Category: guest post

Storm & Fury A Storm and Fury Adventures Collection by Gail Z. Martin & Larry N. Martin Genre: Paranormal Historical Adventure, Steampunk

New Pittsburgh, 1898 – a crucible of invention and intrigue. Born from the ashes of devastating fire, flood and earthquake, the city is ruled by the shadow government of The Oligarchy. In the swarming streets, people of a hundred nations drudge to feed the engines of progress. The Department of Supernatural Investigation was set up to take care of those things that live below, that go bump in the night… those odd cases that go beyond ‘standard’ investigation. Nicknamed ‘Storm and Fury’, Mitch Storm and Jacob Drangosavich are two of the more creative agents, working in New Pittsburgh and obeying the rules – when they have to. A collection of short stories and novellas set in the world of the Iron & Blood novels and the related Storm and Fury Adventures. Includes: Airship Down, Ruin Creek, Resurrection Day, The Hunt, Grave Voices, and Rogue. Plus two bonus stories: Ghost Wolf and a Steampunk fairy tale: The Patented Troll Goodreads * Amazon

Gail Z. Martin discovered her passion for science fiction, fantasy and ghost stories in elementary school. The first story she wrote at age five was about a vampire. Her favorite TV show as a preschooler was Dark Shadows. At age 14, she decided to become a writer. She enjoys attending science fiction/fantasy conventions, Renaissance fairs and living history sites. Larry N. Martin is the author of the new sci-fi adventure novel Salvage Rat. He is the co-author (with Gail Z. Martin) of the Spells, Salt, and Steel/New Templars series; the Steampunk series Iron & Blood; and a collection of short stories and novellas: The Storm & Fury Adventures set in the Iron & Blood universe. He is also the co-author of the upcoming Wasteland Marshals series and the Joe Mack Cauldron/Secret Council series. The Martins have three children, a Maltese, and a Golden Retriever. Website * Newsletter* Facebook * Pinterest Twitter * Twitter * Goodreads * Goodreads * Amazon

Lagniappe

“I’VE GOT TO catch that train!” Agent Jacob Drangosavich of the Department of Supernatural
Investigation opened the throttle on his steam-powered experimental velocipede, pushing the
steambike to its limits as he raced to catch up with the locomotive.
All of his attention was focused on the train, and he willed himself to go faster, closing the
distance between himself and the speeding locomotive.
Mitch Storm, his partner, was aboard that train, and he was counting on Jacob to back him
up. The sound of a gunshot in the train’s sole passenger car doubled Jacob’s resolve.
That’s got to be Mitch, Jacob thought. Question is, was Mitch doing the shooting or getting
shot?
Jacob coaxed a bit more speed from the velocipede, despite its straining engine. He was
gaining on the locomotive, close enough now to see the automaton in the cab, a metal man taking
the place of a human railroad engineer at the controls of the train. The click-clack of the train on
the rails drowned out the roar of Jacob’s steambike, and the clouds of smoke belched from the
locomotive’s stack drifted between him and his quarry, partially hiding him from view.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself, pushing the velocipede for every bit of power
its engine could muster.
Jacob had a Peacemaker in a shoulder holster and another, less conventional weapon
holstered at his hip. The Department paid the best scientists in the country a premium to supply
them with top-secret, often one-of-a-kind weapons, tools, and gadgets that made the stories of
Jules Verne pale by comparison.
“Just a little more,” Jacob muttered, crouching low over the velocipede’s handlebars to
reduce the wind resistance. The steambike edged nearer to the train, and Jacob grabbed his
second gun, an odd contraption with a bulbous grip and a metal tube in the center of a coil of
wires. Jacob veered his bike a few crucial inches closer, leveled his weapon at the copper-faced
werkman at the train’s controls, and fired.

Haunting Pittsburgh

By Gail Z. Martin and Larry N. Martin

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania has a lot of history—and a lot of ghosts. It was a key fort in Colonial days, and
by the end of the 1800s, it had become the crucible of steam-driven manufacturing and invention. But
with that growth came tragedy, and from that, plenty of ghosts. Mine disasters, accidents in factories and
steel mills, bloody labor strikes and unlucky ships on the city’s three rivers all create the kind of history
that lends itself to ghosts.
Pittsburgh was also a melting pot for immigrants who came from all over Europe for jobs in the mills—
and brought their beliefs, superstitions, and magic with them. In the world of Storm and Fury, those
newcomers were also followed by supernatural creatures, family secrets, and Old World curses.
Mitch Storm and Jacob Drangosavich, agents for the secret Department of Supernatural Investigation,
take care of paranormal problems. They’ve got all of the latest experimental gadgets the department’s
genius inventors can dream up, and it’s their job to make sure that the things that go bump in the night get
dealt with so that regular people can sleep peacefully, blissfully unaware of the secrets that lurk in the
shadows.

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Malak, Desert Child The Boy Who Sailed to Spain Book 2 by Paul Ogarra Genre: Magical Realism Fiction

The first time I saw her she melted the ice in my soul. Malak is a tiny beautiful five-year-old girl child. She lives in a cave in dire poverty with her drunkard father and her Saharoui mother and sister. Her enemies are all the towns children who victimize her and her sister because of their race and condition. Her only friend is a single mother named Latifa, and Malak ́s grandmother Jeeda Hazzah who dies of cancer. But Malak is the champion of her family against a violent father and the children of the Zoco who she fights singlehandedly. This is a magical and often mystical story of a young girl and the people she stumbles upon, as she is rushed away by her uncertain destiny, to the land in which her mother was born, the Sahara Desert. The unravelling of Malak’s story is also the unsnarling of the web of intrigue surrounding the North of Africa, and it ́s peoples and history, and the reasons for many current dilemmas in this land of witchcraft and mystery. The tale begins in earnest when a wandering ex-warrior happens on the child and is struck by her magnificent courage and beauty. After a significant episode with her drunken father and his cronies, having interceded on the family ́s behalf, he flees with them on a stolen high-speed cruiser heading for Western Sahara and freedom. In the course of their errant journey, they are taken into threatening custody by the Algerian police. Malak ́s personality and mystic nature make of her the flux in an adventure which begins as a race to return her to her maternal grandfather ́s family. A flight of mercy will become a race against time as Malak and her friends take on the impossible. In this, they enlist the help of many tribespeople. Some tribes known to all and others lost in the wastes of the mysterious desert and the annals of history.The story comes to an emotional and pent up conclusion in the least expected possible fashion. **read as a standalone**Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Smashwords

As he ate, he noticed the beautiful facial features of the child and her long thick hair. Even
though she was dressed in rags and dirty, her face smeared and her hands black, the child was
striking. She glanced at the food, still attending to the baby, and even though she looked away,
her eyes wandered back to the overladen dish. Then she’d put her chin out abruptly as an
inward gesture, a self-correction, and look elsewhere. She’s starving poor little cow, Pete
thought, but proud, amazing a five-year-old urchin with a gutful of pride.
“What is her name?” He pointed at the child.
“Malak” she replied. “Her mother works, so she and her sister are on the streets all day.”
“So what’s the problem with school?”
“No money.” She said something about him to the child, who turned and looked at Pete. Her
teeth were white and perfect, and her smile entirely unexpected in a face whose total lack of
expression must have been the child’s only weapon against the evil and negligence which was
happening around her, and which she instinctively knew was so, so wrong.
“Give her couscous.”
“No, she will have what we leave.”
So he went to the other room and found a plate and a fork. He stacked the big platter high with
semolina and placed it before the child, who fell on it like a wolf cub, using her hands to devour
it ravenously. He gave her bread and a Coke.
“Malak!” he said loudly, and she looked up but continued eating. “Tell her to stop.”
Latifa, his friend, spoke sharply to her and the girl stopped and looked at him. “She says she is
sorry.”
“She has nothing to be sorry for, just tell her she will make me happy if she uses the fork.”
Latifa spoke to her, and the little girl listened attentively, humbly. Then she laughed, a peal of heartfelt
mirth, looking at him, and Pete, caught unawares, grinned back in spite of himself. She ate the rest of the
food with the implement, experiencing some difficulty. As she ate, she kept looking into his face and
gently laughing.

GUEST POST

If you knew you’d die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day?
If I knew I ́d die tomorrow, I ́d fight , kick, pray and scream in an effort, however futile to remain alive.
When I do go, I want to be heard kicking the walls of the coffin as they take me out. This is probably why
I am here today, no way am I going to lie down and die just because they say it ́s the norm.
Who is your hero and why?
My hero is a wonderful wonderful couple, my oncologist, Dr Cobos and his wife. Fifteen years ago they
saw this baby in their hospital who was doomed to die from some disease common in the village of it ́s
birth in Morocco. The child would die unless the machinery to save her were purchased and she were
nursed constantly for her duration of life. Dr Cobos and his wife took out mortagages and purchased the
machines, and dedicated the next 11 years of their lives to nursing this child at their home as if she were
their daughter, and giving her a chance at a life. She died knowing great love on her eleventh year, and
the Doctor and his wife were heartbroken. They had lit a candle in the wind,with all their care and
sincerity. except it wasn ́t a candle it was a little girl, and they loved her. When I see them now, they hug
me and kiss me and tell me I am a lion, because I am a survivor; but I hold them away and look at them
and I tell them that I am nothing , that they are truly giants amongst human beings.
What kind of world ruler would you be?
A ruler who ruled only by example ,I would be a slave to my people and my task.
What are you passionate about these days?
I am passionate as ever in my search for love, any type of love, I see it in others sometimes but it always
seems to elude me, perhaps it ́s my cross. I sometimes think that I should become a missionary and go to
live in some far off location where people need help, these are probably the places where people go who
are full of love to give.
What do you do to unwind and relax?
All sorts, swim, walk, go and sit in the sun and have a conversation with my dog Mr Harry although he ́s
a bit restless and fidgety.
How to find time to write as a parent?
Parenthood passed me by a long time ago. It was a happy time though.
Describe yourself in 5 words or less!
Individual,tranquil,determined,strong,friendly
When did you first consider yourself a writer?
When my daughter one day turned around and said” Papa, will you stop throwing the things you write
away, keep everything, it all has a value.” And she was just a kid at the time.
Do you have a favorite movie?
Well I have lots, but if I needed to go for just the one it would be “To kill a mocking bird.”
Which of your novels can you imagine made into a movie?
Well it all started with movies. When I left hospital having survived against expectations, I decided to do
what I had always wanted to do, and that was to study film making. So I went to Praque, and although I
loved cine, I realised what a pain in the neck it would be having to organise so many tempermental folk.
So after being told by my lecturer, in script writing, that I was a natural, I decided to start with the writing
side of things. So yes, I have always aimed at writing books that would one day perhaps make good
movies.Malak would be an absolutely amazing film.
What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?
Well, the only thing I have ever been to is the Gibraltar literary festival, which is fact one of the best in
the world, so I am told. I went as a speaker and met lots of fascinating people, in particular, one really
wonderful personage with whom I struck up a friendship. His name was Ray Keene the world famous
Chess Grandmaster, a man of great simplicity and warmth who actually later invited me to his oncoming

birthday dinner. Trouble of course, was that most of the guests were grandmasters and I have always been
really lousy at the game. It was a great privilege though, and I enjoyed it very much.
As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
Otters have always been special for me, mainly because they make and live in dams. I also have a soft
spot for squirrels and the cosiness of their homes or dreys, and the nut gathering for winter. Remember
The Wind in the willows, and The Brer Rabbit books, well I do with great fondness and also Babar the
elephant.

Paul O ́Garra was born in Gibraltar on the 8th May 1952. Paul and his three siblings were the children of schoolteachers and were reared with English discipline, immersed in romantic literature on the one hand, and a large local family of uncles, aunts, cousins and a doting grandmother, who was Spanish from Cadiz, on the other. Childhood was spent roaming across the Up South , Rosia, and Europa point areas of Gibraltar engaging in childish games and adventures, reading extensively books such as Enid Blyton’ adventure series, ‘Famous Five,’ ‘Secret Seven,’ ‘Swallows and Amazons Forever, ’ John Buchan and the ‘Gorbals Die-hards.’ Saturday mornings were a day for avoiding the displeased grimaces of monocled and overweight colonels, delving and searching through the shelves of the old Garrison library to discover new horizons, characters, and stories. The journey of discovery that had begun with Baba the Elephant eventually began to grow richer as the classics were devoured. In 1967, he looked on as fellow students of Jewish persuasion prepare to leave for Tel Aviv to defend Israel. Shortly after, the arrival of General Moshe Dayan at the gates of Cairo, signaled to the world that Israel ́s direst moment had been overcome. Paul, at the earliest time possible, set off in a steamer from Tangiers, sailing to Southampton. After a spell in London, he left the UK to discover his roots in Malta. He alternated callings as a tour guide of Morocco and recoverer of broken down rented cars in the desert, tour guide of south Spain and eventually running a flamenco club on the Costa del Sol, in the days when the Costa was still a new and exciting place to visit. Eventually, he set off again to discover new places in the Middle, the Far East and the Philippines, and when Perestroika and Glasnost finally arrived at the hands of Mihail Gorbacheff and the Soviet Union was open, set off to discover the East there. He studied Russian at St Petersburg and spent time travelling to the Republic of Udmurtia, Kazan, Siberia and up an uncharted river to meet Tribes that still lived in the area. Later to Nizhny Novgorod and the South Volga, then to the Ukraine travelling from city to city, falling more and more in love with the great Russian writers and painters as he went. Seventeen years ago at the age of fifty, Paul contracted renal cancer. He was operated on successfully at the Bullfighters Hospital in Pamplona in North Spain. Metastasis was practically impossible the surgeons happily reported. Two years later the cancer metastasised to his lungs on which he was duly operated, and half of his lungs were removed. Later for reasons undefined he suffered strokes in both eyes and lost partial sight in one eye and total in the left which he duly recovered by swimming and praying. Seventeen years have gone by since the renal cancer was first discovered, and seven years since his last operation and everything is fine, remission seems to be total. Paul’s still swims at least one or two kilometres per day all year round, travels, practises martial arts and fervently believes that the Lord leads him by the hand. After leaving the hospital he spent some time in Tangiers, hairless, gaunt and on crutches, but enjoying the warmth and affection of many new friends there. Then off to Prague to study filmmaking, made several shorts but finally decided that he would first write and then make movies when the time came. Website * Facebook * Amazon * Goodreads

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The Heart Collector Auckland Steampunk Book 1 by Barbara Russell Genre: Steampunk, Romantic Suspense

Auckland, 1884 The Supernaturals are frightened. Despite being able to do extraordinary things like teleporting or lighting a fire with a stare, a serial killer, the Heart Collector, is slaughtering them. He rips their chests open and removes their hearts. While other aristocratic, nineteen-year- old girls spend time dancing, Isabel trains hard to become an MI7 agent—Military Intelligence Seventh Division, a crime squad run by Supernaturals. The Heart Collector murdered her best friend, and enrolling at MI7 is the best way to help catch the killer. Isabel senses other people’s feelings as if they were her owns. But MI7’s leader is too worried about Isabel’s safety to let her join the team. Eager to prove that her power is valuable, Isabel volunteers to meet Murk, a dangerous Supernatural man who can turn himself invisible. MI7 desperately tried to recruit him and failed. She believes that her power is enough to convince Murk to become an MI7’s agent and help apprehend the Heart Collector. If he wants to attack her, his feelings will broadcast his intention, and she’ll be ready. What Isabel isn’t ready for is to fall in love with the man who will collect her heart. Goodreads * Amazon

I’m an entomologist and a soil biologist, which is a fancy way to say that I dig in the dirt, looking for bugs. Nature and books have always been my passion. I was a kid when I read The Lord Of The Ring and fell in love with fantasy novels. When I discovered cosy mystery and crime novel, I fell in love with Hercules Poirot and Sherlock Holmes. Then I grew up and . . . Nah, I’m joking. I didn’t grow up. Don’t grow up, folks! It’s a trap. PS I hate gardening. There, I said it. Sorry fellow Kiwis. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Amazon * Goodreads

Chapter 1
Auckland, 1884

One of the perks of being a duchess and the lady of Hastings Manor was that I could make my
own decisions.
Most of the time.
I bunched a corner of my long brocade skirt and climbed the sweeping stairs toward Victor’s
office. The bustle, heavy with satin ribbons, bounced lightly, tapping on the small of my back.
On the landing, one of the little cleaning machines that roamed the house trotted around, buzzing
as its brushes dusted the white marble floor. A puff of steam trailed behind it while its wheels and pistons
whirred. I strode on, the star-bright tiles sparkling under my velvet slippers.
The butler bowed stiffly, carrying a tray with tea and cakes that smelled of cinnamon. “Your
Grace.” He stepped aside to let me pass.
“Hollom.” My heels’ click-clacking noise died down on the blue rug covering the entrance in front
of Victor’s office.
I raised my fist to knock but stopped inches away from the gleaming, polished oak wood, needing
a moment to collect myself. Victor had to see reason. Convincing him that my role in the investigation
was vital wouldn’t be easy, but I was nineteen and properly trained in combat. More or less. The point
was, I could face danger.
My resolve wavered, and I bit the inside of my cheek. On light feet, I turned and slid inside my
late father’s personal library. Victor’s supernatural hearing wouldn’t catch me in the room protected by
thick walls, and the old leather-bound volumes calmed my nerves.
I cleared my throat before rehashing my speech. “Victor, you’re the leader of Military Intelligence
Seven, but as Duchess of Sussex, I have the right to . . .” I shook my head. This sounded patronizing. I
took a deep breath to slow my pounding heart, glad that I wasn’t wearing a corset. Another perk of being
a duchess.
I squared my shoulders. A wrong word and Victor would dismiss me. “Victor, I kindly request…
would you… I would appreciate if you assign me to the ongoing investigation on the Heart Collector,
since I believe my skills can be an asset.” There. Simple, polite, and to the point.
I jutted out my chin and smoothed my bodice. I should’ve worn my dark green dress. It made me
look taller and older. This blue gown gave me a childish air with its velvet ribbons and budding roses.

Too late.
After another deep inhalation, I marched toward Victor’s office again and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” The thick door muffled his deep voice.
I wiped my sweaty hand on my skirt before turning the handle and stepping into the office that had
once belonged to my father. Victor and his younger brother Jamie stood up from their stuffed chairs and
bowed.
“Good morning, Victor, Jamie.”
After the dimly lit corridor, the sunlight streaming from the floor-to-ceiling window blinded me,
and I squinted, closing the door behind me.
I walked to the desk that occupied almost half of the room, keeping my eyes on Victor’s frowning
face. “I need to talk to you.”
Victor stretched out an arm, indicating the empty chairs. His serious expression added wisdom to
his five and twenty years. “Of course, Isabel. Please, sit.”
I perched on the very edge of the chair and set my back straight to not crush my bustle. Victor sat
at his desk while Jamie settled himself next to the fireplace.
“Is something the matter?” Jamie leaned forward, his blond hair swishing about his cheeks. “You
are pale.”
I faced him. “Well, I—” A dark blue bruise marked his chin, his bottom lip was split, and a fresh
cut marred his forehead. “What happened to you?”
Jamie clenched and unclenched his fists. “My encounter with one of the Supernaturals we’re
trying to recruit didn’t end well.”
I focused on Jamie, unleashed my power, and reached out for his feelings. A rush of energy
flooded me, and heat warmed my chest. His anger, annoyance, and humiliation washed over me. Physical
pain stabbed him as well. I gently prodded his body with my mental strength. His ribs hurt, and a cut on
his back throbbed. His feelings left the sour taste of unripe grapes in my mouth.
I swallowed. “This Supernatural must be particularly strong to hurt you.”
Jamie stroked his bruised skin. A new wave of mortification surged from him. “He is moderately
strong.”
Moderately strong? Jamie could bend iron bars with two fingers and lift twenty times his weight.
How strong was this Supernatural?
Victor shifted his gaze to me. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Exactly about this.” I nodded toward Jamie. “This Supernatural you want to recruit for the

investigation on the Heart Collector.”
Victor knitted his blond eyebrows in the same way Jamie would. “You don’t have to concern
yourself with that. Jamie will soon make another attempt to meet this Supernatural.”
“But.” I paused to read Victor’s feelings. His determination and mild exasperation reached me. It
wasn’t a good start, but maybe my speech would convince him. “I would like you to allow me . . . I mean,
to assign me to this mission since I request, kindly, I request kindly, that it would be me, myself, to do it.”
Damn. So much for rehashing. I clasped my hands in my lap not to show how much they trembled. “I’d
like it to be me.” I swallowed. If I weren’t so eager to get the job, I’d laugh at Victor’s scrunched face.
I searched his feelings again. Even without my supernatural empathetic power, the hard set of his
jaw and his narrowed icy blue eyes told me he wasn’t pleased. I cleared my throat. “I want to meet this
Supernatural.”
“You want what?” Jamie asked, propping an elbow on the mantelpiece.
I ignored him. “What did you say his name was?”
“I didn’t.” Victor straightened the pile of documents on his desk, arranged quills and inkbottles,
and loosened his bow tie.

Fun facts about me:
My toes are prehensile. I can pick everything up with them.
I’m dyslexic. I thought that ‘Breaking Bad’ was ‘Baking Bad,’ a reality show on cooking-impaired
people.
I believe that artichokes are weapons.
I believe in Santa Claus. Sue me.

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“Henri,” a mysterious voiced whispered in his mind. Henri stopped walking to see who
was whispering in his ear. He turned around, but he saw nothing, which caused a chill
down his spine.
“What’s that?” Henri didn’t like the chilly feeling in the air, and he didn’t
appreciate the feeling like someone was watching him. He picked up his pace on the
sidewalk, avoiding any tiny obstacles in his way. His mind had one mission, and the
mission was to get home safely. At the present moment, Henri wished that someone were
with him in case something happened.
“Who’s there?” Henri waited for any sign of a response. He walked towards his
house, ignoring the increasing creepy vibe he felt. A sharp pain stabbed Henri’s stomach,
forcing him to run to his house. The pain became more intense as the seconds passed.
When he made it up his front stairs, he spun around to confront whoever was stalking
him. Henri saw nothing but his front tree, and the trashcans that he didn’t retrieve the
other day.
Henri panicked for that he didn’t know what to do. The area went silent, and he
heard nothing, but the breathing of an invisible force. He felt as though an unseen bubble
had formed around him and his front porch. His heart increased its output, and Henri’s
breathing became erratic.
The wind picked up loosened materials off the ground, and a sharp unexpected
breeze passed through his proximity. The wind flew through the open crevices of the
trees, creating an eerie howling. Henri quickly scanned the area again, yet he still didn’t
see anything. He tried to channel his frustration instead of terror.
“What is going on?” Henri mumbled under his breath. He glanced up into the
early evening sky, and he saw dark clouds were rolling towards his house as a tide during
a full moon. The branches and bushes’ tall blades bent over by an unseen terror. He
backed up against his door, trying to open his front door only realizing that he had left his
house key elsewhere.

The Characters of Augur of Shadows

Augur of Shadows is a story that involves a main character (MC) Henri, and his two friends, Etlina and
Siméon. The three have intertwining destinies that require them to make difficult decisions, and they will
be forced to push passed their physical, emotional and mental limitations in order to complete their task of
bringing forth a cataclysmic event, which will aide in the fight against the Primordial Evil.
Henri is a seventeen year-old boy who recently lost his father. He and his mother moved to New
York City to start a new life. In the process, Henri starts having prophetic dreams of a future evil. He is
set on a course of self-discovery and destiny by the guidance of many other spirits, gods and angels. He
will have to make difficult decisions on his path, and he will have to decide to either place the entire
universe above his own needs, or he continue on his mundane life.
Etlina is a strong, young, Latina who was abandoned by her family because of her unique talents,
and her persistent attitude to delve in her ancestral heritage. She is connected to the forces of nature and
mystery. She is a major powerhouse, and she isn’t afraid to protect whom she sees as family.
Siméon is a teenager, foreign exchange student from Port-au-Prince, Haiti. He is a wise,
powerful priest from Haiti, and he plays an important role in Henri’s life. Siméon’s experience in the
supernatural will aid Henri and Etlina on their journey into the lands of the spiritual and magical, so the
three of them may fulfill their destinies, and they may save the universe.

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.