It's that moment you've all been waiting for!
Okay, maybe not. But I'VE been excited for this moment ever since my lovely and talented friend and cover artist sent me her newest creation.
If you're a writer, there are all kinds of questions you face when starting a new series. Questions about characters, questions about theme and plot and story arcs. If you're a self-publishing writer, you have even more questions.
To blog tour or not to blog tour?
Pay for publicity, or try to drum up buzz on your own?
Perhaps most importantly, the cover. What is your cover going to say, not just about the book it's gracing, but about the rest of the series? The first cover in a series is arguably the most important one. It's the first face people see. It's what sells your anchor book long before readers (hopefully) fall in love with it.
A World Apart--and by extension, the Shades Below series--now has a face. And might I just say, I think it's a pretty bitchin' one.
But enough talk.
"There are things that go bump in the night, Mr. MacMillian. It's my job to bump back."
Private investigator Jesper MacMillian was sure he'd seen it
all. After all, in a city like San
Francisco, strange is what's for breakfast.
Following a long recovery after a
horrific accident, his life is finally the way he wants it- or at least, close
enough. The only monsters on his radar
are the ones that keep him awake at night.
All that changes the day he meets Lena Alan.
Before MacMillian has a chance to brace for impact, Lena
drags him into a world where monsters aren't just real, they're hiding in plain
sight. Suddenly, everything he knows is
suspect, starting with his current case.
For Lena, a medium since childhood, it's just another day at the office.
For MacMillian, it's the beginning of the end of everything
he thinks he knows.
Excerpt:
Before
It was cold in the small concrete chamber.
A draft whistled through the tunnels, carrying with it the
smell of liquid garbage and roast meat.
Duck, if he wasn't mistaken. The
man drew a deep, cleansing breath. Minutes
earlier, the only thing he'd been able to smell was fear. All he'd been able to hear were screams.
Not anymore.
Now, the slight, dirty figure on the table before him was
still and silent. Now, if he listened
closely, he could hear the sounds of traffic, the buzz of the street car lines
embedded in the concrete overhead.
The young man's pleas still grated in his ears. Poor fellow.
He'd tried to end it quickly, but there were certain things required for
the ritual, things necessarily obtained while blood still pumped through his
unwitting assistant's veins. He pressed
a hand to the man's pale forehead and reminded himself --not for the first
time-- why he was doing this.
He glanced at the other table in the far corner of the
chamber. The figure that lay on it was
covered with a shroud, but he could picture the face as clearly as if it were
his own. In a way, it almost was.
It would all be worth it in the end. For the sake of his soul, it had to be.
He moved quickly. The
young man's chest was already laid open, the smooth, white ribs carefully
cracked and pried apart. The entire
cavity was brimming with blood. Its
coppery stench hung heavy in the air, like some rare and forbidden perfume.
The rest of the ingredients waited in stinking repose on the
cart beside the table: magical elixirs distilled under the full moon. Marrow.
Stones. Various entrails of
various profane animals. The ashes of a
bird, so long extinct its very existence had passed into the realm of myth.
He'd poured his life's savings into obtaining it all, but
after countless failed attempts, his supplies were dwindling. He glanced at the other table again, and his
chest tightened.
He couldn't fail again. He wouldn't
fail again.
The incantation was so familiar now he could recite it by
rote. The ancient words twisted and
flowed over his tongue. As he spoke, he
began to move. All great spells started
with movement; he knew that now. He knew
many things now, many more than when he'd begun. Movement was meditation, a journey into
oblivion, a way to connect with the divine.
And so he moved. He
flailed his arms and stomped his feet and whirled around in a circle, again and
again and again. His rational brain
started to recede. Foam flecked the
corners of his mouth. He slipped further
and further into the frenzied zen he'd come to know so well.
He was still reciting the incantation, screaming it
now. Just before he lost himself
completely, he shrieked out the final, blasphemous word. The energy abruptly sapped from his muscles. He collapsed to the ground. Waited.
Nothing.
He curled his fingers into the cold floor. The sound that rose from his throat was
hardly human. Of course, after
everything he'd done, he was fairly sure he'd sacrificed his humanity long
ago. What was he doing wrong? He had followed the spell to the letter,
every time. And every time, he had
failed.
He sighed, and hauled himself to his feet. His bones creaked, and he had fresh bruises
on his knees. Failure wasn't enough; now
he would be reminded of it for days to come.
He dusted off his trousers and cinched his tie closer to his throat.
At least he still had options. He reached under the table, retrieved the
pocketknife and the blank strip of leather he already had waiting. Then he gritted his teeth, and drew the sharp
edge of the blade across his palm. Blood
sprang to the surface.
He smoothed the leather flat on the table, dipped one finger
into the wound, and started to write.
###
Release Date: March 21, 2015!
This is a blog train,
and there are more excerpts to read!
I have some awesome friends I'd like you to meet! Each of these fabulous bloggers has volunteered to host a different excerpt from A World Apart on their blog. Stop by, give them some love, and read what happens next!
Hit all the stops to
read A World Apart up through Chapter
2!
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