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My life, my future….
My club.

Forgive me Father for I have Sinned.

True

Oh, how I’ve sinned and sinned. Even my brother’s pious meddling can’t

undo the damage I’ve done. As VP of the Broken Bows MC I’m content to
be the devious, dark and dangerous twin.

Truth though? I wish he was by my side. I’d do

almost anything to pull him away from his flock and back to the
darkness that I know resides within him.

I

see myself in them.

My sins.

My brother and the MC want me to return to the club, though
it’s not my home. It never was. The church has nurtured me, settling
my demons. When an attack occurs on the club their request
becomes my undoing.

They use her.

She is my desire.

Scarlet is True’s though I covet her.

I’ve fought their pull like the taught string of the bow.

Like me, a single shot will ruin everything.

Thing is, I’m noone’s

pawn.

One way or another, he’ll
pay for the damage to us, to them, to her…

I thought the game had been played.

I thought we were done.

The Queen had another play to make.

Her game was not done.

The Broken Bows MC brought you King, Rook and Pawn.

Delve into the Restless Souls and fall prey to the evil Queen.

Mother of two insanely (well trained) sarcastic men, wife to a dangerously

smolder inducing grumble bunny (fireman), and friend to some amazing
ladies (you know who you are). Thanks for reading, thanks for being a
friend, and I look forward to meeting you in the future for drinks,
danger and laughs.

Living in Northern Ontario, Canada, Kerri loves to read, travel and find
new
reasons to write you fantastic love stories. Remember, not all love
is clean. Dark, light, angsty, sexually charged and twisted—that’s
her genre.

It’s heart wrenching stories where the muse directs her. As the instrument
of their lives, their stories are told piece by piece. You can hope
for the good guy to win, but it won’t always happen. There’s no
guarantee of an HEA (happily ever after) or HFN (happy for now),
because life doesn’t always have those.

Enjoy the OMG’s and tears. Tear your hair out, toss a book or two,
because
Kerri Ann wants for you to feel their pain too. As they live it, you
absorb it on the pages.

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When Rhea birthed Destin, the miracle son, they thought they fulfilled an
ancient prophecy.

When the blue roses bloomed, they thought they achieved a long-denied
bliss.

They were wrong.

Now, the blue roses are dying. A tarot card reading warns of impending
dangers and an impossible future. In this gripping sequel to the
bestselling Time and Blood, a strangely ailing Rhea, a desperate
Amor-el, and a jealous Destin must confront familiar enemies banding
together against Rhea and her bower family. These powerful
adversaries plan to kill the phoenix, her lover, and her son; steal
The Great Book of Forgetting, and end the prophecy.

When arson and murder strike too close to friends, they question loyalties
and deny love when they need it most. Blood stains the bower.

To protect her family and the prophecy Rhea makes the ultimate
sacrifice. After all, in the battle between love and blood, blood never lies.

Her decision will change the bower – and her – forever.

 

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Historians in Atlantis inscribed a prophecy in The Great Book of Forgetting

about a pair of phoenix whose union would change the future of all
magical creatures. When the sea swallowed Atlantis and all her
inhabitants, time forgot the people and this prophecy.

But one creature survived.

Rhea is a scarlet phoenix and the last of her kind. She escaped Atlantis
with The Great Book and for over ten thousand years roamed the earth,
grieved for her lost immortal beloved, and endured nightmares from
her past lives. Today, she hears a familiar voice on the wind luring
her to a new place. Rhea follows and hopes for the impossible.

She crossed millennia to find him.

Jean-Louis is a 250-year-old vampire in New Orleans. For fifty years,
nightmares
plagued him, and a violent wind haunted him whispering in a foreign
tongue. In his dreams, Jean-Louis sees the face of a woman he knows
and aches for but has never met. He feels her approach; however, the
vampire senses a connecting malevolence waits in the shadows.

He risks his immortality to keep her.

An accident will bring Rhea into Jean-Louis’ arms. The shock will give
new life to the ancient prophecy. But others whisper of the legendary
phoenix and are hunting for Rhea. They must steal The Great Book and
prevent any chance of the prophecy’s fulfillment. If they fail, the
phoenix must die.

Together they battle destiny for the future.

Rhea will risk everything for love, even death.

When time and blood converge, blood must win.

**Only .99 cents!!**

 

 

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When Atlantis fell into the sea, a single creature survived–a scarlet
phoenix. She escaped with ancient man’s historical record, TheGreat Book of Forgetting. This book recorded mankind’s every legend
and prophecy. Only the Archangel of Death understood man’s survival
depended on the fulfillment of one particular prophecy, that of the
scarlet phoenix.

Rhea is the scarlet phoenix, transmuted into human form with wings of
fire. She hides The Great Book from those seeking to steal it and
prevent the prophecy. The Archangel befriends and protects her as he
watches her traverse time and mold history. She is the proverbial
rose that blooms in a future garden.

Jean-Louis Riviere is an aristocrat who became a vampire during the
American
Revolution. He is haunted by an ill wind whispering strange and
incredible possibilities. His family ties will lure those who wish to
destroy the prophecy; however, the Archangel also knows his blood is
all that will save the rose and secure the future

Drahomira is a gypsy, a bastard princess, and a vampire. The Archangel
of Death
chose her to protect the phoenix because she is an irreverent killer
but loyal to family. She will journey across continents and be the
catalyst that brings Rhea and Jean-Louis together. First, she must
leave her people, her throne, and her lover, cross a continent for
vengeance, die, and be reborn. Only then will she discover that she
is the rose’s legendary thorn in the Evening Bower.

**Only .99 cents!!**

 

 

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Rentschler has three award-winning books of poetry,
a fictional memoir and an award-winning and bestselling paranormal
romance series, The Evening Bower. Her one book of photography, I
Wish You Joy is Rentschler’s only photographic compellation and makes
a lovely coffee table pictorial.

Among Sherry’s numerous
awards include a 2018 Global Ebook Legacy Award, a 2018 Global Ebook
Gold Award, two 2018 Global Ebook Silver awards for Fiction, a 2018
Readers Favorite Honorable Mention for her fantasies The Gypsy Thorn,
and Time and Blood. Plus two 2017 National Indie Excellence Award
Finalists (The Book of Now interior and poetry), 2017 eLit Book
Silver Award for poetry (The Book of Now), a 2017 Indie Press Award
for the cover of her non-fiction poetry, The Book of Now, 2017
Readers’ Favorite 5 Star reviews for Breaking the Glass Slipper, and
The Book of Now.

Among her hobbies are all things vampire,
plus dragon collecting, photographing trees, and dancing with
faeries. She loves old Sherlock Holmes movies, reading urban and
gothic fantasies, fine wine, and consuming rich, dark chocolate.
Rentschler is a retired USAF veteran and currently resides in North
Carolina with her husband, also a retired USAF veteran. They await
the return of the dragons.

NEXT AND OVER THE HORIZEN
Every writer is working on something. For me, it’s the next book in my Evening Bower series. This one
will be called The Gypsy Curse and fans of my redheaded vampire Drahomira will be on the lookout for
it. Plus I’m working on a novella of vignettes between my characters. These would be moments/scenes
that didn’t make it into the books or things I thought would be fun if they had happened. I expect to off
this in the Spring of 2019.
I’m also working on a series of workbooks for people who want to write and just don’t know how to get
started. These aren’t going to teach you how to write and publish, but to teach you how to begin to write
every day and tap into the muse. I hear from people all the time who say, “I don’t know how to write. I
don’t know what I know or what I think.” These fun workbooks will be able to be repeated and will help
established writers too. They are excercises for the muse. Like any muscle it improves with strength.
I am thinking long term too. I’ve been coaching and taking editing work and may begin scaling back so I
can concentrate more on personal writing. I want to create a few anthologies too with other authors who
feel as I do about inspiring new writers. That’s far over the bend at the moment, perhaps in 2020.
My only goal as an author is to bring joy to a reader. Make them yell or sigh, love or cry, my one goal is
to make a reader FEEL. If I do this, I have succeeded in life.
I think I would like for readers to tap into my poetry too. I’ve three volumes of poems and all of them
different. If you want to really know what I think about things, read my poetry like in Paper Bones or The
Book of Now.

 

Follow the tour HERE

for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!

 

 

 

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Jack Murphy
Thriller #7

Genre: Mystery, Thriller

Pub
Date: 10/16/18

“Reed
writes as only a cop can.” —Nelson DeMille

Chapter 1
The “Coyote” sat in the booth, drinking stale coffee, eating a crust of cherry pie, and writing in a five- by
nine-inch ring notebook. He had to record his thoughts, his feelings. That’s what his shrink said. His
shrink was an asshole, but at two Benjamins a session Coyote didn’t want to waste the advice.
The gray-haired waitress shuffled over in dirty house shoes. She was wearing faded gray sweat pants
and a shirt with stains and smudges of flour.
“Coffee?” she asked.
Coyote looked around the shabby café. It was narrow, with a six-foot counter on one side and two
ramshackle booths on the other—one of those had duct tape holding a leg together. There were no
other customers. The varnished seat of the booth had turned to a gummy residue, but the top was worn
smooth. Mounted in one corner of the ceiling was a defunct surveillance camera, its wires disconnected
and hanging. The coffee in the bottom of the carafe was black and thick as syrup. She calls this drain
cleaner coffee?
He was polite. “No,” he said. His voice was gruff, deep for a man barely five and a half feet tall. He was
wearing a charcoal-colored Burberry coat, black leather gloves, black Western Stetson, crisp white shirt
with imitation-pearl snap buttons, creased blue jeans, and Western boots. He wasn’t a big man by any
standard, but only a few men had made the mistake of seeing him as “small.”
The woman said, “Closing in five.”
He ignored her as her shoes scuffed across the stained black-and-white tiles. He dug deep in a pocket
and pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. He slid the twenty under his cup and read what he’d written so
far:
I’m tired. Tired of everything and everyone. People disgust me. Food doesn’t taste good. No happiness
anywhere for me. I see people pretending to sing, their words full of hate and anger and violence. They
dance with faces showing hate and confrontation. What are they so unhappy about? Why do they want
to disrespect everything they got for free? They won’t work. They think they can be rich and happy taking
drugs. They dishonor their parents and each other. They fight from a safe distance with texts and
computers and phones. Cowards.
Everyone is out for themselves and the only thing they can agree on is that their elders were wrong,
racist, or homophobic. They don’t see why “elders” always talk about the past, about the lessons that
took a lifetime to learn. They are confused about who they are, who anyone else is, angry that their
elders didn’t give them more. Why should they take any blame or responsibility?
This is where my mind goes when I’m on the road. Alone, thank God. My dreams are visions,
premonitions of things to come. Slackers, drug addicts, and alcoholics, irresponsible, arrogant pretenders
surround me. They have created a world where they matter. They don’t. If the last three or fourgenerations were wiped from the face of the earth, we wouldn’t notice. They contribute nothing. They do
nothing. They want everything. They’re using my air.
“Time,” the old woman said.
Coyote got up. He couldn’t wait to leave. The smell of putrid coffee mixed with the odor of fried onions
was enough incentive to go. He walked out the door, his boots crunching on rock salt. He pulled his coat
tighter against the frigid air, looked down the street at the car with the fogged-up windshield. The
asshole had made Coyote wait. Coyote respected that.
He tugged the coat collar up around his neck and face. He pulled a cigarette from inside his jacket and lit
it. Holding it between his lips, he slipped his hands into his pockets and turned down the alleyway.

When Lash Brogan, an Irish immigrant and one of America’s most
popular
movie stars, is kidnapped and held hostage in the mountains of
Colorado, it will take all of his strength and determination as well
as help from a beautiful stranger to help him escape. Justine McBride
is a reclusive physical therapist trying to escape the painful
memories of her family’s death. After helping him recover, she falls
hard for Lash without considering the ramifications of such a public
relationship.

Reflections introduces you to a world where fate’s not fair,

but justice and true love are certain.

Look for future stories that continue to follow the

lives of Lash Brogan and his friends.

After barely surviving the death of the woman he was going to marry, Irish

actor Lash Brogan has accepted his first leading role in two years.

But someone doesn’t want the movie to be made. The set is plagued by
accidents and deaths. The arrival of an FBI agent with a past
connection to Lash, and the appearance of an intriguing woman he
would like to get to know better, further tilts his world.

Lash refuses to run from the danger or the painful reminders of his past.
He will stay and see the movie through to the end. No matter what the
cost to him.

Redemption continues the story of Lash Brogan and his friends. Join
them

in a world where fate’s not fair, but justice and true love are certain.

 

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The man was dressed in all black from head to toe, including the Steyr he held in his right hand,
aimed at the man across the room from him. “I told you I would come back for you, and I always
keep my promises.”
The other man did not show fear. It had been three years.
He’d thought he was safe, and now he had no where to run. He was caught. “I’ll pay you,” he
said with a smirk, though he knew the words would make no difference to the man with the gun.
The man in black laughed, but the gun didn’t waver. “You should know better than that, this isn’t
about money.”
The other man shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying. You’ve done well for yourself, I hear.”
“You could have too, if you hadn’t betrayed me.”
It was pointless to argue. He’d known this day would come, so he looked his assassin in the eye
as the trigger was pulled. A look of pain flashed in his eyes, then he clutched his chest, blood
spurting through his fingers, as he pitched face first onto the ground.
“And cut!” A voice yelled from across the room.
“That was perfect,” Guy Sorenson said. “The blood looked great and Eric, that was one of the
best death scenes I’ve ever seen.”
Eric Sutton didn’t move.
“Eric, come on, you were brilliant,” Guy said, giving the actor a playful kick in the side. He bent
down when he didn’t get a reaction. “Eric,” he said, shaking the actor’s shoulder, then rolling him
over when he still didn’t get a response. Guy’s face paled. He looked up. “Christ, I think he’s
really dead.”
The stunt coordinator raced forward, knelt, and checked for a pulse. The set medic ran towards
them, dropping to his knees next to the actor’s body, starting CPR. The actors and crew still on
set were frozen in disbelief, the entire room eerily silent except for the exertions of the two men
trying to save a life.
The stunt coordinator sat back on his heels, his hands covered in blood, and shook his head.
“He’s gone.”
Corey Fulcher, the man in black, turned white and the gun fell from his hand. The sound of the
gun hitting the floor echoed through the now silent set. “No, that’s impossible. We did it just like
in rehearsal.” His voice had lost the strong arrogance of the character he’d been portraying and
sounded weak and pathetic even to him.
One of the security guards came forward and led Corey back a step, kicking the gun aside.
“I’m going to be sick,” Corey muttered. He stumbled forward, found a trashcan. When he was
finished, Guy handed him a towel.
“Nobody moves until the cops get here,” the guard shouted, trying to sound authoritative, but
betrayed by his shaking voice.
Corey swallowed hard and sat down shakily in a chair. “I didn’t kill him, I didn’t, didn’t mean to,
the gun wasn’t . . . it wasn’t even real. Guy,” he pleaded, “I don’t understand.”
Guy placed a hand on his shoulder. “Just relax, everything’s going to be okay.” Of course that
was a lie neither believed.
Twenty minutes later, producer Robert Colt watched as the cops interviewed his leading man,
who was pale, shaking, and sobbing openly now. It took three more hours for the cops to
interview all the prop guys and report back to him. He imagined them lined up in a row, being
called one by one.
It seemed like they had done everything right. There would be no easy answer to this one.
Especially for the press camped outside. How could he spin this to his advantage? There had to
be a way. He fought a growing sense of dread. And he knew that it would take a miracle to save
his film now, but he would find one.
One way or the other.

 

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