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Guest Post by T.J. Alexian

Today I’m turning my little blog over to T.J. Alexian and his terrific YA novel, “Pictures of You.”  I asked him what inspired this novel, and this is what he has to say. Here’s the link, by the way, to purchase this excellent novel.  Pictures of You

Now I’ll let T.J. talk.

 

Mary Ann Blog Pictures of You 1600

 

How I learned to love the voices in my head

By TJ Alexian

I mean, you never know where inspiration for a story is going to come from, right?

Take my novel Pictures of You, which was just released on Kindle (it will available in paperback shortly, too). I know the exact place and time that the idea for the story came to me. It felt like a revelation, so much so I actually had to sit down.

I had just given my daughter her first driving lesson. It was a beautiful spring day. For some reason thought it would be funny to tape the experience and post it to YouTube. And that got me to thinking: what if one day you woke up and found videos of your life posted on YouTube for everyone to see that you never wanted anyone to see?

Break-up scenes with an old flame, or the day you went to school with your fly down. What if the scenes became progressively worse, and couldn’t possibly have been taped, and you had no idea who was sending them or how they had gotten hold of them? How powerless and out of control—not to mention scared—would you feel?

I was off and running. Mapping out the first few chapters, imagining scenarios. Constructing it as a Young Adult novel, because for some reason, that’s the creative medium I work best in…and always, as a 16-year old girl, for some reason. Probably better not to ask.

That’s when the really scary things started happening. Like my own personal unwanted YouTube video, my main character started to speak to me. Made herself known. And I realized this girl wasn’t who had I initially envisioned at all.

You see, I originally intended to write the story as a strict YA thriller, with your stereotypical girly girl young pretty teen-ager who all these awful things happen to, but who wins out in the end. But as I progressed with the story…about six or eight chapters in…the true Ashes16 increasingly started to assert herself. She wanted to become so much more than that. And one morning, as I was lying in bed dreaming about her life and her world, I realized, “Oh, wait. This is a girl with gender issues. This is a girl who really wants to be a boy. And not just any boy…she wants to be her dead brother.”

After that, to me, the book really came into focus. I had always viewed it as a ghost story, but in seeing who Ashes was, it became clear to me that the story was as much about being haunted by the memories of your past as it was about an actual haunting. When that fell into place, I realized the real point behind Pictures of You was about giving voice to those hiding in the shadows—and not just voices of the non-corporeal variety. It’s about those who are unable to talk, or too scared to speak their own personal truth—for even if Ashes is a self-described YouTube addict with a very public social face, she still wears a mask. She still feels different, every day of her life. She’s still hiding a past she desperately needs to come to terms with and a sadness that she dares not reveal to anyone, especially herself.

There’s a lot to be said for giving in to the voices inside your head. At least in the case of Pictures of You, I think the book was made stronger for the experience. So let this be a lesson for you, sinners: creative schizophrenia can sometimes be a beautiful thing. Would you mind taking a look at the story and letting me know if you agree?

Blurb

A story of a haunting. Of a memory that lingers. Of voices that hide in the shadows.
Living your life on video is fine, as long as you’ve got complete control. But what if one day you wake up and discover videos you didn’t know existed have gone public? That’s what happens to self-professed video geek, Ashes16, whose real-world past begins to haunt her when a strange video pops up on her YouTube account. Others soon follow, bringing back vivid memories of her older brother’s grisly death and forcing Ashes to relive over and over again a nightmare scene she witnessed first-hand.

And worse yet, the videos seem to be coming from him.

Are these truly messages from her dead brother, asking her to uncover dark family secrets some people want to keep hidden? And what happens when Ashes finally starts to understand the meaning behind the messages? That’s the chilling secret behind Pictures of You.

Mary Ann Blog Ted photo 2012 b

 

About the Author

T.J. Alexian is the author of four novels and twelve plays, and is an award-winning communications specialist. He lives in Attleboro, Massachusetts in a renovated green Victorian, along with seven ghosts and his long-time (and long-suffering) partner. He also has three kids and one spiritual kid, and their stories and their spirit form the heart and soul of Pictures of You.

Alexian has been writing since the first grade, ever since his father tucked him to bed with stories about Nancy Drew’s younger brother and the Lone Ranger and Tonto. And T.J. first thought: “I don’t want these stories to ever end.” As a result, the stories kept going.

A profiled author in Writer’s Digest book Writer with a Day Job, Pictures of You is Alexian’s first self-published work, although he has two more novels being prepared for distribution: The Late Night Show and Confessions of a Diva Rotundo, which is an outrageous mystery penned by an egotistical thespian that is based on Alexian’s experiences as an actor and director of regional theater.

Pictures of You, in contrast, is a young adult thriller that combines Alexian’s love for social media with the macabre. A ghost story for the dispossessed, the novel tells the story of a young girl haunted by events in her past that never seem to die. But more than that, the novel is about being heard, about giving voice to voices that don’t fit the norm: some that lack the courage…and some, that hide in the shadows.

Excerpt

I sit at my computer and type in my YouTube username.

Ashes16

I scroll through my list of videos.

YOU.

Still there. This memory I have no memory of. This memory, with that laugh at the end. This memory of him.

I scroll down farther. And stop, the cut on my knee completely forgotten. This isn’t possible.

All at once, it’s like I’m still running through the woods, as if I still hear that sound of footsteps moving softly behind me. A crackle of twigs. Once again I feel the whisper of someone’s presence in the air. I stare at the screen, in complete disbelief.

YOU.

And also…

YOU2.

I can’t believe it’s there, but also, I can’t wait to see it. And so, I click on the video, to bring it to life.

There I am, sitting in front of my pink dressing table, the one that was in my bedroom at the old house, and is probably still there since we didn’t have room for it in the condo. I’m sitting with my back to the camera, brushing my long, straight hair.

I’m talking to myself, into the mirror on top of the dresser. I can’t hear a word of what she/I’m saying, so I turn up the volume.

“But of course, I can’t get my hair cut,” I’m saying, and I hate my voice even more, because I sound like such a little girl. “Mommy won’t let that happen. Your hair’s so beautiful, so straight and long…”

In the present day, I reach my hand up to touch the back of my head. So much shorter now, practically like a boy. No, no. Like a boy.

Back in the past, on the video, I keep brushing. “I’m so sick of straight and long! I’m sick of snarls in the morning. I’m—”

The person I was pauses, stops brushing. “I see you,” she says, but doesn’t turn around.

See? Oh, yes. In the mirror.

There’s a laugh, muffled and indistinct. His laugh, once again.

The person I was turns around, looks right into the camera. “Come on,” she says. “Why are you doing this?”

And I hear his voice again. The way I remember, kind of deep, but with that smile in it, that lightness. That teasing quality he always has. Had.

“To bug you,” he says.

I shake my head, and my bangs go in different directions. “You’re not, you know.” I sounded pouty, and I could almost hear him saying, at least in my head, that I always was a bad liar.

There’s movement, in the mirror that she/me is staring into. It happens in an instant, and then I see myself stand. “Daniel!”

Just like that, the video’s over.

That movement. It goes by so fast, but…

I use my mouse to move back in time, to the point where I turn around.

“You’re not, you know,” I say again, still sounding pouty.

The movement starts. Quickly, I hit pause.

Yes, right there.

He’s there. Daniel comes into view, a reflection in the mirror.

Daniel, with his skinny body and his pitch black hair, with bangs cut straight as mine are now. And his dark eyes, which always seemed to twinkle just a little when he was up to no good.

Daniel. I want to touch the screen. I push my fingers forward, and feel a bit of static from the

monitor. But more than that, there’s a chill in the air, over my shoulder. I break from the video, turn around.

No one’s there.

Book Blast! “Longclaws” by Steve Peek

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Welcome to the Longclaws book blast. This one of a kind horror novel by Steve Peek is an amazing journey into a different kind of horror story, with a new version of the mythology the reader might not expect.

With an average of 4.7 stars out of 5, this is an amazing book that will take you places you don’t expect. Interested? Read more!

Blurb

 

Longclaws COVER Spearhead 02-12-14Their world is crowded with active volcanoes, sulfur and acid rains, permanent thick clouds turn day into deep twilight. It is a violent place: moment-to-moment survival is victory, every creature is constantly predator and prey, sleep is certain death.

This is home to the longclaws, beings of super-human speed, strength and senses. Their predatory skills allow them only a tenuous niche in their hellish environment. Though smart and fierce, their rank in the food chain is far below the top. One clan leader draws from ancient legends of paradise and devises a plan to escape and take his clan to the otherworld – a world filled with slow, defenseless prey.

The clan activates an Indian mound deep in southern forests and enters our world -hungry for prey.

Torrential rains and washed out bridges force a runaway teen, an old dowser and a Cherokee healer to face the horrors of the clan’s merciless onslaught.

Mankind’s legends are filled with vampires, werewolves, dragons and other nightmarish. Perhaps our legend of hell is based on the world of the Longclaws.

meet-the-author

Steve PeekSteve has only recently seriously taken to writing. Though he wrote and managed to have a couple of books published during his life, something clicked a few years ago and now, for better or worse, he sits at his table researching and writing about things that interest him.

His wife, Annie takes care of him. She keeps him eating too well and laughing often in their old farmhouse halfway up the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Steve’s forty year career in the game industry allowed him to travel extensively and explore histories and myths of peoples and places.

His books on Amazon include:

Longclaws, Alien Agenda, Coyote Dreaming, Otherworld and The Game Inventors Handbook.

In addition to writing, he works in a vegetable garden trying not to be herbicidal, walks in the woods with a rescued dog and gathers imaginary eggs from a few cut-out, wooden hens.

e loves all things ancient and appreciates the magic of life and the interconnection of all things. He would like to hear from you via jstephenpeek on facebook or send me a message via his contact form.

excerpt

After Father came home from work, they piled into their family car: a six-year-old 1949 Oldsmobile Futuramic station wagon. Painted hunter green, their car possessed real wood trim around the side windows.

He and his brother sat on blankets in the back, where the third seat had been laid flat to create space for them and the two suitcases. Tom’s sisters—Amanda and Allison—occupied the backseat, with a picnic basket between them.

The basket contained sandwiches and cookies, as well as two of their mother’s green-apple pies that she had made for the new widow in Alabama. Tires in those days were real rubber and produced hypnotic, whining sounds as the car cruised along the highway, causing occasional dogs to give chase.

Their father started the car and enumerated the road-trip rules for the Mason family, which applied only to the Mason kids: no horseplay, no loud talking, no teasing brothers or sisters. They could play games, talk, or tell stories, but in low voices. If they stopped, everyone would go to the bathroom, real bathroom available or not. Their estimated time of arrival was 10:00 p.m. The host family and their guests might all be asleep or ready for bed, so as soon as introductions concluded, the kids were to go to sleep wherever their host placed them.

The Futuramic hummed through the moonless darkness. Boredom settled in, and sleep overtook all the kids except Tom. Tom clipped his Boy Scout flashlight to the neck of his T-shirt and reread the Superman annual comic book for the thirtieth time.

Tom felt the car slow and then turn onto a dirt road packed hard by a summer of little rain. The tires vibrated on short stretches of washboard ruts in the dirt road. Tom sensed the edge of motion sickness, so he put away his comic and sat up to stare out the back window through an accumulating layer of reddish dust.

His brother, Russ, slept at his side. At fourteen—the oldest of the Mason kids—their parents expected Russ to become the surrogate father when adults were absent. Tom never admitted it, but he idolized his brother. Russ was as close to a hero as Tom could imagine. Tom knew he could depend on Russ, no matter what.

Amanda, two years Tom’s senior, was the more feminine of the two sisters. Allison—one year older than her sister and the prettier of the two—preferred mud fights and tree climbing to dolls and frilly dresses. She tried to mother Tom when he hurt himself or fell ill, but Tom would have none of it.

Tom stared out the back window. The taillights cast a scary, red glow behind the car as the tires kicked up dust, which twisted into horizontal dirt-devils streaming from the rear of the car. Beyond the red glow of the taillights, the complete darkness frightened Tom a little.

Tom’s father and mother exchanged words. His mom twisted her body and faced the backseats. “Wake up kids. We are going to be there in a few minutes. Wake up and make yourselves presentable.”

The sisters stirred, emerging from whatever dreams had been born of the bouncy car and the background rhythm of the eight-cylinder engine.

Mother looked past the girls at him and said, “Tom, wake up your brother. We are almost there.”

Knowing they would be at their mysterious destination soon, Tom’s phobia of meeting new people—especially new kids—welled up, feeling like the anxiety of walking to school to face a waiting bully.

Without taking his eyes off the illuminated portion of the road, their father said aloud, as if making an announcement over the school intercom, “I want you on your best behavior. The folks here are good people. They are our relatives. If an adult asks you to do something, do it.”

He cleared his throat and continued, “So mind your Ps and Qs. Oh, and one more thing: last time I visited, they did not have a bathroom in the house; they have an outhouse.”

He paused as if preparing to issue a warning or instruction, thought better, and simply said, “You’ll get used to it. But until you do, no complaining.”

Tom saw some lights up ahead: an island in the dark.

When they turned right onto the track serving as the driveway to the old country house standing fifty yards from the road, Tom looked at the layout. The front yard was not really a yard at all. Once part of a forest, it had been cleared long ago, and now only a few huge pine trees were left, rising over beds of needles. Tall grass grew here and there, but gave way to dirt paths where people had walked between the pines.

Light came from every window. An electrical wire stretched fifty feet from the top of the front porch to the biggest pine tree Tom had ever seen. Six bare bulbs—affixed to the wire—dangled about seven feet above the ground.

In one of the circles of light beneath the wire, folding chairs formed a perimeter. The chairs were occupied by men of all ages. In the center of the group, where a fire might be in fall, sat a large washtub filled with melted ice and bottles of Coca-Cola, RC, and Nehi soda pop. The men stopped talking to study the Masons’ car.

“Hello, stranger,” one of them called, walking toward their car. Their father nearly leapt out of the car and grabbed the man’s extended hand, which quickly pulled them together for a hug.

Russ and Tom climbed out the tailgate and stood alongside the car, watching as a group of twelve or fifteen men and kids approached from the string of light bulbs.

The house looked as if it had never seen a coat of paint. The gray planks warped and strained against the rusty nails, which bled dark-red streaks from years of rain. The steep, tin roof was nearly invisible in the night sky. Where the main metal roof ended, another began. A shallow slope formed a roof for the porch, which ran across the front and left sides of the house.

Underneath the porch roof, bare bulbs with dangling pull-strings cast a yellow glow on all the women sitting in rockers. Conversation halted while they examined the new arrivals.

“This is my cousin, Royce.” Their father indicated the man he’d hugged.

“Hello, Royce,” their mother replied with a smile, adding, “Children, say hello to your cousin Royce.”

The man was tall and thin, but somehow seemed stronger than he looked.

“Hello, ma’am,” he said, offering his hand to their mother.

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Follow Steve on social media!

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“The Book of Paul” by Richard Long

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Welcome to The Book of Paul Book Blast.

With 170 reviews, and an average of 4.1 out of 5 stars, the Book of Paul is a blockbuster in the making. Memorable characters, a great storyline and a blending of mythologies, this deftly woven novel is currently $0.99.

About-the-BookIn the rubble-strewn wasteland of Alphabet City, a squalid tenement conceals a treasure “beyond all imagining”– an immaculately preserved, fifth century codex. The sole repository of ancient Hermetic lore, it contains the alchemical rituals for transforming thought into substance, transmuting matter at will…and attaining eternal life.

When Rose, a sex and pain addicted East Village tattoo artist has a torrid encounter with Martin, a battle-hardened loner, they discover they are unwitting pawns on opposing sides of a battle that has shaped the course of human history. At the center of the conflict is Paul, the villainous overlord of an underground feudal society, who guards the book’s occult secrets in preparation for the fulfillment of an apocalyptic prophecy.

The action is relentless as Rose and Martin fight to escape Paul’s clutches and Martin’s destiny as the chosen recipient of Paul’s sinister legacy. Science and magic, mythology and technology converge in a monumental battle where the stakes couldn’t be higher: control of the ultimate power in the universe–the Maelstrom.

The Book of Paul is the first of seven volumes in a sweeping mythological narrative tracing the mystical connections between Hermes Trismegistus in ancient Egypt, Sophia, the female counterpart of Christ, and the Celtic druids of Clan Kelly.

With production values matching that of a movie, the Book of Paul Trailer is as epic as the book!

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“Everything you’ve ever believed about yourself…about the description of reality you’ve clung to so stubbornly all your life…all of it…every bit of it…is an illusion.”

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Check out the Book of Paul Book Blast and grab a copy of the book for only $0.99! http://bit.ly/TBoPBBlast

Woah, I love the trailer on this! http://bit.ly/TBoPBBlast and the book is only $0.99! Grab The Book of Paul today!

Meet Richard Paul

Richard-authorRichard Long writes to exorcise the demons of his past and manifest the dreams of his future.

His debut novel, The Book of Paul, is a dark, thrilling, and psychologically rich supernatural horror/thriller that blends mythology, science and mystery into a page-turning addiction.

Richard is also writing a YA novel, The Dream Palace, primarily so that his children can read his books.

He lives in Manhattan with his wife, two amazing children and their wicked black cat, Merlin.

Find and Follow Richard:

Twitter | Facebook | Website | Pinterest | Tumblr

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The Book of Paul is available for $0.99 until 9th February. Grab a copy today!

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THE COMING STORM by Valerie Douglas

 

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I have an excerpt from this terrific epic fantasy for you. There were supposed to be some nifty graphics, too, but – owing to my own ineptitude – I cannot make them work.  So I’m just going to put in the excerpt.

Then tomorrow, I’m going to write a review of the book. (You might, of course, make some pretty good deductions about whether or not the review will be favourable by the way I called “The Coming Storm” a terrific epic fantasy. Smile )

 

Colath couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever been so weary and if he was tired, what of the men, Iric and Mortan? They hadn’t the endurance of his folk. Both were thinner in only a few weeks, and there were dark hollows beneath their eyes and a dullness. Travel bread could sustain you but it wasn’t meant to replace real food and they hadn’t seen such in nearly a week. That had consisted of the one game they had scared up, a solitary rabbit that had somehow stayed hidden in these hills. Jalila had gotten it with one shot. The rabbit hadn’t been large.

Of other game, they saw only carcasses rotting in the sun. Boggins or boggarts loved entrails but not much else.

They had to get away from the borderlands and soon but that was becoming more difficult with each passing day. The line between the borderlands and the rest of the Kingdoms had blurred. Narrowly missing an encounter with a firbolg, they’d also avoided an ogre and several boggins. They’d spent a day or so upon a tor, looked down the slopes from the rocks at its crown to watch as a troop of boggarts passed below them. Thankfully, they hadn’t picked up on their scent or were so intent on their own quarrels they hadn’t noticed. Without warning, a trio of the boggarts had leaped upon another and torn it to shreds. When they were gone a salamander had crept out from the rocks at the base of the hill where it had been hiding and made a fine meal of what the other boggarts hadn’t finished.

Manticores, they learned, hunted in prides much like some desert cats. The one they’d first seen had likely been a solitary young male, if they held true to that comparison.

All were far out of their normal ranges and too many in number.

A firbolg come down from the high ranges you would see once or twice a year, perhaps, after a hard winter. Young boggins and boggarts weren’t uncommon and most often the reason for the Hunters. The smart ones learned their lesson and fled back to the borderlands screaming their frustration and defiance. Stupid ones died. Kobolds came once a season, maybe. Ogres and trolls once or so every few years. As for goblins, this wasn’t their territory so much as north and east but every few years a new leader would come along and gather them all up for a raid. It would take a small army of Hunters to rout them and send them running back to their own lands again, never without there being wounded on both sides. Thankfully, they’d seen no trolls yet, nor goblins. So few in number, he and his small party would never have stood a chance against them, not with men in their party.

They’d see enough and more than enough, both north and south. Time to go home, to return to Aerilann. It’s the how that’s difficult, he thought, as he brooded beneath the overhang and stared out into the night.

Somewhere not far enough away something screamed at the darkness.

They’d run across a trail of a number of orcs running before them.

Behind, of course and in both other directions, was more of the same.

The orcs, those monstrous, bear-like things with their oddly hinged jaws were more than his small party could face, particularly Iric and Mortan. Despite their protest, he and the two other elves had taken their watch this night. In the end, both men had to admit they were too weary to be useful. What tricks men used to stay alert had long since worn off. They were completely exhausted, and both now slept deeply.

Alic gestured a warning and Colath tensed.

They’d had many nights like these, startled into alertness by some sign or strange noise. Once they’d had to kill a basilisk looking for a temporary den. Alic had been caught and frozen, to his shame, before the glare in those eyes.

That was the basilisk’s magic, their method for capturing their prey.

No shame to him, though, as basilisks here were as common as salamanders – that is, not common at all. They were southeastern creatures.

Then Colath caught the scent of what alarmed Alic, a faint stinging in his nostrils. A boggart or boggarts, and near. He nudged Jalila gently. She rolled over, instantly aware and awake.

The two men were so deeply asleep they dared not nudge them to consciousness for fear they would cry out. As cruel as it was, it was still much better to press a hand over their mouths and frighten them awake than it was to risk an outcry. He nodded to Jalila to wake Iric, while he went to Mortan.

Mortan bucked beneath his hand, but then his eyes opened enough to see Colath’s face in the dim glow cast by elf-light. Abruptly, he subsided, but he looked more alert than he had in several days, the little bit of sleep and fright charging him with energy. It wouldn’t last, Colath knew, beyond a few hours. He hoped it would be enough.

Tapping his sword, he drew it, so the two men could see it. Nodding, they drew their own.

With a quick gesture, he sent Jalila and her bow to the back of the tumble of rocks that arched around them. Sheltered there beneath the overhang, she had a good defensive position from which to shoot and to guard the horses. Although Elves could and did run for miles, the men couldn’t, and Colath didn’t want to think of any of them afoot in this country.

Alic stood with Iric on one side of the entry, he and Mortan at the other.

They waited.

There was little else to do. Boggarts were dark-skinned and stealthy. To venture out was to risk themselves foolishly.

A tumble of wood stood where the rocks ended, but Colath hesitated to light it.

Once lit, it would be a beacon for any other creatures that prowled the night. He hadn’t lit it earlier for fear the smell of smoke would draw more than the fire would repel. Most of these creatures hated and feared fire, but they also seemed to know that where there was fire there were men and Elves. He hadn’t wanted to invite attention.

If the boggart or boggarts attacked, they might have no choice, depending on how it went. It was unlikely to go well or unnoticed. Typically, boggarts screamed when they attacked, an unnerving shriek that was intended to shatter the nerves of their prey if  it were unwary enough to be caught off guard. That shriek alone would often send prey flying from cover. Colath hoped he wouldn’t hear it. If he did, they were in serious trouble. While not as thick-skinned as the manticore, their skin was thick enough to keep an arrow from driving too deeply if the shot was off a hair. The swords of men could glance off if their aim wasn’t true. For that Elven steel worked better. Add long arms, sharp claws and wicked teeth and you had a formidable opponent even for Elves.

If it came to a real fight, they would have to run, at night, as dangerous as that was. There was no choice. The sounds of battle would carry. Like the salamander they’d watched, there would be those who would be drawn to the noise for a chance at the offal.

Orcs didn’t see well at night, unlike boggarts. With any luck they wouldn’t stir and the party might get past them.

An unearthly shriek rang out.

Instinct warned him.

COMING SOON! THE COMING STORM

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The Coming Storm, By Valerie Douglas

Spanning an epic series of books, ‘The Coming Storm’ by Valerie Douglas takes you to the heart of a conflict between magic users, and those without magic, good and evil, love and loss.

Join Ailith and Elon as they have to choose between love, duty, and everything they’ve battled for.

about-the-book-valerie
Elon of Aerilann, Elven advisor to the High King of Men, helped negotiate the treaty between Elves, Dwarves and men. He suddenly finds that fragile truce threatened from without by an unknown enemy and from within by old hatreds and prejudice. With the aid of his true-friend Colath, the wizard Jareth and the Elven archer Jalila, he goes in search of the source of the threat.
Ailith, the Heir to Riverford, fights her own silent battle. Her father has changed, but her quest to discover what changed him puts her life and very soul in danger and leaves her only one direction in which to turn. Elon.
To preserve the alliance, though, Elon will have to choose between his honor, his duty and everything for which he fought.

Amazon | Goodreads

series-buy-links
A Conocation of Kings (The Coming Storm, #2) 
Not Magic Enough (The Coming Storm, #3)  (novella will be 99¢ during the blast)
Setting Boundaries (The Coming Storm, #4)  (novella will be 99¢ during the blast)

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Read more reviews on Amazon

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Valerie Douglas is a prolific writer and a genre-crosser, much to the delight of her fans. A fan of authors of almost every genre from Isaac Asimov to Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, she writes classic fantasy, romance, suspense, and as V.J. Devereaux, erotic romance. Who knows what will pop up down the road!

Valerie Douglas is a prolific writer and a genre-crosser, much to the delight of her fans. A fan of authors of almost every genre from Isaac Asimov to Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, she writes classic fantasy, romance, suspense, and as V.J. Devereaux, erotic romance. Who knows what will pop up down the road!

Happily married, she’s companion to two dogs, four cats and an African clawed frog named Hopper who delights in tormenting the cats from his tank.

You can find more information at Valerie Douglas Books, or at Alexandria Publishing Group.

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And to celebrate her book blast, Valerie’s lowered the price of The Coming Storm on a Countdown Deal.  Head on over to the page and see what it’s set and and grab your copy at the lowest price you can!  Her novellas Not Magic EnoughSetting Boundaries have also been priced at $0.99 for the duration of this project.

And in January….

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In January, Valerie is visiting blogs, talking books and sharing her experience.  As author of more than 20 books, she’s got a lot to say about indie publishing and would love to visit with you.

If you’d like to join in you can sign up here or fill the form out below

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