Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Preordained by David L Wallace







Preordained
David L Wallace

Genre: Paranormal, Crime, Thriller



Date of Publication: 13 Apr 2018



ISBN: Paperback 978-0-9972257-2-3

ISBN eBook 978-0-9972257-3-0

Word Count: 75,000

Book Description:

In the vein of Seven and The Devil’s Advocate, it’s the book that launches the series: a tech billionaire, foretold in biblical events; a cop, ordered to sacrifice his soul to save his son…

Art Somers is a detective in close-knit Murrells Inlet, S.C., a small-town, coastal community with deeply held spiritual and supernatural belief systems. A serial killer has shattered his peaceful existence by abducting multiple victims within his county. Young thugs, backwater drug dealers and the occasional murderer are the most Art’s had to deal with, but now he must apprehend a predator who FBI profilers can’t find.

He discovers he has a tie by blood to the case and uncovers evidence that calls into question his long held spiritual and supernatural beliefs. Abraham, the father of faith, had to choose to either sacrifice his son or disobey a direct order from God. Art must now make a choice - sacrifice his soul to save his son.

“A riveting and intriguing read.”  - Clarion Review

“A gripping detective story.”  - Kirkus Reviews

“Original and engaging.”  - Publisher’s Weekly

Amazon     BN        Kobo     iTunes


From his crouched position in the woods of rural Georgetown County, South Carolina, and under the echo of his heavy breathing in the night air, he watched his favorite family’s movements inside their small brown home.
After much thought about the impression his outfit would make, he’d decided it was festive enough for the occasion. The complete ensemble consisted of a red and black head mask, aligned perfectly to the holes for his eyes, nose, and mouth and a form-fitting, black bodysuit with white wings painted on the back.
For years, he’d contemplated a befitting name for himself and finally settled on Star of David killer. He liked the way the alias reverberated in his head. It revealed a lot. It concealed everything. It hinted at his purpose and yet – it withheld the true essence of his aspirations, keeping them covered in a shroud of secrecy. He hoped an insightful reporter would have an epiphany and bestow that nickname on him. It was far more interesting than the one his parents had given him at birth. He breathed deep and exhaled slowly, taking in the ambience of the moment. He flexed his muscles. It was time to initiate the events that would lead everyone to recognize him by his self-appointed moniker.
He clenched and released his toes on each of his hospital footie–covered feet. Through the sheer curtains of the dimly lit dwelling, he watched the boy pick up the used plates from the table, which signaled the parents and their twelve-year-old son had finished their dinner. He knew them well. He’d cased their dwelling for years, observing every nuance of their behavior. He sat flushed as he watched them for the last time, shivering from time to time from the thrill of the thought of what he was about to do.
The music of the bullfrogs kept him company, along with the thought that all he’d longed for, all that he was meant to be, was about to be on full display on the world stage in a matter of hours. Like Heinz ketchup, he’d been waiting in anticipation for a long time for this moment.
He glanced at the scavengers in the clear sky above him, each casting its shadow across the moon as it circled. They were his favorite creatures—the redheaded, black-feathered, and partially white-winged turkey vultures of the Carolina skies. His outfit mimicked theirs. The birds squawked in the sky, seeming to know his plan for that evening. They’d followed his vehicle from his home until he’d parked, and now they circled directly above him. He could feel their hunger and impatience.
The boy walked outside his home and scraped the remains of their dinner plates into a slop bucket on the back porch. He picked up the hog’s food and headed out to the pigpen, which was located near the backend of their yard.
The Star of David killer watched the boy make his evening trek on pigeon-toed feet that turned inward with each step. Ever since the infant pigs were born, the boy fed the adult male hog an extra feeding at night to prevent him from dining on his offspring. That’s right, the daddy hog ate his own children. What a disgusting breed of animal.
The overhead undertakers began to shriek and shrill as the boy moved across his lawn, their voices echoing in the night.
The boy jumped at their sound and looked to the skies. He stared into the woods directly below them.
The Star of David killer remained as still as a stone as the kid’s gaze seemed to linger on him for a moment. The last thing he needed was for the boy to detect his presence and yell out for his daddy. The papa of the family had an itchy twelve-gauge finger that he didn’t want to deal with that evening.
Seemingly satisfied, the boy stopped searching the woods and continued his walk.
The Star of David Killer glanced overhead at the vultures, angry with them for almost giving away his position. For their carelessness, they wouldn’t be feeding on his handiwork that evening, and if they didn’t atone for their misstep, they wouldn’t partake in any of the festivities on his planned itinerary.
This was the first night—the evening of his coming-out party and the kickoff of his personal pilgrimage. It was the acknowledgment that the presence within him, who had compelled him to plan and now execute the initial steps of his mission, had chosen the right vehicle for the job.
He felt something biting him on his lower legs. Glancing down, he saw by the light of the rear porch that ants were advancing up his calves. He remained silent and didn’t move, not wanting to sound the alarm that he was out there in the dark. A small green garden snake slithered out of the brush toward him. He stepped on it and crushed its head.
The grunting male hog reveled in the slop the boy had dumped into his pen. The female hog stood to the side with her five remaining piglets cowering under her.
The killer frowned at the stench of the hogs. It wasn’t the last smell he wanted on his mind before he began his body of work. To get past it, he closed his eyes and thought of the fragrances inside the boy’s family home, smells that he knew all too well. He’d
spent many nights there while they slept, enjoying their scents, with his favorites being the individual smell of each of their worn clothing. The laundry room was a treasure trove of delights. Each of the family members left their own unique and enjoyable stains in their underwear. He’d gotten to know the other families in just as much detail, meticulously taking in their routines and schedules, getting to know every nuance of each of them.
He removed his blade from his waistband and watched Rueben, his first victim, as he rinsed out the slop bucket with a water hose attached to the rear of his home. He squeezed the black-handled blade. The paring knife felt perfect in his hand, after having gone through an exhaustive testing process to find the right cutting instrument—one with just the right shape and size for optimal carving control against a moving body. He’d practiced his skills with it for many hours, initially on cantaloupes, cucumbers, and other fruits and vegetables, until he’d graduated to successful tests on small gerbils, kittens, and puppies he’d purchased at various pet stores.
Finally, the lights went out in the shack. It was time. As usual, Rueben’s parents were more than likely already fast asleep. Rueben, on the other hand, should be wide-awake in his darkened room, surfing Internet porn sites by the light of his laptop. The little fella loved to look at online pussy, but he wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy any.
As the final step of his preparation process, he extracted a bottle of removable glue from the front waistband of his outfit and placed another coat over his hands. It was an additional layer to guard against him leaving fingerprints behind, but he knew he didn’t need to worry on that score. Over the past year, he’d used razor blades every month to remove the top layer of skin on each of his fingertips, making them as smooth as a baby’s ass.
He had no fingerprints.
He could’ve easily used gloves, but he wanted to touch them, to feel his prey with his bare hands. He blew on the glue until it dried. Satisfied, he stood, stretched his legs, and approached Rueben’s home on silent feet.

He hadn’t troubled himself to brush the ants from his lower torso. The stinging sensation of their bites would serve as a reminder that before that evening, he was once human.

About the Author:

Before publishing his debut novel in 2016, he served over 27 years as an information technology professional working initially for the US Navy, and then the Department of the Navy and various fortune companies. He’s a UCLA writing program alumnus who writes mystery thrillers and children stories. He has three wonderful kids who he enjoys immensely. Writing is his passion and his goal with each story is to capture the imagination in the opening pages and keep it engaged to the story’s riveting conclusion.






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Monday, April 23, 2018

Michael Okon's Publishing Journey


It’s a pretty incredible story that I have a hard time believing. I wrote Monsterland and self-published it in 2015. My mom is my publicity manager and she blitzed the bloggers with my book. 

That fall I was reading a book called Selling a Screenplay by Syd Field. In the book, there was an entertainment attorney named Susan Grode who seemed very knowledgeable about the publishing and film industry. 

I told myself, when I receive my first contract, I’m going to reach out to her to see if she could help me. About two months later, I received a post on Facebook from an agent in London who asked to represent me. I said sure and asked him to send me a contract. I emailed Susan and introduced myself and mentioned that I had someone who wanted to rep me and I was hoping she could read this contract. 

She told me before I sign with this London agent, why don’t I meet her friend in Brooklyn, an agent named Nick Mullendore with Vertical Ink Literary Agency. I met Nick for lunch and he signed me that day as his client. That evening, Susan brought me on as her client as well. Nick began trying to sell my book Monsterland to the big publishers and, as expected, it was rejected. Throughout his attempts of selling, he had a call with a film agent and he was pitching her a romance novel. She said she wasn’t really into romance and was looking for something with monsters. He sent her my book Monsterland, she read it over a weekend, and we had a call that Monday. She told Nick and me if we get the book published, she will get it into a producer’s hands to make into a film. 

Nick found a publisher called WordFire Press owned by Kevin J. Anderson, who has written all the Star Wars and Dune canon books. WordFire signed me to a two-book deal for Monsterland 1 & 2. 

After the deal was signed, my film agent did what she promised and got my book into the hands of a billion-dollar grossing producer who is now shopping my book to certain studios.

In two years, I went from a self-published author, to a published author with a literary agent, an entertainment attorney, a film agent, a two-book publishing deal, a publicist, and a producer who is interested in turning my book to a film. 

It’s been one wild ride, to say the least.

Monsterland Reanimated
Monsterland
Book Two
Michael Okon

Genre: Young Adult Thriller

Publisher: WordFire Press LLC

Date of Publication: April 13, 2018

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-61475-672-9
ISBN Hardcover: 978-1-61475-677-4
ASIN: 978-1-61475-673-6

Number of pages: 250

Tagline: When an army of relentless mummies, a life-sucking ooze called The Glob, and a hybrid reanimated Behemoth rise from the depths of Monsterland, who will survive?

Book Description:

After Monsterland has imploded, the entire world is thrown into chaos. World leadership is gone, economies have collapsed, and communications are non-existent.  Wyatt must go beyond the boundaries of his small town to reestablish contact with the outside world, and alert the government about a traitor-in-chief.

During his journey he discovers a new threat released from the bowels of the defunct theme park.

When an army of relentless mummies, a life-sucking ooze called The Glob, and a hybrid reanimated Behemoth rise from the depths of Monsterland, who will survive?



Excerpt: Chapter 1

The Night After the Monsterland Catastrophe

A bright moon painted the desert’s surface pewter. Here and there, dark spots soiled the landscape like oil spills. Most of the bodies had been taken before the troops were ordered to leave. They carted away the corpses, bulldozing the zombies into mass graves, until radios chirped with urgent orders deploying the soldiers to the bigger threats that erupted in the main cities like a chain of angry volcanos.
Monsterland was extinguished, its carcass left for the vultures to pick, the exhibits silent as a tomb.
The dead president and his equally dead entourage were whisked away on Air Force One, along with the dark-clad special operatives that came and left like the brisk desert wind that now howled through the empty streets.
A gate screamed in the silence, slamming with a reverberating smash. The uneven gait of someone with a physical challenge filled the void. The scrape and plod of his limp echoed against the wall of mountains framing the theme park. His labored breathing huffed as he made his way down the streets.
A door creaked loudly as it was blown by the wind. He stopped, his distorted figure silhouetted in the pale moonlight, his body turning silver. He looked at the broken glass littering the pavement like diamonds, then up to the still, pre-dawn sky. He considered the sun peeking over the jagged horizon in the east, its golden light painting the dips and hollows of the hills. Soon the coming day would chase the darkness away.
Time was the enemy now. He had to move faster, or it would be too late. He picked up his pace, lurching along the winding road. A keening howl ricocheted through the streets, bouncing off the walls. It sounded like a ... no, he thought, it couldn’t be. The werewolves were all dead. Destroyed by Vincent Konrad when he made their heads explode.
The old man paused, listening for it again, and was not disappointed when the animal whimpered. He gauged it to be inside the defunct vampire exhibit. He moved toward the entrance. The storefronts had been destroyed. A few body parts lay on the pavement, as if people had discarded them in a rush. He heard the scraping of paws on the street and a shiver went down his crooked spine.
He knew the werewolves were dead; he had seen it with his own eyes. A figure detached from the shadows. Igor flattened himself against the wall. He watched it move stealthily down the street, stopping when it scavenged a morsel of rotting flesh. It looked up to stare at Igor, its eyes glowing in the darkness.
A coyote? He waved a hand, dismissing it. It had to be a coyote; it was too small to be a wolf, too big to be a dog. The beast twitched its ears, then resumed its meal.
Igor knew the coyote was not a threat, and he continued his mission. His lame foot hit a can, sending a cacophony of sound like an explosion in the deserted park. The beast dropped the bone it was gnawing on, sniffing the area. Its iridescent eyes searched the streets.
It could be a baby wolf, Igor thought, keeping himself as still as possible. He felt it watching him, even from this distance. It was not a threat, yet.
Igor skittered away, hugging the walls of Monsterland, putting as much distance as he could between them. Not an easy feat, considering his distorted hips. He muttered to himself about carrion and the wind. His eyes darted nervously, scouring the hills, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. His heart pounded so loudly he was certain that the creature watching him could hear it too.
His feet stumbling to a halt, he bent over, gasping for air, cursing Vincent and those meddlesome teenagers, as well as the rest of the world.
The beast gave another mournful howl that went right through him. Igor glanced at his empty hands, berating himself for not bringing a weapon. He searched his surroundings for anything to protect himself.
Then he saw it, one of the axes they had on almost every corner. All of them had been pulled from their protective cases. One was lying in a pool of coagulating blood, the blade long gone. He picked up the broken axe handle, turning in a semicircle. He was ready for an attacker.

A new, larger outline made his heart quiver with fear. It crouched in a corner, its snout covered with blood. This one was bigger, not a coyote, a wild wolf. Wait, he thought. Weren’t the gray wolves of California all but extinct?
Igor narrowed his eyes. The beast was a light reddish brown and not the silver gray of a wolf’s pelt. A chain hung from its neck, the pendant of a werewolf’s head dangling, emerald eyes flashing. What was it? Was it a mutant coyote? A wolf? Some weird hybrid, he wondered for a minute, his breath harsh in his ears. They watched each other soundlessly.
A hybrid then. He’d heard about them, a rare mixture of wolf and coyote. What did they call them? Coywolves ...? or was it Woyotes? He shrugged indifferently. Perhaps someone’s pet, he decided. Igor’s mirthless laugh came out like a snort.
The coywolf stood still, its ears alert, its head cocked as if it was observing him.
Igor dropped the makeshift weapon, calling out, “Eat the rest of your meal, you dumb beast.”
The animal continued to watch him, its two front paws on the remains of a zombie’s chest.
Igor wiped his forehead, waiting, his eyes coming back to search the village, confirming it was empty, except for the carrion eaters like the coyotes and vultures. He looked up, noting the circling predators waiting for him to move on.
“Interrupted your meal,” he chuckled. Just the local scavengers looking for food. That was all; the shadows revealed nothing else. Satisfied he was alone, he moved on. He had work to do.
A paper flew past him, hitting a kiosk as the wind plastered it against its surface. It flapped like a dying bird. Igor reached over, taking the fluttering paper, peering at the map of the park, the one they gave people as they entered Monsterland. A bark of laughter escaped his mouth.
He looked up at the giant monolith that was once the Werewolf River Run, its hulking shape obscuring the horizon. “You are here,” he giggled, pointing a grimy finger on the paper’s surface. He dragged his deformed body further down the pavement. The storefronts that used to be Monsterland’s Main Street yawned vacantly, the wind whistling through the narrow alleyways. “Now, you are here,” he laughed. Shouting, he listened to the sound of his voice bouncing off the blood-splattered walls.
He made his way to the back end of the zombie village, feeling like the last man on earth. He glanced around at the desolate landscape. His home, the beautiful theme park, was little more than ruins destroyed by the army.

His nose twitched from the fetid smell of rot. The US Army had massacred the zombies. The troops came like a force of nature wiping out everything in its path, every last one of them blown away by the troops.
They were black ops, special forces, he knew from their uniforms. He wondered if things were indeed going as planned. He shrugged, knowing right now nothing mattered except for what he had to do. The irony that he was just about the most important man on earth brought more amusement to his smile.
The local police force was gone, as were the leaders of most countries in the world. He knew all was chaos outside, perhaps even war, each nation blaming the next for the loss of their leadership. Not to worry, he thought. Vincent left America in capable hands.
Dreams do come true, he snickered. Nightmares too, he finished the thought. A long line of drool pulled at his lower lip. He paused at a pothole in the road, decomposing body parts glistening, the disappearing moon turning the bits of bone and brains pearly.
Anxiety bloomed in his chest as he passed the opaque windows of Vincent’s derelict Monsterland hotel, the Copper Valley Inn. He hated that place. Abandoned construction vehicles were frozen in their spots, testimony to the hotel’s unfinished business.
Despite the pastel colors of its exterior, it sat like an ominous crypt to the part of the theme park that Vincent could never control. Told Vincent it was a money pit. Crews couldn’t work because ... well, it didn’t matter anymore. The help was all dead. He thought he saw a light flicker in the window, but when he turned, he realized it was nothing more than a sputtering gas lamp that had never been disconnected.
He stood for a while, staring for more activity, and then jerked with the realization that he waited too long and wasted precious time. Surely no one expected him to go searching during the heat of battle.
Vincent said it was enough time to set up the timetable. Vincent knew everything, and Igor felt his panic ebb. It had been barely twenty-four hours since the attack. For all he knew, he could be on a fool’s errand.
He pressed his hand on his hip, his back screaming with resentment at so much movement. He was not used to any exercise. He sighed, wiping his brow with the ragged end of his costume, the lace scratching his skin. He caught the cuff, snagging the material with his teeth, tugging it free from his velvet jacket. He loathed the show and was glad he’d never have to endure the humiliation of performing again, especially with the vamps. Those condescending, blood-sucking parasites. He wouldn’t have to worry about them anymore, he thought with satisfaction. Vincent had promised he’d not have to endure them for long, living up to his part of the bargain quite nicely. They were gone, torn apart by the werewolves or transformed into a tasty dinner by the zombies. Either way, they wouldn’t be bullying him with their nasty insults. Something buzzed around him, and he swiped at it.
It felt as though he walked to the other side of the earth. Why Vincent had to pick Zombieville to make his last stand, he’d never know. The Werewolf River Run would have been much more convenient. It was getting lighter now, and he could easily make out the smoking devastation.
He searched the horizon, his eyes resting on the burnt wreckage of a golf cart, the torched skeleton listing at an odd angle.
Pulling his lame foot, he pushed himself as fast as his body could travel, his breath hitching with the effort.
The corpse was gone. He knew they would have taken that for DNA testing, proof that the enemy was vanquished. The only things left were the putrid carcasses from Monsterland, the decaying zombies, massacred vampires, and what was left of the werewolves after Vincent had exterminated them.
He climbed a small hill, his bad leg screaming with pain. Igor crowed with triumph when he saw it, the discarded lump of flesh, lying forgotten in a ditch, face down. He shivered as the desert wind stirred and eddied around him. Damn, but it was desolate here.
He hunkered down, forcing himself to skitter on the hard-packed earth. He wondered what his son, the vice president—no, he corrected himself, the new president of the United States, Mr. Nate Owens—would think of his father now, scrambling like a dung beetle in the dirt.
He cursed. The drool was back, dripping from his mouth like a sparkling spider web. Instead of rising—it was beyond him at this point—he shimmied over to the severed head, reaching forward, reverently, grabbing it by the matted hair, and grasping it to his chest.
The black eyes stared back dully, the dark depths reflecting the hunchback’s twisted smile.
Vincent Konrad’s lifeless face lay in his hands, the pale lips open in a soundless scream.
“I’m so happy I could kiss you, Vincent!” he told the decapitated head. He cradled the face of his friend. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”
The moon bathed the face a pale blue. The hunchback jiggled the dead weight, cackling with delight as the one papery eyelid drooped as if it were winking.

In the distance, that coywolf howled, making Igor suck in his breath with fear. He tucked the head under his arm as he struggled back up the small hill, mumbling something about Plan B.

About the Author:

Michael Okon is an award-winning and best-selling author of multiple genres including paranormal, thriller, horror, action/adventure and self-help. He graduated from Long Island University with a degree in English, and then later received his MBA in business and finance. Coming from a family of writers, he has storytelling in his DNA. Michael has been writing from as far back as he can remember, his inspiration being his love for films and their impact on his life. From the time he saw The Goonies, he was hooked on the idea of entertaining people through unforgettable characters.

Michael is a lifelong movie buff, a music playlist aficionado, and a sucker for self-help books. He lives on the North Shore of Long Island with his wife and children.








The Golden Rose of Scotland by Marisa Dillon





The Golden Rose of Scotland
Ladies of Lore Series
Book Two
Marisa Dillon

Genre: Historical Romance

Publisher: Soul Mate Publishing

Date of Publication: November 22, 2017

ASIN: B077678SYH

Number of pages: 247
Word Count: 78.955

Cover Artist: Anna Lena-Spies

Tagline: Romantic Adventures, Not for the Faint of Heart

Book Description:

When poisonings are an everyday occurrence, healer Rosalyn Macpherson must be ready with an antidote. Unless it’s for the English Lord who means to claim her clan’s Highland castle.

What’s in a name? Everything, for Lord Lachlan de Leverton, a charismatic English aristocrat. He’ll break the law to sever his ties to his notorious family. But first, he must secure the deed to Fyvie Castle before the feisty Scottish lass wins it.

Because of their conflicting claims, Rosalyn and Lachlan are ordered to appear in Edinburgh’s royal court, and in an unusual twist of fate, they are assigned as guardians, rather than prisoners, to a caravan carrying the Golden Rose, a papal gift for the King of Scots.

When the royal decree becomes a forced union between the two, it’s not the remedy Rosalyn had hoped for, but by now she doesn’t hate this Englishman quite as much.

Before the knot is tied, the Rose is stolen and Lachlan’s suspected of the crime. Rosalyn then faces the hardest decision yet. Must she sacrifice her precious Philosophers Stone or the land she loves, or both, to save him?


Amazon    BN


Excerpt:
Rosalyn closed her eyes, trying not to panic, and took in a long, calming breath, until Lachlan squeezed the air right out of her and she started gasping.
“Just a little lower, my love. With this kind doctoring . . .”
“Let me go,” she demanded, interrupting whatever suggestive words he had for her. She squirmed against his hold. “You don’t understand.”
“All I know is that one moment I’m winning a horse race against the bishop, and the next you are in my arms.” He gave her a kiss on the top of her head. “You are a gift from God. The bishop knew what I needed to be right again.”
“God’s teeth, you are not right in the head,” she said, her tone more irritated than she meant. “God would not punish me to make you whole.”
Rosalyn wasn’t sure if it was her words or her wiggling that had the desired result, but after a few moments of pushing against him, she broke free.
Rising up from Lachlan’s chest, Rosalyn smoothed her tousled hair away from her eyes, then with a tsk, she adjusted her bodice back in place.
When she gazed down, wondering why he’d given up so easily, Rosalyn was greeted by a placid Lachlan, looking very much like he was asleep.
She wanted to slap him and tell him to quit pretending. But then she noticed his heavy breathing and relaxed, almost angelic, face.
Lachlan angelic? A hero? No wonder Ursula had looked at her as if she’d joined the ranks of the jesters. Where had her sensibilities gone? Was it that disarming smile?
Just then, the wagon jolted forward and began to move, rocking her onto his chest again. As much as it flustered her, this time he did not grab her. Instead, he lay still, her body rising and falling rhythmically with his breathing. This time she was able to move away at will.
The poison. No doubt it was giving him some lucid moments between bouts of delirium. As she gazed down at the peaceful, sleeping aristocrat, she was reminded of her dislike of everything English. Could she make an exception for Lachlan? Was she going all soft on him because of his one kind gesture? But she sobered when she considered the consequences of her actions without his intervention.
For now, she would try to like him until he did something to change her mind. At least until she saved him.
Rocking back on her heels, Rosalyn touched his forehead to check for fever. She was grateful to find him cool now, but she was still concerned. Ursula had said she’d made the poison strong enough to make him sick, not kill him. Could she trust her?
Rising, Rosalyn headed to the low altar and busied herself preparing the herbs, thankful that she was able to do this alone and not under the eagle-eyed scrutiny of Ursula.
Besides the herbs, it didn’t take her long to find the other items she needed stored neatly under the altar’s skirting: a pestle and mortar, and a flask of water. She unwrapped the bishop’s herbs from the fuchsia silk and laid them out.
Taking pinches of valerian, horehound, and sage, she placed them in the mortar, then added a few drops of water. Using the pestle, she formed a sticky paste. Once satisfied with the concoction, she headed back to Lachlan’s side, on a mission to save him.
“Lachlan,” she whispered, “wake up.”
He groaned and flipped over on his side facing her.
“Lockie?” She tried the nickname he’d asked her to use, hoping it might illicit a better response.
“Ursula?”
Ursula! What?
“Yes,” she lied. “It’s Ursula. I want you to eat something.”
“Eat? No!” He almost shouted the response.
Hmm. What to do if he refused the antidote?
Time was her enemy now, and she couldn’t wait until his constitution changed. She glanced about the tidy wagon trying to figure out how to feed him the herbs. Nothing. No bread or fruit to use as a serving tool. Stumped for a moment, she relaxed her breathing and began to sort through what might make Lachlan open his mouth.
Finally, deciding saving his life was more important that her squeamishness, Rosalyn scooped up some of the paste on to her middle finger, then she lay down on the floor facing him.

Because his arm was draped under his head, she was able to scoot right next to his chest and get close enough to suit her needs. Once situated, she said a little prayer, asking God to let the herb and his power save Lachlan.

About the Author:

With a bachelor’s degree in journalism, Marisa has spent many years writing for the television industry. As an award-winning producer/director/marketer, she has worked on commercial production, show creation, product branding and social media.

Marisa has always enjoyed reading romance novels and now realizes a dream come true, writing page-turning romantic adventures.








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Interview - Heart of a Wolf by K.D. Friedrich




Can you tell readers a little bit about yourself and what inspired to write in this particular genre?

My name is K. D. Friedrich. I live on Long Island about an hour from Manhattan. I started writing about ten years ago and never looked back. Since paranormal romance is my favorite genre to read. It was only natural that I would love to write it. 

What inspired you to write this book?

I got the inspiration for Heart of a Wolf while I was writing book 1 in the series. As I started developing the characters in the first book, Tristan and Winter's story began to take shape as well. I jotted down the ideas and when I finished book 1, I immediately began to write book 2. This is how it usually happens for me. 

Please tell us about your latest release.

Heart of a Wolf takes place ten years after the first book. Supernatural beings are now out in the open. Winter Leery, a witch born with the gift to sooth a shifter's beast, is now a Top Guard, sworn to protect the supernatural community and humans alike. A dangerous job she's kept hidden from her overprotective family for the last decade. But, thanks to a crazed witch and his cruel vampire partner, her secret is out, her estranged mate is back, and her once under-active libido is raging like an inferno.

Tristan MacGlenn screwed up where Winter is concerned. For years, he's ignored his mating heat, refusing to force her return, but now she's disappeared. With his protective instincts raging, he rushes to Long Island's east end to begin the hunt for the one woman he has never forgotten. 


Do you have a formula for developing characters? Like do you create a character sketch or list of attributes before you start writing or do you just let the character develop as you write?

I like to keep a spreadsheet of my characters with columns for looks, likes, skills, power, relationships, and family. It really helps when you write. Especially, when writing a series. With so many characters, remembering every detail can be difficult.


Did you find anything really interesting while researching this or another book?

I always find interesting things while researching. If anyone looked through my history on my laptop they'd think I was crazy. Science, biology, history, I have researched them all and more. Also, I love to watch the history and Science channels for inspiration.

Can you tell readers a little bit about the world building in the book/series? How does this world differ from our normal world?

World building for a paranormal romance is extensive. You have powers, skills, and abilities not found in reality. However, it's important to maintain the fantasy element while making the characters relatable. I keep spreadsheets of the characters and a list of important aspects. This is necessary to maintain consistency from one book to another. 

With the book being part of a series, are there any character or story arcs, that readers jumping in somewhere other than the first book, need to be aware of? Can these books be read as stand alones?

For the most part, each book can stand on its own. In every sequential book, I try to add explanations and back story that clear up any confusions for the reader if they jump into the series out of order. 


Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? How do you deal with it?

I do get writer's block on occasion. Whenever I suffer from writer's block, I turn off the laptop and I turn on my Kindle. Reading helps me relax. When I'm relaxed, the writing flows.

Do you write in different genres? 

I also have a contemporary romance series called, The Heart Falls Heroes. 

When did you consider yourself a writer?

The day I typed "The end" to my first novel. 



Heart of a Wolf
A Wicked Series
Book 2
K.D. Friedrich



Genre: Paranormal Romance

Date of Publication: 3/12/18

Number of pages: 333
Word Count: 92400

Tagline: He's bringing his mate home and he's not taking no for an answer.

Book Description:

It's a whole new world for the supernatural community. Their existence has been thrust into the spotlight and not everyone is thrilled.

Winter Leery has been away from home for ten years. Betrayed by her mate, she sought a new life on the east end of Long Island, New York far away from the pain and embarrassment of his rejection. A witch born with the gift to sooth a shifter's beast, she was recruited, trained, and inducted into the elite guard, sworn to protect the supernatural community and humans alike. A dangerous job she's kept hidden from her overprotective family for the last decade.

But, thanks to a crazed witch and his cruel vampire partner, her secret is out, her estranged mate is back, and her once under-active libido is suddenly raging like an inferno.

Tristan, alpha to his pack, has had his work cut out for him these last few years. With hate groups rising up all over the east coast, mating heat riding him hard, and his father hounding him to claim his mate, he's holding on by a thin thread. Unfortunately, his true mate left him ten years ago and he doubts she'll be back. He screwed up where Winter is concerned. For years, he's ignored his mating heat, refusing to force her return, but now, she's disappeared. With his protective instincts raging, he rushes to Long Island's east end to begin the hunt for the one woman he has never forgotten.

This time, he's bringing his mate home and he's not taking no for an answer.




Excerpt Heart of a Wolf

"This was not what I meant, when I said I like it rough," Winter Leery muttered to herself.
Nope, in her sexy fantasies, the bindings that tied her wrists were silk, not rope, and the room smelled of roses, not dust and sweat.
Once again, she tugged at the restraints tying her to the headboard of the minuscule rusty cot. For a group of no-good thugs, they sure knew how to tie a knot. They certainly didn't learn the skill in the Boy Scouts. She doubted morals and merit ran high on her captors’ list of qualities. Based on the way they dodged her defensive moves, she pegged them as military or mercenaries.
Winter's groan echoed against the neutral-colored stone walls. Being stuck in the same position for so long gave her an excruciating cramp in her thigh. In an attempt to ease the ache, she shifted. The change in position offered her momentary relief before the spasm returned.
"I need to get the hell out of here." She gritted her teeth.
Winter wrinkled her nose at the incessant mildew stench clogging her senses. She glanced around at her prison. No windows lined the damp cinder block room. Her only light came from a dangling bulb hovering above her. Rows of rotted wooden shelves clung to the wall on one side. On the other, she found a pile of cardboard boxes. No words or logos decorated the cartons to give her any hint of her location or who might have taken her.
Not one to surrender, she tried to summon her magic and like the dozens of times since they shoved her in this cellar, she found her powers bound by an unseen barricade. Add on top of that, her inability to reach the natural elements and she was as helpless as a human.
Winter shivered. If she had to guess, she'd peg the temperatures in her jail around twenty degrees. Outside, she heard the wind whistling through the trees. Maintaining her body heat had become difficult.
Witches, like most supernatural beings, had the ability to maintain their body temperature regardless of the weather. Even under extreme conditions. But she was tired and drained. Staying warm had snuffed out the little bit of strength she possessed. If she remained in this freezing cellar much longer, she'd die from exposure. Not exactly a fitting way to go for an elite guard.

Tears threatened to spill over her lashes. "Suck it up, soldier," she mumbled to herself. "Think." 


About the Author:

K. D. Friedrich is a writer of Contemporary and Paranormal Romance. A lifelong New Yorker, an overprotective mother (her daughter's words), and an obsessed reader of everything romance. Most days, you can find her hard at work, creating intricate worlds and compelling characters, hot alpha heroes being her favorite. Her novel, Soul Tie Seduction, placed second in the 2013 Golden Palm contest for Paranormal Romance and was a finalist in the 2016 Golden Quill for Paranormal Romance.




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