Alex Conner Chronicles Book Tour, Guest Post, and Giveaway

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There’s only one option I can think of and it’s one I was forbidden to use. He told me never to
contact him, to stay away from him, but how can I? Alex’s life is at stake, so to hell with his
rules.
Dana’s pinching grip on my arm breaks me away from my thoughts. She knows my plan,
though she still insists on trying things her way again. I swear warm blood is dripping down the
length of my arm, and I tense when a drop pulls away to fall upon the cold tile. I couldn’t have
some decent clothes, could I? Well, it doesn’t help that she practically grabbed me out of bed and
led me back to the guest room where Alex had been staying in my damn pajama shorts and tank.
“Ease up a bit, will ya?” We’ve been trying to take Dana’s Dreamwalk back to when
Alex was taken on and off for hours now, yet we still can’t break into the memory, despite
exhausting brain squeezing attempt, after attempt. The room, which harbored cool tones and an
empty bed flickers to show the scene from hours passed. Alex is sitting up talking to me as I sit
next to her on the bed and I brace myself for what happens next. Darkness engulfs the room,
along with a trembling roar that seems to rattle the cracks of the tile in its grouted spaces.
“What in the hell is that mojo keeping us out? What did you do blondie?” Her voice
whispers into my ear, angry though laced with a rare dose of fear from the Mistress of Potions
and Weaponry. “There’s something sick and twisted stuck all over this putrid muck, like a
vamp’s mouth sucking on a prostitute’s neck. Some crazy Seer blockage is what this is.” Her
grip grows even tighter and I try to pull away.
“Look, Potions Priestess,” I growl. I’ve grown tired of being beaten down each time we
trek into the past. “This is not working, and it is not because of me.” I gulp silently hoping this
isn’t from me, or from those hidden parts of me that have been cemented over with double walls
of brick, mortar, and secrets. Dana releases her fingers from where they’ve burrowed into my
skin.
“You asked for it gypsy queen.” At the end of her promise, a fury of feathery smacks and
barbed scrapes unleashes, as if I’ve walked through a forest of thorns with a background noise of
an unwavering screeching inside my brain. I drop to my knees gasping and rubbing the length of
my neck willing it to open so I can breathe. I take in a thankful inhale at a slight reprieve only to
choke on feathers lodging themselves in, attempting to force me to swallow them down. I shut
my mouth and fold into myself onto the ground, my hands over my head like I’m reenacting a
tornado drill from school.
“Fight it, Sandra! You have to tear this thing down. We are in your memory, so you can
control it.” What she truly means is that I better get control over it if we’re going to find Alex,
but nothing I try works. I am entirely blocked out, and whatever the cause is has some serious
badass power backing it up.
“I can’t,” I whimper, doubting she can even hear me over both the raucous and the fact
that my lips are pressed against the hard floor. A tugging sensation yanks my mind with a pop,
followed by silence and only the fan’s hush of cool air flowing along my skin.

“You can get up now, we’re done. I don’t know what else to do besides back your plan.”
I swear she wants to spit on the floor after her sardonic statement. It’s hardly my plan.

What inspired you to write this book?
I have been writing for most of my life. In a plastic bin, I still have stories, journals, and even
backs of napkins that hold words and stories back as far as elementary school. I think my love
for writing came from a passion for reading and for the arts. My grandmother and father love to
read, and I remember sitting with them in a sunroom in Biloxi, or on our porch in Kentucky
reading alongside them in the silence. When I was writing, I don’t think I saw ahead to be an
author until much later in life. I had submitted a poem or two to contests in college, but it wasn’t
until my mid-20’s that I thought maybe I could tackle a book. I mean I had done a thesis, and
two poem books, so why not go for gold and create an entire story—hell an entire world. I think
the thing that held me back, the thing that closed the doors deep in my psyche, was that most of
the fantasy and sci-fi books I had read were male authors. It wasn’t until my 30’s that the idea
for writing a book with a strong, compelling, messy, and inappropriate protagonist really came
to life. I thank those women I found in the paranormal and urban fantasy genre for leading me
towards life as an author. When I began to read Jeaniene Frost, Kelley Armstrong, Cecy Robson,
I realized my type of humor, action, romance, and magic all worked. They had proved it.
But it wasn’t until four years after my mom passed, something that has impacted me on a level I
am not sure I have really tapped into let alone recovered from, that the well of creativity brewing
since I was a child filled up and overflowed. I was in the Arizona desert with one of my best
friends when I had a vision of my mom. When I tell you I saw and spoke to her, there is no way I
doubt what happened. I felt her hands in mine, a glowing light warming me throughout my body
and the sensation that she was happy, safe, and would never leave me. There is something about
the desert, it was her favorite place after all, and that experience was the most magical thing that
has ever happened in my life. When I came home from that trip, my first book, Trust, poured
out of me. I was working as a high school guidance counselor and would still write until one or
two in the morning before getting up at 5:30 a.m. for work. I drove myself to that final page, and
now, here I am, six books later and finding a foothold in the indie community. I will never stop
writing and will continue to seek to create new worlds and new stories for Alex. She saved me in
a way, keeps saving me, by allowing me to escape into her world, one that my mother helped
create.

Author: Angie

Mom, blogger, social media influencer, healthcare worker View all posts by Angie