PNR & UF Giveaway Party
Welcome to the #PNR and #UF Giveaway Party!
Who’s ready for a giveaway you can get your hands on? A bunch of authors got together to bring your this Big Box of Paperbacks Giveaway! One lucky winner is going to win SIXTY-TWO (62) Paperback Books! How’s that for an epic Book-Lover’s Prize?! If you are a fan of Urban Fantasy, Dystopian Fiction, or Paranormal/SciFi Romance, you’re going to want to get in on this! The best part is that even if you don’t win, you’ll be subscribed to the sponsoring authors newsletters for a chance to grab some freebies, snag some special offers, and enter more giveaways!
Here are a couple of sneak peeks!
Excerpt from Foxblood: A Brush with the Moon by Raquel Lyon
The funeral was a typically sombre affair, alive with soggy tissues and streaky make-up. I stood at the back, letting the vicar’s voice wash over me, and spent the whole time staring at the flower-laden coffin, wondering if the lid would suddenly flip up and a fanged monster would escape to reap its vengeance on the congregation.
Unsurprisingly, it didn’t happen, and as the mourners dispersed in the direction of the pub, I quietly snuck off home. I wasn’t in the mood for crowds and needed time to think, time to try to make sense of at least something, but as I turned to close the door, it was obstructed by a perfectly polished black shoe that belonged to…
“Seb, please,” he said, easing his way through. “Only my father calls me Sebastian.” He checked down the backstreet and closed the door securely. His eyes scanned the flat. “Nice place.”
“I like it.”
“It doesn’t bother you? Living over a funeral parlour?” he asked.
“Why would it? The neighbours are quiet.”
He didn’t laugh at my joke; neither did he comment. He simply stood silently, staring. It was very unnerving and made my legs go all wobbly. Perhaps if I turned away from him, he’d disappear again? It was worth a shot. I forced my jelly legs over to the front window and stared out at nothing in particular. The light was subdued, and the sky had darkened to an air force grey. A low mist was beginning to carpet the distant fields, and I wondered if snow had been forecast.
I knew my little experiment hadn’t worked. He was still there. I could feel his presence and smell his scent, a musky, inviting aroma that filled my senses and sent my head into a whirl, and it was getting stronger.
“Your friends interrupted us the other day. Can we talk now?” he whispered softly into my neck, and his fingertips traced a fiery trail down my spine.
“What’s the point? There’s nothing to say. I wish you’d just leave me alone,” I said, lowering my head in time to see Lara leaving the newsagents. She glanced up with a look of fury contorting her face as Sebastian’s hands reached around either side of me and grabbed the window frame.
“I can’t do that. I’m not that strong,” he said.
I studied the arms now imprisoning me, with their perfectly formed muscles straining against the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt, and seriously doubted his statement. His stance was predatory and made me feel uncomfortable. I ducked under his elbow to escape, but he caught me around the waist and pulled me against him. Our bodies moulded together perfectly, and the strength of his grip made me feel like a china doll that he’d be able to crush in an instant. He was almost a full head taller than I was, and the warmth of his breath caressed my forehead. How easy it would be to reach up and taste those lips. I imagined the feel of them, and my own parted in an involuntary invitation.
The full Foxblood series can be seen here: http://foxifae.wixsite.com/raquellyon
Autumn Winters, Realm Watchers Book 1 by J. S. Malcom
The rain has stopped, but fog crept in while I sat in Rory’s. I walk through that fog now, the streetlights casting cones of luminescence that capture swirling mist. I should go straight home, but I really want a bottle of wine. J.J.’s Market is only two blocks off and I walk toward neon signs advertising beer and cigarettes, drawn like a moth. Not long ago, I was newly married, looking forward to finishing my MFA in Design with the hope of someday starting my own business. I barely drank and rarely got drunk. Now, I’m wandering around out here at night trying to avoid ghosts and unwilling to go home without alcohol because I’m afraid I won’t sleep. My eyes start to prickle and I wipe the back of my hand across my face.
And, no, I’m not alone. I can’t hear her behind me—her steps will never make sound again. All the same, I feel her there and soon she walks beside me.
“Hello?” she says.
I keep walking. God, it breaks my heart but I don’t want her next to me.
“Can you hear me?”
Yes, I can hear you. I say nothing.
One block to go and maybe I’ll just uncork that bottle right in the store. With any luck, she’ll veer off and find some other lucky person to latch onto.
“I really need your help.” Her breath hitches as her voice rises in pitch. She’s also crying and I just can’t ignore her—it’s not about me anymore.
I slow down, then stop. I wipe my eyes, realizing that she’s not the only one crying.
“Are you okay?” she says.
Seriously? Things have gotten that bad?
I take a deep breath to calm down. “I’m fine. Okay, I’m lying but I can deal with that later. What’s going on with you?”
“I’m not dead,” she says.
I turn to look at her. No, she doesn’t look dead but many of them don’t. Not to me, anyway. Some are more translucent while others appear basically the same as you and me, give or take the glow around them. That’s not guaranteed either. People are all different, whether dead or alive. One of my new theories is that we all start out as “dead” before becoming “alive” again. Like a lightbulb switching on and off again here in this realm. I think it’s a circular system. It seems an efficient use of energy. In this theory, ghosts are glitches. But this girl next to me isn’t interested in hearing about my theories, which change daily anyway. She just wants to know what’s going on.
I really don’t want to go there right now but I’m stuck in this situation. I look at her young, beautiful face. Trusting eyes stare back at me.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “Did it happen fast? Was it a car crash or something?”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what happened.”
I don’t want to take it to the next level but, evidently, I have no choice. “Did you commit suicide?”
That happens a lot too, I’ve come to learn. Suicide is a big one for getting you grounded. You cause that kind of pain and you just can’t move on.
She shakes her head again. “No. Please, that isn’t what happened.”
I think for a moment, hesitating because I hate the dark stuff. I really don’t want to know if she was murdered.
“I’m not dead,” she says. “I swear. They took my body!”
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