The Conall Series Guest Post and Giveaway #SilverDaggerTours

 

Heroes and villains from myth, legend, and history converge in this saga set in the vast ancient forests, treacherous bogs, snow-capped mountains, and mysterious lochs of Scotland some four hundred years before the birth of Christ.

The Place of Blood – Rinn-Iru

Conall Book I

by David H. Millar

Genre: Historical Fantasy 

Over four hundred years before the birth of Christ, the island of Ériu is a patchwork of feuding kingdoms, wide plains, and impassable bogs. Battle, intrigue, betrayals, and courage are part of life for the Celts who call Ériu home, while from their underground halls the mysterious aes sidhe seduce brave warriors, turning men in to kings and binding them with fearsome geis.

Conall Mac Gabhann is content with his apprenticeship to the local blacksmith. Content, that is, until his family is slaughtered in their home.

Two men share responsibility for the massacre: a mad Irish king and a dissolute Roman. Conall will have his vengeance on both, or die in the attempt.

Accompanied by his childhood friend Brion ó Cathasaigh and the veteran warrior Fearghal ó Maoilriain, Conall's hunt takes him northward through unfriendly kingdoms and treacherous bogs to a confrontation beyond the ancient earthworks of the Black Pig's Dyke.

Along the way, Conall will gather an army, and come to the attention of the aes sidhe. An apprentice blacksmith could become a king with their help—if he so desires.

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The Raven's Flight – Eitilt an Fhiagh Dhuibh

Conall Book II

Conall II: The Raven’s Flight continues to chronicle the epic journey of the warriors from Ériu (Ireland).

Conall Mac Gabhann and his brooding queen, Mórrígan, lead over two thousand warriors together with their followers across the narrow sea that separates Ériu from Albu (Britain). Their quest: the capture of Cassius Fabius Scaeva, the dissolute Roman patrician held responsible for the slaughter of their families.

The Ériu encounter human, natural, and supernatural foes and friends. At the mercy of the aes sidhe, a race of demi-goddesses who demand that he fulfill an ancient geis, Conall is named as the “Hand of the Goddess” and given the instrument that will crush the Na Daoine Tùrsach—a tribe of fanatical, blood-lusting priests.

They battle fierce northern tribes: the Aos na Coille, whose one-eyed king, Drostan Ruadh, opposes their presence as do the Na Mèadaidh led by the sly Finnean Mac Sèitheach. Not all are enemies. The Aos an Fhithich offer their support, although it too comes at a price.

Heroes and villains from myth, legend, and history converge in this saga set in the vast ancient forests, treacherous bogs, snow-capped mountains, and mysterious lochs of Scotland some four hundred years before the birth of Christ.

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The Sisters – Na Deirfiúracha

Conall Book III

It is 406 B.C. The Gaels tramp through the vast forests of lowland Scotland, cross the brooding moors and marshes of the Pennines, and plough the grain fields of the South. The majestic stone brochs and dùns of the north give way to the great hillforts of the south.

Cloaked in a rich tapestry of tattoos or wearing armour inlaid with iron scales, the Gaels stand as one, taunting their enemies with fierce battle-cries and insults.

In Conall III: The Sisters—the third book of the Conall series—the women take centre stage. Brighid and Danu are kidnapped on the orders of Kartimandu, a malevolent queen bent on conquering the North. Mórrígan and Conall’s blood oath promises no quarter until the young twins are returned.

Will Eachdonn Breac, betrayed by his queen—Ceana, redeem his honour on the battlefield? A merciless assassin stalks the community. Tadhg Ó Cuileannáin is given the unenviable task of tracking the killer down. A mission made worse, when the signs point to the sister of one of Conall’s closest friends. Amid, the battles and intrigue, Mòrag Ni Artair, a tall beauty and fearsome warrior, sets her sights on Conall. A clash with Mórrígan—Conall’s queen, appears inevitable.

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A Brace of Eagles - Snaidhm Iolar

Conall Book IV

“Butter-gold and cruelly hooked, the beak ripped a ragged gash across the newborn’s throat.”

Son of a blacksmith, Conall Mac Gabhann’s only desire was to follow in his father’s footsteps and enjoy a long life with his childhood love, Mórrígan. The slaughter of their parents dashed those dreams. Fuelled by vengeance, both embark on the dark path of retribution.

From the ancient forest, two great eagles take wing. With amber-gold eyes, Fate and the Goddess watch, ready to guide and meddle in human lives. Conall, now Clann Ui Flaithimh’s ‘king over kings’, must complete his geis—at any cost. Conall takes another stride closer to Rome and a reckoning with Marcus Fabius Ambustus. Flat-bottomed biremes carry Conall’s army cross the Muir nIocht to crash on the shingle beaches of North-western Gaul. New enemies and uneasy alliances flourish.

Assassins, treason, and treachery thrive. Above all, Conall values loyalty. Thus, treason within the tribe sours his belly. Mercy will have no part in his response.

The fourth novel in the Conall series, Conall IV: A Brace of Eagles is a rousing epic of Celtic heroes and villains, bloody battles, political intrigue, honour, treachery, and forbidden love.

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Retribution - Díoltas

Conall Book V

“Witch!” Tullus gasped.
“You are not that fortunate, Roman,” came the menacing reply.”

Blood has purchased a fragile peace for Conall and Mórrígan and the close circle of friends they call family. Now, allies and enemies alike wonder if the king and queen have lost the thirst for vengeance on those who slaughtered their families. Alarmed, gods, kings, and despots conspire to poke the slumbering fire.

Brennus of the Senones still smarts at his defeat at Conall’s hands and covets his lands and wealth. Will a bruised ego and hubris overrule the Gaulish king’s normal pragmatism?

The Gaiscedach want revenge for the defeat and execution of their queen. In the dead of night, like cockroaches, they scuttle over the walls of Lugudunon.

Marcus Fabius Ambustus tolerates no challenge to his plan to be Dictator of Rome. But has arrogance blinded him to the enemy he has nurtured?

The gates of Rome and retribution draw closer. But Conall needs his enemies as much as his friends. Still, who are enemies and who are friends? It is a time of schisms and rebuilding, of loved ones endangered, and assassins and spies revealed.

Yet, there has always been one constant. Only the foolish doubt Conall and Mórrígan will show any mercy to those who threaten their family.

Conall V: Retribution is the fifth and final book in the Conall series.

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**Don't miss the spin-off novels!**

The Dog Roses: Na Feirdhriseacha

A Conall Series Spinoff

Get it on Amazon

The Blood Queen: A 'Bhanrigh Fuil

A Conall Series Spinoff

Get it on Amazon

As with all self-published authors—and a good few traditionally published writers—my challenge can be summed up in one word—marketing. Or, how best to promote both author and product? Above choosing a media channel(s), however, a core question for me is “what is the best use of my time?” Like many independent authors, at this time my books do not generate sufficient sales revenues to justify me being a full-time author. Hence, time is a precious, limited commodity.

With five books published and two scheduled for 2022, my primary marketing focus remains product quality. In this, my group of beta-readers and accumulating book reviews form the primary benchmarks of the quality of the story and writing—or at least how it is perceived by readers. Along with many self-published authors, I face the challenge of encouraging readers to write a brief review and give a star rating. Most of the reviews I get are excellent. There is just not enough of them. I have given books away based on the promise of a review, yet it is rare that the recipient fulfils his/her side of the bargain. I found the “old” Goodreads Giveaway (https://www.goodreads.com/) program to be reasonably effective but it is hard to justify the fees now required to participate. Recently, I did two NetGalley promotions and that seemed to be good value with respect to money spent vs. reviews obtained.

It should go without saying that published books should be well-edited and have as few typos as possible. It annoys me to see a badly edited book, especially from an indie author. It is a challenge to be accepted as an author without giving traditional publishers, reviewers, and authors, ammunition to criticize or stereotype us. I see no excuse for not achieving what I term technical excellence. My first three books were edited by someone who had an excellent command of English, although not a professional editor. I write strategies and reports as my “day job” so my level of knowledge of style and grammar was already high. My beta-readers added a further layer of editorial review. For my latest books, I engaged a specialist historical fantasy/fiction editor—Andrew Noakes (https://andrewnoakes.co.uk/). It was well worth the money. I only wish I had engaged Andrew earlier for the earlier novels. Totally objective edits and genre insights are invaluable.

As a rule, I believe in engaging experts for specific tasks. This is costly but improves the end-product. High-quality cover art and interior formatting are critical for the success of any novel. I have seen too many books where poor artwork has made me choose an alternate. Readers need to be drawn to the book and the first impression is usually the cover. Ida Jansson of Amygdala Design (http://www.amygdaladesign.net/) is responsible for the amazing cover art for the novels and has also taken over the interior formatting. Poor interior formatting, eBook and print, can be a real turn-off. My map illustrations are drawn by well-known fellow Belfast-born international artist Michael McEvoy (https://bit.ly/2HZtxHF). Michael is “old school” and draws his illustrations by hand, which goes to add to the ancient ambience of the novel.

How to build an audience? To date, I have tinkered with Facebook and built up my Twitter account to 11,000+ “followers.” I also commissioned a great video trailer (https://youtu.be/c4ZwNBBQMrs). So far, all have had a negligible impact on sales. More positively, I participated in my first author event in 2018—The East Texas Book Bash, Tyler, TX. I judged it to be highly successful from several perspectives—new sales (during and post event), raising awareness, and getting to know my market much better. I also find that the readers who attend these events are well-informed and more likely to provide a review. This channel goes to the top of my marketing priorities for 2022. COVID drastically impacted author events but I’m optimistic that these events will resume in 2022. The challenges are cost and logistics. Within state, it is a long but manageable drive and overnight accommodation; out-of-state, then it becomes flights and the cost of sending books and marketing materials in advance.

Finally, I find it amusing that due to my age, I’m considered someone who can offer sage advice to younger authors. Yet, I have only been writing for less than ten years. At an author event, one promising young author asked me about marketing and promotion. After going through a litany of possible options and channels, I came to realize that she had one great advantage over me—her age. My advice was—do not give up, keep writing, and keep improving the product. Time is on her side. I need luck to be on mine.

Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, David H. Millar is the founder, owner, and author-in-residence of Houston-based ‘A Wee Publishing Company’—a business that promotes Celtic literature, authors and art.

Millar moved from Ireland to Nova Scotia, Canada, in the late 1990s. After ten years shovelling snow, he decided to relocate to warmer climates and has now settled in Houston, Texas. Quite a contrast!

An avid reader, armchair sportsman, and Liverpool Football Club fan, Millar lives with his family and Bailey, a Manx cat of questionable disposition known to his friends as ‘the small angry one!’

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In The Midnight Hour Giveaway and Guest Post #SilverDaggerTours

 

Werewolf Queen wasn't on her middle aged bingo card... 

In the Midnight Hour

A Midnight Madness Nightcreature Novel Book 3

by Lori Handeland

Genre: Paranormal Women's Fiction

Just when I thought it was safe to go home…

I’ve been running too long. I’d gotten sloppy. Sloppy gets you captured. But it turns out, the very one I thought I had to hide from, saved me.

I just want to live peacefully. But happy family, er, pack reunions don’t seem to be in my future. When my secret is used against me, I’m forced to run again. This time, help comes from the most unexpected source, the greatest werewolf hunter of all time, Edward Mandenauer.

To get what we both want—the end of the sadistic, yet sexy, werewolf Zane—Edward and I join forces. But Zane isn’t working alone. Nor is he who or what he says he is. He’s much, much more…

All I want is the life I believed I’d lost, but at this rate, I’ll end up captured, imprisoned, enslaved . . . or dead.

From the voice of New York Times bestselling author Lori Handeland, the final installment in the Midnight Madness trilogy takes you deep into her Nightcreature world, complete with the humor, depth of characterization and fast-paced plot lines the author is known for while showcasing her incredible range.

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 I strolled down the deserted streets of Wisconsin’s capital city and tried to think of a plan. I could only come up with one.

The first person I saw getting out of a car was in the employee lot of a twenty-four-hour diner. I approached her, and she smiled. I was an older woman, nonthreatening, no danger. I felt bad about what I was about to do, but I did it anyway, smiling back as I touched my fingertips to my temple. “Give me your car keys, then go to work.”

She repeated my instructions, handed over her keys, and reached into the midnight-blue Hyundai SUV for her purse.

“Leave it.”

Sadly, my borrowed pockets held nothing but lint. Should have thought ahead and asked my daughter for some cash—though like most Gen Zers, she rarely had any. But what difference did stealing make on top of grand theft auto?

At the next gas station, I used the woman’s cell phone—no password, shame on her—to search for the Leonard farm, then scribbled the address on a stray receipt. I tossed her phone into a sewer grate before heading inside where I bought a burner, then asked for a map of Wisconsin.

“You could just get this one.” The clerk pointed to a more expensive phone. “Then you could GPS it.”

I’d have to connect to my personal provider for that. And the entire point of tossing my own phone days ago, as well as tossing the phone of the waitress I’d robbed just now, was so Gideon couldn’t find me.

I shook my head. “Maps?”

The guy pointed to a revolving wire carousel hidden behind a display of energy drinks, which contained maps of Wisconsin and the surrounding states.

“I don’t know the last time anyone bought one of these.” The clerk scanned the barcode. “I hope it doesn’t send you down a road to nowhere.”

I wasn’t worried. The roads of northern Wisconsin didn’t change much. The Department of Transportation spent its budget on the byways that got the most use, for instance, the ones that went into and out of big cities or those that went into and out of the state. Considering those restored Victorians, Viroqua had been there since the mid-to-late 1800s, which meant the roads surrounding it had been there that long as well with only baseline maintenance and little to no rerouting.

In less than two hours, I turned off a highway that had been mostly deserted and rattled down the rutted gravel driveway that led to the Leonard farm. The moon’s silvery glow had been dulled to pewter by a sky filled with clouds. I still heard the moon singing, but her voice had waned, night by night, since she’d been full. According to every werewolf I knew, that music would grow louder as she waxed from new to full.

The just-sprung buds of corn in the fields fluttered, their shade a muted moss shrouded in ice, while the mud in the barnyard recalled a cup of espresso, the puddles undulating like a raven’s wing. In that vista of sepia, the white clapboard house and outbuildings shone pearlescent.

The night held its breath, but all I heard were the clicks of a cooling engine and the beginnings of a breeze. Shouldn’t there be the lowing of cows? Shouldn’t there be cows? Shouldn’t there be someone waking up to deal with the cows?

The porch steps creaked like those in a Gothic novel. I’d read quite a few once I’d discovered that Gothic lit became popular during the Victorian period. I’d been partial to Dracula. Kind of hilarious now.

I lifted my hand to knock, and the door screeched open. Maybe not so hilarious. If there were werewolves, were there vampires?

“Bloody hell.” I bit my tongue to stem the hysterical laughter that bubbled up over my choice of curse words. “Hello? Anyone home?”

As I didn’t want to be shot for trespassing, I remained perched on the threshold. Then it occurred to me that while that might hurt, it probably wouldn’t kill me because the chances of a dairy farmer in Viroqua packing silver cartridges were slim to none.

I stepped inside. “I have information about Natalie.”

I’d thought of little else during the two-hour drive, but what could I tell the Leonards that wouldn’t get them wiped out by a werewolf for knowing it? All I had were two truths and a lie—she’d been kidnapped by sex traffickers, then killed. And me? I was with the FBI task force handling the case.

I’d believed it when Ash said it; I hoped the Leonards would believe it when I did. If not, I’d have to push them to do so, as well as to keep the news to themselves. Didn’t need any real FBI agents following up.

Not a great plan, but I had to work with what I had.

I listened for the sounds of someone getting out of bed, opening a door, flushing a toilet. All I heard was another creak. I wished I had a gun, but my fangs and my teeth and my inability to die except by silver were pretty good weapons.

However, I was here to tell the Leonard family a partial truth. I wasn’t going to be able to do that if I was a wolf. And I wanted to tell them, needed to. There were many, many girls who weren’t coming home. Many, many families who would never know where they’d gone or what had happened to them. This girl I could do something about.

I took a breath to call out again, and the door slammed behind me. I would have blamed the wind if not for the gun barrel pressed to the base of my skull. I went very still.

“I told you I’d kill you the next time I saw you.”

Blame It On Midnight

A Midnight Madness Nightcreature Novel Book 2

I saved my daughter. But how do I save myself?

I did what I had to. Try and kill my girl? I will end you faster than you can say have mercy. Sure I broke a cardinal pack rule, which will get me executed by my mate. If they find out. If they find me.

Saved from capture by Zane, the sexiest of sexy werewolves, my rescue comes with a price. Zane wants a favor, one that could cause an all-out pack war. The last thing I need is to make more enemies, but lives are at stake if I don’t make a stand.

Not only that, but I have a secret. An impossible secret that is going to turn the entire werewolf world upside down.

From the voice of New York Times bestselling author Lori Handeland, a new volume in her Nightcreature world, complete with the humor, depth of characterization and fast-paced plot lines she is known for while showcasing the author’s incredible range.

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 “You’re my wife,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I’m not your wife.”

“My mate. Same thing.”

“You said it wasn’t the same. That humans marry and wolves mate.”

“Mating is deeper, more.” A growl rippled the air. My air, and he wasn’t even in my air. “Until death, which is a very long time in our world.”

I’d allowed this, embraced this to save my girl, but now I needed to save not only Gideon, but also the pack that had come to feel like family far too fast.

“I’m sorry, but we need to do whatever we have to do to undo this.” I waved a finger back and forth between us.

“There is no undoing it.”

“I don’t believe you.” And with that, I disconnected the call, powered down, yanked out the SIM card, and dropped both it and the phone into the tropical fish tank Patrick had given to Frankie one Christmas.

“Sarah! What the hell?” Frankie stood in the entryway from the hall.

“I’ll buy you another one.”

He waved a hand as if to chase a fly. “Heir? Mates? Pack?”

“You were eavesdropping?” I had waited for the sound of a door closing, but what I hadn’t done was check to make sure that Frankie was behind it. Silly me.

“You sound like a lunatic.”

“Feel like one too.”

Frankie shoved his fingers through his hair, mussing it more than I’d ever seen it mussed. “He’s Jenna’s dad?”

I nodded.

“Did Patrick know?”

Since Patrick and I had never had sex—surprised he hadn’t shared that . . . “Of course.” I paused, gathering my thoughts. I wasn’t supposed to share this, but there was a lot I wasn’t supposed to do that I’d already done. “There’s another world that lives beneath the moon. One that howls. One that kills.”

“You really believe that.” It wasn’t a question. “What else?”

I told him. All of it. Why not? I could always make him forget.

When I got to the part about Ash, Frankie held up a hand. “The FBI sent a werewolf hunter.”

“Apparently, certain cases are routed to them.”

“To the . . . what was it? Jager-Suchers?”

“Hunter-searchers. When you called your contact and said Jenna was missing, that contact called Ash, who’d been trying to find other missing girls.”

His niece, Haley, being one of them.

“I don’t know an Ash.” Frankie rubbed his temple. “Do I?”

“I made you forget. I didn’t want you searching for him or calling anyone who might.” And I should have stuck with that plan, but the ship had sailed.

“And where is he now?”

Chained in a dungeon somewhere awaiting execution. I’d tried to find out where but—

“Don’t have a clue.”

Frankie glanced at the door. “We should probably go.”

“Where?”

“Psych hospital.”

I laughed so hard I had to bend over to catch my breath.

“You finished?” he asked when I had. “Were you experimenting with psychedelics? Weird mushrooms? Bad food? Did someone slip you a mickey?”

“I don’t think that’s what they call it anymore.” Though what they called it I had no idea. “You believe I’m crazy.”

“As a shithouse rat. No offense.”

I snorted; I’d heard worse on the campaign trail. “And Gideon?”

“Who’s Gideon?”

“Guy on your phone.”

“Ah. The alpha.” He twisted the title into an insult, and annoyance trilled along my spine. “Shared delusion?”

“What about these?” I pointed at my formerly gingham-blue eyes, now a lovely royal cerulean.

He frowned; he hadn’t noticed them. Maybe because I had turned off all the lights.

“Tinted contacts.”

Except I wasn’t wearing any, but why bother? He was going to see what he wanted to see, it was the way of humans when what they saw was impossible.

I strode for the door.

Frankie hurried to keep up. “I’ll call ahead, talk to someone I know at the—” He peered into the fish tank, where all the pretty fishies flitted around his phone like it was a brand-new fish toy. “Crap.”

“Guess it’s show-and-tell time,” I said. “Or maybe tell, then show.”

Why I didn’t just zap his memory—again—I wasn’t sure. Perhaps a nagging concern that doing so too many times might give him a brain bleed. Or maybe I just needed someone to know. Someone who wasn’t part of this frightening new world I’d been thrust into. Still, telling Frankie had been a dumb idea. All about what I needed, what I wanted. Selfish.

“Hold on. Let me . . .” He glanced around, lost as a millennial without a cell phone. Or a landline.

I set my hand on the doorknob. “Don’t worry. I won’t tear out your throat.” I yanked open the door.

The wolf on the porch lifted his lip, and a snarl curled free.

“But he might.”

Nothing Good Happens After Midnight

A Midnight Madness Nightcreature Novel Book 1

They say a mother will do anything for her child . . . I’m living proof

This nightmare began when I got the call every parent dreads. My daughter, Jenna, was missing from her college campus. Of course, my mind went to the worst place. After all, my late husband was a powerful senator. Was this some political payback?

I call in a favor and soon I’m partnered with an FBI sex trafficking agent. He tells me local girls have been disappearing for some time now, and he finally has a lead. But what we find at that abandoned warehouse is something out of a horror movie.

Werewolves! Two rival packs, their alphas fighting, winner take all––the pack and the trafficked girls. The werewolves must replenish their breeders, recently decimated by a virus that killed only the females.

But Jenna’s been keeping a secret, which only makes two of us. Though I should be angry, I know the lies I’ve told play a huge role in why we’re here. I’ll do anything to make it right. No way is my girl going to become a sacrificial mate for the greater good––even if she is the ‘chosen one.’ So, I do what any mother would do, I take her place, offering myself to Gideon, the winning alpha, as his mate.

Gideon’s goal is to live in harmony with the human world, but there are others who exist for the power, for the violence, and they don’t plan to let peace prevail.

There’s a civil werewolf war brewing and I am right in the middle of it.

From the voice of New York Times bestselling author Lori Handeland, a new volume in her Nightcreature world, complete with the humor, depth of characterization and fast-paced plot lines she is known for while showcasing the author’s incredible range.

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When the phone rings in the middle of the night, everything changes.

Mother always said: Nothing good happens after midnight. I’d found in my forty-one years on this earth, in that at least, Mom had been right.

I sat up so fast I jiggled the mattress. I froze, my gaze shifting to, then away from the empty side of the bed. I still hadn’t gotten used to Patrick not being there. Would I ever?

The shrill slice of sound continued to cut through the oh so silent night. I only had one ringtone left on my allowed calls after that indelible hour of midnight, and this was it. My heart rate increased from WTF? to OMG!

“Jenna?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Sullivan. It’s Cammy.”

I searched my memory for the identity of Cammy, feeling slow, stupid despite the far too rapid rate of my heart.

Spring, same time two years ago, my OB had diagnosed the reason for my newly sluggish brain and sudden ability to fry eggs atop my head as premature menopause.

Look at it this way, you won’t have to worry about getting pregnant for very much longer.

Not that I had for decades. However, having my body betray me like that—basically saying I was old, when I never really got to be young—had stung. It still did.

Cammy’s tentative voice brought me back to the right now. “I’m Jenna’s roommate.”

My skin prickled with heat and a fine sheen of sweat started up at my hairline. “What’s wrong?”

“Jenna hasn’t been here since Tuesday.”

Here being the University of Wisconsin. I’d been so proud when Jenna had decided to go to UW like me. Or like the me I could have been, would have been if not for her.

“Tuesday,” I repeated. “But it’s . . .”

Come on, brain, don’t fail me now!

Thursday! I thought at the same time Cammy said, “Thursday.”

For an instant, I was near ecstatic to have concluded something at the same speed as a millennial. Then I did the math, never my strong suit even before all the brain-fart BS. “That’s two days, and you’re just calling me now?”

“Sometimes she pulls an all-nighter. Stays at the library or goes to a study group. But she lets me know. I didn’t really worry until I called her phone, and it was . . .”

My skin did that prickle again. Jenna’s phone was in Cammy’s hand, obviously, since she was talking to me on it. That I hadn’t asked why earlier put another notch in my losin’ it belt.

“Her phone was in her backpack,” Cammy continued. “In her room, along with her laptop and her books.”

Cammy paused, waiting for me to fill in the blanks. Jenna probably wouldn’t be studying without her backpack, and the notes and books and computer within. But even if she’d grabbed a few things and left the rest, she never would have left her cell phone. I didn’t think it had been out of her sight—more accurately, out of her hand—since I’d handed it to her when she was ten.

“In Lunar Lake, anywhere can be reached from anywhere in a handful of minutes,” Patrick had argued. “Even if she falls off her bike and breaks her leg, someone’s gonna be at her side quicker than she can make a call. She’s safer than safe, like every other kid in town. What are you worried about?”

When I lifted my eyebrows, he’d blinked, said, “Oh,” and that had been the last Patrick had said about that. He knew why I was the way I was better than anyone. It was one of the reasons I’d married him.

I’d devoted my life to raising Jenna. She was everything. The only thing. When she’d gone to college, I’d been proud but also terrified. This exact scenario—a midnight phone call, a missing child—played through my mind far too often. Sadly, what I should do about it had never played through as well.

“Hello?” Cammy’s worried voice broke into my thoughts. She probably thought I’d fainted. Or stroked out. I was tempted.

But all Jenna had was me now, and all I had was her. If that meant facing my greatest fear again, I’d face it. What choice did I have?

She was my baby.

**FREEBIE ALERT!**

Get the first Nightcreature novel, Blue Moon for FREE!!

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Can you, for those who don't know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author?

Hi, I’m Lori Handeland and I always wanted to be an author even while I was studying to be a high school English teacher. (Hey, they have summers off for a reason, right? Besides sanity, that is.) Life intervened and while home with two boys under the age of three, I decided to try writing the book I always wanted to.

That book, SECOND CHANCE, won the Wisconsin Romance Writers Fabulous Five contest and was requested by an editor at Harlequin. Several revisions and submissions and years later, it sold to Dorchester Publishing.

If you knew you'd die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day?

With my grandchildren, doing whatever they wanted to.

What kind of world ruler would you be?

No nonsense. I have no patience for it. Behave or b-bye.

What do you do to unwind and relax?

I go on wonderful writing retreats with my writing friends, where we write all day, drink wine and chat at night. The perfect recharge.

How to find time to write as a parent?

When my boys were small I wrote at 5 am, midnight, whenever (if) they napped. I also exchanged babysitting with other moms so I could have uninterrupted writing time.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

When my first fan letter arrived.

Do you have a favorite movie?

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

Which of your novels can you imagine made into a movie?

JUST ONCE. And it almost was. The book was optioned by Catalyst Global Media. I even wrote the screenplay. But as those things go, it did not. I am still submitting my screenplay. It’s done, so why not?

As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?

A wolf, of course.

Lori Handeland is a five-time nominee and two-time winner of the prestigious RITA™ Award from Romance Writers of America, as well as the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over sixty novels spanning the genres of paranormal romance, urban fantasy, contemporary romance, historical romance, historical fantasy and women’s fiction. Her novel Just Once received a coveted, starred review from Library Journal and was optioned as a feature film by Catalyst Global Media.

Lori set her sight on being an author at the age of ten. She remembers sitting at a typewriter before she knew how to type, pecking out a story about a family who went into space. As an only child her summers were spent with that typewriter, television, and, above all, books. As a young adult, she got sidetracked by the need to make a living. She worked as a waitress and later enrolled in college to become a teacher.

Lori lives in Southern Wisconsin with her husband of over thirty-five years. In between writing and reading, she enjoys long walks with their rescue mutt, Arnold, and visits from her two grown sons, awesome daughter-in-law and perfectly adorable grandchildren.

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Rise of Dresca Guest Post and Giveaway #SilverDaggerTours

 

What evil intended to harm you... ... can become something far more terrible.

Rise of Dresca

The Draemeir Chronicle Book 1

by Tim McKay

Genre: YA Dark Fantasy Horror

From the pits of an ancient darkness, a new power is rising.

Ceremai has fallen.

After a decade of struggle for independence, a fledgling nation collapses under the unrelenting force of invasion.

Join an unlikely band of allies on a journey beset by shadow and intrigue, pulled by the strings of fate to the source of a new evil.

A lord’s daughter turns assassin. An orphan girl discovers her power. A captain plots in vain.

And the last soldier of Ceremai finds his destiny.

Witness the dawn of a new age, and learn if what evil intended for harm…

… can become something far more terrible.

Rise of Dresca is the first book of the Draemeir Chronicle.

Enter a world where evil parasitizes the meek and arrogant alike. Where limitless power and knowledge can be yours for a price, not of your soul, but of your mind, your will, and your resolve to be free.

In the land of Naevoroth, a new power is rising.

And it’s yours for the taking.

Action-packed and filled with a healthy dose of magic, mayhem, and fantastical lore, Rise of Dresca is a phenomenal start to what promises to be a riveting epic fantasy series.

– Pikasho Deka from Readers’ Favorite

IF you are looking for a relentless, action, rage-filled dark fantasy book, then look no further than “Rise of Dresca”. WOW! This is bestselling material right here!

– Julio Carlos at Scribble’s Worth Book Reviews

Rise of Dresca by Tim McKay is a spellbinding journey into the heart of a mesmerizing monster-filled fantasy realm. Seamlessly blending captivating storytelling with vivid world-building, this teen and YA monster fantasy will have readers utterly entranced from the very first page.

– Demetria Head for A Look Inside Book Reviews

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Elaryn pressed her back against the sharp cliff rocks, panting as she sucked in the stale, toxic air. Her team, huddled together around the corner, felt the fumes scraping their lungs as much as she did. They wouldn’t have thought much of her forced, frantic breathing. They didn’t know.

They had to die.

She’d been planning these murders for months, but her resolve was untested. She knew there’d be no going back, and once it started, she’d have to be quick.

A crashing force shook the cliffside. Elaryn heard a few stifled screams as she fell onto her hands and knees. Her ears were ringing and her vision blurred, but she turned to take in the chaos. Four members of the team were bloodied masses scattered around the small crater where her pack had been. Good. There needed to be blood. Her heart raced, but the cold edge to her inner voice was unnerving.

Vorsha, the Selvan envoy leading the mission, began to stir and whimper a few paces away. Elaryn charged, covering the distance in seconds and driving her knee into the woman’s face. Vorsha’s head snapped back and cracked loudly against a rock. Shrapnel wounds peppered her abdomen and stained her scarlet dress a deeper crimson. She wouldn’t be trouble. Five down.

One last kill. Elaryn knew this one would be the hardest. She stepped over the corpse by her feet, boots dripping blood that pooled in charcoal sand. She left the woman’s eyes open, her face already pale with death. Evil like this didn’t deserve peace.

But Paltess was different. The boy was seventeen, just five years her junior. And she couldn’t be sure he was compromised. Unlike the others.

Paltess stood a dozen paces away, trapped between narrow obsidian cliffs. He stumbled backward and turned as Elaryn drew a crescent knife from her belt. He ran, then seemed to remember his pistol between strides. He faltered while grabbing it from his holster and turned halfway around before a spinning blade slashed his throat.

The boy toppled and the pistol went off with a hissing snap. The lead ball hit the rocks and small shards of black glass shattered down the cliffside with crystal pings.

Elaryn stepped closer. She cleared her mind and tried not to look away as the boy twitched in the sand. She was learning that people can bleed out far longer than she imagined. The stories always made death sound quick.

Now for the hard part. Elaryn scanned the rocks for a way up before spotting a narrow gap between the obsidian spikes. The rocks looked sharp, and for a moment she rubbed her palms together. Her black leather gloves were made for style and were ready to tear in a few spots. She’d have to risk it.

A loud shriek from behind settled the matter. She scooped up her knife and scrambled to the cliff, wiping Paltess’s blood onto a spare cloth she tossed aside once the blade was clean. She put her back to the wall and checked the rear passage. Nothing. But if the raptors had found the first bodies, they’d be here soon enough.

Elaryn took one last look at Paltess, eyes glazed over and staring at her with blank accusation. It had to be done. She pushed back any remaining hesitation, slipped her knife into its black crescent scabbard, and reached up with her other hand for the nearest ledge. Sharp rock pressed into her glove without piercing, and she risked more weight as she propped herself up with one foot on the other side of the gap. A few quick maneuvers and she was back on solid ground.

Dry heat and grey ash battered Elaryn from every direction. Outside the shelter of the cliffs, the air was thick with sickly orange smog painted by the sun’s glare. She could make out rolling mounds of black and grey a few dozen paces ahead before the smog grew too thick to penetrate. She’d keep the sun to her back and press on.

An ear-splitting shriek sounded above and Elaryn rolled aside. She almost fell back down into the gap and braced herself in time to watch a raptor swoop down through the spot she’d been. Its grey reptilian wing clipped her cheek as it flew by, and the creature crashed into the rocks as it attempted to change course. Sharp talons lashed out and its neck lunged up like an eel before the monster fell over the edge, leaving a trail of black blood on the rocks.

How I Got Here

If you’ve seen my head pop up on social media, you probably already know this about me: I used to be a pastor.

I like to tell people I still care about good and evil, and that makes being a fantasy author feel like the most right thing in the world.

I’ve always been a daydreamer. And like every young daydreamer who grew up on Star Wars and Lord of the Rings (I was the 10-year-old kid who yelled “Cooool!!” in the theater when Strider cut off the lead uruk’s head), I started writing my own fiction.

My best friend at the time took one look at my first page and said it was rubbish. He was probably (definitely) right. But I was the sensitive kid, and never put pen to paper on my story again.

And other than teaching you how to write useless 5-paragraph essays, our school systems aren’t exactly writer-friendly. Half the tips and tricks that helped me become the writer I am today, I learned in the last 2 or 3 years. And that’s after a theology degree, a history degree, a master’s in public policy, and a semester in business school.

Yeah, lots of school…

I should have been taught what I know now by age 12, if we did things right. I firmly believe writing is a skill, not just an innate talent, and it’s a skill we should teach as early as possible.

Anyways, I became a pastor instead. Okay, it wasn’t that linear a journey, and the tale is a long one.

The short version: I got caught up in the moment. But once I care about something, I’m all in. I was the guy in “Bible college” people came to with questions about the Bible. Seriously.

The journey away from all that was just as long, but in the end, I’d seen too much. And I saw too little of the things that mattered.

I realize how vague that sounds, so here’s what it came to in a nutshell: I stopped believing in ministry (being a pastor) well before I stopped believing in God. I got tired of asking church crowds, many of them struggling, to pay my salary for work I didn’t believe in.

Don’t get me wrong - I cared deeply about the people I served, and I really do believe I made a meaningful impact on a lot of lives.

But so much of that was just being and doing what the world needs more of, with or without faith: kindness, empathy, and a firm belief in the potential of others even when others fail to see it.

And leaving that behind, however sure I am it was the right decision, was one of the hardest transitions I’ve ever gone through. Some days, I’m still going through it.

Let’s fast forward.

I did a lot of editing work for academic and student journals during my studies, and eventually took some online courses that really helped hone my writing into something legible. Before that, I wrote like most academics: flowery, convoluted, name-dropping drivel devoid of real substance.

Sorry. I know plenty of academics are incredible writers. But again, we fail to teach the skills to get there. The few who do are prodigies who I salute.

This was around the time I was diagnosed with ADHD (at age 29). Not so much on the hyperactive side (though you should have seen me at age 5 after sneaking a glass of Nesquik chocolate milk - sorry, Mom). But when it comes to inattention and processing speed, I’m in the bottom 6 percent.

YEAH.

Where I scored high during those assessments (and on similar measures used for standardized testing to get into business school) was in reading, writing, comprehension, logic — all that jazz.

I’ve always believed in finding the sweet spot between learning new skills and playing to your strengths. My diagnosis and testing results, along with the writing skills I’d picked up that year, made me think my 10-year-old self hadn’t been so far off the mark.

So I made another transition, this time from business to professional writing (yeah, I know, MORE school). The program was an even split between business and creative writing, which meant I got to continue my business studies WHILE stepping my foot into the world of fantasy writing.

And now I had a story to tell.

Once I started, I couldn’t stop. All those years of daydreaming, struggle, trauma, heartache, joy, and meaning — every wayward step along the way, every victory, every beautiful experience — it all rushed out in a deluge I couldn’t control (and didn’t want to).

For the first time, it was like the journey made sense. And what you’re about to read in my book is the result.

I hope you’ll enjoy this first step into that story. I had only one driving principle as I wrote: create an evocative and meaningful experience for you, my reader.

I mean, there’s also all that other good stuff: monsters, dragons, magic, swordplay, hints of romance, and of course, the eternal struggle against evil, the collective and individual struggle for our right to thrive.

But beneath all that, I wanted to pull you into the dream of fantasy, to feel the magic for yourself and wake up believing it was real.

Cheers, and enjoy!

Tim

Tim McKay is a writer, editor, and marketer from Ottawa, Canada. He used to be a pastor, still cares about good and evil, and still strives to create meaningful experiences for others. He has degrees in history, theology, and public policy, along with a diploma in professional writing, but likes nothing more than hiking in the woods, running along the Rideau Canal, and connecting with the people he loves. Oh, and reading a good book.

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