Sunday, 22 February 2015


Title: Fall of Knight
Author: Steven Cross
Genre: YA psychological thriller
Publisher: Booktrope Publishing
Release Date: April 7th, 2015

A normal teenager Dean Knight is not.

With a mental illness that threatens to take over his sanity; a sister who’s deep in her own problems; and a wasted mother who couldn’t care less about it all, Dean is left to battle real life on his own. School, bullies and medications are his realities.

Then there are also the ghosts, the hallucinations and of course – the monster.

In the middle of it all, when everything seems to lose purpose, hope comes shining down on Dean’s miserable life. Her name is Ella and for one reason or another, she actually wants to be close to Dean. With Ella’s help, the lost teenage boy decides that he could finally win a battle or two – both in real life and in his writing.

But hope is a tricky thing. And the monster seems to know that.

When secrets buried down for almost a decade come out in the open, what do you do?

Steve Cross’s first successful writing project was a play about a werewolf that his eighth grade English class performed. Though the play was never published, the warm fuzzy feeling from its public performance has never quite left Cross, who continues to sink his teeth into a variety of writing projects. His first publication was a haiku, followed by two middle grade novels published by POD publishers and a young adult novel published by Buck’s County Publishing.
A fanatical St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan; a lover of all kinds of YA fiction, as well as the writings of Dean Koontz and Stephen King; a fan of all kinds of music – from Abba to the Zac Brown band, Cross dreams of the day he will write a best-selling novel or sell a screenplay for seven figures, so he can retire and write more best-selling fiction.  Until that day, he and his wife Jean, Missourians born and bred, will continue to toil in the field of education and live in peace with their two dogs and two cats and wait around until their daughter Megan and son-in-law Sean give them grandchildren to spoil.



About The Book

 Title: Immigrant Soldier, The Story of a Ritchie Boy
Author: K. Lang-Slattery
Genre: Historical Fiction
immigrantcoverHerman watches in horror as his cousin and a friend are arrested by the SA. As a Jew, he realizes it is past time to flee his homeland, a decision that catapults him from one adventure to another, his life changed forever by the storm of world events.  Part coming-of-age story, part immigrant tale, part World War II adventure, Immigrant Soldier, The Story of a Ritchie Boy follows Herman as he evolves from a frightened and frustrated teenager looking for a place to belong into a confident and caring US Army Intelligence officer serving in the Third Army.  The reader is swept along as the hero experiences fear, romance, loyalty, disappointment, friendship, and compassion in his quest for an understanding of hate and forgiveness.

Author Bio

Kathryn Lang-Slattery (web)Kathryn Lang Slattery is a published author of fiction and non-fiction for youth and has become an expert on many aspects of the Ritchie Boys of WWII.
Born during World War II and raised in 1950s Southern California, she enjoyed a childhood filled with reading, drawing, and long days at the beach. College took her to Los Angeles where she studied art and English at UCLA, earning a BFA.  She then travelled to Mexico City where she did graduate work in art and education at the University of the Americas. The years afterward passed, filled with teaching art, English, and cooking, and traveling around the world, including a 2 year car trip through Central America, Europe, the Middle East and the Indian sub-continent. Later she returned to her hometown, where she raised a daughter and a son and devoted over 20 years to Girl Scouts as a volunteer. Finally she returned to her early love of writing, concentrating first on creating stories and articles for young people. She has been published in several highly rated magazines for the youth market, including Spider, Ladybug, Jack and Jill, Boys’ Life, and Faces.
Immigrant Soldier, The Story of a Ritchie Boy, her first adult novel, is based on her uncle’s World War II experiences.  More than a decade spent researching, interviewing Ritchie Boys, and turning a true story   into fiction became an odyssey of discovery.  “I wanted to tell his story,” she says, “because it was different from any other Holocaust story I had read. The young Jewish hero is not a victim, but a young man who gradually grows from a frightened and frustrated teenager, looking for a place to belong, into a confident US Army Intelligence officer who struggles with the conflicting emotions of hate and forgiveness.”
Kathryn lives in Laguna Beach, California, only steps from her childhood home, where she is surrounded by trees, birds, and her vegetable garden. Besides writing, her main interests are travel to foreign places, creative gourmet cooking, pastel painting, and time with family and friends. She finds tranquillity simply by looking out her large living-room windows to her view of one tall sycamore, her lush garden, and the natural hillsides beyond.





About The Book

Title: Junior Inquisitor
Author: Lincoln Farish
Genre: Dark Urban Fiction / Horror


Brother Sebastian is halfway up a mountain in Vermont, hell-bent on interrogating an old woman in ashack, when he gets the order to abandon his quest for personal vengeance. He has to find a missing Inquisitor, or, more likely, his remains. He’s reluctant, to say the least. Not only will he have to stop chasing the best potential lead he’s had in years, this job—his first solo mission—will mean setting foot in the grubby black hole of Providence, Rhode Island. And, somehow, it only gets worse…
If he’d known he would end up ass deep in witches, werewolves, and ogres, and that this mission would jeopardize not only his sanity but also his immortal soul, he never would’ve answered the damn phone.

Author Bio

Called an adventurer and quite possibly insane, Lincoln has traveled to many continents and countries on his own and at his country’s behest to determine from whence the darkness comes. Despite persistent rumors, Lincoln maintains that he had nothing to do with the tiger, was not involved in illicit wiener dog races, and has never used his knowledge of genetics to create a better life form.


Twitter: @LincolnFarish

Book Excerpts
Excerpt 1

A little after sundown, I drove past the auto repair garage where our safe house was located. I’d never been to the garage before, but I’d heard a few stories about it, none of which described the area as pleasant. Any time you go somewhere new, you want to do an initial recon. Where are the escape routes, where can you hide? Get a feel for the place and the neighborhood, get that all-important first impression so you can distinguish something normal from something strange. Admittedly, it was a gut-level thing, but my instructors had taught me that good observation would save you blood.
After circling a few blocks, I picked an open parking spot out of sight of the shop and far enough away that no one could connect me with the garage. It was a fair distance to walk, but I could get a better sense of the neighborhood on foot, and scout out locations to use for hiding or escaping in case things went bad right away. I eased out of the car, closing the door quietly, and scanned the area around me. When I saw it was clear, I grabbed my backpack and duffel—really, everything I owned—and headed back to the garage. Unless someone was really paying close attention, I would be forgotten with a glance. A cop might realize that everything I wore was dark and would blend easily into the shadows, but in this neighborhood, cops would be few and far between. There would be the occasional cruiser drive by, a so-called presence patrol, and if they saw a corpse or a house on fire they’d stop—other than that, they wouldn’t risk leaving the car or waste time fixing the perpetually broken.
I was in recon mode on the way to the garage, taking my time but trying not to be obvious about it. I looked hard at parked cars and up into the windows of nearby houses, but I didn’t see anything suspicious, like a stakeout or observation post. The neighborhood appeared to be working poor—two-story row houses with few people around now that the sun had gone down. I didn’t even see the usual trash and teenagers hanging out by the corner store, killing time and waiting for their big break to materialize. As I walked along, I could hear the occasional TV or conversation, but other than that, this part of town was quiet. That was both good and bad, but I took it as an omen. Something wasn’t right.

Excerpt 2

I took another step into the shop, pushing against the waves of evil. On the next set of shelves, I saw a severed hand in a large clear jar. The hand of a slain witch contains the knowledge of the deceased. The possessor then has that knowledge, all her spells and tricks. It’s one of the reasons witches were burned years ago...
A flash of movement from the other side of the room caught my eye. Two handmade Raggedy Ann style dolls were each held fast to the counter by a small black iron chain. The dolls were sitting slumped, as though alive and waiting for release. High-pitched, girlish voices came from them, full of hate, malice, and insanity. A sign in front of them said they were Hogaana Dolls.
A summoned spirit—a soul called from Hell—can be captured and enslaved by a strong or skilled witch. Trapped between here and Hell, the spirit can act as an oracle and tutor—a guide for witches trying to learn and experience new levels of power and what I’d call madness but she would refer to as “clear thinking” or “a deeper understanding.” The drawback is that a spirit is still ethereal and can escape easily unless tightly contained and constantly fed power to keep it here. The bound spirit can be transferred into a vessel to contain it in a form, a body...
My hands were shaking, my stomach roiled, and my eyes stung from the candles and incense. I wanted to flee...
I needed to leave and report back. This was beyond my abilities.
When I looked up, a tall, thin woman was staring at me from behind the counter. Her gray hair grew in clumps between patches of gnarled burn scars. She was dressed in a tight jumpsuit, stained with blood. Rings covered her hands, and I saw the deep purple of porphyrite in one.
Her face had an odd twist to it, as though someone had taken a screw, driven it into her nose, and turned it. She was a Screwface—a witch who thrived on pain and torture. A witch I wasn’t capable of breaking, or even dealing with. And now it was too late for me to escape.
Only a very special type of Inquisitor—a man without empathy, one who would be called a sociopath in the regular world—could deal with them. Formed into teams called Hammers, they’re elite, but they die even faster than regular Inquisitors. Not only do they train longer and harder than my regular Brethren, they receive special instruction on how to deal with Screwfaces. And despite all this training and conditioning, they’re still sometimes reduced to a pitiful weeping mess after one of their Purges.
Her smile reeked of madness and pain.
One of the dolls moved and shrilled, “Make it bleed.”
She glanced at it then raised the hand with the porphyrite ring, which was glowing and snapping in a purple and black nimbus. She was unleashing some spell; only magic was that mind-bending color. “Goodbye, false monk.”

Excerpt 3

“Go to apartment B. See what you can find out. If questioned, keep to our story. When you’re done, go to the car and wait for thirty minutes. If I’m not back by then, head to the rectory, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Understood.” Carrying his crucifix like it was a battle axe, he strode off toward the lights, the crowd, and the police.
I moved away using a side street. The police lights would destroy my night vision, and I needed to be able to see, especially in the shadows.
The neighborhood was typical middle class—small houses on small lots, a nice place to raise a family and grow old. There were few people out. Those who just had to get a look would be at the scene, but the smarter neighbors were already in bed.
I wanted to draw my weapon, but it was too public. Instead, I opened my jacket halfway so I could get to my Glock in a hurry. I walked the block around Penny’s apartment, but found nothing. I had to get closer to see if any minions were about.
Penny’s apartment was a squat two-story building with three police cars parked out front, and an officer keeping people behind crime scene tape. Further down the street, past Penny’s building, a Muscle stood off by himself, his face indistinct, like all his kind, even in the glare of the bright lights. He could’ve been in sentry mode, waiting to follow and report to his mistress, but it was doubtful—too many instructions tended to confuse Muscle. I slunk away, returning the way I’d come.
A few houses later, I cut through a yard and circled behind the Muscle, whose silhouette was clearly visible in the police car’s flashing lights. I did a quick check to make sure there were no witnesses. Drawing my pistol, I slid into position.

a Rafflecopter giveaway