Grave Intentions Reply

Grave intentions e-bookGrave Intentions

First Book of the Grave Series

Lori Sjoberg
Genre: paranormal romance

Publisher: Kensington Publishing

ISBN: 9781601830067


Number of pages: Approx. 289

Word Count: 96,100

Amazon     B&N

Book Description:

He’s handsome, reliable, and punctual-the perfect gentleman when you want him to be. But this dream man is Death’s best agent-and now he’s got more than his soul to lose . . .

One act of mercy before dying was all it took to turn soldier David Anderson into a reaper-an immortal who guides souls-of-untimely-death into the afterlife. But the closer he gets to atoning for his mortal sin and finally escaping merciless Fate, the more he feels his own humanity slipping away for good.

Until he encounters Sarah Griffith. This skeptical scientist can’t be influenced by his powers-even though she has an unsuspected talent for sensing the dead. And her honesty and irreverent sense of humor reignite his reason for living-and a passion he can’t afford to feel. Now Fate has summoned David to make a devastating last harvest. And he’ll break every hellishly-strict netherworld rule to save Sarah…and gamble on a choice even an immortal can’t win.

About the Author: 

Growing up the youngest of three girls, Lori never had control of the remote. (Not that she’s bitter about that. Really. Okay, maybe a little, but it’s not like she’s scarred for life or anything.) That meant a steady diet of science fiction and fantasy. Star Trek, Star Wars, Twilight Zone, Outer Limits – you name it, she watched it. It fed her imagination, and that came in handy when the hormones kicked in and she needed a creative excuse for staying out past curfew.

 After graduating from the University of Central Florida with a Bachelor of Science, Lori worked for nearly a decade in retail management. When that got boring, she switched to financial planning, and then insurance. The writing bug bit a few years later. After completing her first manuscript, she joined the Romance Writers of America and Central Florida Romance Writers. Now she exercises the analytical half of her brain at work, and the creative half writing paranormal romance. When she’s not doing either one of those, she’s usually spending time with her husband and children of the four-legged variety.



Angel’s Kiss Featured Today 1

AngelKissAbout Angel’s Kiss:

Angel’s Kiss is the story of Alexandria Hayes-Lewis.  Lexie, as she likes to be called, is blessed with the perfect life. By day she manages her family’s detective agency in Serevan, the beautiful beach town where she was born and raised. By night she makes certain her devilishly handsome husband knows just how much she loves him. 

Lexie never knew she’d been marked at birth by an Angel’s Kiss—until one ordinary case turned deadly. 

A brutal attack awakens a deeply hidden family legacy: a superhuman strength and vitality. Not only is she stronger—her gift can intensify the strength and power of immortal beings. With the secrets of her heritage unlocked, and her legacy revealed, Lexie becomes the prey. 

Terrified by changes she doesn’t understand and sensual nightmares she can’t control, Lexie desperately searches for ways to harness the power flowing through her veins. But when people die and her family is threatened, she takes the ultimate step against those who want to shield her, those who want to possess her, and those who want to kill her. In a frantic bid for freedom, she enlists the help of an unusual guardian and an ancient weapon.

Will it be enough to save her? 



I was raised on a small farm in the Midwest, at a time when there were only 3 television stations.  Oh the horror!

Growing up miles away from any other families gave me the opportunity to hone my imagination and plenty of time to read.  To say that I had an active imagination is a huge understatement and I have always had a fascination for magic, fantasy and the paranormal.

After earning a bachelor degree in Criminology I married my college sweetheart and traded farm country for the sugar white beaches of the Florida Panhandle.  Now I spend my time writing and taking care of my three children, two dogs, one guinea pig and my terrific husband.


I can be found on my blog at or on Facebook at .


Angel’s Kiss is Available on Amazon and Free for Prime Members:

or in paperback at


ISBN 9781300059882



Temperate Warrior Button 600 x 425This feature contains a Rafflecopter Giveaway, Purchase Links, and Two Excerpts.

The Temperate Warrior
Book 1 of the Warrior Sagas

Renee Vincent

Genre: Historical, paranormal romance, Viking

Publisher: Turquoise Morning Press

ISBN: 9781622370924  ASIN: B00AH14MCY


Number of pages: 206

Word Count: 72K

Cover Artist: Erin Sendelbach

Purchase Links: Kindle | Nook | All Romance Ebooks | Smashwords | Turquoise Morning Press | Book Strand



Blurb:   He was her champion. She was his weakness.  Together, they loved with wild abandon.

 Gustaf Ræliksen lives by the blade of his sword. After avenging his father’s murder and reuniting with his family, he wants nothing more than to settle down and have sons of his own. Only one woman will do—a fiery redhead he saved from the spoils of war.

No longer forced to warm the beds of the men who’ve taken everything from her, Æsa has nothing to offer the noble warrior but her heart.

When someone with a deep score to settle seeks revenge upon her, Gustaf’s world is torn asunder. He has but one vow—saving the woman he loves from the ignorant fool who dared to best the temperate warrior.

About the Author:

I am an author with a passionate interest in Irish and Norse history. I live in the rolling hills of Kentucky with my husband and two children on a beautiful secluded farm of horses and hay fields.

I am a sucker for a good cup of coffee (lots of cream and sugar…and whipped cream if I can get my hands on it), great conversation, and a lilting Irish accent. I love to read and I can’t resist watching great epic historical movies.

From an early age, I’ve always had scenes playing out in my head. Whether it was a story with a moral or a tale with a twist, those ideas have never let me sleep until I wrote them out. And considering I have an eclectic ensemble of stories swarming in my brain at any given time, I write under a couple pen names to accommodate the various genre categories.

Renee Vincent
(Historical & Contemporary Adult Romance)

From the daunting, charismatic Vikings, to the charming, brazen Alpha male heroes of modern day, you’ll be whisked away to a world filled with fast-paced adventure, unforgettable romance, and undying love.

Visit my website at






Romance Blog:

Excerpt #1:

Gustaf’s hearty laughter echoed around her. It was a rarity she had come to cherish. With their troubles far behind them, she could only hope it would be a common occurrence, especially after they became husband and wife. She longed to be the source of his joy for the rest of his days and imagined giving him the sons he’s always wanted.

Their conversation on Skúvoy circled back into her thoughts. “I want to fill our house with many sons.”

“And daughters?”

“Aye, and daughters. I can only hope they resemble your beauty and speak with fire on their tongues.”

“And if they do not?”

“I shall love them anyway for they will come from your womb.”

She envisioned him cradling a babe in his arms and teaching the youngster all there was to know about the new world he’d been born into. That was, if she could provide him a child at all.

Given that no man’s seed from her sordid past had taken root, she worried her womb was barren, incapable of even producing Gustaf’s heir.

“What are you thinking?”

His voice broke apart her sullen thoughts and she struggled to fabricate a credible answer to his question. “I was thinking of us and you as a father.” A half truth was better than a blatant lie, and she’d only disappoint him with mentioning such nonsense, especially since they’d yet to give conception a fair try. “I am eager to be your wife and the mother of your children.”

Gustaf tipped his head in surprise. “From where did that thought come?”

Another bout of spirited shouts erupted, followed by a considerable splash as if some poor bloke had hit the water. “I suspect it came from the devious seven we already have in our company. It would bring me great pleasure to birth that many or more with you.”

“Seven children, you say?” Gustaf nodded as he considered the thought. “You do realize I am a man of mature age. ’Twould require a considerable amount of lovemaking to acquire that number of offspring.”

“I am willing if you are,” Æsa stated, leaning up on one elbow.

Gustaf scooted closer and inclined his body across her torso, bracing his weight on one arm at her side. His dark blond hair fell over his shoulder and hugged the sharp angle of his jaw shadowed with soft scruff. She dared to reach up and stroke the soft curls of his thick mane, but the serious look in his eyes had her hesitating.

“I am most willing,” he said softly, “as long as it makes you happy. For the rest of my life, I will do whatever it takes to ensure it. As my wife, you will not want for anything. What you desire, I will provide.”

“I desire only you, m’lord.”

He bent to kiss her, but stopped midway. “Would I disappoint you if I said I wished to wait until we returned to Inis Mór to marry?”

The warmth of his breath across her lips caressed her starved skin. The blue of his eyes sparkled like the depths of the crystal sea. He was a beautiful man and it still seemed hard to fathom that he was all hers. She could barely contain her emotions as she lay motionless in their near kiss. “You could never disappoint me, Gustaf. Knowing you are eager to share our union with your family is more than I could hope. I have been without a family for so long and to be united with yours is an honor I cannot put into words.”

His smile stroked her all the way to her soul and the anticipation of his mouth meeting hers consumed her whole being. Nothing mattered except this moment, this kiss that made her keenly aware of her heart beating in her chest. Her entire body tingled as his lips finally made contact and her will to tolerate much more of this deliberate torture disintegrated in an upwelling of exhilaration.

She arched into him, craving the feel of his hard body against hers. It had felt like forever since he’d touched her intimately, despite that it had been only a few days. She hated going a single moment without his touch and drew toward him like a delicate flower in desperate need of warm sunlight.

He forced his body over hers and cupped the underside of her breast as he ground his erection into her sex, now swollen and aching with need. There was so much passion in this one little kiss that it seemed to surpass all others in comparison.

She shifted beneath him and opened her legs, eager for him to pull up her tunic and bury his rock hard shaft inside her. As she felt his arousal more prevalent against her flesh, she was reminded of the previous promise he’d made to her: This will not be last time you feel my arousal at dawn. One morning when we are without eyes, I will have you.

She hoped this very morning was the instance he’d relinquish his vow. Wrapping her legs around his back, she encouraged him, giving him permission to take her in the fashion she knew he longed for. “Throw your temperance aside, m’lord. Please.”

He drew in a sharp breath and shuddered, his hands fisting the fabric of her kirtle at her hips, ready to hike it up. The hard scrape of his knuckles demanded his need for more persuasion.

“Aye, Gustaf. Take me.”

“I cannot,” he finally spat, breathing heavily. His jaw clenched and his eyes closed. The pain he endured of restraining himself cut across his face. “We are not alone. My men.”

His clipped words resounded in her head. “I was hoping you forgot about them.”

Gustaf sighed and let his forehead rest on hers. “All of me wishes I had.” He nudged himself against the open area of her thighs. “All of me.”

In one swift shove, he propelled his heavy body off hers and faced the fire, his breathing weighty and intense. Reaching between his legs, he shifted his burdensome erection and groaned. His chin fell to his chest and a long sigh heaved from his lungs. “Odin’s blood, you are but wicked temptation for the weak.”

Æsa sat up, feeling the strain of her sore muscles in the process. She ignored the sting of her aching back and touched his cheek, stroking his hair away from his tormented face. “Wicked enough to be punished?”

Gustaf stared at her, his eyes boring into hers. “Punished?”

She drew her finger over the hard angle of his jaw, down his neck and back up into the thick of his hair. “Call it what you will, but there is a fine line between punishment and pleasure. I have known great pleasure under the tenderness of your touch, but I long for more. I yearn to feel the wrath of the unchained warrior. To know what the abandonment of your restraint feels like between my thighs.”

She saw the column of his throat bob as he swallowed. Her words had struck him as hard as any blow to the gut, but she knew they likely caressed him like a warm tongue up his throbbing length.

“Perhaps having to abstain from your urges will force the wild animal from its barred enclosure when the time comes.”

“Perhaps,” he repeated, his voice cracking under duress.

She smiled and threaded her hands through his hair, wrenching his face closer to hers. “I can only hope.” With lust still blazing in his eyes, she took his lips and plundered his mouth with her tongue. As fiercely as she began the kiss, she broke away, capturing his wanton stare. “Sooner, rather than later.”


Excerpt: #2:

Gustaf had only one thing on his mind—well, many enticing thoughts, truth be told—but they all involved getting his hands on Æsa.

By the time he caught up with her, she was standing at edge of the water, the roaring sound of the waterfall competing with the thrum of his racing pulse. She had unraveled her braid and was making quick work of the two cloaks around her shoulders. Her wavy locks hung down her back, almost reaching the captivating curve of her hips.

When she turned to hang her cloaks over a nearby tree limb, she froze and locked eyes with him. Her breath could be seen on the brisk morning air as well as the tautness of her nipples through the thin fabric of her tight-fitting kirtle. He swallowed hard, imagining the taste of her favors, eager to lave the hard peak with his tongue and suckle as much of the soft globe as he could fit in his mouth.

Unable to stand there any longer, he strode toward her, his eyes drinking in her sumptuous curves. His hands automatically reached for her narrow waist and jerked her body into his before he crushed her against the tree. She whimpered under his assault and braced her hands on his chest, her meager attempt to hold him back inciting him that much more.

The voice in his head interrupted the rush of blood coursing through his veins. You are losing control again. Get a hold of yourself.

It took everything he had to release her. His legs shook beneath him as if they were mere saplings trembling under the brunt of a forceful wind. Stepping back, he stood before her disoriented and flushed beyond all reckoning. “’Twas wrong of me to follow you.”

“Why? Because your excessive desire for me outweighs your commitment to getting your men home in a timely manner?”

Gustaf took a deep breath. “There is that. But ’tis not the only reason.”

She approached him in the most seductive way, eyeing the expanse of his shoulders as she unlatched the brooch at his right. She removed his wolf-skin cloak, the chill of the invigorating air doing little to douse the raging fire in his loins. He left his arms dangling at his sides, fighting the urge to touch her, to grab her with both hands and press her curvaceous warmth to his rigid body.

She draped his cloak over the limb beside her and returned her attention to divesting him of the other adornments strapped to his body. Her eyes gazed at the bulge rupturing his breeches as she unbuckled his belt. Leaning his scabbard against the trunk, she licked her lips and cupped his bollocks in her palm. “What is it you fear, my lord? You can tell me.”

Her whispered words, falling from the alluring pout of her luscious lips, stroked him as soundly as if she’d dragged her fingertips over his bare flesh. “I want you. More than I wanted you yesterday. And with each passing day, my hunger for you grows in fiendish proportions. I want to ravish you, Æsa. I want to feast on you and feel you quiver beneath my tongue. I want to spread you wide and thrust deep within you as you call my name. I want to hold you down and for once,” he said, clenching his teeth, “just try to sate my appetite for you, though I know better.”

Perhaps he’d disclosed the list of his objectives in an effort to make her think twice about provoking the feral beast within him. The corner of her lip, marked with mischievous intent, hitched upward and he knew he’d failed to discourage her. In fact, he realized he may have provoked his own bewitching beast in the form of sweet femininity.

“Does time allow us to partake in such wanton acts,” she taunted, stroking his erection through his breeches.

“Time is not what concerns me, Æsa. ’Tis what will happen next once I get my hands on you.”

“Then touch me not.”

He stood helpless as she touched him. She slipped her hands beneath his tunic and splayed her long fingers across his abdomen. She skimmed over every ripple of muscle in his stomach and climbed each rung of ribs in his torso in the most deliberate fashion, making it that much harder for him.

When her fingertips grazed his chest, she sought through the thin layer of his curls and found that his nipples were just as taut as her own. Unmercifully, she stroked her thumbs back and forth, pressing her pelvis into his groin.

He refused to give in and reach out for her, turning his head to the side in hopes that averting his eyes would aid his torment. If anything, it made matters worse. His vivid imagination kicked in and ran wild with the notion of her roaming hands meandering south. Before he could stop it, he envisioned her dropping to her knees, fisting his girth and taking him all the way in to the back of her throat. He staggered backward, his blood hammering. The transient fantasy accosted him so fiercely he thought he’d spilled himself in his breeches.

Æsa gazed at him as he clutched the tree limb for stability and tried to gather his wits. “It seems you have just as much difficulty being touched as you have touching me with your own hands. Perhaps ’tis best if you watch.”

He stared at her as she inched her kirtle higher and higher. First her shapely calf took form, then her knees, then the outward curve of her creamy thighs. Gustaf’s throat felt dry and constricted. He could barely breathe. “Æsa, please.”

“Please what?” she cooed. “Show you more?”

Any subtlety she utilized before now perished as she lifted the fabric over her head and discarded it on the ground. His eyes swept over her naked body. The mesmerizing sight of her full breasts and rose-colored nipples drew most of his attention.

She walked backward toward the stream and allowed him all the time he wanted to stare shamelessly at her private parts. With each slow step, she tortured him, luring him to follow lest he be out of arm’s reach of the tempting favors she offered.

He knew why she was doing this. She wanted the man who could not hold back. She wanted to prove she was woman enough for all of him, that no matter how unruly his primal urges became, she would suffer the wicked pleasure of his total abandonment and reap every blessing she hoped to gain from it.

Foolish woman. Did she not understand how difficult this was for him? Did she not truly comprehend how crazy passionate he could be when thrown into a wolves’ den? He recalled her reference to punishment and pleasure. For him, the fine line was drawn between love and rage. Just as he’d gone berserk over the men who’d killed his father, he knew the compulsion for losing control in the heat of rapture was not far behind—especially where Æsa was concerned.

He’d never loved a woman as much as he loved her, and the feelings bubbling up inside him when he was on the brink of release was nigh the same as the fury he encountered in past battles. He was a dangerous man in either of those combustible situations, and Æsa was perilously playing with fire.

Unbeknownst to him, his foot lifted and stepped forward. He tried to stand firm, to keep his other boot planted, but he was drawn by forces more compelling than his own might. More definitive than his own fears. The need to have Æsa close, the need to feel her smooth skin and buxom body in his grasp, preyed on his mind until he had no choice but to close the distance between them.

If she wanted the man who was not so temperate, then she was about to have him. There was no turning back if he set this animal free. With his concern of going too far in the forefront of his mind, he kicked off his boots and ripped his tunic over his head. Inwardly, he’d made a deal with himself: he’d surrender to Æsa’s desires and forsake his reluctant tendencies as long as he brought her pleasure. If he thought at any moment she was second-guessing her plan of unfettering the temperate warrior, then he’d pull away.

He only hoped he could.

As he unlaced his breeches and stepped out of them, his heart pounded against his ribs and he felt as if his chest was expanding to the point of hyperventilation with each ragged breath he took. He snatched the pile of draped fur cloaks from the limb, slung one of them across his shoulders, and raced to the water’s edge to meet Æsa. He skidded to a halt in front of her, his body inches from hers.

She stood stock-still in all her naked glory. Goose bumps flourished across her porcelain flesh and her lower lip quivered from the cold. He gazed at her one last time before swathing her in her own cloak and pulling her close. The cool flesh of her lovely breasts smashed against the warmth of his, her glinting eyes heavy-lidded with lust. She tipped her head back, holding his gaze as she snaked her dainty, chilled arms around his back.

As automatic as breathing, he reached up and brushed his thumb across her shivering lower lip. “When I am finished with you, you will be trembling for a whole different reason.”

“Swear it, m’lord.”

His smile returned, though it portrayed anything but amusement. She and all her frisky aggressiveness was the very reason he wished to ravish her. He adored her feisty nature and her exceptional confidence. Those uncommon traits in a female, along with her stately beauty, made her the most erotic woman on this earth. And she was his.

He wound his arms around her middle and cupped both hands firmly on her backside, hoisting her higher so her delicate womanhood would feel every throbbing inch of him. “I swear on Thor’s hammer that no one will love you more than I. Or as fiercely.”



5 Easy Steps to Transferring Book Files to Your Device Reply

1.) Place your cursor on the file you want and RIGHT CLICK to “save as” to your hard drive. This downloads the file to your computer. (Remember where you put it.)

2.) If you don’t already have an e-book manager that you like, download Calibre for free. (or make a donation if you wish) (Again, remember where you save it.)

3.) After installing Calibre, click the “Add Books” icon then browse to and open the file you saved from Smashwords.

4.) Plug your e-reading device into your computer.

5.) Click “Send to Device”. Voila! It is there.

If Blurbs Were Herbs… 2

This is a copy of a guest blog I did in early October of 2012.


by Victoria Danann

If blurbs were herbs, they’d be called Authors Bane. A blurb is a short description of a book. It’s distinguished from an actual “book description” by length. It’s basically a paragraph. Smashwords allows 386 characters. Sounds sufficient to describe a 113,000 words book?

If you’re a reader you take these mini-synopses (Yes. I had to look up the plural of synopsis.) for granted, just as authors did before we became authors. It looks easy. A ten minute task at most. Four months and a hundred revisions later, I’m still tearing my hair out.

You say: “Come on. How hard could it be? Has anyone ever called you melodramatic?”

I say: “Well, yes. They have. But that’s not relevant to this discussion. Really!”

I would much rather write a full length novel than try to compose a blurb. Trying to pare that 113,000 words down to 75 is not just hard, it’s torture. It’s cruel, I tell you. The short description that I currently use for My Familiar Stranger follows. This is the best I can do while avoiding spoilers.

“Minutes ahead of inevitable assassination, Elora Laiken is forcibly transported to an alternate dimension similar, but not identical, to her own. She is stranded. Alone. Far from home. A stranger in a “strangish” land.

Of course a girl could suffer worse problems than having gorgeous suitors. Perhaps more importantly, in the midst of an epidemic of vampire related abductions, can she stay alive long enough to choose between an honor debt, true love, or the breathlessness of single-minded passion?”

I can’t tell you how often reviews will say something to the effect of “don’t pay too much attention to the description”. See, the problem is that I wanted to create something that hadn’t been done before, something that defies both formula and genre categorizing. I succeeded at that, but, it turns out that, like everything else in the universe, that comes with two sides. The good news is that it’s different. The bad news is that the difference throws a wrench into the way the industry is set up to market books.

The second book in the series, The Witch’s Dream, is due to release October 14th and the problem has expanded. It’s snowballing. Here’s what I’ve got so far…

“From New York to Ireland to Edinburgh to Siena to the Texas Hill Country to Napa Valley, modern day knights, heroes, witches, demons, psychics, vampires, werewolves, elves and fae come together where emotions intersect. From promises to rages to hunts to epiphanies, The Witch’s Dream proves that true love can find you in the strangest places, when you’re least expecting it, even when you’re far, far from home.”

See what I mean? There’s no way to give a SHORT description of this book without having it sound stupid or juvenile or both which leaves me standing here as usual saying, “But it’s not! I swear!”

Blood Betrayal Featured Today 4

Blood Betrayal ButtonBlood Betrayal
Book 1 in The Primigenio Tales

Alison Beightol

Genre: Paranormal Romance/Dark fantasy

Publisher: Charles River Press/ Cambridge Press US

EBook ISBN 13: 978-1-936185-83-2

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-936185-82-5

Number of pages: 384

Word Count: 98,000

Cover Artist: Laurie Mc Adams

Book Description:

Being the world’s oldest vampire, Eamon Rutherford has enjoyed women throughout the ages as beautiful meals and one night stands. That is until Eamon decides to find a mate and settle down. His less-than-perfect choice is temperamental ballerina Lauryl Mellis. When Lauryl escapes from him in London, Eamon discovers that true commitment requires him to love another more than himself. As he struggles with his inner awakening and Lauryl’s rejection, Lauryl is busy planning her own special event, which might include the death of Eamon Rutherford.

Amazon    BN

About the Author: 

Alison Beightol works as a registered nurse but also studied history and theatre at the University of Florida. For as long as she can remember, she has had an affinity for vampire stories, romance, and gothic tales that keep her up at night.  Blood Betrayal: Book One of the Primigenio Tales is her first novel. Alison lives in a haunted house in rural north Florida where she is putting the final touches on book two of the Primigenio Tales: Blood of New Beginnings.


The Silly Thing Didn’t Realize She Was Going To Be Late Night Meal

Who to eat, Eamon thought as he studied the capacity crowd of the Marion Oliver McCaw Hall. The marker of another vampire, a much younger vampire, in the audience caught his attention. The mystery vampire’s energy had a quiet dignity intertwined in it. The marker intrigued him and he scanned the audience with greater intensity. His Blackberry vibrated in his pocket, distracting him before he could identify him or her. He looked down at his phone.


That dancer, what do you see in her? There are plenty like her here, the text message read.

Eamon put the phone back in his pocket without responding. “That dancer” was

the reason he delayed his return to New York .There were not any others like her.

Lauryl Mellis had been the pride and problem of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis School

of Dance at the American Ballet Theatre. Once at a cocktail benefit, the student dancers were selling signed dance shoes of some of the school’s notable graduates. Lauryl asked

one patron in her Georgia twang, why he wanted a smelly shoe and did he plan on

“jizzing” in it when he got home? Her dismissive attitude and scorn of the patrons

amused Eamon but not the elite school. The powers that be often bent the rules for her,

giving her chance after chance because of her talent.

Her talent and what he had seen of her stormy personality was magnetic. She

would back up whatever insult or harangue with a lovely smile or a toss of her auburn

hair. He enjoyed her from a distance, though. He’d never missed a performance or

fundraiser, but never approached her or introduced himself. She was young, still in her

teens, so he waited. Then he had lost track of her. But to his good fortune, here she was on tour in Seattle.

Eamon studied the crowd a few more minutes and then flipped through the stage

bill. He passed ads, the story synopsis for the ballet, and then found what he was looking for, Lauryl’s picture. Gone was the teen he remembered. Instead, he saw a radiant, young

woman with a dazzling smile and bright eyes. Eamon’s interest increased sharply.

The phone in his pocket vibrated again. It was Irina but he saw no need to

acknowledge his former companion. He looked back at the picture of Lauryl. The change

was remarkable. She was stunning. The idea of a dancer for a companion intrigued him.

All of that beauty and grace amplified as a vampire. It was a perfect combination. The

image lingered in his mind for a moment and then the framework of a plan materialized.

How much of her adolescent, edgy personality remained after dancing professionally for the past six years? Had she outgrown that or had she at least learned to temper it? After the performance, he’d find out.

The house lights dimmed and Eamon closed his stage bill. He tossed it onto the empty seat next to him in the box and waited as the orchestra tuned up. The cacophony of instruments merged together into a more harmonic air but the familiar sensation of a woman studying him turned his gaze back to the audience.

A young woman with light brown hair watched him. She rubbed her hand over

her thigh and crossed her legs. The slit in her skirt revealed a tantalizing preview of her

legs. Eamon followed the line of her legs back up to her ample breasts. Her body

reinforced the silent invitation in her expression. He nodded acceptance of her naive

request. The silly thing didn’t realize she was going to be a late night meal.


It took more time than Eamon expected to work his way through the backstage crowd. He stopped twice to speak with business acquaintances but soon found himself outside of Lauryl’s dressing room or as close as he could get. A throng of her admirers blocked the entry. The ones that couldn’t fit in her dressing room hovered around the doorway, waiting for their opportunity to enter. He stood for a moment with the crowd but became bored after few minutes. He looked at the mass of people and focused on their collective thoughts.

Leave, he told them silently. One by one, they filed away and he entered the dressing room. Other dancers, all drinking champagne and chattering, surrounded Lauryl.

She was seated in a chair with a blanket over her shoulders and a champagne bottle tucked between her thighs. Eamon could smell blood and his eyes tracked down to a bucket of ice water that her feet were soaking in. He looked at the bucket a moment longer and then at her face. She was lovely, even lovelier than in the program picture by far.

Her pale skin was flushed pink and her green eyes sparkled with excitement. Her full lips turned in a smile for one of the dancers before she waved at them. The mass of curly, red hair he remembered was scraped back in a tight bun. She laughed at something a dancer whispered to her and she pulled the pins holding her hair back out. Auburn curls dropped down and framed her face. Eamon smiled inwardly and took a few steps toward her.

“Lauryl Mellis,” he said as he extended his hand to her. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

Lauryl turned to him and her expression changed. Her smile withered and her eyes narrowed as the happiness disappeared from them. She took his hand like it was covered in filth and shook it. “Thanks.”

Her boredom with him was apparent but he continued on, intrigued. “I’ve followed you since you were a student at ABT. Your talent has certainly blossomed, as well as your beauty.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.”

Suddenly he sensed that he was just like the school patrons that she scorned back in New York. He bristled slightly but his expression didn’t change. As he looked into her eyes, the irritation he felt faded into amusement. He’d play along with her. Besides, the delicious aroma of her blood continued to drift up from the bucket of ice in front of him. Lauryl pulled her hand away and continued to look at him with the same disinterested expression. She even intensified her dismissive stare. He knew that she wanted him to leave, which fascinated him. It also excited him because this  was a first for him. Never had a woman reacted that way to him. He concentrated on her thoughts for a moment. She thought he was a rich asshole looking to get laid.

A dancer kissed Lauryl’s cheeks and hugged her. Then Lauryl shifted in the chair. She looked at him and then looked at the door.

Eamon almost laughed. A not so subtle hint, he thought. He’d comply. After all, he had the young woman from the audience waiting for him. “I just wanted to tell you how talented and beautiful you are. Thank you for the engaging conversation.” Eamon bowed his head some and smiled.

Lauryl’s green eyes blazed angry. “I’ll remember it always.”

“So will I,” Eamon said before he walked out.

Dying To Remember Reply

DTR_FINAL_300dpi_CoverDying To Remember

Volume 2 of the Station Series

By trish marie dawson



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The next installment in The Station series by Amazon Bestselling Author, Trish Marie Dawson, takes readers on another lively journey through the after-life adventures of eighteen year old Piper Willow.

Piper has new challenges to overcome, new names to learn and is faced with a new Station occupation. Did she make the right choice – choosing to stay at the Station and become a Volunteer? Does she really want answers to the questions that never leave her mind? How did the Station come to be? What lies beyond? Who is Andurush and what, exactly, does he want with Piper?

She must ask herself once again if she has what it takes…but this time it isn’t about saving lives, it’s about discovering what lies beyond death. Would you want to know?


If I thought the exceedingly happy mood that has me perched atop my favorite velvet throne would last very long I’m mistaken after I enter the Ones building. Niles is standing near the counter talking to Laney. I know the moment I see him that he is there to give me news about my volunteering status. Poof goes my throne.

“Hey, Piper. You really are a popular girl today,” says Laney with a tight smile.

“I guess so,” I try and laugh but it sounds more like a vocal seizure.

“Piper, I came to collect you,” Niles says, all business.

“Collect me?” I try and laugh again, but the sound is simply unpleasant so I snap my mouth shut to avoid any more verbal diarrhea, and nod a goodbye at Laney while moving back outside with Niles.

I allow my eyes a few seconds to readjust to the brightness around us. He places an arm loosely around my shoulders as we begin walking and says in a comforting tone, “Before I tell you where we are going and who we will be speaking with, I need you to understand you aren’t in trouble. You’ve done nothing wrong, okay dear?”

I don’t trust my voice so I only nod.

“I’m taking you to see the Mentors and…” he pauses to glance around us, and only when he seems satisfied that no one is close enough to hear, he continues, “…and the Keeper.”

I don’t know what this means. The look on my face must further establish my confusion but Niles only nods and continues to usher me around the fountain, which is currently teeming with teens of all ages, until we reach the Staff building.

Finally, just as Niles opens the door in front of us, I find my voice, “What’s the Keeper?”

“I can’t tell you, but you will see, don’t worry, dear. Remember, you aren’t in trouble, okay?”

We walk down the empty hallway and go through a door into a room that looks nothing like the one where Mallory and I met for the first time in person. This staff room is shaped more like an oval, with no corners on the walls and there are no tables or chairs. The center of the floor dips down a good two feet, creating a sort of recessed bench that matches the curved shape of the room. This is where the Mentor’s sit in a circle. I get over my intimidation of them instantly as my eyes widen at the sight of the other person sitting with them. A man at least a good foot taller than anyone else stands and nods at me. His clothes appear to be all white but it’s hard to tell at first, because the man is glowing.


Trish was born and mostly raised in San Diego, California where she lives now with her family and pets. She’s been writing short stories and poetry since high school after an obsession with Stephen King’s ‘The Stand’. After over fifteen years of crazy dreams and an overactive imagination, Trish began her first book ‘I Hope You Find Me’ in December of 2011. When Trish isn’t writing, she’s homeschooling her amazing daughter and mildly autistic son, reading whatever she can get her hands on, or enjoying the Southern California sun. As a strict Vegetarian, Trish holds a special place in her heart for animal rights and dashes into the backyard weekly to rescue lizards and mice from her mini-lab/cocker spaniel mixed dog, Zoey…who is always getting into some sort of trouble.


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Guest Post on Creative Writing Reply

Victoria pens a guest blog on the future of creative writing for Ravencrafts’s Realm Blog. August 23, 2012

People ask me about “writers’ block” more often than you might guess. Honestly I don’t know exactly what it is or how it feels. I’m into creativity on several different fronts including art, music, and writing fiction. When I need a dollop of inspiration, it’s always there for me – KNOCK ON WOOD !!!!

My process is that I get completely quiet and completely still, close my eyes, and simply say, “Bring me a melody.” Or plot point or whatever. Fill in the blank. This method is as reliable as my belief that the sun will rise tomorrow in the east with or without me. I should add that a lifetime of “seeking” is a factor in the sense that I have been practicing meditation for twenty years and can achieve a state of concentration fairly quickly.

What do I need to make that happen? Not props or tools or other people or magick words or ritual or any other external thing. EXCEPT silence. Of course those of us who live in or near a city never experience true silence because our nervous systems are under siege by thousands of refrigerators humming and thousands of motor rpm’s grinding on the roads, whether we’re consciously aware of it or not.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the advantages of living in a technological age as much

as the next person and even more than most. Were it not for the internet I would not be sharing these thoughts with you now because my first book wouldn’t have taken off due to and electronic reading.

My problem is not with technology. Truthfully, I do love it and could probably write love

sonnets about movies, TV, recorded music, the convenience of internet research, not to mention electric guitars and fast cars. I would hate giving up all that cool stuff and would fight to keep it.        No. That’s not the problem. The problem is that I feel like my choice is being taken away. Little by little, in a most insidious fashion, I have experienced what I’ll call “noise creep” which finally came to a head at the gas pump. See the thing is that all I need to be creative is to be left the hell alone. Give me a few minutes and I may have a great idea. Whether that idea is a  book or song or painting isn’t important. What’s important is the creative exercise.

There was a time when I could get something else done if I was forced to be on hold. I trained myself to “tune out” elevator music, but there’s just no way I can “tune out” looped commercials. PLEASE, I’M BEGGING YOU, NOT AGAIN!!!

There was a time when I could wait in line at the bank and keep the company of my own thoughts. Now I get CNN on overhead TV monitor.

There was a time when I could wait for a plane in the boarding area with my book or my thoughts. No more. Overhead speakers wired into the fancy flat screens spaced at regular intervals mean I’m held prisoner by whatever is playing.

When I was in Ireland, the pubs that had been a place of gathering and conversation for literally centuries were being retrofitted with big flat screens for football (soccer) and turned into sports bars. Progress? You decide.

For me the tipping point was the new gas pumps with the viewing screen and obnoxiously loud speakers with snippets of news and commercials. I started pushing every button I could see. Eventually I found one that turned the sound off. Thank the gods.

So, with all this encroachment on our “alone” time and by that I mean the time when we get to enjoy the companionship of ourselves sharing communion with ourselves, how are we supposed to be creative? How can we function in this riotous new world that seems to CONSPIRE to keep us from thinking?

Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind that, the more you can distract people and keep them from thinking, the easier they are to lead. Shades of decades-old science fiction. Do I think all these portals that are vying for my attention are interlocked in a conspiracy with that old guy who runs G.E. at the helm? I’m not willing to go that far, but, I will say that merchants are always looking for a bigger, louder megaphone than the vendor in the metaphoric stall next to them.

Can we rise above this? Sure. But only if we’re aware of it.

Why should you care? Because our one true expression of the divine is creativity. All the other mammals eat, work, play, and procreate. This is the only thing that sets us apart. Whether you find that expression in writing fiction or sculpting mud pies with your kids is unimportant. What is important is finding a path to that expression even when it gets harder.

Now I really should say something about my books since I was given the opportunity to guest post.

The second book in my paranormal romance/fantasy/18+ series (heavy on the romance) will be released October 14th on in print and ebook. Being the second book in a series, The Witch’s Dream draws from characters and situation presented in the first book, My Familiar Stranger, available in e-format and in print within a few days. I will be releasing more excerpts between now and mid October and the book trailer will be available October 1st. Visit me on Facebook for up to date news.