Manroot by Anne Steinberg

Manroot Book Cover
Manroot is the evocative and stirring story of a lonely town in Missouri, and a young woman named Katherine who discovers a mystical side to herself that she’d never known existed. Anne Steinberg weaves together fantasy, romance, and a young girl’s coming of age into a darkly magical story.

 

Synopsis:
In the spring of 1939, Katherine Sheahan and her father, Jesse, are looking for work in the isolated tourist town of Castlewood. Jesse gets a job as handyman and Katherine as a maid at a small hotel. Jesse drinks and neglects his work and eventually disappears, abandoning his daughter. Frieda Broom, the hotel Manager, takes Katherine under her wing, and teaches her about ginseng, the manroot, and other secrets of the foothills. Katherine discovers that she is a natural healer and has the ability to communicate with spirits, a gift she inherited from her Navajo Indian mother.
Among the hotels regular clientele is Judge William Reardon. Escaping his sterile marriage, he becomes captivated by Katherine. As the pair bond over astrology and gardening, Katherine becomes convinced they belong together, despite him being much older than her and married. As they begin to fall in love, the violence of dark magic threatens to annihilate all Katherine knows and holds dear. Can their love survive?
Manroot is a potent tale of destiny, spiritualism and love, written in Anne Steinberg’s signature compelling style. The kindle version was published March 2014 and is available for sale on Amazon.

 

Amazon reviews:
“Manroot is an undeniably good read; it’s well-written with a compelling plot and memorable characters. Recommended to readers who enjoy contemporary fiction imbued with fantasy, including Native American themes and the supernatural.”
“Words to describe this book are: romantic, thrilling, memorable, spiritual, magical, and well written in a breath taking way that will keep you enthralled well after it is over. I wish it would have lasted longer and was saddened when it came to an end. 5 stars and cannot wait to see what Anne Steinberg comes up with next!”

 

Excerpt from Manroot:
Working alone in the kitchen, Katherine scrubbed it clean. Looking up at the calendar, she knew tomorrow was Friday. The Judge was one of the few people who stopped here regularly, even now, in late autumn. Perhaps it was telling Sally that had started it all, for now her thoughts of the Judge were like a fever that stayed with her. Last Friday when she took him his bourbon and spring water, she noticed it for the first time, the birthmark. It was on his right hand, so clear and vivid that she had almost dropped the tray. He had smiled at her nervousness, called her ‘my dear,’ and given her a silver dollar for a tip.
Katherine slept restlessly; she dreamed of the Oh mu and heard its moan of agony echoing in her sleep. She dreamed of Papa floating in the muddy river, caught and held under by a treacherous branch, his eyes vacant pools staring upward through the water. It was so real that in the morning when the siren from the firehouse once again split the air, she rushed into the kitchen where Frieda was telling Bruce, “You be careful…another one’s gone and gave herself to the river. It was a suicide, a painted woman from the Eagle’s nest…” Frieda shivered as she told the story the way that she had heard it from the postman. The woman in the night had cut her wrists, but the dying was too slow, so she ran from the clubhouse, perched only for a moment on the railing, then jumped headlong into the cold water.
Katherine moved slowly this morning. Frieda fussed at her, but knowing the girl had never been lazy, she thought the drowning must have upset her or maybe she was coming down with something.
The guests were all gone. They only expected one tonight – Judge Reardon. They’d have time to go into the woods today, hunting for herbs and the manroot. But Frieda went alone as the girl looked a bit too peaked.
Alone, Katherine cleaned the rooms again; it took no time, for they were already clean. She lingered in Number 8, The Judge’s room.
She knew a lot about him now, and she felt a very real presence that he left in the room. She knew intimate things about him – like the size of his shirts, the smell of his aftershave, which side of the bed he slept on, how he preferred his coffee, the brand of cigarettes that he smoked…numerous details about him that she had collected bit by bit, saving them in her mind and in her dreams, like pennies to be spent at a later date.
He knew nothing of her dusting his dresser, straightening the bed after he had risen. He was not aware that while he was out, she pressed his shirts to her lips, inhaling his aroma, and sat on the bed in the same crevices his body had made over the years that he had slept here. Now she knew with the wisdom and instinct of centuries, she knew that what would be, would be.
Last week for the first time she had seen it, the birthmark, on his right hand. It was paler than the surrounding skin, crescent-shaped like a slice of the moon, and within its outline, unmistakable, a perfect five-pointed star. She knew its shape by heart, as just above her right breast she had its identical replica.
The Navajo blood flowed strongly in her veins, with all its beliefs in the signs, even though her father had tried vainly to smother these strange alien traits. Since her childhood she had believed that she could speak to animals, and she could find herbs hiding under any rock and knew exactly what they would cure.
She stayed dreaming in the Judge’s room until she heard Frieda calling her. The woman had returned from the woods, carrying a full burlap sack.
“You should have come today…I found it…the time is ripe, and you’re much quicker than I. You would have climbed the higher spots where it grows.”
Placing the sack on the table, she pulled out one root. “It’s perfect…it’s prime, probably ten or fifteen years old.” She held the root up to the light. Its torso similar but lighter in color than a carrot, with no hint of orange, just tannish-brown, the root seemed to have two arms, two legs, and a fine network of tendrils. It appeared to be a miniature figure of a headless man.
“What is it?” Katherine questioned as she stared at the unusual root.
“It’s a manroot!”
“The manroot,” Katherine repeated, liking the sound of the word and feeling it described the plant perfectly. “It seems as if it could contain magic?” she said, as she gingerly touched it with a timid finger.
“Oh, they say it does. It works wonders. The Orientals prize its properties – to them it is also the love root. It does many things, cures most anything that ails you. For me it lines my pockets – Bailey’s general store pays about four dollars a pound.” Emptying the sack on the counter, Frieda explained, “You can’t let it get damp – it ruins the root.” She began taking them out, examining and inspecting and drying each root with a clean dish-towel.
“They’re not all like this one, that’s special. Some don’t come with the likeness of arms and legs, some just look like a pale carrot…but the old ones, the very special ones do. Here, Katherine – take it, it’s yours.”
They sat at the table and by habit Katherine helped her.
“If you weren’t such a lazy girl, you could have come with me today. When these are dry, I’m sure Bailey’s will be paying twenty dollars or so for the batch.”
“Twenty dollars?”
“Yes, ma’am!” She knew the girl wasn’t lazy; it was her way of trying to shake her out of the listlessness. “Put on the kettle, Katherine. I’ll slip a little of the root in it. That will perk you up.”
They drank the tea, and Frieda continued drying the root. She did a rare thing: she hummed as she dried the fine tendrils.
“It takes time for the manroot to grow. You shouldn’t harvest a root less than seven years old, and you must always plant the seed when you harvest – each red berry has two seeds – not deep, just under the leaves. It’s a sin…to harvest and not plant the seed,” she said solemnly.
Katherine watched the clock. “I better put on my uniform. The Judge…”
“No need to. When I was coming in, he was headed for the Eagle’s Nest. He told me he wouldn’t be wanting any supper.”
Katherine’s face fell with disappointment.
In previous gossip from Frieda, Katherine had learned that the Judge lived twenty miles up the road with a wife who was said to be fragile since the births of her two stillborn sons. There was not much in these parts that the Judge did not own; he was rich, well-liked, respected, and known to be a fair man. Remarkably young to be a judge, no one faulted him for his tendencies to card-playing, drinking whiskey, and relieving himself with the local women. A lesser man with these leanings would be called no account, but he was, after all, the Judge, and this title brought with it a tendency to look at vices as virtues.
It was just another Friday. Destiny waited for her; she felt it close, closer than it had ever been.
The hotel was quiet. There were no guests and the only person staying was the Judge, who would be out late.
Katherine played the radio softly, dancing about the room, pretending she was at Castlewood waltzing under the lanterns with him. She put the perfect manroot in the Valentine box with her other things. After midnight when he rang, Katherine shook the sleep from herself when she realized the bell from Room 8 was ringing.
She owned no robe, and the persistent ringing threatened to wake Mr. Taylor. She flew up to the Judge’s room and knocked timidly, aware that her hair was down, and she was in her nightgown. It was plain enough – white cotton, sturdy and sensible.
He opened the door to her. He seemed surprised.
“I’m sorry, sir, everyone is asleep,” she said, not really knowing how to apologize for her attire.
He blinked at her, his hair ruffled, his shirt-tail out; she had never seen him like this.
“You’re new?”
“No, sir I’m Katherine. It was late; I didn’t have time to put on the uniform.”
He nodded and leaned forward studying her face. “Come in.” She did so, but left the door open.
“Sit down,” he said. She could tell he was very drunk. She sat timidly in the vanity chair. He paced the floor unsteadily, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s my head… I have a headache that won’t stop. I thought maybe you had something in the kitchen.”
He kept pacing. “I went out tonight, trying to forget. I’ve drunk a lot…it doesn’t stop…my head hurts so.”
“Sir, I could go look, or…” She wondered if she should chance it – maybe he would laugh. “My grandmother had a remedy that always worked.”
He stopped pacing. “Yes? What is it?”
“Well,” she said, “if you rub your thumbs vigorously for a few minutes, it has something to do with the blood flow…if that didn’t work, then a leaf of boiled cabbage on the forehead never failed.”
He smiled and stopped. “Well, try it.” He pulled up a chair in front of her and held out his thumbs.
She blushed. She hadn’t meant that she should rub his thumbs, but he was there across from her, waiting.
She reached forward, and with a firm grip clasped his thumbs and rubbed vigorously, while he leaned back and shut his eyes. She alternated between each thumb. It seemed natural to her to be touching him.
“Do you know what it’s like to play God?” he asked abruptly.
Startled, she didn’t know if he was really talking to her, but she replied, “No, sir, I don’t.”
“Well, I do, and it’s not pleasant, not pleasant at all… Today I’ve sent a man to the gas chamber – well, not me personally, but the jury.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said quietly.
“Stop saying ‘sir’ – my name’s William. The Judge…sir…that’s somebody else. I don’t feel like a judge right now. I never wanted to be a judge.” He opened his eyes and she drew back.
“Do you know what it feels like to judge other people?”
“No, si–” She stopped herself. “No, I don’t.”
He looked down at her hands. “Don’t stop. By god, I think it helps!” He closed his eyes once more and held out his thumbs to her. The house was quiet. Somewhere a nightbird called; the ticking of the clock in the hall kept time in its steady rhythm, and Katherine felt the sound of their breathing in tune.

 

About the Author:
Author Anne SteinbergWhile living in England, Anne Steinberg’s first novel, Manroot was published by Headline Review in London. Manroot was heralded as an important first novel in 1994 and included in the Headline Review’s prestigious “Fiction without Frontiers,” a new wave of contemporary fiction that knows no limits. Eight modern storytellers were featured: Anne Steinberg, Margaret Atwood, Iain Banks, William Gibson, Peter Hoeg, Roddy Doyle, and E. Annie Proulx. It was an auspicious beginning to a long and varied career for Anne Steinberg, who went on to write several acclaimed novels, Every Town Needs A Russian Tea Room, the story of a wealthy socialite who falls in love with a penniless young Russian immigrant who is haunted by a bizarre shameful secret, The Cuckoos Gift, First Hands, and An Eye For An Ear. She is also coauthor of The Fence, written with her grandson Nicholas Reuel Tolkien, the great grandson of J.R.R. Tolkien. Nicholas is a filmmaker, director, and published poet. The Fence is a chilling story of a magnificent Gothic fence forged by a despicable blacksmith and infused with evil.
Anne was a partner in the world famous vintage clothing store, Steinberg & Tolkien, on Kings Road in Chelsea. After a successful run for over 20 years, the shop closed, and she returned to the US. Approaching her eighty-second birthday, she now writes, reads, and studies antiques, American Indian history, animal welfare, mythology, and folklore legends.
Anne recently re-released Manroot in kindle format. It was published March 2014 and is available for sale on Amazon.

 

To schedule an interview with Anne Steinberg or request a review copy of Manroot, please contact Book Publicity Services at info@bookpublicityservices.com.

Because I Said So: Life in the Mom Zone by Annie Oeth

Because I Said So book coverBecause I Said So: Life in the Mom Zone, by Annie Oeth, was published in April 2014 by Sartoris Literary Group.
Category: Non-Fiction / Humor / Parenting.
It is available for sale on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

 

Synopsis:
“But whyyyy?”
“Because I said so.”
It’s the answer that rolls off the tongues of mamas from all over. In Because I Said So: Life In The Mom Zone, veteran mama Annie Oeth tells of the worries, laughter and sheer terror of being a mother.
Trips to the emergency room, college graduations and the dangerous combination of teenagers and fireworks are all fair game in this romp through southern motherhood. Spilling the (jelly)beans on Easter egg hunts, Santa Claus and frogs in mailboxes, Annie Oeth writes of life, love and raising children while hanging on to her sense of humor.
From stories of laughter to tales of tears shed, she remembers her own growing-up years in small-town Mississippi, her parents’ 44-year romance and her own children’s travels on their way to adulthood, crafting stories that will touch hearts and funny bones.
Anyone who’s ever rocked a baby, worried over a teenager or seen family game night degenerate into a knock-down, drag-out can relate to these life lessons, straight from The Mom Zone.
Mamas are tender-hearted, but don’t mistake their kindness for an absence of backbone. In these stories, the love, strength, humor and super powers of mothers are hailed for the wonders that they are. Whether you’re a mama to sons who have an affection for reptiles and bottle rockets or a daughter who thinks you’re wrong just when you’ve figured out your own mother was right, you’ll love yourself, your kids and your life more after this read.
“Why?”
“Because I Said So.”

 

Excerpt from Because I Said So:
KIDS IN CHURCH
There was a time of retribution like no other in my growing-up years. It was when church let out.
At no other time in no other day did more children get more beatings, spankings, whippings and whatnot than after church.
Now let me preface this by saying our parents were not the “spare the rod” types. If you loved your children, the thinking back then was you would get to the seat of the problem. Rapidly. There were no time-outs back then. We kids would have loved those.
I am not an advocate of spanking children because I think there are more effective ways of communicating right and wrong than hitting. That sentence would have been laughed off the street in the South circa the early 1970s, though. And if one was to call one of those hiney-warmings child abuse, then I guess a whole town’s worth of parents would have been locked up.
No, we kids all wound up being worn out at one time or another. It was only a question of when and where.
Usually, most waylayings happened once the 15th go-round of “Just as I am’’ was played and a couple of people rededicated their lives to Christ. The handshakings and greetings would begin as folks made their way to their cars in an effort to beat the Methodists to the Sunday buffet at the Southern Inn.
We kids would be walking out of the church together, and sure enough, some other child would be screaming in the parking lot. Probably several. It was the topic of discussion for us—who was getting a beating and what they did in church to deserve it.
Church misbehavior would get you a warm behind faster than setting fire to the school back then. It was a reflection on your parents‘ child-rearing in the public-est place in town. You didn’t challenge authority too much more than acting like a heathen in church. It was like asking for the physical motivation to stand awhile.
We would witness someone wearing out their young’uns‘ backsides beside the family‘s Chevy Malibu and be thankful that our own badness, doodling, whispering and note-passing didn’t cross the line that Sunday.
Our badness continued, though, not unlike a game of Russian roulette. We’d keep talking during the preacher’s sermon, never knowing when the bullet of getting a backseat beating had our names on it.
Of course, we all grew up, and many of us kept the habit of going to church. We had even learned to behave by the time we had children of our own. And this is when I learned the lesson my parents and all my friends‘ parents knew: Never commence to punishing your child during the sermon.
The oldest boy was somewhere between two and three at the time and was bored out of his little mind. To occupy his time, he picked up the Methodist hymnal and began flipping all gazillion pages from hard front cover to hard back cover.
“Stop, baby,’’ I hissed.
Whap.
It was like the tide, steady and relentless, and also pretty darned loud. I started getting disapproving looks from my fellow congregants.
Whap.
Whap.
In desperation, I folded my arms and gave him a pinch, surreptitiously, to get his attention.
Instead, he got mine. Along with the preacher’s and everyone else in the congregation that day.
“Mama!’’ he said in a nice, clear, outside voice. “Quit pinching me!’’
The preacher had to pause to get his composure back, shaking while he stifled a laugh, and the choir twittered with muffled laughter until the altar call.
The rest of the week, folks around town would tell me to stop pinching my little boy and laugh. That was the last time he got pinched by me, in church or elsewhere, by the way.
The oldest boy was lucky he was a child of his generation. In the church parking lots of my day, that would have gotten him a walloping of Biblical proportions.

 

About the Author:
A lifelong Mississippian, Annie Oeth is a graduate of Mississippi University for Women. She currently works as a features editor for The Clarion-Ledger, the state’s largest daily newspaper. She writes about family and fun and The Mom Zone blog. Annie is the author of Because I Said So: Life in The Mom Zone, which was published April 2014. She is a solo mom to four, and currently resides in Ridgeland, Mississippi. Connect with Annie on Facebook or Twitter.

 

To schedule an interview with Annie Oeth or request a review copy of Because I Said So, please contact Book Publicity Services at info@bookpublicityservices.com.

 

Interview with Author Claudia Y. Burgoa

Claudia BurgoaClaudia Y. Burgoa recently released Getting By (A Knight’s Tale), a new-adult contemporary romance novel, published February 18, 2014. This is the first book in the Knight’s series. It is available for sale on Amazon.
Interview with Author Claudia Y. Burgoa
Tell us about your new book:
Getting By is the first book of the Knight’s Tales series. They tell the story of three handsome successful brothers that rather get a root canal than getting serious with a girl.
GB introduces us to Jake, Mitch and Liam; while telling us the story between Jake and Emma; two people that like to have a light relationship but are afraid of something more.
Who is your favorite character from your book and why?
That’s a difficult question, since I love them all. However, I can say Mitch is the one that has my undivided love. He’s fun, and likes to pull everyone’s leg at every turn.
What is your favorite scene in the book and why?
The elevator scene, when you get a glimpse of a closet hardcore fangirl and how the fact that she’s a little out there gets Jake’s attention.
Give us an interesting fun fact about your book:
Gabriela is based on one of my best friends, the loud fire cracker get in your face attitude. Though physically they are like day and night, my friend is tall, blond and blue eyed…and she’s not a cheater ;)
Tell us a bit about yourself:
I’m terrible when it comes to talk about myself… I love music—most of it and especially alt rock. I can watch episodes of Friends every day for the rest of my life, watch movies and love everything superhero related. My superpower is to know everything or make up something for the lack of knowledge.
I have three children, three dogs and only one superhero husband.
What’s next? What can we expect from you in the future?
Next to You, the sequel to Where Life Takes You, my first published book; I plan on releasing it on June.
Standing By, the second book on the Knight’s Tale series is being written and hopefully it will be published late summer.
What to expect in the future…more Romance books, and on 2015 a New Adult Fantasy book.
What book are you reading now?
Red Moon by Benjamin Percy
To learn more, go to Claudia’s website http://www.ClaudiaYBurgoa.com/GoodreadsFacebook, and Twitter.

Kitty Hawk and the Tragedy of the RMS Titanic by Iain Reading

Kitty Hawk and the Tragedy of the RMS TitanicKitty Hawk and the Tragedy of the RMS Titanic is book 4 in the Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series, a new young adult series of adventure mystery stories by Iain Reading. It was published February 2014 and is available for sale on Amazon.

 

Synopsis:
Kitty Hawk and the Tragedy of the RMS Titanic is the thrillingly cryptic fourth installment of the exciting Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series featuring the intrepid teenage seaplane pilot Kitty Hawk and her various adventures of mystery and intrigue as she follows in the footsteps of Amelia Earhart on an epic flight around the world.
This fourth book in the series brings Kitty to the emerald hills of Ireland where she meets a handsome stranger and is quickly swept up in a perplexing hundred-year-old family treasure hunt involving secret codes and puzzling clues that lead her on a fast-paced adventure that carries her from Dublin to London – from the decks of the ill-fated ocean liner Titanic to the temples of ancient Egypt and the streets of Jack the Ripper – until she finally unlocks the mystery and discovers the long-hidden treasure.
Much like the earlier books in this series, Kitty Hawk and the Tragedy of the RMS Titanic is a perfect book to fire the imaginations of armchair detectives of all ages. Filled with fascinating and highly Google-able locations and history the reader will find themselves immersed in brand new worlds that are brought to life before their very eyes as Kitty Hawk experiences the stories and history of a doomed ocean liner and unravels the Tragedy of the RMS Titanic.

 

Excerpt from Kitty Hawk and the Tragedy of the RMS Titanic:
I found myself surrounded by an all-consuming blackness so thick that it felt as though I could touch it. It was such a deep inky blackness that it made me realize that even when we think we’re in complete and utter darkness, there is almost always light emanating from somewhere: light in the hallway sneaking under the doorway, perhaps, or the light of the stars on a moonless night in the wilderness. But this inky blackness wasn’t like that at all. It was so dark, as the saying goes, that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. It was so intense and absolute that the longer I stood there, the more I felt it seeping into my pores.
To make matters worse, it was also cold—bitterly cold. And while I stood there waiting, I was forced to pull my jacket more tightly around me in a vain attempt to protect myself from the freezing air. Just a few days earlier, I’d been in the tropics, wearing shorts and sandals and suffering in the oppressive, sweltering heat of equatorial Africa. But now I’d returned to the colder climate of Ireland by backtracking north on commercial airliners along the path I’d already taken across Europe and Africa.
Six months earlier, I’d filled out an entry form on a whim, and that’s how I found myself standing there on that cold December morning, but I wasn’t alone. Surrounding me on all sides were others waiting with me for the sunrise. I could feel their presence somehow, and I could hear them breathing the icy air. They were even close enough for me to feel their warmth, but in the invisible blackness, they might as well have been a million miles away. I felt isolated and alone as though I were a lost soul floating aimlessly through the universe.
I looked up at the ceiling. I couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, but I knew it was up there—the writing that we’d discovered so many months ago—the final clue that had unlocked the secret to everything.
I had to remind myself that I was supposed to be looking down, not up, so I peered down toward my feet where at any moment the light of the rising sun would begin to carve its way across the floor of the chamber.
Just imagine being in this place so many thousands of years ago when it was first built, I thought to myself in wonder as I stared blindly into the black. Far underground, cold and frightened, and probably wondering if the sun would ever rise again, but they knew it would. That’s why they built this place. And with the rising sun their world would be reborn.
My breath caught suddenly in my throat as I thought I caught a glimpse of light in motion in the endless dark. Was it the first rays of the sun breaking over the distant horizon? Or was it just a trick of my imagination?
The seconds passed, and my eyes detected a flicker of light in the gloom as the curtain of darkness slowly lifted from my eyes. Seconds turned into minutes, and I stared in utter amazement as a thin rapier of pure liquid light knifed its way across the stone floor and poured a golden heavenly luminescence into the crowded chamber, filling it with light and warmth.
My mouth was hanging open in complete astonishment at the sheer and absolute beauty of it. I glanced around me and saw that the others were every bit as breathless as I was. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
It was numinous.
It was sublime.
But in truth there were absolutely no words to describe it, and yet my mind raced to find some linguist hook upon which I could anchor the experience and never forget it, not that I ever would. I would remember it for the rest of my days.
As the heavenly fire continued to fill every nook and cranny of the underground chamber, I couldn’t resist lifting my head again to look at the ceiling. Somehow, I just had to be sure that the writing was still there, and of course it –was; it had been there for many, many years before I ever laid eyes on it, and it would remain there for many years more, perhaps for all eternity. But I just had to know for sure, so for a quick moment I tore my eyes away from the radiant beam of light splitting the floor and glanced upward.
It took a moment to orient myself and find it again, but there it was, waiting to be found again.
So many months and a thousand memories had passed since I’d last been inside this underground temple of light, and yet it felt like yesterday.
With a lump growing in my throat and tears of emotion in my eyes, I lowered my gaze and watched the dagger of light slowly recede across the floor. Before I knew it, and as mysteriously as it had arrived, the beam soon retreated up the tunnel and out into the reborn world outside, plunging our underground world into the same thick and utter blackness from which we’d just emerged.
And then there was silence. A silence so complete that not a single one of us dared to breathe. For a moment, I was a lost soul again, set adrift in the universe and floating on the memory of the adventures that had led me to this place so many months before.

 

About the Author:
Iain Reading is passionate about Root Beer, music, and writing. He is Canadian, but currently resides in the Netherlands working for the United Nations. He has published 4 books in the Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series. To learn more, go to Iain’s WebsiteTwitter, Amazon, and Goodreads.
To schedule an interview with Iain or request a review copy of Kitty Hawk and the Tragedy of the RMS Titanic, please contact Book Publicity Services at info@bookpublicityservices.com.
Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series

Kitty Hawk and the Icelandic Intrigue by Iain Reading

Kitty Hawk and the Icelandic IntrigueKitty Hawk and the Icelandic Intrigue is book 3 in the Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series, a new young adult series of adventure mystery stories by Iain Reading. It was published April 2013 and is available for sale on Amazon.

 

Synopsis:
Following in the footsteps of her hero Amelia Earhart, Kitty Hawk sets off on an epic flight around the world and arrives in Iceland’s capital city of Reykjavik where she finds herself immersed in a beautiful alien world of volcanoes, Vikings, elves and trolls. Before she knows it Kitty is plunged head first into an amazing adventure that sweeps her across a rugged landscape where humans and nature exist side-by-side in an uneasy truce and magical realms seem to lie just out of sight beneath the surface.
Kitty Hawk and the Icelandic Intrigue is the dazzling third installment of the Flying Detective Agency series featuring Kitty Hawk, an intrepid teenaged seaplane pilot with boundless curiosity and a knack for getting herself into – and out of – all kinds of precarious situations.
This is a perfect book to fire the imaginations of readers of all ages – armchair explorers and amateur detectives alike. From dangerous criminals and corrupt government officials to mystical beings and clashes with the elemental forces of nature, this book has it all. Come and join Kitty Hawk as she experiences the strange and extraordinary world of the Icelanders, and unravels the Icelandic Intrigue.

 

Excerpt from Kitty Hawk and the Icelandic Intrigue:
The bullet split the air with a dreadful ripping sound and whizzed past my ear like some horrifyingly angry insect. The experience was completely new and terrifying to me, and it was one that I could have happily lived the rest of my life without having had. After hearing the bullet rip past me (and feeling it, too, since such a terrible sound is felt as much as it is heard) everything that followed seemed to happen all at once in excruciatingly slow motion.
What was that?!? I asked myself as I bolted upright and my brain tried to make sense of what it had just experienced. But I already knew full well what it was. My brain was slow to accept what it already knew to be true, because with that acceptance came the realization that someone was trying to kill me, and had the bullet not missed, I would already be dead.
After accepting what was happening, panic began to set in. People sometimes talk about being frozen in fear—like a deer in the headlights of a car—but for me, the fear had the exact opposite effect. All I could think was that I needed to run; I needed to get out of here—right away—and to anywhere other than the middle of the road where I was exposed and vulnerable to being shot at a second time.
Fortunately, my brain had the good sense not to run toward the source of the gunfire, and I managed to scramble down the side of the road and take cover in the ditch. Somewhere up the road, men with guns were pulling themselves out of their wrecked automobile and planning to come after me. If I stopped breathing for a second and strained to listen over the sound of the wind, I could hear them grunting as they pulled themselves free of the car accompanied by the sound of broken glass raining onto the ground.
“You have to get out of here,” the little voice in my head reminded me. “You don’t have much time!”
I know, I told myself. I tried to breathe normally and stay calm. I didn’t have time to make any mistakes. Even the smallest misstep could cost me my life. All I could do was run, but where could I run to when I was on a road in the middle of nowhere? If I got back onto the road, I would be completely exposed, even in the dim light of the early morning.
“The only place you can run,” the little voice said, “is cross-country.”
I lifted my head for a second to see if anyone was coming after me. I couldn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean no one was out there, so I kept my head low, ran across the ditch, and scrambled up the rocky ledge on the other side.
Please, God, don’t let them shoot at me now, I thought as I climbed up the ledge and out of the ditch.
Once I was at the top, I crouched low and surveyed the way ahead of me. The landscape was rocky and rough—full of places to hide and take cover.
“Maybe that’s what you should do,” the little voice suggested. “Maybe you should just find somewhere to hide? It’s pretty dark out here and there are plenty of shadows you could crawl into. Just hide somewhere until they decide to leave you here.”
I shook my head.
“It won’t be dark for long,” I murmured to myself as I looked toward the brightening horizon where the sun would soon be rising. “And I am not just going to sit around helplessly waiting for them to find me. I am going to get as far from them as I possibly can.”
“Then what are you waiting for?!?” the little voice replied, still panicked.
I peered over the ledge and back up the deserted road to where the shot that had barely missed me had come from. I still couldn’t see anything—not even the hulk of the wrecked car that I knew was back there—and no one was walking up the road toward me. I closed my eyes and tried to listen for any sound of movement over the howling wind.
“You have to go!” the little voice screamed. “They could be anywhere! They could be standing five feet away from you, ready to grab you again!”
The voice in my head was right. I had to go. But I kept listening, waiting for clarity. Somehow, I felt that I had to have some idea of where they were, because it terrified me much more not knowing anything at all.
And then I heard it—the faint sound of angry voices carried on the wind down the road toward me. They were speaking some foreign language, and they could have been saying just about anything, but I only heard, “That stupid girl is going to pay for this. Let’s go get her.”
A cold wave of fear washed over me. My heart pounded like a jackhammer, and a sickening chill poured deep into the pit of my stomach.
“Now I run,” I whispered to myself, and sprang to my feet. “Now I run like I’ve never run before in my entire life.”

 

About the Author:
Iain Reading is passionate about Root Beer, music, and writing. He is Canadian, but currently resides in the Netherlands working for the United Nations. He has published 4 books in the Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series. To learn more, go to Iain’s WebsiteTwitter, Amazon, and Goodreads.
To schedule an interview with Iain or request a review copy of Kitty Hawk and the Icelandic Intrigue, please contact Book Publicity Services at info@bookpublicityservices.com.
Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series

Kitty Hawk and the Hunt for Hemingway’s Ghost by Iain Reading

Kitty Hawk and the Hunt for Hemingway’s GhostKitty Hawk and the Hunt for Hemingway’s Ghost is book 2 in the Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series, a new young adult series of adventure mystery stories by Iain Reading. It was published September 2013 and is available for sale on Amazon.

 

Synopsis:
Kitty Hawk and the Hunt for Hemingway’s Ghost is the exciting second installment in a new series of adventure mystery stories that are one part travel, one part history and five parts adventure. This second book in the series continues the adventures of Kitty Hawk, an intrepid teenage pilot who has decided to follow in the footsteps of her hero Amelia Earhart and make an epic flight around the entire world. After flying across North America Kitty’s journey takes her down south to Florida where she plans to get a bit of rest and relaxation before continuing on with the rest of her long and grueling flight. As Kitty explores the strange and magical water world of the Florida Keys her knack for getting herself into precarious situations sweeps her headlong into the adventure of a lifetime involving mysterious lights, ancient shipwrecks, razor-toothed barracudas and even a sighting of the great Ernest Hemingway himself. This exhilarating story will have armchair explorers and amateur detectives alike anxiously following every twist and turn as they are swept across the landscape and history of the Florida Keys all the way from Key West to the strange and remarkable world of Fort Jefferson and the Dry Tortugas.
Kitty Hawk and the Hunt for Hemingway’s Ghost is a perfect book to fire the imaginations of readers of all ages. Filled with fascinating and highly Google-able locations and history this book will inspire anyone to learn about and experience as much of our amazing world as they can – just like Kitty Hawk herself.

 

Excerpt from Kitty Hawk and the Hunt for Hemingway’s Ghost:
I was literally holding on by my fingertips in a cramped, dark little space surrounded by thick brick walls on all sides. It felt as though I was suspended in a vertical tomb. I heard the sound of footsteps approaching from somewhere above me—footsteps that I hoped would pass by without stopping or (worse yet) noticing I was there.
I couldn’t see how anyone could possibly notice me, but I wasn’t taking any chances, so I lowered myself into the narrow brick opening as far as I could go until I was completely out of sight. My fingers burned painfully under the weight of my body, so I braced my feet against the walls to take the pressure off. It helped a little, but I didn’t want to push too hard and risk knocking another piece of masonry loose so that it could crash down on me and alert someone of my presence. That was, after all, the exact reason I found myself in my current predicament. The brick walls around me were a hundred and fifty years old, and even though they were as solid as rock in most places, they were still remarkably fragile in others—a fact that I’d learned the hard way just a few minutes earlier.
I shifted my weight carefully to take a little pressure off my fingers, and I winced in horror when a tiny pebble broke loose and plunged into the dark abyss beneath me. I braced myself for its impact and soon heard it plop almost silently into the pool of water below.
I breathed a deep sigh of relief that it hadn’t made more noise than it did, but it also wasn’t much comfort to know that the empty black space below me was actually full of water.
I thought the cisterns weren’t in use anymore, I said to myself as I clung for dear life with even more earnestness now that I knew there was a deep pool of black water lurking below. If I fell down there, not only would it make a lot of noise, but I would surely drown before anyone could reach me.
The crackle of a handheld radio from close above startled me, nearly making me jump and lose my grip. The sound of footsteps suddenly stopped, and I heard voices echoing off the thick walls.
“Citadel, Citadel, this is Cuba Libré, over,” a faint crackly voice on the radio said.
“This is Citadel, go ahead, over,” replied another voice that sounded like it was coming from directly above me.
I panicked. The voice sounded so close. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—please don’t see me, please don’t hear me—please, bricks, don’t break off now.
I remained completely frozen in place, terrified to move a single muscle. My fingers burned from the pressure, but I didn’t dare move to alleviate the pain. If even a tiny pebble like the one that just fell was knocked loose now, there was no way the person talking on the radio just above me wouldn’t hear it.
Oh god, please don’t hear me, please don’t hear me, I repeated to myself over and over in my head like a mantra as I listened to the radio conversation taking place above.
“Citadel, you need to advise us about what’s going on,” the voice at the other end of the radio said. “And tell us what to do out here, over.”
“I lost them,” the voice just above me snapped back in reply. “I have no idea where the hell they disappeared to, and I can’t find any trace of them anywhere.”
There was a long silence, and my heart jumped into my throat as my imagination ran wild.
What if he just noticed me and switched his radio off, I said to myself in a panic. Maybe that’s why it’s suddenly so quiet.
“Okay, Citadel,” the voice at the other end of the radio finally answered. “In that case we’re going to abort any further operations and get the hell out of here right now.”
I breathed another sigh of relief and stayed frozen in place, waiting for the conversation to be over and for the person above me to continue on his way.
“Understood,” the voice replied. “I’ll sort things out at this end, and we’ll see you at rendezvous in a few days.”
“Roger that,” the voice at the other end replied, peppered with static. “Over and out.”
There was silence for another long, tense moment, and my imagination raced with crazy, stupid panic all over again, convinced that at any second I would see a pair of hands reach over the ledge and grab me.
There was another burst of radio static followed by another long silence before I heard the sound of footsteps again, this time echoing and making their way briskly into the distance. I wondered for a moment where they were heading but quickly decided that I really didn’t care as long as it was somewhere far away from me. My fingertips were on fire, and as soon as the sound of the footsteps faded away, I counted slowly to two hundred and then very carefully pulled my body up and out into the open.
I knelt at the top of the ledge and massaged my fingers while listening intently to make sure that no one was hiding just around the next corner or doubling back to catch me. But there was nothing to hear except the sound of the wind wailing mournfully through the labyrinth of archways and openings that surrounded me. It was such a desperate and hollow sound. It sent chills down my spine, but unless there were ghosts somewhere in the vicinity, the emptiness of the howling wind meant that the coast was clear. I wasn’t taking any chances, however, so I made myself count to two hundred very slowly before climbing all the way out and into the open air.
Once I was free, I took a second to stick my head back into the opening to see if I could spot the surface of the water below. I strained my eyes to see in the darkness, but it was impossible. In fact, the space was so small and narrow that I doubted I would have been able to see anything even in daylight, much less in the middle of the night.
Thank god, I didn’t fall down there, I said to myself, shivering horribly as I stared down into the inky well of darkness. It was the idea of dying a horrible death by drowning in that enclosed black space that bothered me, not the idea of getting wet. I was already planning to go for a bit of a risky night swim of my own in another minute or two.

 

About the Author:
Iain Reading is passionate about Root Beer, music, and writing. He is Canadian, but currently resides in the Netherlands working for the United Nations. He has published 4 books in the Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series. To learn more, go to Iain’s WebsiteTwitter, Amazon, and Goodreads.
To schedule an interview with Iain or request a review copy of Kitty Hawk and the Hunt for Hemingway’s Ghost, please contact Book Publicity Services at info@bookpublicityservices.com.
Kitty Hawk Flying Detective Agency Series

The Mystery of Moutai by G.X. Chen

The Mystery of MoutaiG.X. Chen recently released The Mystery of Moutai, a mystery novel. It is available for sale on Amazon in ebook and paperback.

 

Synopsis:
A teenager returns home from school to find a gruesome scene: the apartment he shares with his mother, Shao Mei, in Boston’s Chinatown has been ransacked and she is dead. There is a bottle of Moutai—the most exotic and expensive Chinese liquor—left at the scene and traces of rat poison in one of the two shot glasses on the kitchen counter. This was evidently a homicide, but who could possibly be the killer?
Ann Lee and Fang Chen, close friends of the victim, team up with the Boston police to solve this mystifying crime: why would anyone want to murder a harmless middle-aged woman, one who worked as an unassuming mailroom clerk, with no money, no connections, and presumably, no enemies?
Realizing that important clues behind the motive may be buried deep in the victim’s past, they travel to Beijing, where Shao Mei spent more than fifty years of her life. While there, surrounded by the antiquities of China’s rich and complex history, they stumble unwittingly into a cobweb of mystery and danger. Fearing for their lives but determined to press on, they end up unearthing a scandal more deceptive and far-reaching than either could have imagined.

 

Excerpt from The Mystery of Moutai:
In the spring of 1994, John Chan, an athletic teenager, vaulted up the stairs of an old apartment building on the edge of Chinatown in the city of Boston, taking two steps at a time while carrying a hockey stick and a duffel bag full of shoulder pads, helmets, gloves, and skates. He was tired but very excited because he had just played an important hockey game at his schoolthe winner would go on to the division finalsand he could hardly wait to tell his mother that he had a winning goal in the second period and was congratulated by all of his teammates and his coach. John was starving. Looking forward to a hug; a hot shower; and a hearty, homemade meal, he was rushing toward his apartment, which was located on the third floor of the five-story brick building.
After the door swung open by a touch of the end of his hockey stick, John stopped in alarm. Even if she was expecting a guest, his mother always locked the apartment doorshe was afraid of burglars ever since their next-door neighbor had a break-in several months ago. John dropped the duffel bag, placed the hockey stick against the wall and peeked inside the apartment apprehensively. It was late in the afternoon, but the west-facing apartment was still well lit by the sun, which was sinking slowly on the horizon.
His jaw dropped when he saw what had become of his home, which was always neat and clean no matter how hectic the occupants’ lives were. The living room was in total disarray, the floor covered with bits and pieces of books and magazines, and all the drawers and cabinet doors in the kitchen were pulled open—his home had been turned upside down, ransacked.
His voice echoed as he called out, “Mom, I’m home! Where are you?”
No response; the apartment was eerily quiet. Hesitantly, John opened the door wider and entered, trying not to step on the fallen books because he knew his mother, Shao Mei, loved them. A former physics professor at Beijing University, Shao Mei kept all the books she had brought with her from China, even though most of them were getting flimsy and falling apart.
Among all the messes, a shiny object drew John’s attention almost immediately. Sitting on the coffee table in the living room was a slick and colorful porcelain bottle of Moutai, the most famous liquor in China. His mother had been working as a mailroom clerk for an insurance company in Boston and could never have afforded an authentic bottle of Moutai, which would have fetched more than a hundred dollars on the black market in her native country.
He walked over and stood in front of the battered coffee table, looking down at the exquisitely designed liquor bottle, which seemed empty. Then, he noticed something bulky stuck between the sofa and the coffee table. It was his mother, face-down on the floor. On her partially hidden, painfully distorted face, blood trickled from her nose and her mouth. His legs started trembling violently. John screamed, but no sound came from his mouth. It was seemingly a long time before he was able to control his limbs. He ran to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed 911.
The rest of the day was a blur. Police officers and detectives came and went, along with a team of forensic specialists and an ambulance. Everything in the apartment and around the body was checked, including a fancy gift box in the trash can, two shot glasses on the kitchen counter, and the empty bottle of Moutai. The forensic officers used protective gloves, putting all the items, one at a time, carefully into separate evidence bags.
After the body was taken away, a tall and sturdy man in his early fifties came into the bedroom where John was sitting and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Paul Winder-man,” he said in a soft voice, “detective sergeant from the Boston Police Department. And your name please?”
“John Chan,” John murmured without looking up at the police officer.
“John,” Paul said, kneeling down to face the kid at the same level. “Do you have any relatives in town?”
“No,” John said and shook his head, looking into Paul’s deep and pale blue eyes in despair. What’ll happen to me now? He thought in panic. Where will I go? His mother was the only family he had in the US. He dropped his head and started weeping.
Paul kept his large hand on John’s shoulder. What a pity. The poor lad might have to be sent to social services, he thought sympathetically. “Do you know anyone in the cityyour mother’s friends, for example?” he asked hopefully.
John lifted his head and nodded. “My mom was friendly with Auntie Ann Lee and Uncle Fang Chen,” he told the detective between sobs. According to Chinese tradition, he addressed all of his parents’ friends as “uncles” and “aunties” even though they weren’t blood relations. As far as John knew, Auntie Lee and Uncle Chen visited his mother often when she was alivesometimes they’d take him along to have dim sum in Chinatown, an area he and his mother lived on the edge of, where the rent was cheaper than most places in downtown Boston.
Paul Winderman’s eyes lit up when he heard the names. He had dealt with both of them in a previous murder case a few years ago. He liked Ann a lot, a very capable young woman and a straight arrow, but he didn’t trust Fang Chen because the professor had played hocus-pocus with the police rather than cooperating the last time they met.
Paul processed the facts in his head for less than a minute before placing a few calls. Due to the fact that Ann didn’t own a car, he dispatched a police cruiser to pick her up. Half an hour later, a sober and red-eyed Ann Lee showed up at Shao Mei’s apartment to take John away.
“I’ll pack up everything you need and deliver to you as soon as I can,” Paul told the kid, who had rested his head on Auntie Lee’s shoulder and was crying.
Lifting his head, the kid said nothing but nodded with tears in his eyes. With Ann’s help, he stuffed a few sets of clothes into his duffel bag, picked up his backpack and the hockey stick, and left his home in the US for the last time.
***
Friday, April 24
Another warm night; the breeze coming from the open windows makes me feel it’s an early summer rather than spring day.
It has been a thrill to know that I will soon meet my old friend who suffered much at the hands of the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution. I’m extremely excited about the opportunity to renew our friendship. I don’t have many old friends anymore, having lost all the contacts when I moved. I particularly crave the comrade-ship we forged during the formidable years when we were both young.
It’s fascinating for me to think what this friend of mine will say or what her reaction will be when I show up at her door. I probably should call her first or send her an e-mail, but I’m not sure if she has an e-mail account, or even a computerstill a luxury item for most people. I heard she has fallen on hard times since she left China. The poor thing!
I’m sure I can cheer her up with my visit and my unique gift. It’s only fitting that I should bring her the best.

 

About the Author:
G.X. Chen is a freelancer who lives in Boston ( both of her mystery novels are based in Boston); permanently moved from China to the US after Tiananmen Massacre in 1989. Previously published books include The Mystery of Revenge (a mystery novel) and Forget Me Not: A Love Story of the East (a historic fiction/romance) and several other novels in Chinese. To learn more, go to her TwitterWebsite, and Goodreads.
  
To schedule an interview with G.X. Chen or request a review copy of The Mystery of Moutai, please contact Book Publicity Services at info@bookpublicityservices.com.
 

Elise Celine Releases Inspirational Young Adult Romance Novel ‘John Dreamer’

John Dreamer Book CoverJohn Dreamer is a compelling and inspirational young adult romance novel by Elise Celine, published on February 1, 2014.
“There are eight characters in the story, and many of them play a very important role, but it all comes down to Andy and John,” says Elise Celine. “Andy is a troubled soul. She is very compassionate, but she’s so afraid of getting hurt that she guards her feelings and shuts people away. John is an enigma, a good-looking natural leader, who observes and learns, who waits quietly before speaking his mind.”
Synopsis: Andy wasn’t usually sure about much, but she was absolutely certain this was the weirdest day of her life as she stood stranded in the middle of a great white room with six strangers. Well, they were mostly strangers. She could have sworn she’d seen the guy with the green eyes before, and maybe that was why he kept staring at her. When a man calling himself the Guardian appeared and said they had come to make their deepest dreams come true, they embark on an adventure none of them ever imagined—where anything is possible—and the consequences of their actions would change them forever.
“Many of us have found ourselves in a place (our “Great White Room”) where we question the path we should take in life. I would have loved to have a “Guardian” like this to guide me through the process… This is what I like the most about this book, anyone can relate to it… it is heart warming, emotional and so much fun to read!” – Amazon Review
John Dreamer is about overcoming your fears, your obstacles, your demons and going beyond what you think you are capable of to find love and happiness. It’s about changing your life for the better and living your dreams.
John Dreamer is available for sale on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

 

Excerpt from John Dreamer:
I found myself in the middle of a great white room. No windows, no ceiling, no doors. I took a step and then another, not knowing where I was, or why. I could not remember entering the place, or dropping in: it was as if I had just appeared. Everything felt eerie, from the complete silence to the seeming absence of walls.
I was wearing my favorite denim shorts, white button-down shirt and flats, my usual casual attire, but I couldn’t recall putting them on. My hair fell loosely down the sides of my face, cascades of golden natural waves, the way I like to wear it when I have no one to see and nothing to do. My skin felt soft and warm, the way it does after a pleasant day in the sun, the air was cool and light. Everything felt fresh and comfortable, as if I had just awoken from a very relaxing sleep. Was I actually awake?
In the middle of the room I found seven chairs lined in a row. They were all in different sizes and shapes, from modern and classic, to eccentric and ornate; they were also labeled. I walked beside them to get a closer look and found that one near the middle had my name on it. It was rustic wood, the design simple and at the same time organic. It was worn down and aged, like a very loved object that has been passed from generation to generation. I looked again at the row before me and thought that, if I had been given the chance, it was exactly the one I would have chosen. The names on the other chairs I did not recognize: Marcus, Olivia, Matty, John, Linda, and Roy. Perhaps I wouldn’t be alone for long.
I walked around again, and had the odd feeling that the place was moving along with me. Every time I tried to get to the other side, the way became longer; if I retraced my steps, I returned to the same spot.
Was I in some sort of institution? I felt completely sane, even though everything around me seemed daft. I wanted a mirror so I could see my face. I needed that sense of self.
Then I saw him. I hadn’t noticed him arrive. He hadn’t seen me either since he was standing with his back to me. He was roughly my age, with wavy hair that fell to his neck, unkempt but clean. He was slender and fit. His head was level and he stood tall, giving me the impression of being self-assured, comfortable in his own skin. He was looking toward the other side of the room, getting accustomed to our new surroundings. I sensed he was as confused as I was.
“Do you know where we are?” I asked, and he turned surprised at the sound of my voice. It was then I got the first glimpse of his beautiful green eyes. There was such an intensity in his stare, conveying so much emotion, I could hardly hold his gaze. I felt electricity run through my spine as I dove into this stranger who was inviting me in. He kept looking at me without answering, making my insides aflutter. This had never happened to me before. So I stood there, frozen solid, averting my eyes from his, but coming back to them. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, eight and a half. Scientists state that it takes only eight and a half seconds to fall in love at first sight. So there it was.

 

 

author Elise CelineAbout Elise Celine:
I’m no princess. I never played with dolls. Climbing a tree was my idea of fun. When I was a little girl I lived on an estate owned by my maternal grandparents where all my aunts and uncles lived. The garden was immense with no boundaries other than a wire fence that we kids easily jumped over. It wasn’t fancy, but it was gorgeous. My best friend in the world was my cousin who lived a close walk away. Between oaks and walnuts and roses and pets and bugs, I had the idyllic childhood. The possibilities were endless, the adventures new every day. That changed when I turned 9 and my grandfather sold his property. Everyone had to leave, except for my family.
A big, ugly fence was constructed to separate us from our new neighbors. In a moment’s notice, the view from my window changed from a beautiful green field to a poorly-made concrete wall. I used to climb this wall and just sit there, looking for the childhood I had lost on the other side. This is when I became a writer. Fantasy became my way of escaping the grey, so I could continue to live in a world full of color and beauty. Then fantasy became life and life became writing.
Author Links: Facebook | Website | Goodreads