Saturday, November 23, 2013

The Red Sector Chronicles Blitz, Excerpt & Giveaway!


The Red Sector Chronicles
Krystle Jones

(The Red Sector Chronicles Omnibus)
Genres: Dystopia, Paranormal Romance, Young Adult



The strength of Sloane’s heart is about to be put to the ultimate test.

After the Eclipse – the night vampires began openly slaughtering human victims – everything changed. Out of fear, the government salvaged what remained of the human population and enclosed them in massive, security-laden cities called White Sectors, while marking the vampire infested territory as Red Sectors.

When seventeen-year-old Sloane McAllister’s twin brother disappears, she seems to be the only one who thinks he isn’t dead, and she vows to stop at nothing to find him. Gathering her courage, she braves the Red Sector to search for clues to his whereabouts. By chance, she encounters Aden, a handsome, charismatic vampire with a hidden agenda. He turns Sloane against her will and whisks her away to his underground city. Enemies quickly become friends as Sloane struggles against her attraction to Aden, and resists her growing loyalties to the creatures that ruined her life.

But the vampires themselves are the least of her problems. A war is brewing between the humans and vampires, along with a growing web of deceit and betrayal. And before it’s all over, loyalties will be tested, hearts will be broken, and no one’s lives will ever be the same.

Goodreads for the Omnibus: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18742623-the-red-sector-chronicles-omnibus-edition?ac=1

Purchase:
--Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/The-Sector-Chronicles-Omnibus-Edition-ebook/dp/B00GB37DV4/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1383222910&sr=8-4&keywords=the+red+sector+chronicles
--Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/372600

Excerpt 

The Scarlet Dagger *free download!* Or get the whole trilogy for $5.99. *Offer valid through November 25th.*
I opened the door and flipped on the light. At first, I thought it was the smallest closet ever. Then I looked to my right, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. The closet ran behind the entire length of the TV wall, lined with racks, cubbies for shoes, and drawers. For the most part, the racks were empty, save for a few pairs of jeans and some plain shirts.
“All this” – I motioned around the room – “is for me?”
Aden nodded. “Yep. If you don’t like the color –”
“It’s amazing. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Mrs. Knight’s voice floated up the stairs. “Guess I’ll go claim that aspirin,” Aden said. “There are clean towels in the bathroom if you want to shower.” He turned to leave.
“Hey,” I said.
He paused, quirking a brow in that quizzical way of his.
“Sorry I punched you in the face,” I mumbled, shifting my weight.
He tried to grin and then winced, touching his jaw. It was swollen, but I could tell it was already starting to heal. As he looked at me, something in his eyes shifted. “You can make it up to me.”
My brows furrowed.
He walked back, stopping a few inches in front of me. “Go on a date with me.”
I blinked in surprise. That wasn’t what I had expected him to say. “I just punched you in the face, and you want to go out with me?”
“Eh, it’s all relative. The way I see it, it’s not every day I find a girl who can kick my ass. It’s kind of hot.” The non-bruised side of his face lifted into a wry smile.
 I flushed. No one had ever called me “hot” before. My best friends were a bunch of guys, and they treated me like one of the boys. Then again, “hot” wasn’t exactly a compliment in my book. It usually meant “bang-able,” not exactly something a respectable girl wanted to be called.
“So what do you think?” he asked softly.
“No.”
“No?”
I firmly shook my head. “No way. Not in your wildest dreams.”
The look on his face said he clearly wasn’t used to being blown off. His eyes held mine as he reached up to cradle my cheek. “Then I guess I’ll have to change your mind.”
I swatted his hand away and turned around before he could see me blush anymore. He chuckled, and I was afraid he’d push the topic, but a few seconds later I heard the door close.
My heart beat wildly. What was the matter with me? This was the guy who ruined my life, so shouldn’t I hate him? I tried to make sense of my feelings.
“All right, sure,” I said to myself, pacing. “You’re attracted to him. It’s perfectly natural. He’s handsome, he’s surprisingly sweet, he’s…”
He had been very kind to me, which was the exact opposite of the picture the government and my memories had painted for us. Vampires should be wild, feral creatures whose sole purpose was to prey on humans. But Aden and his mother, Paris, Rook and Angel, this place… they seemed normal, almost human, with the exception of the charming General Frost.
I groaned and rubbed my eyes, more confused than when I’d started.



AUTHOR BIO:

Krystle Jones was born and raised in the small, southern town of Tullahoma, Tennessee. Reading and writing have been lifelong passions of hers. In addition to being a novelist, she is also an award-winning flutist, and moonlights as a voice actress. Her voice can be heard in the popular online game, Alice is Dead 3.

Author Links:
www.krystlejonesbooks.com
twitter.com/kryjonesbooks
facebook.com/krystlejonesbooks
goodreads.com/krystlejonesbooks


Friday, November 22, 2013

Drawn Blitz, Excerpt & Giveaway!

The Defiance

Drawn
Cecilia Gray

Publication date: November 13th 2013
Genres: Paranormal, Young Adult



Take a journey into the gritty world of political espionage through the eyes – and lies – of one extraordinary girl. A wholly original tale of friendship and betrayal from the author of The Jane Austen Academy series….

Sasha has a secret – that she can make you spillyour secret with nothing more than a question. Her strange gift makes her a burden to her foster family and a total freak of nature. Not that Sasha cares. Why should she when no one cares about her?

Then the CIA knocks on her door. They want to give Sasha a new identity and drop her into a foreign country to infiltrate a ring of zealous graffiti terrorists. They want to give Sasha something to care about.

To survive a world where no one is who they seem, Sasha needs to make people trust her. But when that trust blossoms into love, Sasha is forced to decide between duty and friendship, between her mind and her heart, and whether to tell the truth or keep her secrets.

--Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Cecilia-Gray/e/B0077RU55Y/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

--B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/cecilia-gray


Excerpt
FBI Field Office, Atlanta, Georgia

I've studied Chelsea since the FBI teamed us up when I was twelve. She has a move…classic Chelsea. She turns the doorknob and her body stiffens, a metal rod shoved down her spine. As she sets a high heel inside the interrogation room, her southern accent and soft manners are buried beneath a terrifyingly sleek, blond exterior in a perfectly pressed pinstriped suit.
Four years of practice, two custom-cut suits of my own, and I still look epileptic when I try to project that sense of total control. Of I've got this. Even though I don't have her drawl and my posture's not bad.
I follow Chelsea, stiff as can be, into the room with the bright white walls. Our sicko suspect glances up from the steel table in its center. I flinch at his chilling stare. Flinching already, see. A slow smile bulges his cheeks as he studies me. Attention from a guy in an orange jumpsuit sitting at a steel table—to which he is handcuffed—is what Chelsea would officially term an undesirable outcome. More undesirable—me showing I care. Like she always says, "Don't let 'em see you sweat, hon."
No way am I giving this psycho the satisfaction. I suppress a shiver as the air conditioning kicks on with a groan. Tiny goosebumps break out on my forearms, raising the fine hairs to attention. Can't rub myself warm—that's a tell. Instead, when Chelsea slides into one of the fold-out metal chairs across from him, I follow her lead and take comfort in her giraffe-like posture in the chair next to mine.
Chelsea tosses a manila folder so that its contents spill across the table. The file details his alleged heinous crimes, the FBI's efforts to track him, and the blood evidence in his garage that matches that of the latest missing girl—Georgia State art major, vegetarian, and more important to the suits, daughter of a local bigwig. Funny, the things you remember from a file when they have nothing to do with the case, like how she specialized in collages. They'd found cut-up pieces of magazines littered across the desk and floor of her dorm room. The pieces trailed into the hall like flower petals down a church aisle.
The strewn high-gloss photos of his suspected victims—his own personal collage of the young, female, and carved—don't solicit a cringe from him when I can barely hold down my water and I've been staring at them for weeks. My gaze flickers to the one-way mirror—a silent promise: We're gonna nail this freak.
"I'm FBI Agent Chelsea Tanner. This is my partner. How are you this evening?"
This is normally when a suspect will ask, with understandable outrage, why I'm party to the interrogation because aren't I, at almost sixteen, too young to be in the FBI? Pinstriped suit or not, I look my age, maybe even a year or two younger because I've always been small—childhood malnutrition will do that to a girl.
It's the suspects who don't care that I'm in the room who worry me. Like this guy, whose pale eyes flicker to my throat.
I fight the urge to shift, even to clench my fingers tight into a fist. I don't blink.
"Fine weather we're having this winter." Chelsea manages not to smirk at our sitting in a windowless room. Her face is unbreakable. "These are perfect skies for a getaway. Do you have plans for the weekend?"
When he doesn't answer, she shares our itinerary—a leisurely drive to Savannah to visit her mother at their family wintering home. Yes, that's a thing. The trip always involves mint juleps and wide-brimmed hats, not that Chelsea shares the finer details. A genteel background rarely earns cred with criminals.
She chit-chats as if he's not imagining the slice of his boning knife into my neck. The careful incision he would carve against the clavicle, removing the flat bone from the ligaments attached to the shoulder. I don't need my unique magic to know what's on his mind. Some things in the case file stick for a reason.
My bone structure fascinates him. His gaze caresses my cheekbones, roams over the bridge of my nose, dips into the hollow of my neck, and brushes the stray dark corkscrew curls that drape over my sternum.
Don't move. Don't blink. Don't even breathe.
"Savannah's so beautiful this time of year. Any time of year. I go as often as I can. Don't you think you should make time for family?" The word rolls off her tongue in three syllables, a rare ray of southern shining through her otherwise stiff facade.
Fah. Mil. Lee.
He closes his eyes as though in prayer. When he opens them, his pupils dilate to nearly black and he rubs his thumbs over his knuckles. He does not take the bait.
Come on, Chelsea. You work your magic and I'll work mine.
That's our deal. She gets them talking. I make them spill their guts.




AUTHOR BIO:
Cecilia Gray lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she reads, writes and breaks for food. She also pens her biographies in the third person. Like this. As if to trick you into thinking someone else wrote it because she is important. Alas, this is not the case.

Cecilia has been praised for “instilling a warmth and weight into her characters” (Romancing The Book Reviews) and her books have been praised for being “well-written, original, realistic and witty” (Quills & Zebras Reviews).

Her latest series of young-adult contemporary Jane Austen retellings was named a What’s Hot pick (RT Book Reviews magazine) and is a Best of 2012 pick (Kirkus Reviews) where it was praised for being a “unique twist on a classic” and offering “a compelling mix of action, drama and love.”

She’s rather enamored of being contacted by readers and hopes you’ll oblige.


Website: http://www.ceciliagray.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ceciliagray
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5061397.Cecilia_Gray
Twitter: https://twitter.com/ceciliabooks





Dead Dreams Tour, Excerpt & Giveaway!

Dead Dreams
By Emma Right

Blurb: 
Eighteen-year-old Brie O’Mara has so much going for her: a loving family in the sidelines, an heiress for a roommate, and dreams that might just come true. Big dreams--of going to acting school, finishing college and making a name for herself. She is about to be the envy of everyone she knew. What more could she hope for? Except her dreams are about to lead her down the road to nightmares. Nightmares that could turn into a deadly reality.


Dead Dreams, Book 1, a young adult psychological thriller and contemporary mystery.




Available to purchase at





Prologue & Chapter 1

Prologue



They say each dead body, a human corpse, has a scent all of its own, a sweet-sour smell. A cadaver dog picks up the odor as clearly as a mother recognizes a photo of her child. Of course, I wouldn’t know, for I am no dog. I might as well have been, the way I’d stooped to yield to my basic instincts. My mind wandered to her, what her unique smell would be when, and if, they ever were to find her.


  
After what happened, I decided to write out the events that led to that day and details in case Id missed something, or might need it for defense, or in case they found me dead. My relatives might need to piece together the things that had spiraled out of control, if they wanted to put me to rest, to forget me altogether. That would bleast painful for them. I nodded to myself as I sat in the car. I thought of my most favorite girl in the world: Lilly. At least Lillyd have my dog, Holly, to remember me by

My friends used to call me Brie, short for Brianna. But, I could hardly count anyone a friend any more. Id have to resort to back-watching if I wanted to survive.




 Chapter One


It started on a warm April afternoon. Gusts of wind blew against the oak tree right outside my kitchen balcony, in my tiny apartment in Atherton, California. Sometimes the branches that touched the side of the building made scraping noises. The yellow huckleberry flowers twining their way across my apartment balcony infused the air with sweetness.

My mother had insisted, as  was her tendency on most things, I take the pot of wild huckleberry, her housewarming gift, to my new two-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t really new, just new to me, as was the entire experience of living separately, away from my  family, and the prospect of having a roommate, someone who could be a best friend, something I’d dreamed of since I finished high school and debuted into adulthood.

“Wait for me by the curb,” my mother said, her voice blaring from the phone even though I didn’t set her on speaker. You need to eat better. Her usual punctuation at the end of her orders.



So, I skipped down three flights of steps and headed toward the side of the apartment building to await my mothers gift of the evening, salad in an รก la chicken style, her insistent recipe to cure me of bad eating habits. At least it wasn’t chicken soup double-boiled till the bones melted, I consoled myself.

I hadn’t waited long when a vehicle careened round the corner. I heard it first, that high-pitched screech of brakes wearing thin when the driver rammed his foot against it. From the corner of my eye, even before I turned to face it, I saw the blue truck. It rounded the bend where Emerson Street met Ravenswood, tottered before it righted itself and headed straight at me.

I took three steps back, fell and scrambled to get back up as the vehicle like a giant bullet struck the sidewalk I had only  seconds ago stood on. The driver must have lost control, but when he hit the sidewalk it slowed the vehicle enough so he could bridle his speed and manage the truck as he continued to careen down the street.

My mother arrived a half minute later but she had seen it all. Like superwoman, she leaped out of her twenty-year-old Mercedes and rushed toward me, all breathless and blonde hair disheveled.

Are you all right? She reached out to help me up.

Yes, yes,” I said, brushing the dirt off my yoga pants.

“Crazy driver. Brie, I just dont know about this business of you staying alone here like this.” She walked back to her white Mercedes, leaned in the open window, and brought out a casserole dish piled high with something green. Make that several shades of green.

I followed her, admittedly winded.Seriously, Mom. It’s just one of those things. Mad drivers could happen anywhere I live.”

She gave me no end of grief as to what a bad idea it was for me to live alone like this even though she knew I was going to get a roommate.

“Mom, stop worrying,” I said.

Youre asking me to stop being your mother, I hope you realize this.”

“I’ll find someone dependable by the end of the week, I promise.” No way I was going back to live at home. Not that I came from a bad home environment. But I had my reasons.

I had advertised on Craigs List, despite my mothers protests that only scum would answer “those kinds of ads.

Perhaps there was some truth to Mothers biases, but I wouldnt exactly call Sarah McIntyre scum. If she was, what would that make me?

Sarah’s father had inherited the family coalmoney. Their ancestors had emigrated from Scotland (where else, with a name like McIntyre, right?) in the early 1800s and bought an entire mountain (I kid you not) in West Virginia. It was a one-hit wonder in that the mountain hid a coal fortune under it, and hence the McIntyre Coal Rights Company was born. This was the

McIntyre claim to wealth, and also a source of remorse and guilt for Sarah, for supposedly dozens of miners working for them had lost their lives due to the business, most to lung cancer or black lung, as it was commonly called. Hazards of the occupation.

And then there were cave-ins, which presented another set of drama altogether, Sarah said.

I sat across from her, the coffee table between us, in the small living room during our first meeting. So, that’s why youre not on talking terms with your family? Because of abuses of the coal company? I asked.

We sipped hot cocoa and sat cross-legged in the crammed living room, which also doubled as the dining space. I’d never interviewed anyone before, although Id read tips on the Internet.

“I just dont want to be reminded anymore,” she said, twirling her dark ringlets round and round on her pointer finger.

“But, its not entirely your dads fault those people died of lung problems.

“I guess, but I just want to get away, you understand? Anyway, I’m almost twenty-one now. Thats three years too late for moving out and establishing my own space.” She took tiny sips of the cocoa, both hands cupping the mug as if she were cold.

I walked to the thermostat and upped the temperature. A slight draft still stole in from a gap in the balcony sliding door I always kept open a crack to let the air circulate.

“So, your family’s okay with you living here? In California? In this apartment that’s probably smaller than your bathroom?  With a stranger?”

First off, its none of their business. Secondly, you and I won’t stay strangers. Sarah flashed me a grin. “Besides, I’m tired of big houses with too many rooms to get lost in. And, have you lived in West Virginia?

I shook my head. The farthest I’d been was Nevada when we went for our family annual ski vacation. I heard its pretty.

“If you like hot, humid summers and bitter cold winters. So, do I pass? As a roommate?

She looked about at the ceiling. I wondered if she noticed the dark web in the corner and the lack of cornices and crown moldings. I was sure I smelled mold in the living room, too. But I wasn’t in a position to choose. Sarah was.

As long as youre not a psychopath and can pay rent.” I returned her smile.

I dont know about the psychopath part. She shrugged and displayed her white, evenly-spaced teeth. But here’s my bank account.” She tossed me a navy blue booklet with gilded edges and with golden words “Bank of America” on the cover.

I fumbled as I caught it and was unsure what to do. Should I peek?

“Go on. She gestured, flicking her fingers at me as if I were a stray cat afraid to take a morsel of her offering.

No secrets. I can well afford to pay rent. And, I’m a stable individual.

I flipped the first few pages and saw the numerous transactions in lumps my parents, who were by no means poor, would have gasped at. The last page registered the numbers: under deposits, $38,000. My eyes scanned the row of numbers and realized that the sum $38,000 came up every sixth of the month.

My mouth must have been open for she said, You can stop gawking. Its only my trust fund. It comes to me regardless of where I am, or where I stay. So, do I make the cut?”

I handed the bank book back. We discussed the house rules: no smoking; no drugs, and that included pot; no boyfriend sleepovers or wild parties, which was a clause in my landlords lease; and Sarah was to hand me her share of the rent, a mere $800 a month, on the twenty-eighth of every month, since I was the main renter and she the sub-letter.

She didn’t want anything down on paperno checks, no contracts, and no way of tracing things back to her, shed stressed a few times.

She fished in her Louis Vuitton and handed me a brown paper bag, the kind kids carry their school lunches in. I peeked inside and took out a stash of what looked like a wad of papers bundled together with a rubber band. Her three-month share of the deposit, a total of twenty-four crisp hundred-dollar bills. They had that distinct new-bank-notes-smell that spoke of luxury.

I gulped down my hot chocolate. Why all the secrecy? I hope your parents will at least know your address. I said as I wrapped up the interview. I could understand not wanting parents breathing down her neck, but as long as they didn’t insist on posting a guard at the door, what was the harm of them knowing where she lived?

Sarah glanced about the room as if afraid the neighbors might have their ears pinned to the walls, listening.

She leaned forward and, her face expressionless, said softly, “My parents are dead.



About the Author
Emma Right is a happy wife and home school mother of five living in the Pacific West Coast of the USA. Besides running a busy home, and looking after their five pets, which includes two cats, two bunnies and a long-haired dachshund, she also writes stories for her children. When she doesn't have her nose in a book, she is telling  her kids to get theirs in one.

Right worked as a copywriter for two major advertising agencies and won several awards, including the prestigious Clio Award for her ads, before she settled down to have children.

You can stalk, I mean follow Emma here

               

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