Spotlight: Seven Year Itch by Amy Daws

Alone and Looking to Bone! Loudmouthed Mountain Man Seeks Fiery Woman to Grow Old With.

I might look like a tall, tattooed, bearded neanderthal...but like an onion, I have layers. Swipe right if you like a proud cat daddy who catches feelings after direct eye contact.

All I wanted was a casual plus-one to my brother's destination wedding, but those idiots on my family tree hacked my dating profile and sabotaged my quest for the perfect weekend fling. Now I'm stuck on a tropical vacation with only my hand to keep me company.

Until I’m forced to share a room with the bane of my existence: my sister-in-law’s best friend.

Dakota has hated me for the past seven years. I wasn’t losing much sleep over her screaming rants because she was some other guy’s problem. Or she was, until she got divorced.

Being stuck in paradise with a woman who loathes your very existence doesn't sound hot, but after an unexpected moment in our shared palapa, she starts screaming at me in a different way.

What happens in paradise stays in paradise. That is, until Dakota shows up on my mountain with a proposition: be her wingman to help her regain her pre-divorce confidence.

Suddenly, Dakota’s not just the person I love to fight with. She’s the woman I want everything with. 

Perfect for fans of:

• Enemies to Lovers

• Small Town Romance / Vacation Romances

• Quirky Animals

• Meddling family

• Meghan Quinn and Tessa Bailey

Excerpt

Prologue 

ALONE AND LOOKING TO BONE! 

LOUDMOUTHED MOUNTAIN MAN SEEKS FIERY 

FEMALE TO STEAM UP HIS LOG CABIN 

Calder, 35 years old

🎓 Fletcher Mountain University

💼 Full-time cat daddy with a side-hustle in screwing and nailing

📍 14 miles away 

Height: 6'3" at the doctor, 6'5" at the bar 

Eyes: Blue and Full of Feelings 

Body: Toned and overly inked to conceal my real personality 

Personality: My mom says I’m great

🍆 Size: Not as big as my brother Luke’s but honorable mention 

What I do on a typical day: Mountainside strolls with my cat strapped to my chest. 

Self-summary: 

I might be tall, tattooed, bearded, and all the classic things one might look for in a rugged mountain man . . . but like an onion plucked from the soil, you must peel back the dirty layers to see the moist inner belly that shows my true essence. 

I’m not a “go with the flow” kind of guy. I catch feelings with direct eye contact. If you don’t text me back within an hour, I’ll probably cry a little before showing up to your house to see if you’re cheating on me. 

I once had a girl hold the door open for me, and afterward I asked her, “What are we?” 

The other day, a bartender poured me the wrong beer and let me drink it for free . . . it was a weird way for him to propose, but I said yes. 

If you like the taste of my potent onion, swipe right and let’s giggle and make some soup together. 

Chapter 1 

CAT DADDY 

Calder 

“What the actual fuck,” I state out loud, and my cat, Milkshake, lets out a high-pitched meow from where she sits on my naked chest. I sit up, clutching her black-and-white fur to me for comfort as I use my free hand to scroll through my Tinder account. “Have I been hacked?” 

My eyes scan over the contents of my dating profile, knowing damn well I didn’t write a single word of this. Catch feelings with direct eye contact? I don’t catch feelings. I catch boners with a light breeze. I catch ladies’ attention with my tattoos and muscles. 

Feelings? Fuck feelings! 

“Can Tinder profiles get hacked?” I ask Milkshake who tips her head up to me and drags her sandpaper tongue over my beard. “Who gives a fuck about someone’s dating life enough to mess with their profiles? There has to be way cooler things to hack.” 

I quickly check my other hookup apps that I keep armed and ready at all times and see the same long-term relationship bullshit spewing out of every one of them. Make some soup together? My God. This is the complete opposite of what I look for in these apps. I’m very clear about that. Who the hell did this? 

I reread the penis-size line, and my eyes narrow. “Fucking Luke,” I growl and stand up from the sofa to stomp across the knotty pine flooring of my small cabin. I glance out the window that faces uphill to see if his truck is here as I drop a soft kiss to my cat’s ear. “Someone’s gonna die today,” I coo in a saccharine voice to my girl. 

Without putting a shirt on, I throw the baby carrier on my chest and stuff Milkshake inside. That was the only part of the hacked profile that was true, but dammit, little fuzz loves being outside. And there’s way too much wildlife around here to let her run free. So when my future sister-in-law, Trista, gave me a cat carrier to help Milkshake enjoy the great outdoors safely, that meant I turned into a big, tatted mountain man who wears a cat more often than not. 

Come at me. 

Fuzz gets to enjoy the fresh air and mountain scenery, and I get to sleep at night, not worrying she’s going to get eaten by the coyotes that roam the dense forest surrounding us. 

Milkshake secure, I storm out in the bristly early March temperatures, the cool air doing its best to cool down my fiery temper as I make my way to Luke’s to tear him a new asshole, but an errant thought stops me in my tracks. I pivot to look downhill at the cabin on the other side of my place. Maybe the Luke dick-size comparison on my profile was a diversion to get me off my older brother Wyatt’s trail. I certainly have payback coming from Wyatt after posting a Help Wanted ad for him last year at the local bar when he was looking for a baby mama. 

But I’ll be damned if it didn’t work. 

The fucker is probably tucked inside his architecturally obnoxious cabin cuddling his fiancée and their nearly three-month-old daughter, Stevie, in front of his stone fireplace, watching the snow melt outside the window. 

Gives me the ick. 

My brother went from never wanting a wife so much that he was looking for a surrogate to have a baby for him to now preparing to fly us all to Mexico so we can watch him marry his incubator-turned-fiancée in a couple of weeks. 

It’s enough to make a guy puke. 

Not that I dislike Trista. She’s cool, and I’m low-key obsessed with my niece that she gave birth to a few months ago. The two of them are fine additions to Fletcher Mountain along with the pick-and-mix assortment of farm animals that keep showing up in the red barn located down the drive. 

But my two brothers and I made a pact nearly a decade ago: us three and this mountain. No one else. 

Now we have a soon-to-be wife for Wyatt, a baby niece who has us all wrapped around her finger, eighteen random animals including a horse with a tongue deformity, and probably a fucking partridge in a pear tree somewhere in that barn. 

Wyatt is a sellout. 

My eyes shift to movement in the distance, and I see Trista emerge from the Dutch doors of the barn. She has a baby carrier strapped to her chest, and I decide to let Wyatt live for a few more minutes while I investigate. 

Feeling Milkshake purr against my chest, I beeline straight to the barn, my boots crunching over melted snow as I intercept Trista walking back up toward her and Wyatt’s cabin. 

“What do you know?” I bark, my eyes narrowing on my brother’s woman. 

Trista smiles as she glances down at my pussy. “I knew Milkshake would love that cat carrier, for one.” 

I dig my calloused fingers into Milkshake’s cheek, and her purr quickens as she nuzzles into my chest. “This isn’t about my cat, and you know it.” 

Trista’s smile drops, and she hits me with a scolding look. “Calder, it’s barely nine in the morning. I had this feral little animal on my tits four times last night. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.” 

“My dating profiles have all been fucked with, and I want to know who did it. My guess is your soon-to-be husband.” 

“What does it say?” she asks, her eyes narrowing curiously. 

I pull my phone out of my pocket to show her the proof, and her face lights up as laughter bubbles out of her. “This definitely looks like payback from Wyatt.” 

“That’s what I thought,” I grind out as I turn toward my brother’s house. He must pay for his crime. “Sorry, Stevie. Your dad is going to be out of commission for a while.” 

“Although you know who else it could have been . . .” Trista’s voice stops me in my tracks, and I turn on my heel with a frown as she adds, “Your niece.” 

“Stevie’s too damn young to be on Tinder,” I exclaim, my eyes dropping down to the mound of chestnut curls sticking out from her little stocking cap. Her hair is wild and unruly just like Trista’s. 

“Not this niece, you moron,” Trista bites back a bit too comfortably. She’s definitely not the type of sister-in-law you can fuck with. She puts me and my brother Luke in our place whenever the mood strikes her. I kind of love that about her. 

She pats her daughter’s back and adds, “I’m talking about Everly.” 

My brows furrow. “Everly is at college in Ireland.” 

“They have the internet there, Calder.” 

My mind races with this new possibility I hadn’t considered. How did my nineteen-year-old niece hack my dating profiles? In fairness, my password might be easy to guess. Milkshake1234 isn’t exactly a high-security option. And Everly was the one with the idea to do the baby mama Help Wanted ad for Wyatt last year when he was looking for a surrogate. I just helped her jazz it up a bit. 

I shake my head and refocus. “But why would she sabotage my dating profiles?” 

“Maybe she wants you to find a nice girl to bring to the wedding, not some rando from Tinder? I mean . . . we all have to hang with whoever you and Luke bring to this villa we’re staying at in Mexico. Not to mention Stevie will be there, your mother, and your eight-year-old nephew, Ethan. A random Tinder hookup doesn’t sound super family-friendly.” 

“Trust me, whoever I find won’t be there for the family vibes.” I waggle my brows suggestively. 

Trista rolls her eyes and rubs Stevie’s bottom. “Can you not speak that way in front of my daughter, please?” 

“My daughter doesn’t mind one bit.” I match Trista’s protective stance with my own fur baby. I move closer to lean in and whisper into my sleeping niece’s ear. “It’s best you learn young, lil Stevemeister, that your uncle Calder is a stallion.” 

Trista groans and makes her way up toward their house. “Calder, I don’t know who messed with your profiles, but if you have to go to Tinder to find someone to bring to our wedding, maybe you don’t really need to bring anyone at all.” 

My eyes narrow on my retreating future sister-in-law. She might have a point about Tinder not being the right place for me to find a date for a destination wedding. But she’s wrong about me not bringing a date. Luke already has his plus-one lined up, and our oldest brother Max down in Boulder has been wifed up for years. Wyatt will be busy being a groom. If I don’t bring a plus-one, that means I’ll be my mother’s date, and as much as I love my dear mother . . . I can’t stomach the idea of dancing with her or my niece all night long. I need to find someone to bring with me on this damn trip. 

I turn and gaze at the tiny mountain town that rests at the bottom of our long and winding gravel lane. Perhaps Tinder is casting too wide a net. Maybe it’s time to look a bit closer to home. Jamestown ain’t much to look at. It’s a little hamlet of Boulder—an isolated and somewhat dilapidated sanctuary for weirdos who want to stay weird. It’s full of loners. Trailblazers. People who don’t want to be found and don’t mind a bit of inconvenience—be that limited grocery supplies, weather that snows us in for a week, or cell service that goes in and out. Jamestown is our sanctuary. And it’s the place Wyatt, Luke, and I have called home for over a decade now. 

Unfortunately, the population doesn’t even hit three hundred souls, so the pickings are slim. My brothers and I learned that quickly when we first moved out here. Things ended real messy back then, and the three of us made a pact to not test the waters in Jamestown ever again . . . but surely enough time has passed now. I mean hell, Wyatt’s on his way to getting married anyways. Maybe it’s time to shop local again.

Excerpted from SEVEN YEAR ITCH by Amy Daws. Copyright © 2025 by Amy Daws. Published by Canary Street Press, an imprint of HarperCollins. 

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

National bestselling author Amy Daws writes spicy love stories that take place in America, as well as across the pond. When Amy is not writing, she’s likely making charcuterie boards from her home in South Dakota, where she lives with her daughter and husband.

Connect:

Author website: https://amydawsauthor.com/ 

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

Twitter: https://twitter.com/amydawsauthor 

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/amydawsauthor/

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/amydawsauthor/ 

Spotlight: Cracks Beneath The Surface by Laura McCrum

Titanic Tales of Love and Loss, Book 1

Historical Romance, Historical Fiction

Date Published: May 28, 2025

Love. Scandal. Tragedy.

When Maddy weds the wealthy and influential John Jacob Astor IV, she believes she is stepping into a life of privilege, passion, and promise. But beneath the dazzling façade of high society, whispers of scandal, resentment, and betrayal threaten to pull her under. Shunned by New York’s elite for marrying a man nearly three decades her senior, Madeleine soon realizes that love in the gilded age comes at a price.

As the Astors embark on their homeward voyage aboard the RMS Titanic, fate sets a course neither could have foreseen. Amid the grandeur of the world’s most luxurious ship, tensions rise, secrets unravel, and the ocean stretches endlessly before them—along with the chasm widening in their marriage.

But when disaster strikes, will love, wealth, or power matter in the face of the unthinkable? And when the ice cracks beneath them, will the Astors’ love survive—if they do?

Cracks Beneath the Surface is a sweeping historical romance woven with heartbreak, resilience, and the echoes of a love tested by time, fortune, and fate.

Are you ready to set sail on a journey of passion, peril, and the power of a love that dared to defy the tides of time? Get your copy today and discover the story behind the headlines.

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

Laura McCrum is a Scottish author and former business and education professional whose passion for storytelling has found its voice in both historical fiction and self-help. Cracks Beneath the Surface is her debut historical romance novel and the first in the Titanic: Tales of Love and Loss series—a compelling exploration of human connection, courage, and social class aboard the ill-fated RMS Titanic. Drawing on meticulous research and a love for character-driven narrative, Laura brings real historical figures to life alongside unforgettable fictional characters.

While her Titanic series is published under her real name, Laura also writes empowering self-help books under the pen name Lamont, including Healing the Rift with Your Adult Child and The Blended Family Guide, which support readers through complex personal relationships.

The second book in her Titanic series, The Last Line, follows First Officer William Murdoch and delves deeper into the lives of both crew and passengers during the ship’s final days.

Laura’s writing bridges the emotional power of fiction with the insight and compassion of her self-help work—offering readers both escapism and emotional resonance. Visit Lauran on her website at www.lmcpublications.com

Spotlight: Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds by Allison Brennan

For fans of BAD SUMMER PEOPLE, FINLAY DONOVAN IS KILLING IT, and THE WHITE LOTUS, this sun-dappled mystery from New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan features a risk-averse bibliophile who gets in over her head when strange notes in a book draw her into a real-life investigation.

Mia Crawford is responsible to a fault. She has to be. Between her high-demand job and taking care of her grandmother and her cats, she has little time for anything else. What time she does have, she pours into reading. Mysteries, romances, thrillers…books filled with women who are far more impulsive than she would ever dream of being. Now, forced into taking a long-overdue vacation, she finds herself on a luxurious private island where she just might have a chance to reinvent herself—for a little while, anyway. She can explore the island. Flirt shamelessly with a cute bartender. Have a vacation fling. Live like a heroine in one of her favorite novels.

Or she can curl up with a good book on the beach. Turns out reinventing yourself is easier planned than done. But when gossipy notes written in the margins of an old book turn out to be clues to the disappearance of another guest, Mia finds herself diving head-first into a dangerous adventure. With everyone at the resort hiding secrets of their own, she’ll have to solve this real-life mystery before she becomes the next target.

Excerpt

PROLOGUE 

“Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.” 

—George R. R. Martin, A Game of Thrones 

DIANA HARDEN HAD A plan, and the plan was good. 

This little hiccup in her plan was merely an annoyance, not a roadblock. Sending her on a wild goose chase to St. John was childish and petty. 

Ethan Valentine would pay dearly for wasting her time. 

It was near dark when the water taxi returned her to St. Claire. The driver was barely more than a kid, but Diana paid him well. She’d had enough of this cloak-and-dagger bullshit, so she had the kid take her straight to Valentine’s private dock in a sheltered cove on the southwest side of the island. 

“Remember,” she said, putting her fingers to her lips in the universal be quiet sign. She didn’t want Ethan to know she’d figured out his ridiculous game. 

The driver nodded and grinned, and she waved him off. 

Ground lights lined the wood stairs from the dock to Ethan’s house built on top of the cliff. The height dizzied her as she trudged up. The cool ocean breeze chilled her through the sheer scarf that she’d wrapped around her shoulders. 

Ethan would pay first, and then she would tell him where she’d hidden the files. When she went out of her way to help someone, to give them information that would put them on top of the world, and they treated her like dog shit on their shoe? No way would she tolerate such disrespect. 

The man had to be half-crazy to live like a hermit in the middle of the Caribbean. All because he’d lost in a business deal? Coming here to lick his wounds and feel sorry for himself? He should be thrilled that she had proof he’d been cheated. Instead, he’d shunned her. 

If someone had told Diana ten years ago that she’d fallen head over heels for a gold-digging con artist, she would have been grateful. Sad, angry, sure—who wouldn’t be? But she would never have lost everything over it. Ethan Valentine should have been thanking her for the information that she had been willing to give to him practically for free yesterday. 

Now the jerk would pay top dollar. 

Diana stopped to catch her breath when she reached the top of the stairs. The view was breathtaking—the sun sinking into the ocean to her right, and the distant lights of St. John to her left. Almost as if on cue with the falling sun, several soft white LED lights flickered on, showcasing the house and garden, but darkening the jungle beyond. 

Though the house was lit, she couldn’t see through the privacy screens. She adjusted the oversized bag on her shoulder, then approached the frosted glass door and rang the bell twice. The chime sounded like a bird call. When no one immediately came, she rang again. And again. Nothing. She tried the door; locked. 

Frustrated and angry after her crappy wasted day on St. John, she walked around the deck. The downstairs was almost completely enclosed by glass doors. She was looking for a way inside when a voice, heavy with an accent that sounded not quite Mexican, said, “Are you looking for something?” 

Diana stumbled and knocked over a chair. “Who are you?” she demanded. 

Squinting, she barely made out an old man reclining on a chaise lounge on the far corner of the deck. He had brown skin and a white beard so long and thick she could barely see his face. She’d seen him at the resort, an annoying busybody. What was he doing at Ethan’s house? How long had he been watching her? 

“¿Quién crees que soy? ¿No has sentido curiosidad?” 

She didn’t understand Spanish. 

“No one is home,” the old man said, in English this time. “Do you need help finding your way back to the resort?” 

“This is Ethan Valentine’s house,” Diana said. “He said he would be here.” 

“He did? Odd.” 

Who was this strange man? 

“When will Ethan be back? It’s important.” 

“Volverá cuando vuelva. Perhaps you’d like to wait?” the man said. “It might be a day or two before he’ll come by. Or a week. A month?” He lifted his hands in the air and shrugged. 

Where the hell was Ethan? At the resort? Oh, that would be just her luck. 

Irritated, she said, “I’ll find him myself.” 

“Very well.” The man leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes. 

With an infuriated sigh, Diana traipsed along the gravel road that led to the main lodge, wishing she’d asked the kid with the water taxi to wait. 

She didn’t relish the two-mile hike to the resort, especially going over this mountain. Her flip-flops crunched on the gravel. She had wasted far too much time because of Ethan Valentine. He wanted to play games? Oh, she would play. And Diana was much better at it than he was. Her price had gone up tenfold. 

The narrow road was poorly lit with sporadic ground lights. She didn’t have a flashlight and her cell phone was dead, so she stayed in the middle of the path, knowing that there were sheer drops all over the place. Diana had never considered herself squeamish or afraid of the dark, but she couldn’t even see the stars because of the thick canopy of bushy leaves hanging over the road. 

Rodents ran from the trees right in front of her, then scurried down the cliff. She forced herself to breathe evenly. There were no dangerous animals on the island. The rustling leaves? Probably gophers or rabbits. She started talking out loud to herself, feeling silly, but hearing her own voice calmed her fears. 

She stumbled and caught herself with a vine that was hanging from one of the trees, cursing Ethan. He thought a hundred thousand was too much? How about a million, Ethan? Pay up or she’d out him. Tell everyone what he had really been doing since disappearing from the United States. She’d start with the Wall Street Journal and Variety. Then maybe Forbes or The Economist. Hell, the New York Times might be interested in the scoop. See how Ethan liked the publicity. His ridiculous behavior certainly wouldn’t help Valentine Enterprises. 

She stepped into a clearing on the top of the mountain. Packed, flat earth free of rocks and bushes and lined in bright lights. Ethan’s helipad, though there was no chopper here now. That jerk. That asshole. Chalk this up to one of the many lies he’d told. 

Maybe she wouldn’t sell him the documents at all. Maybe she’d sell them back to the man she’d stolen them from, and Ethan could continue to wallow in misery. 

Angry but wholly determined to make these miserable men pay for the havoc they had wreaked in her life and the lives of those she cared about, she strode across the helipad. 

The trees swayed in a sudden gust of wind, and a chill ran up her spine. She rubbed her arms and cursed. 

Then the lights went out. 

She froze in the sudden black. The jungle closed around her, and the trees groaned as if they knew something she didn’t. Rustling to the left, then to the right. “Who’s there?” she called out. “Show yourself, you prick!” 

She heard the flapping of wings first. Then dozens of bats flew right at her. She screamed and dropped to the ground, her arms over her head, as the flurry of flying rodents rushed by. She could feel the air shift and change around her as they dipped so low she thought for a moment that she was prey. 

Then the flapping faded into the distance, and Diana found herself huddled on the ground, filthy and sore. 

“For shit’s sake, Diana!” she said out loud. “Get up.” 

Determined not to let creatures of the night terrify her again, she stood, and her eyes readjusted to the dark. The lights flickered on, then went off again, but on the far side of the clearing, she spotted a wooden sign. She made her way there and came upon a forked path with two arrows. The path to the left was marked The Falls, and the path to the right went to St. Claire. 

Finally! She hurried to the right, down the path toward the resort. All she could think about was stripping off her disgusting clothes and inspecting the cuts and bruises she felt all over her body. 

Ten minutes later, faint music filtered up through the trees, and she thought about all her potential paydays—the conniving con artist with the super-rich, clueless boyfriend? Diana had had her pegged a mile away. Don’t try to con a con, she thought with a smile. Or maybe she’d focus on the security guy with the gambling habit? The cheater? The thief? 

So many to choose from . . . and then she got an idea, as if a light bulb went bright above her head. She slowed and reached into her bag to glance through her notes, then realized she’d left the book in her room this morning. No worries. It wasn’t like she’d forget the most brilliant idea she’d had all week. After all, she was the heroine of this story—as strong and beautiful and smart as the treasure hunter in the novel she was reading. She laughed out loud. That’s what she was, a treasure hunter! Only she hunted secrets, not gold. 

Secrets that turned into gold. She loved the imagery. 

She picked up her pace, eager to get back to her cottage. Her feet hurt, her head pounded, and all she wanted was a large glass of wine and a long soak in the hot tub with her book. 

The path wound around as she descended. Diana avoided the main lodge because she didn’t want to see anyone, especially when she looked like something the cat dragged in. Security lighting brightened the private patio of her cottage. She searched for her card key and as her hand grasped it at the bottom of her bag, she heard a voice behind her. 

“Diana.” 

She jumped, whirled around. Fear bubbled up in her chest until she saw who it was. Annoyed and tired, she said, “What do you want?” 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” 

“We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m beat.” 

She turned her back on her uninvited guest and started to insert her card key, but before she could open the door, she was grabbed from behind. 

“Wha—” She tried to speak, but her words were cut off. Her scarf tightened around her neck. She couldn’t talk. Then she couldn’t breathe. 

Her vision blurred. Grabbing at the scarf, she scratched her neck. Her knees grew weak. Her vision faded. 

Scream! 

No sound escaped her throat. She heard nothing except for her own pounding heart, fear wrapping itself around her like a vise. 

Then, darkness.

Excerpted from BEACH READS AND DEADLY DEEDS by Allison Brennan. Copyright © 2025 by Assemble Media. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HarperCollins. 

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

ALLISON BRENNAN is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling and award-winning author of over forty novels. She lives in Arizona with her husband, five kids and assorted pets.

Connect:

Author website: https://allisonbrennan.com/ 

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

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Allison_Brennan 

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/abwrites/ 

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/52527.Allison_Brennan 

Spotlight: The Blood Queen Chronicles by David H. Millar

Genre: Historical Fantasy 

Three childhood friends meet in the Scottish Highlands. Two hold secrets. One may be a monster.

As Gràinne reached for the still warm heart, tendrils of the red mist preceded her. When they touched the heart, she felt power drawn from the blood. She steeled herself and bit into the organ. Such was the curse of the Blood Queen.

Brianag is the sequel to The Blood Queen. It is 384 B.C. Ten years have passed since Sidheag’s execution. Gràinne Ni Fearghal, the Blood Queen, has ruthlessly consolidated her grip on the eastern tribes and reigns as High Queen. Meanwhile, her daughter imprisoned in a gilded cage grows in beauty and power and terrifies her guardians—the demigods of the Aes Sídhe. She must escape. Her grandma, the powerful Sídhe, Mongfhionn, agrees.

Brianag trembles at two questions: how will her mother receive her, and can she be redeemed?

Sidheag, was not the only Blood Drinker. Two others, Áine and her daughter, Leannán want vengeance for Sidheag’s death. Both claim to be Sidheag’s mother. Yet is Sidheag dead?

Can Cassán, Dùn Brion’s king, control his temper and work with the demigods to defeat the Blood Drinkers? Will the beast known as the Hound destroy every living being with three barks or will the ancient Cait People awaken and intercede?

Content warning: Brianag: The Blood Queen Chronicles contains scenes of sex and violence appropriate to the time it is set in (400 B.C.). It is not recommended for readers under 16 years of age without parental agreement.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

394 B.C.—Autumn

Spluttering, pitch-soaked torches spoilt the blackness of the autumn night. Splashes of red and yellow flames combined with the fragrance of pine to create a pleasant, if false, festive ambience. Across the loch’s rippling waters, the sinister chanting of the Tuireadh—the Death Song of the Na Daoine Tùrsach—rang out. Such invocations had not been heard abroad in a score of summers.

The young girl looked into the eyes of the gaunt-faced man who stood before her. Her expression spoke of unconditional trust—much as a daughter looks into her father’s face. He was a striking man, tall with a shock of snow-white hair and eyes that appeared violet and red in the torchlight. Yet her faith was born, not of parental love, but the blend of plants and fungi fed to her. Like her companions, she was naked, her feet were bound, and her hands were tied behind her back. She shivered uncontrollably in the chill of the autumn night.

He cupped her chin and tilted her head backwards. The act was deceptively gentle, as if he wished to let the silver moonlight bathe her face. Yet his desires were vile. Having abused her virginal body earlier, he needed to savour her terror. Her eyes widened at the sting of the blade’s cold edge, drawn from one side of her neck to the other. Soft flesh parted. Helpless, she felt the throb of her lifeblood spurt from slashed arteries and warmth as the blood flowed over her adolescent breasts.

The priest turned the child slightly, allowing the surging blood to splash his nakedness. He sighed in orgasmic delight before pushing her backwards to tumble off the jetty and into the loch’s icy waters. In total, the lives of nine young girls ended that night. Their eyes condemned the priests before, amid swirls of blood, their bodies slipped below the surface. Yet the thoughts of the ecclesiastics were not of guilt or regret but of anticipation of their next victims.

The High Priest smiled. The blood sacrifices began many moon cycles ago with the random slayings of young females. This night saw the beginning of a new, more deliberate phase and heralded the arrival of the promised one.

In one sense, he was right. Yet, in another, he was terribly mistaken.

*** 

On the deck of the trireme, Gràinne Ni Fearghal awoke screaming and fighting those who tried to calm and hold her down. It was an old vision, which had become more vivid with each passing night and the closer she got to her homeland in the highlands of Northern Albu.

She rubbed a hand across her neck and exhaled, relieved that only sweat wet her palm and soaked her clothes. Yet Gràinne could feel the sharp edge of the sacrificial knife wielded by her grandmother, Diadhaidh, and the satisfied look on her face as she drew it across her granddaughter’s throat.

Recently, the old nightmare had changed. A new abomination stood behind Diadhaidh. Its mouth opened, revealing rows of needle-pointed teeth as it spoke: “Come, child, it is time to fulfil Diadhaidh’s promise to me and take your place as my ‘Bhanrigh Fuil—my Blood Queen.”

Brianag Ni Brion, wise beyond her years, smoothed her mother’s long auburn tresses and mopped up rivulets of perspiration with a cold, damp cloth. “Hold me, Ma. You’ll be all right. We’ll be all right. You’re safe.”

Only after her mother slipped into a mercifully untroubled sleep did Brianag let the tears flow down her young cheeks.

***

A score of summers past, lust for unlimited power drove Diadhaidh, the Blood Queen and High Priestess of the Na Daoine Tùrsach tribe, insane. Two black-shafted arrows and flames stopped Diadhaidh from sacrificing her granddaughter to the evil that lurked in the loch’s depths. The missiles had been loosed by Mórrígan Ni Cathasaigh, An Fiagaí Dorcha—the Dark Huntress. The fire was provided by Mórrígan’s hand-fast partner Conall Mac Gabhann, Rí—king—of the newly founded Clann Ui Flaithimh.

Ironically, Mórrígan’s arrows pinned Diadhaidh to the same sacrificial post to which she had bound Gràinne. Fire devoured the Blood Queen and the royal crannag, burning the wooden edifice down to its pilings. The wind had scattered the building’s ashes across the loch’s surface by the next sunrise.

Among the people of the north-eastern highlands, the fiery glow in the night skies prompted heartfelt sighs of relief and an outpouring of thanks to the Goddess. Those of the Na Daoine Tùrsach’s priests and acolytes who survived the final battle fled into the high mountains. They were hunted down and executed with a grim resolution by Drostan Ruadh, the one-eyed rìgh—king—of the Forest People, and Blàr Mac Artair, Rìgh of the Ravens.

Yet true evil is a persistent and tenacious beast, and its desire for existence is eternal and insatiable. It needs to infect but one mind for its insidious philosophy to take root and spread. By all accounts, Blàr and Drostan did an excellent job. Yet a handful of priests survived, which proved enough to restart the cycle.

In the eddies of the sacrificed’s blood, an amorphous shape began to take corporeal form. At the mercy of the loch’s currents, it drifted without direction. With blood came sentience, rage, and an all-consuming desire for the crimson liquid that sustained life. Its mind gradually re-formed; the evil ceased its dependence on being fed and began to rely on native cunning and an instinct for survival. It began to hunt.

A plan formed that did not distinguish between animal and human or age and sex. The latter was a human obsession. It would feed on all living creatures until strong enough to enjoy a more discriminating palate. As for the waste of young females, that would change.

A ‘Bhanrigh Fuil

The Blood Queen Chronicles Book 1 

"It is a king's decision," said Brion.
"It will not be you who deceives and delivers the lamb to the butcher's block," retorted Eimhir.

True evil is a persistent and tenacious beast. Its desire for existence is eternal and insatiable. It needs to infect only one mind for its insidious philosophy to take root and spread.

It is 394 B.C. At a remote loch in the highlands of Northern Albu, a priest sacrifices nine innocents. Below the water's surface, a shape feeds on their blood and begins to take form. Soon, it becomes sentient and begins to hunt. Sidheag has risen.

Humans cannot defeat the abomination. Neither can Mongfhionn, the powerful demi-goddess of the Aes Sídhe.

The only remedy is the Blood Queen, and Gràinne is the reluctant heir to that throne. Will the Blood Queen stand alongside Mongfhionn to confront Sidheag? The cost for Gràinne may be too much—unless her daughter, Brianag, is in jeopardy.

Passions, always near the surface of the Gaels, burst into flames in The Blood Queen, where father is pitted against son, mother against daughter, sister against sister, brother against sister, and father against daughter.

The Blood Queen contains scenes of sex and violence and uses language appropriate to the period it is set in, i.e., 400 B.C. It is not recommended for those under 16 without parental consent.

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About the Author

Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, internationally published and award-winning author David H. Millar is the founder, owner, and author-in-residence of A Wee Publishing Company—a business formed to promote Celtic authors and literature.

David is the author of the five-volume, ancient Celtic-based Conall series and the spin-offs The Dog Roses, The Dog Roses: Resolution, The Blood Queen and Brianag: A Blood Queen Novel.

David resides in Houston, Texas, with his family and two recent family members, tuxedos Beau and Stiletto. 

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Spotlight: Iceni: The Year of Sacrifice by Stephen Dowen

Genre: Historical Fiction

Iceni: The Year of Sacrifice is the first thrilling instalment in this historical trilogy.

60 AD. The death of Prasutagus, the Iceni king, leaves his kingdom divided between Rome and his daughters. The Roman Procurator Catus Decianus seizes the entire territory and brutalizes Boudica and her family.

Driven by vengeance, Boudica rallies the Iceni tribe and allies including the Trinovantes, Coritani, and Catuvellauni. As Roman forces are preoccupied in the north, Boudica's rebel army advances on Camulodunum, the Roman provincial capital, where a vastly outnumbered Roman defence struggles to hold.

With the fate of Roman Britannia hanging in the balance, the epic tale of sacrifice, rebellion, and fierce determination unfolds.

Excerpt

EXTRACT CHAPTER 1 ICENI: THE YEAR OF SACRIFICE

     The air was bitter cold and heavy with tension, threatening more snow. High in the trees that overlooked the track, ravens cried hoarsely.

     The first century of Romans, veterans of the colonia of Camulodunum to the south, halted before the circle of warriors, not twenty yards off. Their leader, the grim centurion with the heavy scar etched across his face, advanced a few paces, with the wolfskin-clad standard-bearer at his side.

     Behind them, another century halted, shields presented to the front in two ranks, their centurion advancing before the first rank. Behind them, hundreds more Romans on foot, marching in column, moved off the track and formed up in ranks. The mounted Gauls had moved around the far side of the palace. More than a dozen surrounded Boudica and the others, spears lowered.

     Even as the Roman veterans and Gauls halted in perfect formation, investing the palace buildings of the Iceni, the mounted leader rode forward from the track.

     He halted by the lead centurion and dismounted silently. A soldier moved forward from the ranks and took the reins of his horse. He stood there momentarily, gazing on the Iceni queen and the others.

     Calonus and his warriors waited silently, hands on the hilts of their swords. The man narrowed his eyes, drawing his rich cloak about him, his breath steaming on the bitterly cold air.

     Then he took a few steps forward, his boots crunching on the snow. The centurion and standard-bearer at his side. Even as he looked on them, Arminus, the priest, saw two more riders moving down the track behind the soldiers, heavily cloaked. He felt his blood run cold as he looked on them. Even though their cowls were drawn over their heads, obscuring their faces, he feared who they might be.

     The leader broke the silence. He spoke in a commanding voice, so that all could hear. “I am Catus Decianus, procurator of Britannia and representative of Nero Caesar himself in the province. He paused. “Which one of you is Bera of the Trinovantes, sometimes known as Boudica, wife to the recently deceased Prasutagus of the Iceni?”

     Boudica paused for a moment then stepped forward, leaving her daughters with Arminus and her serving women. She stood alongside Calonus and his warriors.

    “I am Boudica of the Iceni.”

     The procurator took a few more steps forward, the centurion at his side, looking her up and down. The tension in the air was palpable. Calonus gripped the hilt of his sword as hundreds of Romans stood in silence, watching the procurator and the queen of the Iceni.

     The procurator nodded slowly, as if confirming her words in his own mind. “So be it,” he continued. He raised his voice again, speaking to all of them, so that none of his words could be mistaken.

     “I am here with the authority of Nero Caesar. As a client kingdom, the Iceni are the subjects of Caesar and must answer to his will.”

     He produced a rolled-up parchment from the folds of his cloak. Slowly, he held it up before him.

     Boudica felt cold as she realised what it must be. The will of her late husband. The other copy lying amongst his possessions in the palace.

     “I received this from a so-called embassy of the Iceni. An embassy that carried the words of the Queen Boudica, wife of the late king and self-styled leader of the Iceni.”

     He turned his gaze to her then, his cold, narrow eyes searching hers.

     “You are she.”

     Boudica remained silent.

     “Know this,” he said, “so there can be no mistaking of my words. Your king was subject to the whim of Caesar. A client he may have been in his lifetime, yet now he is dead, his kingdom, his estates, his people are subject to Rome. Rome, and Caesar, are the arbiter and power in this matter. It is the will of Caesar that the Iceni, and the estates of Prasutagus, once king of the Iceni, be brought within the power of Rome.”

     There were angry murmurings amongst the followers of Boudica, yet the queen herself raised her hand for silence. Arminus placed his hands on the shoulders of her daughters. He felt a deep foreboding settle upon him. He looked up into the grey sky, searching for Her. For the all- giving one. Danu, goddess of the people. Yet he knew her presence was distant. His gaze fell on Boudica; so much rested on her shoulders.

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About the Author 

Stephen D Owen, an enthusiast of Roman Britain and the Iceni Revolt, wished to bring the dramatic story of Queen Boudica, a druid priest and the Iceni Revolt to life in his debut novel, Iceni: The Year of Sacrifice.

Stephen explains: “The revolt of Queen Boudica and the Iceni against the might of Rome has echoed down the centuries. Nearly 2000 years ago, during the early years of Roman Britain, Boudica, victim of Roman injustice, raised the Iceni in rebellion against Rome.

On 1st of August 1984, millennia later, a mysterious link with the drama of the Iceni Revolt may have been uncovered. The remnants of a male peat body were found at Lindow Moss Wilmslow Cheshire, England.

At first the peat body was thought to be a murder victim, yet in time the body was proven to be far older. As old as the Iron Age in Britain at the time of the Roman Conquest.

Known as Lindow Man, or Pete Marsh, archaeologists and experts were called in. A theory was put forward, Lindow Man was in fact a high-born sacrificial victim. A druid priest, perhaps close to Boudica herself, who was a witness and key to the Iceni revolt.

The discovery of Lindow Man inspired me to write Iceni: The Year of Sacrifice. Was this man a priest?

Fundamental to the fate of Boudica and the Iceni? Although my version is fictional, I decided a good challenge would be to write my version of what could have happened, but I would encourage any reader to look into the history to form their own opinions!”

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Spotlight: Facing the Jaguar by Babs Walters

Since age 11, Babs suffered sexual abuse at the hands of her father. His edict–children should be seen and not heard–defined her childhood. Desperate to be loved and seeking approval, Babs absorbed both the responsibility and the shame that was not hers to begin with. Now, decades later, Babs Walters shows us how uncovering the truth is a critical step to healing. “Facing the Jaguar” is an inspirational story of resilience and courage—a story that proves anything is possible when we claim our truth and shine a light in even the darkest of places. As Babs says, “We are not what happens to us. We are the meaning and purpose we give to what happens to us.”

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About the Author

Babs Walters: is a speaker, advocate, and author as well as a survivor of domestic violence and childhood sexual abuse. She brings difficult subjects to the surface through the power of storytelling. With a Masters’ in Counseling Human Relations, Walters developed creative, healing, journal-writing workshops for women in alcohol and drug recovery. During her corporate career, she led workshops on Preventing Sexual Harassment and continues to teach women to raise their voices today. Learn more about her life and work at www.babswalters.com and on Instagram @walters.babs