapsody. I loved their music, stage presence, and style. One summer, I even made the attempt to dress and talk like Freddie Mercury. It wasn’t hard, since we had the same body type, not one ounce of fat anywhere. My little game was met with disapproval, so my outrageous persona went back into a compartment in my brain, along with all the other shocking thoughts that resided there. The plane finally took off, almost in sync with Freddie’s falsetto blaring in my ears. I removed my earplugs and unfastened the seat belt when the captain turned off the sign. It was time to go to the restroom and take care of business. The light in the tiny bathroom cast a yellowish shade on my normally pale face. I stared at the mirror, trying to see if I looked any different since my haircut and my father’s attempts to make me look respectable. Everything appeared the same; my hair was still a boring brown, my eyes an unremarkable shade of gray. My mouth was a bit too full and girly for Dad’s taste, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. I wondered how long it would take for my hair to grow out again. I hated the feel of cold air against my neck, although my tattoo was now clearly visible, the Queen logo, a testament to my devotion. I started to strip, undoing the belt buckle and pushing down my jeans, past the ugly web of scars on my thighs. They were a constant reminder of my inner turmoil, a grim display in varying shades of hair-raising red. I stepped out of my pants and boxers simultaneously, leaving them bunched at my feet. Next off were the tight white briefs that had served its purpose—holding the sandwich bag with my stash in its hiding place near my crotch. I dumped the briefs into the wastebasket and pulled my jeans and boxers back on. I opened the plastic baggy and inhaled the pungent aroma of the high-grade weed, wishing I had the guts to light up, but I knew my impulse would activate the smoke alarms and they’d be pounding on the door within minutes. So I popped a Xanax instead, a poor substitute, but certainly better than nothing. I spent the rest of the flight in a hazy fog. Thanks to my age and the money in my pocket, I was able to buy a few drinks to add to my drug-induced high. I passed on the food, shaking my head at the flight attendant, but asked for more peanuts instead. I could almost hear my father’s voice telling me to eat and not skip meals or I’d never gain weight, but I wasn’t buying into his plan anymore. No amount of sustenance had ever worked to give me the kind of body I craved, so any time I was on my own, I ate whatever I wanted. I knew I wasn’t in California anymore as soon as the cabbie pulled up to the curb and looked me over suspiciously. “Need a ride?” He was a brightly turbaned Indian who spoke passable English but seemed to have left his manners on another continent. I wasn’t sure if it was the late hour or his job, but good cheer was in short supply right then. I was expected to haul my gear into the cab on my own. Cussing under my breath, I hefted the duffel with all my worldly possessions onto the seat beside me. “Can I smoke in here?” I asked as soon as we got going. “Sure thing, buddy.” Pleasantly surprised, I pulled out the joint I’d rolled in the airport restroom and lit up, inhaling deeply, letting the smoke fill my lungs. The cabbie lifted an eyebrow as soon as he smelled the weed. In an instant, his demeanor changed, and he respectfully asked, “Would you be willing to share?” I smirked and passed the joint through the opening in the glass. He took a huge hit, bobbing his head in appreciation. “Good stuff, buddy.” “It better be for what it cost.” “Where are we headed?” the cabbie asked. “Chelsea.” “Okay.” It was almost eleven by the time we stopped in front of Cole’s apartment building, and after I handed over my money, I waited to see if the driver would help me with my bag since I’d shared my dope. Stupid thought. He sat there and checked his log sheet. Fucking asshole. I didn’t tip him. I dragged my shit out of the cab and waited for the doorman to let me in. Apparently he’d gotten word of my arrival, and he actually helped me place my bag in the elevator and told me the apartment was on the tenth floor. When I arrived at my destination, I stabbed at the doorbell for several minutes before the door was yanked open by a guy who appeared ready to strangle me. “Will you ease off the fucking bell already?” “Hey, I didn’t know if you were asleep or what.” “Well, I’m wide awake now.” “Sorry. I’m looking for Cole Fujiwara.” “You found him,” he replied warily. “Sloan?” “The one and only.” “Wow. You’ve grown. When’d you get so tall?” And when the fuck did you get so hot? “Probably when you lost all the weight,” I replied out loud, taking a really good look at him. He was nothing like I remembered. The chubby kid with thick glasses who teased me and told me I threw like a girl was gone. In his place was a young Johnny Depp look-alike with cut-glass cheekbones and bone-straight black hair sliding over his forehead. The specs were gone as well, probably replaced by contacts, but those indigo eyes were exactly the same, courtesy of his Irish mother, and I was rooted to the spot. “Are we going to stand here all night?” I snapped out of my trance even as the blood rushed to my cheeks. Caught in the act of staring again, I was flustered and behaving like a total dweeb. Any hope of making a good first impression was shattered by my momentary lapse in judgment. “Sorry.”

Purchase at Amazon

Meet the Author

MICKIE B. ASHLING is the pseudonym of a multi-published author who resides in a suburb outside Chicago. She is a product of her upbringing in various cultures, having lived in Japan, the Philippines, Spain, and the Middle East. Fluent in three languages, she’s a citizen of the world and an interesting mixture of East and West. Since 2009, Mickie has written several dozen novels in the LGBTQ+ genre—which have been translated into French, Italian, Spanish, and German. Lately, her muse has been nudging her in a different direction, and she’s learned through past experience to pay attention to creative sparks that show up unexpectedly. Her pen name is a part of her now, and will travel along on this exciting new journey, wherever it might lead.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads eMail | Instagram | Bookbub

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Title: The Loyal Whispers

Series: The Life Siphon, Book Three

Author: Kathryn Sommerlot

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: May 25, 2020

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 78900

Genre: Action/adventure, epic mage battles, family drama, Fantasy, fearsome desert predators, magic users, royalty

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Ravee: a pious Rad-em merchant’s daughter sailing with her family’s goods Mairi: the Runonian king’s advisor seeing the outside world for the first time Alesh: an alchemist’s apprentice in Joesar with a past rapidly catching up to her Three women find themselves caught in the threads of change as the world threatens to fall apart around them. From across the Oldal Sea, the southern kingdom of Dusset has declared war, and if anyone is going to survive it, the alliance between Runon, Chayd, Rad-em, and Joesar must be solidified. But there are forces at work that could undermine all the progress King Yudai and Tatsu have made. Peace treaty negotiations between the four realms could crumble at any time beneath the building tension. As the women’s paths converge, they must navigate the true meaning of loyalty to themselves, their countries, and their families, while at the center of it all, a shattered king, hellbent on revenge, threatens the world balance.

Excerpt

The Loyal Whispers Kathryn Sommerlot © 2020 All Rights Reserved One: Ravee Choked with debris, the waves lapped at the fire-blackened hull boards left behind, and worse yet, bodies bobbed in the spaces between splintered wood. They quivered up, bobbing with each crest, clothing billowing around motionless limbs, and Ravee had to turn away with one hand pressed to her mouth to keep her meager breakfast down. The air smelled of burning softwood and singed flesh interwoven into an overpowering and inescapable tang which did nothing to help her constantly queasy belly. “Gods above,” Captain Wret hissed under his breath. When Ravee peeked over her shoulder, she couldn’t miss how his knuckles had blanched white, his fingers clamped around the deck rail. “What happened here?” The answer seemed very obvious: the worst. The lingering fear of anyone who took to the seas was a shipwreck, whether it be by pirate attack or by the unforgiving elements, and the evidence of just such a tragedy lay strewn around their vessel in the whitecaps. But no storms had darkened the sky in the past week, only a clear blue horizon with favorable winds. Pirates tended to strip the ships of both treasure and hostages before destroying them. Broken shards of porcelain dishes floated among the wood, and anyone searching for profit wouldn’t leave something of value like that behind. The knowledge should have helped to ease Ravee’s nerves, for they were far less safe with their trade cargo if pirates roamed the Oldal Sea. Still, the uneasiness was slow to dissipate. As her stomach settled and stopped roiling at the grisly aftermath, Ravee turned back to peer over the ship’s side. If it hadn’t been pirates and couldn’t have been the weather, few other possibilities made sense. Ships didn’t simply spontaneously break apart, and the sea serpents had already entered their dormant months. A horrible stillness settled over the remains, as though not even the sun’s bright rays could touch the bloody mess. “Look!” one of the deckhands yelled. “Rad-em colors!” The man’s outburst prompted a scrambling of boots across slick boards as the sailors searched for something to reach the silk with. Eventually, the cloth floated near enough for a man to fish it out with one of the long deck mops, and while Ravee’s heart skipped at the sight of her countrymen’s flag, the shock paled in comparison to what came up after it. More silks, strung together on the single rope line, tangled together in a mess of clumped, torn fabric. Ravee had never heard of the countries sailing under a united banner, not even in the oldest orated history lessons. She whispered a prayer under her breath as the crewman struggled with the cord, grateful her hands weren’t visibly shaking. Captain Wret pushed the sailor aside to grab at the bulk, and his hands were steadier than the deckhand’s had been. He pulled the Rad-em colors free, and then the rest one at a time, peeling the sopping layers apart until four flags lay spread across the deck. Four silk banners, fraying and burned on the right side as though they’d caught fire as the ship went down and only the briny seawater had stopped them from being completely devoured. Four silk banners representing the kingdoms of the southern coastline. Ravee’s stomach twisted again with a painful throb. “Rad-em,” Wret said, pointing, “Chayd, Runon, and Joesar.” “Impossible,” one of the men argued. “They’d never sail together like this, and under united colors?” All the flags had been displayed on a single vessel, and to have such a bold showing could mean only one thing. “They were on official business,” Ravee whispered, speaking before she could stop herself. Wret’s head snapped in her direction, his eyes sharp, but he didn’t stop her from continuing, which was something. “In an official capacity.” “Yes,” Wret said. “They were traveling as ambassadors. Peaceful ones, likely, given the treaty negotiations.” “Who would attack a ship containing peaceful representatives from all four of the coastal kingdoms?” the sailor nearest to Ravee asked. Wret’s gaze shifted to the broken, charred pieces of the ship still floating out on the sea. “The easiest way to answer that is to figure out where they were going.” Then his expression morphed, cycling through surprise and shock before hardening in resolve. He crossed to the rail with long steps and hesitated only for a moment, scanning the water before shouting, “Get a lifeboat dropped! Someone’s alive down there.” In the resulting chaos, Ravee was pushed back, shoulders bumping into her arms with such force her skin would bruise. She couldn’t see around the sailors to confirm for herself, and she knew better than to try to fight it; Captain Wret was displeased enough already to have her aboard his ship accompanying her family’s goods and hadn’t bothered to keep his feelings quiet. Making her presence known could result in banishment to the belowdecks sleeping quarters afforded to her. A lifeboat splashed down into the sea and a few of the sailors started up nervous muttering, but it wasn’t until several moved to the rigging that Ravee felt confident enough to slip through the small crowd to the railing again. The sailors in the lifeboat were pulling a body out of the water, and despite Wret’s earlier outcry, the man looked very dead to Ravee. He didn’t so much as twitch as the sailors rowed toward the ship’s side and prepared the dinghy to be lifted back up. When one of the crew hauled the man over the rail and deposited him onto the deck, his head lolled lifelessly to one side. Bits of his shirt had been eaten away by the flames and a nasty-looking cut sliced across his forehead, the red of the still flowing blood mingling with the sea water clinging to his skin. The sailors spent a long moment staring at him in silence. In the stillness, the air above the ship’s deck shimmered as shivers ran the length of Ravee’s spine in a familiar tremble. Bithlad, God of healing, appeared behind her with all four of his hands ghosting over her biceps as he whispered, He’s alive. Help him. Ravee darted in between the sailors, nostrils burning with the lingering smell of the less fortunate passengers and her feet propelled by the murmured command. She pressed her head to the injured man’s chest, shoulders sagging at the muffled breath sounds. He was alive, but only barely so. “How did you know?” she asked Captain Wret, who had advanced to hover uncomfortably over her shoulder. “He was clinging to one of the bigger pieces of the ship’s hull, and his position was too unnatural to have been the result of post-death rigor.” Ravee studied the man’s body. “I doubt he would’ve lasted much longer out there in this state.” “He may not be the only one. The lifeboat’s already prepared—we should search the area for more survivors,” Wret said, and he walked away to bark the orders at his crew. Ravee stayed where she was kneeling with one hand on the man’s shoulder, wishing she could will him to wake up. His eyes stayed closed, though it was comforting to see his chest rise and fall, even if the breaths were shallow. The lack of movement gave her a better opportunity to check him for injuries. Though bleeding steadily, the cut on his head wasn’t deep, but as she peeled back the soaking layer of clothing from his torso, she exposed a fresh wave of crimson. Along his side darted a dark gash, and it seemed his shirt had been the only thing holding what remained of the skin together. Ravee clasped her hand against the wound in shock. “Please!” she called, and one of the crewmen thrust a rudimentary first aid kit into her open hand. At least she had a needle and thread, even without time to sterilize the metal. Ravee sent up a quick prayer to Urutte, God of fate. Her family sold leather goods, and while she’d never had to sew flesh before, her needlework skill ranked high. Her hands trembled so badly she pricked her own finger trying to stitch the wound, and all she could think of was how thankful she was the man remained unconscious. It would’ve been agony if he’d been awake to feel the needle threading through his already flayed skin. She wanted to vomit, and somehow managed to keep all the bile in until she’d finished. Running to the railing took two heart-pounding moments, and she only barely made it in time to avoid her breakfast splashing across the deck. Her cheeks warmed, but there wasn’t time to be embarrassed; the lifeboat was hauling another body from the sea, and Ravee wiped her forehead with her shirt sleeve before moving to the newest one. Bithlad’s presence behind her faded, but she murmured a prayer the God might watch over the rest of the poor souls fished out from the brine. By the time the entire area had been scoured, the sailors had found two more survivors, and Captain Wret called the search off as the sun set bright behind the wreckage. Fewer pieces of the unfortunate ship remained than had floated earlier along the whitecaps, and even many of the dead had been pulled beneath by the undertow. Wret’s men found four survivors total, including the first man: two more men and one woman. The crew carried the limp bodies to the bulkhead closest to the rudder and did what they could with the extra bedding supplies. But it wasn’t much, and as Ravee stood looking over the remnants of the ship’s unfortunate passengers, she could hardly breathe. The man whose side she’d stitched closed seemed to have stabilized, and the woman had surface burns seemingly unrelated to her head trauma, but the last one, an older male whose arm had been severed at the wrist, was unlikely to make it through the night even with the tourniquet and linen wrapping they’d employed. Knowing the background of their survivors was impossible. They could have been crew on the ship, servants accompanying the envoys, or the dignitaries themselves, but until one of them woke with a clear enough head, Wret’s Sheersilk was sailing blind. An entire ship destroyed, with nothing stolen and the passengers left to bloat. “Where was their course?” Ravee asked as Captain Wret’s heavy footsteps sounded down the wooden stairs behind her. “This far south? Dusset, probably, the same as us.” Ravee swallowed hard. “You said earlier we’d know who did this by studying their heading. What does this mean?” Wret’s face, almost unrecognizable without its usual sneer, was grim. “It’s possible someone has declared war on us all.” The man missing his hand let out a low moan, and Ravee wrapped her arms around her chest to try to fight the sudden chill sweeping through the bulkhead.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Kobo

Meet the Author

Kathryn Sommerlot is a coffee addict and craft beer enthusiast with a detailed zombie apocalypse plan. Originally from the cornfields of the American Midwest, she got her master’s degree and moved across the ocean to become a high school teacher in Japan. When she isn’t wrangling teenage brains into critical thinking, she spends her time writing, crocheting, and hiking with her husband. She enjoys LGBTQ fiction, but she is particularly interested in genre fiction that just happens to have LGBTQ protagonists.

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Title: Scarlet Gaze

Author: Foster Bridget Cassidy

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: April 20, 2020

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 69300

Genre: Fantasy, LGBTQIA+, MM romance, new adult, virgin, college students, British setting, magic, demons, time travel, teleportation

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

After a paranormal encounter in his youth with someone from his future, Collin Frey sets his sights on getting to Marke Staple University. Now eighteen and with a full scholarship to the prestigious university, Collin hopes to find an explanation to that life-changing event. Unfortunately, it only leads to more questions. Finding out he’s there to study magic is the first surprise. The second is his roommate, Terrence, looks identical to the person who started him on the path to Marke Staple. Collin’s more than willing to sell his soul to get closer to Terrence and uncover all the secrets hidden there. Can knowing a man will change after making a horrible mistake ease the pain of betrayal? Collin is going to find out.

Excerpt

Scarlet Gaze Foster Bridget Cassidy © 2020 All Rights Reserved Chapter One Mom and Dad chatted softly as I gazed out the taxi window. Occasionally, the driver would point out a well-known sight, or something of interest. My parents oohed and aahed, but I barely registered the words. My thoughts focused inward, to the red-eyed man, his desperate pleas for forgiveness, and the total absurdity of the situation. When my mind dwelled on the event from my youth, the rational side wanted to dismiss it as a daydream, or some sort of hallucinated episode. The man had disappeared. That sort of thing didn’t happen in real life. Yet here I was. Following the clues that could easily turn out to be nothing more than a figment of my imagination. “And ’ere we are,” the cabbie said, pulling the car to a stop. “Marke Staple University. Very prestigious.” He turned around and smiled at me. “You’re a lucky one to get in.” Mom leaned forward eagerly. “Not lucky at all! Collin got a full scholarship! He’s very bright.” I wrinkled my nose and unbuckled my seat belt. “Thanks for the ride.” I climbed out and gazed upon the school’s gothic spires. They sent ominous shadows stretching across the school grounds. One at the center of the campus stood higher than the rest. I recognized it from the school’s website. And the coin. The familiarity of it made my heart ache. So close. The driver got out of the car and opened the trunk. He lifted our bags out and set them on the sidewalk. Dad slipped him a few American dollars, which he took with a wink. “Thanks a lot. And good luck in your studies.” He waved before climbing back inside and disappearing the way we came. “So, here it is,” Dad said, following my gaze to the spires. “Kinda creepy.” Mom lightly smacked Dad’s shoulder. “Travis! Don’t say things like that. It’s an old school, with old architecture.” “And old ghosts,” Dad muttered, then shot me a mischievous grin. “I hope you don’t venture out at night.” I laughed, and the tension filling me lessened. A bit. Dad threw his arm over my shoulder and pulled me in for a side hug. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s check this place out.” A man in a butler-type uniform headed our way, a trolley in front of him. He stopped in front of us and gave a formal bow. “Mr. and Mrs. Frey? I’m Stephen, Mr. Helmer’s coordinator. We sent a car to pick you up, but apparently they were stuck in traffic and didn’t make it on time. You’ll be compensated for the fee, of course.” “Don’t worry about it,” Dad said. Stephen dipped his head, graying hair falling over his eyes, but when he rose, he didn’t look happy with Dad’s dismissal of the taxi fare. “Mr. Helmer will be here shortly, but he sent me ahead to collect your luggage.” “Thank you,” Mom said as he loaded our bags onto the trolley. “I’ll get them delivered to your rooms.” Another bow, then he scampered off. “That’s awful nice,” Mom added. “A car to pick us up—even if we missed it—and a butler to carry our things. What else will they do for us?” “Well, they’re giving me a full scholarship,” I said, walking forward. “That should be plenty.” The tuition here was enormous. I had been lucky they’d offered me a scholarship, or else I never could have afforded this place. Millionaires sent their children here. Mom and Dad barely made enough to send Mindy—my older sister—to Florida State. This was on the other side of the Atlantic. Mom and Dad followed my lead. We stepped past the stone gate and onto campus. As soon as my foot touched the ground on the other side, a tingle ran up my spine. I glanced around, wondering if they had a laser or infrared camera pointed at us. Nothing looked out of place. No obvious surveillance. With the next step, the chill vanished, so I dismissed it as a fluke and pushed it from my mind. The campus was constructed of stone buildings, most sporting tall spires. Nothing in Florida even came close to this. In age or in design. An odd sensation permeated the air, almost like the change in air pressure on an airplane. A hum sounded just a decibel below hearing. “Which way should we go?” Dad asked. Mom pointed to a small sign in the grassy area in front of us. “Freshman orientation. That way.” She gestured to the right. We started in that direction, but an older gentleman jogging toward us slowed our steps. I recognized his face—Patrick Helmer, the dean. “Mr. and Mrs. Frey,” he called out, waving his hands over his head. We stopped and allowed him to catch up. When he did, he smiled broadly, adding more wrinkles to his kindly face. “And Collin, of course,” he said to me. “I’m glad you made it in safely. I’m Patrick Helmer, the dean.” He shook all our hands enthusiastically. “I must apologize for the mix-up with the car. We must have copied your flight time incorrectly.” “It was no problem,” Mom said. “The cab driver got us here quickly.” “We wanted to do more, Mrs. Frey, to show how excited we are to have Collin here.” Mom smiled, happy for someone to be singing my praises. “We were just heading to orientation,” I said, gesturing in the direction we’d been going. Helmer waved his hand dismissively. “No, that’s for the ordinary students. You don’t need to listen in. If you don’t mind, I’ll give you a tour of the campus.” “That would be lovely,” Mom said. “Are you sure you’re not too busy?” “Never too busy to assist our new literature students. We take pride in both our programs, but literature is the jewel in our crown. Collin won’t want for anything while he’s in our care, Mrs. Frey.” Some of the tension left Mom’s shoulders at his words. “Now, this way.” He led us deeper onto campus. “Marke Staple is a very old, very selective school.” “I know,” I said. When we’d returned home from Colorado, I had looked into this place. I had the whole history of it memorized. And when I’d found out they only had two degrees—literature and business—I had applied myself to my studies and set my sights on getting here. “You only select five students a year to be in your literature program.” The dean grinned. “Correct. And we are very happy you selected our school, Collin. I know you had plenty to choose from.” I nodded, but it wasn’t true. Oh sure, my grades were so fantastic I could have gone to almost any I chose, but Marke Staple was the only place for me. My encounter with the red-eyed man cemented it. “This”—Helmer said, lifting his hand toward the closest building—“is Lapris Hall. It’s the administrative building. My office is in there, as well as all the other teachers’. If you have any problems, you can find your solutions there.” The building was two stories, with a dozen windows on this side. At each corner, elegant spires rose twice the height of the building. Atop each spire was an animal statue. A dog. A cat. A bird. A turtle. Curious. Most ancient buildings like this put statues of people or crosses, or at the very least gargoyles. Helmer noticed my study of the spires and leaned close to me. “Wards,” he said softly. “They protect us.” I shivered again, wondering what a university would need protection from. He continued walking. Mom and Dad followed, but I lingered. Something about the building…wasn’t right. There was a haze that drew the eyes to the top, to the spires. “Come on, Collin,” Dad called. I pulled my gaze away and hurried after. “This,” the dean said at the next building, “is Regalia Hall. All your classes will be in here. Besides the Staple Spire, it has the most original stonework. Only the west wall was affected by an earthquake in 1734.” This building had one spire over the entrance, although several cats sat atop the buttresses. If four protecting Lapris Hall were enough, why did this building need a dozen? “English departments are all the same,” Dad said, lifting his chin to study the detailed stonework. “And I bet the teachers all look like Dracula. That’s how it was at my college.” Helmer laughed. “We don’t have any vampires on staff. A few hybrids, perhaps, but nothing dangerous.” Then he met my eyes and winked. We continued around the rectangular campus, passing the café, and then the math building, the economics building, and other places the dean said I would have no use for. With only five students in each year, the literature program hosted twenty students total. The business program had four hundred. Naturally, most of the space would be devoted to their courses. Finally, we reached the dormitories. There were three: lined in a row on the south side of campus. The school’s rock-wall perimeter stood just a few feet from the rear of the buildings. “The men’s dormitory is on the left,” Dean Helmer said, gesturing. It was two stories, lacked any spires, and was identical to the one on the right. “The women’s dorm is on the right. The staff’s in the center.” The staff’s building was taller, and had two enormous statues peering down at the students’ dorms. “Let me guess,” I said, nodding up toward the statues. One was a lion, the other a tiger. “They’re meant to keep us in after curfew.” The dean chuckled and clapped a hand on my shoulder affectionately. “Ah, Collin. I do wish we could set them to that task. Unfortunately, we rely on resident assistants to enforce the curfew. Our statues are simply meant to ward off any danger.” “Ah,” I said as if that made perfect sense. “Now, why don’t we leave you to get settled into your room. You’ve got your room assignment?” I wiggled my phone. “Yeah, it’s in my email.” Helmer nodded, then turned to my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Frey? If you’ll join me in my office, I’ll go over the finer points of Collin’s scholarship. Give you our emergency contact information. Get yours in return. That sort of thing.” Mom looked at me, hesitating. “Will you be okay on your own?” “I’m fine, Mom. I don’t want you and Dad being overbearing when I meet my roommate.” Helmer glanced at his watch. “We can meet in an hour at the cafe for dinner? Will that suit you, Mrs. Frey?” She nibbled her lip, but dipped her head. “All right. We’ll see you in a bit.” The dean smiled. “Wonderful! Michael is your RA, Collin. Ask him if you have any questions.”

Purchase

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

Meet the Author

Foster Bridget Cassidy is a rare, native Phoenician who enjoys hot desert air and likes to wear jackets in summer. She has wanted to be a fiction writer since becoming addicted to epic fantasy during high school. Since then, she’s studied the craft academically—at Arizona State University—and as a hobby—attending conventions and workshops around the country. A million ideas float in her head, but it seems like there’s never enough time to get them all down on paper. For fun, Foster likes to take pictures of her dachshunds, sew costumes for her dachshunds, snuggle her dachshunds, and bake treats for her dachshunds. In exchange for so much love and devotion, they pee vast amounts on the floor, click their nails loudly on the tile, and bark wildly at anything that moves outside. Somehow, this relationship works for all involved. While not writing, Foster can usually be found playing a video game or watching a movie with her husband. While not doing any of those things, Foster can usually be found in bed, asleep.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Title: Dragon Consultant

Series: Supernatural Consultant, Book One

Author: Mell Eight

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: April 20, 2020

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 33300

Genre: Paranormal YA, LGBTQIA+, YA, dragon shifter, mage, men with children, magical detective agency

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Dane, a supernatural consultant, is hired by the FAA to look into a series of reported dragon attacks on their planes. What Dane finds in the wooded area where the attacks took place is not quite the problem he expected: a group of dragon kits and their sick father hiding from the authorities. When he learns the real reason the family was in the woods, his case grows more dangerous, and though Dane is experienced at both crime solving and watching his own back, taking care of baby dragons and their ill father makes everything else look easy.

Excerpt

Dragon Consultant Mell Eight © 2020 All Rights Reserved The phone started ringing out in the main office just as Dane was finishing up with his last client of the day. He had to suppress an eager smile—Dane could only think of one reason for the phone to ring so late—and refocused his attention on his current client. Dane had been expecting the client on the phone to call a week ago; he could wait ten more minutes. “Mrs. Hempstead, I assure you the pixies are not the ones harming your prized roses. In fact, I’m fairly certain that the pixies are the only reason your roses are still alive, given the extensive damage in your garden.” Dane tried to speak slowly and calmly so the elderly Mrs. Hempstead would understand and hopefully not get angry. It was probably a lost cause, though. She screamed pretentious and arrogant from the large pearl necklace around her wrinkled neck to the expensive mink coat she was wearing on a warm spring evening. She was used to hearing yes to everything she asked, so Dane telling her she was wrong would probably not go over well. “If it isn’t those disgusting pixies, then what is destroying my roses?” she snapped, her back regally straight and her eyes flashing with anger. Dane was shivering with fear in his chair…not. “You are supposed to be the premier consultant on everything supernatural. I expect results!” Dane kept his face pleasant through sheer force of will. He had known this reaction was coming, but that didn’t make it any more fun. “The teeth marks on the bushes were quite distinctive,” Dane continued gamely. “I would suggest that you keep your dog away from that part of your garden if you want your rosebushes to bloom at all this year.” She gasped, one silk-gloved hand flying to her chest as if Dane had uttered the most offensive thing she had ever heard. “Diamond would never do something like that!” The Chihuahua in question chose that moment to fart loudly in its carry-purse on the floor next to her chair, an action Mrs. Hempstead completely ignored. “I have found the pixie family from your garden a new home where their abilities will be properly appreciated. You shouldn’t be bothered by their presence any longer.” She sniffed in disdain. “Well, at least you’ve done as I asked. I’m sure my rosebushes will recover now that they’re gone. Contact my solicitor for payment.” She got to her feet smoothly, turned, and walked out of his office without a single word of thanks. Her roses would be dead by the end of the week; he’d bet that damned ankle-biter currently destroying her designer purse would ensure that. Mrs. Hempstead didn’t dawdle on her way out of the office. Barely thirty seconds later, Dane heard the outer door shut with a click. The phone on his desk lit up, and his secretary’s voice sounded through the speaker. “You have a call on line two. It seems important; he insisted on holding until you were done with your meeting.” “Thanks, Becky,” Dane replied into the speakerphone. The lights on the phone all vanished as Becky hung up, except for the button blinking for line two. Each line belonged to a different type of client thanks to a nifty spell that made his life so much easier. Mrs. Hempstead would have gone to line three, as an ordinary human. Supernatural creatures lit up line one. Line two was for anything remotely associated with the government. Dane picked up the phone, hit the button, and held the handset to his ear. He already knew who would be calling and why, but a touch of professionalism never hurt. “This is Dane, your local supernatural consultant,” Dane said, his voice stiff with formality. “How may I help you today?” “Why aren’t you already traveling to the mountain in question?” the voice on the other end snapped. “Why, hello, Jacobson. So nice to hear from you!” If he was going to give Dane flack, Dane would give it right back. Jacobson was the ignorant fool in charge of the local division of the SupFeds, or the Federal Bureau of Supernatural Investigation, the branch of the federal government that oversaw all supernatural issues that had to do with the police or military. Jacobson was a human without the slightest magical ability. He relied on those who had power, like Dane, with far too little foresight. He simply didn’t understand just what he was dealing with whenever he called Dane. If he did, he would be a whole heck of a lot politer. “You know exactly why I’m calling. The FAA is talking about calling up the Air Force for a strike.” “All for a dragon harassing a couple of airplanes?” Dane asked, skeptical that things would be so bad for such a little problem. “How about multiple dragons? We’ve had sightings of at least one red and one blue dragon in the area.” Now that was an interesting fact that hadn’t made the news. “They’ve attacked three planes and forced an additional dozen to turn back. We’re diverting flights right now, but it’s not sustainable. We need those dragons contained as soon as possible. If you don’t step in, we’re going to have to take drastic action. I’ve sent all the information we’ve been able to gather to your email.” The phone clicked and Jacobson was gone. He had hung up on Dane. What a bastard. One of these days someone was going to eat him, and Dane would get a nasty phone call from his successor asking Dane to figure out how, who, and why. Dane occasionally wondered how he would explain that Jacobson was an ignorant dick while still maintaining his professionalism. It really wasn’t a phone call he was looking forward to.

Purchase

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

Meet the Author

When Mell Eight was in high school, she discovered dragons. Beautiful, wondrous creatures that took her on epic adventures both to faraway lands and on journeys of the heart. Mell wanted to create dragons of her own, so she put pen to paper. Mell Eight is now known for her own soaring dragons, as well as for other wonderful characters dancing across the pages of her books. While she mostly writes paranormal or fantasy stories, she has been seen exploring the real world once or twice.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

No one gets to live your life but you.

Out now at Amazon and on Kindle Unlimited!

  You can find No Sacrifice here.   About No Sacrifice: Patrick has taken his acting talents from high school all the way to a role in a major television show. But as the show progresses, his life of absolute certainties crumbles when he finds himself reacting to the kisses of his male costar. He refuses to accept it, reminding himself he’s happily married to a woman and has a sweet son, Avery. So, straight. Right? One night he goes to drink his worries away and meets the gorgeous Chance Dillon. After too many drinks, Patrick spills his problems to Chance, who helps him realize he’s probably bisexual, and the new understanding helps him sleep better. It turns out Chance is a sound technician on the same set, and the two become fast friends. Their friendship grows, Patrick’s marriage ends, and he returns from his family’s home in Hawai’i with Avery who captures Chance’s heart. Patrick and Chance’s romance blossoms, giving both dreams of a life together as a family of three. When Patrick is outed by the press to his unaccepting mother, he pushes Chance away to spare him the mess Patrick's life has become. By the time he realizes his mistake, it may be too late.   About the author: Grace Duncan grew up with a wild imagination. She told stories from an early age – many of which got her into trouble. Eventually, she learned to channel that imagination into less troublesome areas, including fanfiction, which is what has led her to writing male/male erotica. As someone who loves to travel and see new places, Grace has lived all over the United States. She has currently set up camp in East Texas with her husband and children - both the human and furry kind. As one of those rare creatures who loves research, Grace can get lost for hours on the internet, reading up on any number of strange and different topics. She can also be found writing fanfiction, reading fantasy, crime, suspense, romance and other erotica or even dabbling in art. Website ◊ Facebook ◊ Twitter ◊ Youtube ◊ Goodreads

Title: Half-Light

Series: The Cassie Tam Files, Book Five

Author: Matt Doyle

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: March 2, 2020

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 48300

Genre: Science Fiction, LGBTQIA+, genderfluid, interspecies, space opera, space travel, third gender

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

With Angel Tanner, the android that runs California’s criminal underworld, pulling the strings, PI Cassie Tam finds herself thrust into a conflict with New Hopeland’s biggest and baddest. But working with the murderous AI may be the only way that Cassie can get to the bottom of her home’s greatest mystery: What is New Hopeland City? As she struggles to balance her dealings with allies and enemies alike, Cassie is left with a difficult choice. She has always straddled the line between light and dark. Now, the time to decide which side she’s on is drawing close…if she can figure out which is which.

Excerpt

Half Light Matt Doyle © 2020 All Rights Reserved “Diu.” I look to my right and find a free space to pull the car into. I have a couple of different ringtones on my cell phone, each assigned to give me a clear idea of whether I need—or want—to answer it. This generic-but-far-too-loud melody marks this call as coming from one particular number. Given what day it is, I’ve been expecting to hear from them. The last few days have been spent playing a game that’s essentially the adult equivalent of passing notes in class. I leave a note somewhere, I get another at home, I respond somewhere else. It’s been a pain, and it’s all been leading up to this. “It’s where it leads next I’m worried about.” I steel myself and tap the screen to answer the call. A female voice comes through, dripping with an overacted panic. “Is…is that Cassandra Tam?” I recognise the voice instantly. “It is. Cassie or Caz is fine.” “My name is Anna Welch. I need help, Miss Tam.” I sigh. “Well, that’s what I’m here for. Do you want to discuss this over the phone, or would you rather meet in person?” “In person,” she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Somewhere neutral would be best. I’m rather paranoid, you see.” “Okay, that’s fine. Where?” “I’ll text you the location.” She hangs up, and the text comes through almost immediately. Once I’ve finished reading it, I can’t help but smile. She wants to meet at an old abandoned warehouse. It’s one I’m familiar with. A few months back, I broke up a dog fight in the same building. During the case, I discovered there’s a secret entrance to the building via an underground network of hallways. That gives me a way to monitor her if I need to. Or a convenient escape route. I hit the speed dial for Lori, and it goes straight to her answering service. After the beep, I say, “Hey, it’s Cassie. I guess you’re driving. Listen, I’ve just had a call from a potential client, and I’m gonna have to go meet with them. I’m still coming, but it may be worth checking what later times there are for the film, just in case this runs long. Anyway. Be with you soon.” I throw my phone onto the passenger seat next to me and pull out into the light traffic of the New Hopeland afternoon. * By the time I reach the warehouse, I’ve already run through a number of different scenarios in my head. None of them ended well, so I’m putting my faith in reality right now. “No fear, Tam, this was a voluntary trip,” I remind myself, and push the main door open. Inside looks the same as it did the last time I was here, minus the boxed area. And people. Frowning, I make my way towards the back of the building and start checking doors. Finally, I spot a far-too-tight black ponytail, illuminated by the screen of a computer. “Welch. Real cute using the surname of the woman you murdered,” I say, just loud enough to make sure she heard it. Angel Tanner spins in her chair towards me and laughs, casually turning her monitor off as she does so. “Now, detective, you know full well Harold did that.” “The way I understand it, it amounts to much the same thing, eh?” I walk into the room and she rises to meet me. When she offers a handshake, I take it on instinct. “Actually, no. The core result is the same, but the point is it wasn’t me. That makes it a very different thing, at least in the eyes of the law. Still, I’m happy you reached out.” “I almost didn’t,” I say and then shake my head. “No, that’s not true. I considered looking for a different way to contact you after I found out our mutual acquaintance was Gary Locke. You could have got in touch any time you wanted.” “Yes, I could have. But I knew talking to Mister Locke would be hard for you after that whole unfortunate incident with your girlfriend and her brother.” “Unfortunate incident?” I reply, my words dripping with a mix of anger and shock. “He tried to kill both of us. And he convinced her brother to take his own life for a cause that wasn’t even real.” “Which is why I did it this way. I needed to know you were serious in your intention. Oh, and the cause was real, I’m certain of that. Or the part Locke cared about was anyway.” I grunt and shake my head. “I didn’t come here to talk about conspiracy theories. You said I wanted to know what’s happening in New Hopeland, and you’re right. You want help to find out the same thing, so I came. Can we please get on with this? I have plans.” She smiles her creepy smile and nods. “You and me both, detective. But that’s fine. Today was more about checking you’re on board than anything. So, this will be our base of operations for the time being. It’s out of the way, and it’s neither used nor monitored, so it’s fit for purpose.” I shrug. “Seems okay. It’s easy enough to get to.” “I should hope so. You’ll be spending a good amount of time here. Now, to business. What I said on the phone wasn’t entirely false; I really do need your help. As you can imagine, I can’t move freely right now, and my links in the city aren’t particularly well suited for certain jobs. Like the one I have for you to do tomorrow.” “Which is?” She pulls an envelope out of her pocket and hands it to me. “This contains a couple of photographs relating to Anna Welch’s case. You’re going to visit Mister Locke at the prison tomorrow morning and question him about them. They contain some gifts for him, a mild drug on one, and a special communicator on the other. You’ll find a corresponding communicator in there, too, along with instructions as to what to do with it. Make sure you read them somewhere cameras can’t see them clearly.” “Great. You know, he wasn’t happy to see me the last time.” “I don’t doubt it. Harold will make sure he plays nice though. I trust you can do the same?” “For now.” “Good enough.” She waves me away and heads back to her computer. “Now, go enjoy yourself. We’ll talk more soon.” Play nicely. Follow orders until you know more. I leave without another word.

Purchase

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

Meet the Author

Matt Doyle is a speculative fiction author from the UK and identifies as pansexual and genderfluid. Matt has spent a great deal of time chasing dreams, a habit which has led to success in a great number of fields. To date, this has included spending ten years as a professional wrestler, completing a range of cosplay projects, and publishing multiple works of fiction. These days, Matt can be found working on multiple novels and stories, blogging about pop culture, and plotting and planning far too many projects.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Title: Peacemaker

Series: A Dalí Tamareia Novel

Author: E.M. Hamill

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: March 2, 2020

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 78000

Genre: Science Fiction/Fantasy, LGBTQIA+, genderfluid, interspecies, space opera, space travel, third gender

Add to Goodreads

Synopsis

Third-gender operative Dalí Tamareia thought their life as an ambassador ended when they joined a galactic intelligence agency. When they’re yanked out of the field and tapped to negotiate the surrender of deadly bio-engineered warriors who crashed into hostile territory, Dalí is thrust headfirst back into the tumultuous world of galactic diplomacy. Dalí has faced Shontavians before, but not like these. The stranded mercenaries are highly intelligent and have an agenda of their own. Dalí can’t afford to be distracted from the negotiations by their own demons or the presence of a charming diplomat with a mysterious past. As a brewing civil war threatens to derail the entire mission, Dalí must use all their skills to bring this dangerous situation to a peaceful end—but the Shontavians may not be the biggest monsters at the table. Someone is determined to see Dalí and their team dead before they discover the brutal truth hidden in the wreckage.

Excerpt

Peacemaker E.M. Hamill © 2020 All Rights Reserved I keep ending up in labyrinthine mazes. There’s a psychological diagnosis in there, somewhere. On the surface, Bariish displayed its harsh beauty in jagged mountains undulating in parti-colored heaves of red, yellow, and white. But beneath the planet’s landscape lay a hostile, ugly environment. Valuable ore streaked the planet’s crust in tight wires, a coveted material bringing astronomical prices in the open market. Danger lurked in the greed of fellow miners who would just as soon steal the ore someone else coaxed out of the rocky matrix to increase the weight of their own day’s take, and thus the credits received at the end of their stint. Guards maintained a presence in the shaft, but the dark, noisy area contained warrens of tunnels which couldn’t all be patrolled at once. The heat in the mineshaft stifled me. Vibration from the pneumatic hammer pounded my bones as I chiseled out narrow fragments of rare metal and dropped them into a half-full bucket anchored between my boots. Sweat rolled off my back underneath the protective coveralls, burned my eyes behind the goggles I wore, and noise-canceling headgear formed a swamp around my ears. I didn’t look forward to removing any of it. Bitter dust rimed my mouth as I leaned the hammer against the stony wall and dug a water ration out of the deep thigh pocket of my coveralls. Heads-up informatics in my goggles displayed the depth from the surface, the air quality, and the time remaining on my shift. Fifteen minutes, all conditions green. I was ready to get out. The claustrophobic awareness of two kilometers of rock overhead remained a constant companion and pressed as heavily as the still atmosphere in the tunnel. I finished the water and picked up my hammer again. For more than two months, Ziggy and I had been undercover in this illegal mining operation. The first couple of weeks, I did little but register my take with the clerks, go back to our ship on the sandy apron where the rest of the itinerant miners camped, and pick blistered skin off my hands before collapsing into an exhausted coma. The hard physical labor on a planet where gravity was denser than my accustomed Gs proved a new conditioning challenge. My endurance increased each day, but there were limits on the number of hours we were allowed to scrape our take from the mine, and the sound of the warning klaxon brought a sense of relief. Many Nos, Cthash, and Tolkish drifters worked on the day shift: humanoid, oxygen-breathing species like mine, all drawn by the promise of galactic credits, having left their home systems for reasons of their own. I was the only human in the shaft, night or day. The only one in camp at the time. I kept a low profile, but oddities tend to draw attention. I hate it when that happens. A shove to the middle of my back sent me off balance. The powerful excavator danced in an uncontrolled frenzy across the rocks, and I spun, the container of ore threatening to spill. I managed to right it with one heel and shut off the hammer. Two Nos stood behind me, sneering beneath steamed-up goggles and safety helmets. Tracks of sweat traced pale lines against their grime-covered, glacial skin. The taller of the two thrust a quarter-full ore bucket at me and pantomimed I should empty my take into his. I’d seen these assholes before. They’d performed the same act with other workers that week, beating the shit out of anyone who refused. A quick glance around showed no guards close by—not that they would have heard anything over the din of mining activity. I leaned the equipment against the rock wall and capped my ore canister, leaving it inside the alcove where I worked. Empty-handed, I stepped out. My specialized senses can’t help me where the Nos are concerned. They’re flat nulls, a blank broadcast muffling the spread of my empathic nets, but I’ve come to learn from close work with a Nos crewmate all I need to know is written in their body language. Tall guy pointed to my bucket again and then to his. Tense, jerky. The smug, shorter Nos behind him stood in a relaxed, expectant slouch. So, he was the one in charge. I shook my head and crossed my arms over my chest. What are you going to do about it? Excitement sang through my bloodstream, anticipating a fight. The pain of muscle beginning to shift in response to my changeling hormones remained invisible under my coveralls. The ache between my shoulder blades throbbed in a knot of eager, pent-up energy. The taller Nos shoved his container at the short guy, who calmly took it and stepped back. I used the time to move into the center of the shaft, into the clear space between the magnetic tracks upon which the crew carrier rode. He swung at me. Here we go.

Purchase

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

Meet the Author

E.M. Hamill is a nurse by day, sci fi and fantasy novelist by night. She lives in eastern Kansas with her family, where they fend off flying monkey attacks and prep for the zombie apocalypse. She also writes young adult material under the name Elisabeth Hamill. Her first novel, SONG MAGICK, won first place for YA fantasy in the 2014 Dante Rossetti Awards for Young Adult Fiction.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway