Spotlight: Wrong Alibi: An Alaskan Mystery by Christina Dodd

Perfect for fans of Lisa Jewell, New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd delivers an all-new thriller, featuring a bold and brash female protagonist.

WRONG JOB

Eighteen-year-old Evelyn Jones lands a job in small-town Alaska, working for a man in his isolated mountain home. But her bright hopes for the future are shattered when Donald White disappears, leaving her to face charges of theft, embezzlement—and a brutal double murder. Her protestations of innocence count for nothing. Convicted, she faces life in prison…until fate sends her on the run.

WRONG NAME

Evie's escape leaves her scarred and in hiding, isolated from her family, working under an alias at a wilderness camp. Bent on justice, intent on recovering her life, she searches for the killer who slaughters without remorse.

WRONG ALIBI

At last, the day comes. Donald White has returned. Evie emerges from hiding; the fugitive becomes the hunter. But in her mind, she hears the whisper of other forces at work. Now Evelyn must untangle the threads of evidence before she’s once again found with blood on her hands: the blood of her own fam

Excerpt

Chapter 1

ALASKA

Midnight Sun Fishing Camp

Katchabiggie Lodge

Eight years ago

JANUARY.

Five and a half hours a day when the sun rose above the horizon.

Storm clouds so thick, daylight never penetrated, and night reigned eternal.

Thirty below zero Fahrenheit.

The hurricane-force wind wrapped frigid temperatures around the lodge, driving through the log cabin construction and the steel roof, ignoring the insulation, creeping inch by inch into the Great Room where twenty-year-old Petie huddled on a love seat, dressed in a former guest’s flannel pajamas and bundled in a Pendleton Northern Lights wool blanket. A wind like this pushed snow through the roof vents, and she knew as soon as the storm stopped, she’d be up in the attic shoveling it out.

Or not. Maybe first the ceiling would fall in on top of her.

Who would know? Who would care?

The storm of the century, online news called it, before the internet disappeared in a blast that blew out the cable like a candle.

For a second long, dark winter, she was the only living being tending the Midnight Sun cabins and the lodge, making sure the dark, relentless Alaska winter didn’t do too much damage and in the spring the camp could open to enthusiastic fishermen, corporate team builders and rugged individualists.

Alone for eight months of the year. No Christmas. No New Year’s. No Valentine’s Day. No any day, nothing interesting, just dark dark dark isolation and fear that she would die out here.

With the internet gone, she waited for the next inevitable event.

The lights went out.

On each of the four walls, a small, battery-charged nightlight came on to battle feebly against the darkness. Outside, the storm roared. Inside, cold swallowed the heat with greedy appetite.

Petie sat and stared into a dark so black it hurt her eyes. And remembered…

There, against the far back wall of the basement, in the darkest corner, white plastic covered…something. Slowly, Petie approached, driven by a terrible fear. She stopped about three feet away, leaned forward and reached out, far out, to grasp the corner of the plastic, pull it back, and see—

With a gasp, Petie leaped to her feet.

No. Just no. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—replay those memories again.

She tossed the blanket onto the floor and groped for the flashlights on the table beside her: the big metal one with a hefty weight and the smaller plastic headlamp she could strap to her forehead. She clicked on the big one and shone it around the lodge, reassuring herself no one and nothing was here. No ghosts, no zombies, no cruel people making ruthless judgments about the gullible young woman she had been.

Armed with both lights, she moved purposefully out of the Great Room, through the massive kitchen and toward the utility room.

The door between the kitchen and the utility room was insulated, the first barrier between the lodge and the bitter, rattling winds. She opened that door, took a breath of the even chillier air, stepped into the utility room and shut herself in. There she donned socks, boots, ski pants, an insulated shirt, a cold-weather blanket cut with arm holes, a knit hat and an ancient, full-length, seal-skin, Aleut-made coat with a hood. She checked the outside temperature.

Colder now—forty below and with the wind howling, the wind chill would be sixty below, seventy below…who knew? Who cared? Exposed skin froze in extreme cold and add the wind chill… She wrapped a scarf around her face and the back of her neck. Then unwrapped it to secure the headlamp low on her forehead. Then wrapped herself up again, trying to cover as much skin as she could before she faced the punishing weather.

She pointed her big flashlight at the generator checklist posted on the wall and read:

Hawley’s reasons why the generator will fail to start. The generator is new and well-tested, so the problem is:

LOOSE BATTERY CABLE

Solution: Tighten.

CORRODED BATTERY CONNECTION

Solution: Use metal terminal battery brush to clean connections and reattach.

DEAD BATTERY

Solution: Change battery in the autumn to avoid ever having to change it in the middle of a major fucking winter storm.

If she wasn’t standing there alone in the dark in the bitter cold, she would have grinned. The owner of the fishing camp, Hawley Foggo, taught his employees Hawley’s Rules. He had them for every occurrence of the fishing camp, and that last sounded exactly like him.

The generator used a car battery, and as instructed, in the autumn she had changed it. This was her second year dealing with the battery, and she felt secure about her work.

So probably this failure was a loose connection or corrosion. Either way, she could fix it and save the lodge from turning into a solid ice cube that wouldn’t thaw until spring.

That was, after all, her job.

She shivered.

So much better than her last job, the one that led to her conviction for a gruesome double murder.

“Okay, Petie, let’s grab that metal battery cleaner thingy and get the job done.” Which sounded pretty easy, when she talked to herself about it, but when she pulled on the insulated ski gloves, they limited her dexterity.

Out of the corner of her eye, a light blinked out.

She looked back into the lodge’s Great Room. The nightlights were failing, and soon she really would be alone in the absolute darkness, facing the memories of that long-ago day in the basement.

Good incentive to hurry.

She grabbed the wire battery connection cleaner thingy and moved to the outer door.

There she paused and pictured the outdoor layout.

A loosely built lean-to protected the generator from the worst of the weather while allowing the exhaust to escape. That meant she wasn’t stepping out into the full force of the storm; she would be as protected as the generator itself. Which was apparently not well enough since the damned thing wasn’t working.

She gathered her fortitude and eased the outer door open.

The wind caught it, yanked it wide and dragged her outside and down the steps. She hung on to the door handle, flailed around on the frozen ground, and when she regained her footing, she used all her strength to shove the door closed again.

Then she was alone, outside, in a killer storm, in the massive, bleak wilderness that was Alaska.

Excerpted from Wrong Alibi by Christina Dodd Copyright © Christina Dodd. Published by HQN Books.

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About the Author

New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd writes “edge-of-the-seat suspense” (Iris Johansen) with “brilliantly etched characters, polished writing, and unexpected flashes of sharp humor that are pure Dodd” (ALA Booklist). Her fifty-eight books have been called "scary, sexy, and smartly written" by Booklist and, much to her mother's delight, Dodd was once a clue in the Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle. Enter Christina’s worlds and join her mailing list at www.christinadodd.com.

Connect:

Author Website: https://www.christinadodd.com/ 

TWITTER: @ChristinaDodd

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ChristinaDoddFans 

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Spotlight: Into the Unbounded Night by Mitchell James Kaplan

Regal House Publishing
Paperback & eBook; 231 Pages

Genre: Literary Historical

When her village in Albion is sacked by the Roman general Vespasian, young Aislin is left without home and family. Determined to exact revenge, she travels to Rome, a sprawling city of wealth, decadence, and power. A “barbarian” in a “civilized” world, Aislin struggles to comprehend Roman ways. From a precarious hand-to-mouth existence on the streets, she becomes the mistress of a wealthy senator, but their child Faolan is born with a disability that renders him unworthy of life in the eyes of his father and other Romans.

Imprisoned for her efforts to topple the Roman regime, Aislin learns of an alternate philosophy from her cellmate, the Judean known today as the Apostle St. Paul. As the capital burns in the Great Fire of 64 AD, he bequeaths to her a mission that will take her to Jerusalem. There, Yohanan, son of Zakkai, has been striving to preserve the tradition of Hillel against the Zealots who advocate for a war of independence. Responding to the Judeans’ revolt, the Romans—again under the leadership of Vespasian—besiege Jerusalem, destroying the Second Temple and with it, the brand of Judean monotheism it represents. Yohanan takes on the mission of preserving what can be preserved, and of re-inventing what must be reinvented.

Throughout Into the Unbounded Night, Aislin’s, Faolan’s, Vespasian’s, and Yohanan’s lives intertwine in unexpected ways that shed light on colonization and its discontents, the relative values of dominant and tyrannized cultures, and the holiness of life itself—even the weakest of lives.

REGAL HOUSE PUBLISHING | AMAZON | BOOK DEPOSITORY | INDIEBOUND

About the Author

Mitchell James Kaplan graduated with honors from Yale University, where he won the Paine Memorial Prize for Best Long-Form Senior Essay submitted to the English Department. His first mentor was the author William Styron.

After college, Kaplan lived in Paris, France, where he worked as a translator, then in Southern California, where he worked as a screenwriter and in film production.

He lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with his family and two cats.

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Spotlight: The Kiss That Saved Christmas by Elysia Strife

Pages: 310
Genre: Holiday Romance

Claire's husband passed away two years ago this Christmas, leaving her alone and in charge of a beautiful and overwhelming cabin venue in the Montana mountains. She's low on cash, the truck won't start, and fewer people are calling in event requests.

Every past assistant has been problematic and disappointing. With one final wedding scheduled for the year, Claire is desperate to make a good impression and needs the property in top shape. Only one candidate remains: Zach.

Zach is prior service, down on his luck, and shamed by the town for the actions of his youth. Even after a decade of service, he can't escape the gossip.
Claire has no option but to entrust him with the future of Briar Ridge—her future. She just wished he didn't have to remind her so much of her late husband. Yet Zach is different, bringing with his burdens an unexpectedly sweet side.
Zach is full of surprises.

She doesn't want to fall for him.

He can't help but fall for her.

A sweet holiday romance with a few curses and some violence.

Book Excerpt

Chapter 1

Claire lay sprawled out on the leather sofa in the timber-framed great room, feeling a kinship with the skeleton of what should’ve been something beautiful and full of life. The stone fireplace crackled softly before her. At its heart, flames cast the only light and warmth in the empty lodge. Floor-to-ceiling windows exposed the brewing winter storm outside Briar Ridge, snowflakes piling up against the glass like the guilt in her stomach.

She hated the notion she needed to hire a man. Ignoring the ache in her hands from working on her husband’s old truck, she gathered his worn flannel shirt beneath her head. Briar Ridge was her late husband’s dream, and she didn’t want to lose her last piece of him. 

Claire had taken time off from her second job, a remote position writing articles for an online newspaper, to focus on the venue. There were still too many things to prepare for her last scheduled wedding of the season to do everything alone. Mr. Carver was her only applicant, and she couldn’t wait. The lodge wouldn’t pay for itself. 

Mr. Carver was her last hope.

She drew in the last breath of her husband’s piney, metal-slag scent. Then it was gone—like footprints in the sands of a honeymoon in Hawaii. Claire clutched the fabric of his shirt. Her body ached, wishing to lie next to him once more. Despite her fluffy wool socks, her feet were cold. Nothing could combat the chill that followed that phone call. She had to love a soldier.

“I'm not ready.”

The loss of their child only made her heartbreak harder to bear. Ghost pains crept through her core. She forced herself to focus on the future of Briar Ridge. Two weeks to the wedding. Two weeks after, Christmas—the day her dreams crumbled. 

Weddings gave the lodge life and a chance to survive while keeping her mind occupied. She refused to let Briar Ridge go under without a fight. Stanly deserved that much, at least. 

Tori, her last assistant, had stolen her husband’s Purple Heart from the desk in their old bedroom. Sheriff Riviera had returned Stanly’s medal, but the violation of that respect boundary broke Claire. He’d died for his country, and no one cared but her. Not even his family.

She clenched her teeth and stared into the fire. Tori had the code to the safe. Cash regularly disappeared in small amounts. Claire couldn’t seem to catch Tori with it. Five thousand dollars had gone missing in less than eight months. 

Forehead throbbing, Claire rubbed the spot between her eyebrows to push back the ache. Firing the young woman had made her feel better, but Claire never found the money. 

Her arms quivered in protest when she pushed herself up. Claire wiped the moisture from her cheeks and laid Stanly’s shirt tenderly in her lap. The ad for a new venue assistant she'd placed in the local newspaper sat on the oak coffee table in front of her. Regret made her pick it up. 

The rustle of paper echoed throughout the empty house. “Forgive me, Stanly. I need someone who can do the heavier stuff I can't.” I’ve lost my appetite recently. I don’t know how much longer I can go on without you, out here, alone.

Her interview with Mr. Carver was scheduled for the next morning. 

Tossing the ad back on the table, she raked her hands through her hair and leaned forward. She'd tried to eat dinner but lost interest. Her stomach did flips over the idea of another man being in the building, even if it was just for work. I’m not trying to be unfaithful to you, she thought, hoping Stanly was listening. 

The last two years had taken fifteen pounds from her. If she didn't make a change, she was bound to end up with her husband. 

She didn't always fight the idea.

At night she dreamt of little feet thundering through the halls like they had always wanted, the reason he built the lodge. 

“It's for family, my big family!” He'd take her on a tour now and then, stopping by each of the twenty rooms. Stanly would tell her who could stay where for the holidays and which room would be the nursery. “You can decorate it however you want. I don't even care if you paint the wood pink.” His nose would wrinkle in mock disgust, and she'd giggle. 

Claire laughed once to herself but lacked the strength to smile. Collecting his shirt from her lap, she trudged down the hall to their old room and padded across the wood floor to the closet. She freed a hanger from the rack, deftly slipping it inside the shoulders of the red and brown plaid shirt with cold fingers. Claire clenched her teeth and hung the shirt back with the rest. 

His scent had faded from the others. They hung like fabric ghosts of the man he once was.

Falling in against the soft pillow of his shirts, she buried her nose in the flannel again. Claire drew in only a musty whiff of old cotton and dust. 

“I'm trying to do what you made me promise.” She shivered. “Fill this home with life, with love, and never give up on what I want. It's hard without you.” You’re what I want.

Claire pressed a trembling kiss above the chest pocket of a shirt and forced herself to back away. Her body felt weak, her joints complaining at every movement. 

I have to be strong—for him. Claire strained to steady her muscles. The effort was exhausting, and she decided to save her energy for the morning. She didn’t want Mr. Carver to think she was a pushover or fragile. Claire couldn’t afford to be taken advantage of again.

She wondered what his personality would be like. Claire had fired the last three girls. She’d considered an age requirement in the ad, though it wasn't always a sure indicator of maturity in her mind. 

Releasing a weighted breath that puffed out her cheeks, she flopped back on their bed. Claire tucked her feet beneath the comforter and replayed the phone call. 

His name was Zach. He had mechanical skills and could lift over 100 lbs.

Good for him. 

But could he be polite with guests? Could he stay clean and drug-free? What was his work ethic like? Was he trustworthy? Or would he take advantage of her like the other assistants? Steal like Tori? Get caught in the shed with a significant other like Amber? Be lazy, worthless help like Gretchen, who preferred her phone to guests?

Claire rubbed her face and groaned. Tomorrow was going to be more stressful than hosting a wedding with a runaway bride.

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About the Author

An optimist and opportunist, Strife is a self-made author, cover designer, and editor. Best known as Elysia Strife, who writes primarily sweet holiday romance, she most loves writing dystopian science fiction fantasy novels under the pseudonym variation E. L. Strife. She is an upcoming author of young adult fantasy as Elysia Lumen and looks forward to diving deeper into the world of magic.

Strife has toured castles, haunted houses, frozen caves, lava tubes, and concentration camps. She’s a hopeless empath who needs the quiescence of hiking in the Cascades, camping, and snowboarding to recharge. She also enjoys reading on rainy and snowy mornings with a fire going, even if it’s just the fake one in her RV. She craves learning new things, like how to work on her 1981 Corvette, her jeep, and the four-wheeler that just won’t budge.

Strife lives with an amazing man who can build anything he puts his mind to and a rescued dog that steals socks and chases the vacuum. Together, they travel the country—from the golden plains of North Dakota to the warm ocean of the southern Texas coast and back to the green valleys and vineyards of Oregon. Anywhere is home as long as they’re together.

If you’d like to know when Strife’s next books will be out, and to ensure you hear about her giveaways, visit her website: elstrife.com and subscribe via the links on her homepage.

Connect:

Website: http://www.elstrife.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ElysiaLStrife

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Spotlight: Back in the Texan's Bed by Naima Simone

He’s going to claim his child and the woman who got away…from USA TODAY bestselling author Naima Simone. Will they ever learn that giving in to desire is playing with fire?

After discovering he has a secret son, oil heir Ross Edmond isn’t letting Charlotte Jarrett walk away again. He proposes they move in together—to share their son…and a bed. But Charlotte has secrets, and Ross doesn’t know the real reason his family’s former chef left town three years ago—and they still have a powerful enemy who could bring them both down…

Excerpt

Love.

Russell “Ross” Edmond Jr. sipped his scotch, relishing the smoky flavor with hints of caramel, fruit and a bite of salt, while staring out the window of the Texas Cattleman’s Club meeting room at the beautiful couple currently wrapped around each other in a passionate embrace.

Ezekiel Holloway and Reagan Sinclair—Reagan Holloway now—had caused quite a scandal in Royal, Texas, some months ago when they’d eloped to Vegas against her family’s wishes. Especially since Zeke’s own family had been embroiled in a dirty criminal investigation that involved embezzlement and drug smuggling. But that had all been cleared up, their reputation restored, and now the newlyweds were living out their happily-ever-after.

Ross barely contained a derisive snort. Sure, the two appeared enamored and, yes, happy. The married couple kissed as if Ezekiel was heading off to sea for a months-long absence. Ross would say they were in love. Or, at least, they believed they were.

Unfortunately—or fortunately, in his opinion—he wasn’t a devout disciple at the altar of the emotion that seemed like a convenient excuse for people to lose control, validate idiotic behavior or justify satisfying any impulsive desire.

What did he believe in?

Raising his glass to his mouth again, he turned from the view of the couple and surveyed the elegantly appointed room. Due to recent renovations at the Club, the design was less dark wood and stone, and now boasted brighter colors, larger windows and higher ceilings. Yes, the hunting trophies and historical artifacts still adorned the walls, and the stables remained, as did the pool and tennis courts. Yet, now the Club had a day care and sported painted murals, as well. The whole effect exuded a warmth that had been missing before.

But it all still conveyed wealth. Influence. Exclusivity.

And those ideals he trusted.

Money and power. They could be counted, measured, handled, manipulated, if need be, and were unfailingly consistent.

They’d never let him down.

Unlike people. Unlike love.

Hell, he couldn’t even keep the sneer out of his inner voice.

“Ross, get over here,” Russell Edmond Sr. boomed as if Ross stood farther out in the club’s entryway instead of just several feet away from him. “Do that brooding shit on your own time. We have business to attend to.”

Rusty. Oil mogul. Texas Cattleman’s Club member. Tycoon. All things people called Russell Edmond Sr. Whereas Ross considered him brilliant, ruthless, domineering. And, on occasion, manipulative bastard.

They all fit.

With his tall, wide-shouldered and athletic build that had only gone a little soft around the middle, dark hair dusted with silver at the temples and intelligent, scalpel-sharp gray eyes, Rusty still possessed a powerful physique and commanded respect. Ross strode over to the long, cedar conference table, his gaze fixed not on his father but on the thin stack of documents in the middle of the table. His heart thumped against his sternum in anticipation. To others, those ordinary sheets of paper might seem innocuous. But to him?

Independence. Autonomy.

Identity.

Yes, this deal included the financial and marketing backing of The Edmond Organization, but this project—the luxury food, art and wine festival called Soiree on the Bay, which was to be held on a small, private island—was his baby. Well, more aptly, it was a baby that belonged to him, his siblings, Gina and Asher, and his best friend, Billy Holmes. But for the first time, he wasn’t a figurehead wearing the Edmond name and the ineffectual title of executive. Wasn’t a puppet tasked with carrying out Rusty-given orders. Wasn’t just the useless playboy son riding the coattails of his daddy’s success and reputation.

With this project, this event, he would finally step out from under his father’s shadow and show everyone he hadn’t just inherited the Edmond name—he’d earned it. Ross would play an integral role in raising the bar, in solidifying and expanding their legacy as he elevated The Edmond Organization from the national stage to the international one. Something even Rusty hadn’t managed to do in the company’s history.

But Ross would.

And in the process, maybe earn that thing that had eluded him the entire twenty-eight years he’d been Rusty’s son—approval.

Again, not love. Men like his father believed in that emotion even less than Ross did. Just ask Rusty’s four ex-wives.

Just ask his children.

“So this is it? The final contract?” Ross set his tumbler down on the table, trying not to stare down at the documents as if they were the Holy Grail and he a Texas version of Indiana Jones.

“This is it,” Billy Holmes, his college friend and future business partner, said, grinning. “The last step before Soiree on the Bay moves from dreams to reality.”

“Dreams,” Rusty scoffed. “Dreams are for men who don’t have the balls to get out there and pursue what they want.”

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About the Author

USA Today Bestselling author Naima Simone's love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey and Nora Roberts years ago. Well not that many. She is only eighteen...ish. Published since 2009, she spends her days writing sizzling romances with heart, a touch of humor and snark. She is wife to Superman--or his non-Kryptonian equivalent--and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern US.

Connect:

Website: http://naimasimone.com/ 

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Twitter: https://twitter.com/Naima_Simone 

Spotlight: Her Banished Knight's Redemption by Melissa Oliver

A lady’s need for protection a knight’s chance for redemption. Exiled Knight William Geraint answers only to himself. Yet, a mission to reunite lost heiress Lady Isabel de Clancey with her family is Will’s chance to finally atone for the torment of his past. With every rushed mile, their intense attraction becomes dangerously thrilling. He swore to protect Isabel not seduce her, but their desire for each other could threaten the redemption he’s worked so hard to achieve…

Excerpt

Will Geraint spotted him the moment the old peacock stepped inside the tavern. The older man was not the usual customer who frequented the dirty, dubious establishment that Will liked to call his home away from home.

Instinct made Will lean back and sink into the shadows, clasping the hilt of his dagger underneath the wooden table as he watched the man scan the room. His beady eyes settled near the area where Will was sat and he gave a decisive nod before walking over.

Who the hell was he? And, more importantly, what did he want?

Will tightened his grip around the hilt as the man flung his feathered hat on the table and sat opposite him, his eyes studying Will closely. There was something about the man’s presumptuous manner that he didn’t particularly like.

‘Mind if I sit here?’ The stranger spoke French, but Will realised instantly that he was English. A fellow countryman—a courtier, no less. His senses were further alerted to the man’s every movement, aware that he might not be here alone, might have any number of accomplices waiting somewhere outside.

The fact the older Englishman had come to this godforsaken tavern in a remote part of France made it obvious he had meant to seek Will out, especially since the tavern wasn’t particularly busy and he could have sat anywhere else.

Will ascertained the various ways he could leave expeditiously without using the front entrance and without the man being able to follow him in any capacity.

He shrugged without betraying any of his internal calculations. ‘I don’t care where you sit, stranger, as long as you don’t disturb me.’

‘That is not my intention. However, I was told that I would find a man here whose talents with a sword were—and still are—legendary,’ he said, brushing non-existent dirt off his shoulder. ‘A man whose reputation precedes him, even if he does seem to prefer living in such obscure places, as he has these past two years.’

‘There is no man of that description. Not here.’

‘No? What if I could give this man a chest full of silver and a pardon so he could return home to England?’

Hell’s teeth!

Will had to tread carefully here. He had been living in France as a mercenary, a sword for hire, in the shadow of exile for the past few years. The truth, however, was that since King John’s death he had worked tirelessly for England’s new regent and Lord Protector, William Marshal, gathering important information for the Crown under the guise of being a disgraced man. A disgraced rogue knight. Not that many knew. Not that this man knew.

‘And what would you want with such a man? If one were to exist.’

‘I’d need him to find something—rather, someone. Urgently.’

Will smirked dismissively. ‘I cannot think of who you would mean. You have the wrong place.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I have been making a lot of enquiries, both here and in England and I’m certain I am in the right place, talking to the right person. You are Sir William Geraint,’ the man said as his lips curled into a sneer.

Will tightened his grip on his dagger and spoke in a low voice. ‘If I were you, stranger, I’d leave and go back the way you came. That is, if you want to hang on to your life.’

‘Peace, Sir William, peace.’ The man held out his hands, palms facing outwards, and swallowed. ‘You have not been at court and so have not been privy to the whispers and rumours about how you, along with the knight you squired for, Sir Percival of Halsted, saved a young girl’s life more than ten years ago.’

‘What of it? It was our duty and not of any consequence.’

Except for the lasting memories of the young girl, of course…

Will had often thought of the frightened little girl with unusual eyes whom he had once helped rescue when he was still a young lad himself. He had wondered from time to time since that fateful day what had happened to the girl. He remembered her looking so desolate, so hopelessly alone and so reluctant to stay in that cold, foreboding place. He’d felt sorry for her and hoped the intervening years had treated her kindly.

Although the incident had been harrowing, Will had been commended and rewarded by Sir Percy for his perceptive quick thinking in the situation. It had led to a time when life seemed like an endless adventure, full of possibilities.

Not like the shadowy, dark world he inhabited now.

Will dragged the leather cord out from under his tunic and absently wrapped his fingers around the silver and ruby pendant that dangled from his neck. A pendant the little girl had gifted him and which he had always worn since.

The other man’s eyes narrowed and he murmured something under his breath, no doubt recognising the jewel. Damn, that was short-sighted of Will, but he could hardly hide it now.

The man pressed his lips into a thin line before speaking again. ‘Neither of you ever knew the girl’s identity—not that I’m surprised. Her family were out of favour with King John and never came to court. With Sir Percival having only just returned from the Holy Land, my mistress has only now learnt of this girl’s existence, when she had been presumed dead all this time.’

‘And who are you and who is your mistress?’

‘Eustace Rolleston at your service, Sir William.’ He inclined his head. ‘And my mistress is Lady Adela de Clancey.’

‘So, Eustace Rolleston, let me comprehend this. You want to commission me to find a girl, who is, if she is still alive, a fully-grown woman?’ He smirked, shaking his head. ‘Apologies, but you have the wrong man for this.’

‘Oh, I have the right man. Sir Percy confirmed it as much but his memory is hazy now and he cannot remember anything about the incident other than your gallant rescue of the girl somewhere outside of La Rochelle.’

The fact that the old knight Will had once served had told this man the barest of information about the incident, however hazy his memory, sent darts of warning through him. Sir Percy was sending him a message of caution regarding the man sat opposite him.

Will narrowed his eyes. ‘No, I don’t believe you understand, stranger. I am hired for many reasons, but finding lost people is outside my remit, especially when I have no idea where they may be.’ He leaned forward. ‘And no amount of silver would tempt me to stray from that.’

That was not strictly true, but Will wanted to ascertain how far he could bargain, how large that chest of silver was…and how desperate this man’s cause.

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About the Author

Melissa Oliver is from south-west London where she writes historical romance novels. She lives with her lovely husband and three daughters, who share her passion for decrepit, old castles, grand palaces and all things historical. She is the winner of The Romantic Novelists' Association's Joan Hessayon Award for new writers in 2020 for her debut, The Rebel Heiress and the Knight. When she's not writing she loves to travel, paint and visit museums & art galleries.

https://twitter.com/melissaoauthor?lang=en

Spotlight: Stormbringer by Isabel Cooper

Sentinels spend their lives fighting the monsters that prey upon humanity.

Deep in the wilderness, a lone Sentinel discovers a handsome warrior in ancient clothing, held in an endless sleep—Amris, hero of the world’s last great battle. His discovery can only mean one thing: the Traitor God is gathering his armies again, and everyone they love is in terrible danger.

Amris has been trapped in dreamless sleep for centuries. Now he’s awake…and so, it seems, is humanity’s greatest threat. Determined to save the world from being swallowed by the Traitor God’s oncoming storm, Amris and his rescuer, the fiercely beautiful Darya, must learn to trust each other—and the powerful bond that’s formed between them—as they fight their way through a land swarming with danger to get word back to their allies before it’s too late…

Fans of The Witcher and Ilona Andrews will love this epic tale of adventure and romance.

Excerpt

The world was silent, and that itself told Amris the spell had worked—not that he’d ever doubted Gerant’s skill, whether at magic or elsewhere. It was a different matter, though, to be transported, in the space of two breaths and two words, from the screams and crashes of a pitched battle to utter quiet, save for a single voice. 

Because the voice wasn’t Gerant’s, nor any that he recognized, Amris’s reflexes carried him backward several steps and brought his sword up in front of him. He realized that the person who’d woken him was human and not Thyran, and hastily readied himself to defend rather than striking out, but it was a close thing. 

The woman hissed and darted backward herself, moving with more than human speed or grace. 

She was more than human. That became apparent as soon as Amris saw her eyes, unnaturally bright green and glowing in the dim light. Her skin was paper-white, her braided hair dark around it, and those could be human enough, but the eyes were a different matter. 

“Easy, there,” she said. Her accent stretched the vowels out more than Amris was used to, and the words came more quickly, but he could understand her rightly enough, particularly when she held up her hands, palms out. “I’m on your side.” 

Anyone could say so. “What side is that, pray?” Speaking felt odd. Gerant’s magic had kept his muscles from degeneration through however much time had passed, so he felt no worse than a little stiff, but just as sound had taken a moment to become words, Amris had to think at first: move the tongue this way for w, the lips and throat so for i. 

The woman shrugged. “The side that doesn’t love the Traitor. The Order of the Dawn, the Sentinels… I think we were starting when you—” She waved a hand. 

When he trapped himself in time in a desperate bid to stop the murderous warlord. “Yes. Only just.” 

Still Amris didn’t lower his sword: the woman aside, there was no virtue in dropping his guard before he knew the situation. He did let the rose fall from his gauntleted fingers, and used that hand to pull off his helmet, a necessary compromise between defense and intelligible conversation. 

The state of the hall became clearer to him as he did so—the years’ worth of dust and cobwebs, as well as the silence. The woman’s clothing—plain dark leather pants, jerkin, and gloves over a shirt of brown cloth—was plainer than he was used to, without even the embroidery that most peasants wore. Practicality, given where she was, or ascetism? 

“I should tell you two things right off,” said the woman. “You might want to sit down first.” 

Amris shook his head. “Best to face it on my feet.” 

“All right,” she said. “First, you’ve been…” Another vague wave of her hand. “Stuck. For a hundred years or so.” 

She’d spoken wisely when she’d advised him to sit. The knowledge traveled up through his feet as well as in through his ears, making the room spin around Amris, and yet it seemed not to reach his head or his heart. The sweat of battle was still wet in his hair, he still felt his cuts and bruises, and the rose on the floor was as fresh as it had been when he’d plucked it for Gerant. 

That reached head and heart both. Gerant was as human as he. Had been as human, rather—in a hundred years, a babe in arms would grow, sire or bear their own children, see grandchildren, and die, and Gerant had been a man in his prime when they’d parted. He’d be long dead by now. 

They’d both known that parting might be forever. Toward the end, any farewell might have been the last. Amris had never pictured it taking this form. 

“Here.” The woman took a small metal flask out of her boot and brandished it in his direction. 

The contents tasted roughly as they smelled. Amris had been a soldier long enough to swallow, nod his thanks, and trust that his throat wasn’t truly on fire. “Strong.” 

“I keep it to clean out wounds.” One eyebrow quirked, and her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I’d say this counts.” 

“Truth.” A hundred years. A hundred years, and only now had somebody come to awaken him, but the hall was empty otherwise. “Before the second, lady,” he said, “was there another man nearby? There, roughly speaking?” He gestured to the place where Thyran had been standing at the last. 

“No,” said Darya, peering at it, and then frowned. “But…wait.” 

*** 

A small, uneven mound of gray powder lay heaped on the stone. Darya knelt and touched it with the tip of a gloved finger, feeling the texture as much as she dared. “Ash,” she said, “and—yes, bone. Bits of it. Wait.” There was a larger shape within the ash, but that wasn’t entirely why she’d stopped. As many shocks as it had gone through, her mind was still capable of calculation. “You’re looking for Thyran, aren’t you?” 

The question sounded completely absurd. Thyran had shaped, bred, or summoned an army of things, led them against humanity, and cursed the world to years of barren cold when he’d begun to lose. Thyran was the Father of Storms and Abominations. He wasn’t somebody people looked for. 

“Then you know of him,” Amris said, utterly serious. 

“Bad children and old wives everywhere know of him. The Order taught us a little more of the real histories.” Beneath the ash lay a long finger, five-jointed, with a black talon at the end rather than a nail. Burial in the ash had kept most of the insects away and held off some rot, but the finger was still fairly disgusting. She grimaced. “Was he human at the end?” 

“Mostly, in appearance,” Amris said slowly. He knelt beside her, squinting in the dim light. “Far harder to kill than mortals, or even any of his creatures.” Slowly he breathed out, sending ashes scattering. “And one of his defenses was dark fire.” 

***

Excerpted from Stormbringer by Isabel Cooper. © 2020 by Isabel Cooper. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

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About the Author

During the day, ISABEL COOPER maintains her guise as a mild-mannered project manager in legal publishing. In her spare time, she enjoys video games, ballroom dancing, various geeky hobbies, and figuring out what wine goes best with leftover egg rolls. Cooper lives with two thriving houseplants in Boston, Massachusetts.

Connect: https://isabelcooper.wordpress.com/

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