FORBIDDEN LAUNCH TOUR CELEBRATION: Excerpt–A Vicious Attack

Well hello, beloved followers. As promised, today Feather Stone is guest posting as part of the Forbidden book launch tour. Check out the schedule listed below for her other appearances. 🙂 There’s also a giveaway and the book is FREE for the next few days. Details are below!

Today’s post features an excerpt from the novel I reviewed on Monday. Check out my review HERE.

Welcome to Forbidden’s book launch celebration

Better Wear Your Flak Jacket

FORBIDDEN eBOOK IS FREE

February 14th to 18th at AMAZON

Synopsis:

Year 2047, City of Samarra, capital of the Republic of Islāmic Provinces & Territories

Fifteen American travelers have vanished. Surrendering to Mayor Aamir’s demands, Captain Sharif becomes the reluctant keeper of his city’s bloody secret – and the witness, Eliza MacKay. The devout Muslim is horrified to discover that if he exposes the cover-up, his family will suffer dire consequences.

The CIA has the lying Sharif in their cross hairs. Sharif’s only hope is to prove his country’s government is free of guilt. Secretly, he hunts forensic evidence. Cryptic messages, backstabbing informants, and corruption threaten Sharif’s resolve to see justice served. When he discovers the shocking truth, he and MacKay become the targets of a ruthless killer.

Sharif is tortured by his attraction to the impetuous Eliza MacKay. In spite of her struggle with PTSD, he’s drawn to her vivacious personality. Islam forbids the intimacy he craves. In desperation to save Eliza, Sharif plots an act most forbidden and fatal.

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TODAY’S FEATURE IS – A Vicious Attack

City of Samarra, Republic of Islāmic Provinces & Territories

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Guardian Mosque, City of Samarra, RIPT

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Feigning sleep, Eliza listened to the sound of Sharif making coffee in his kitchen at the end of his shift. A breeze from the open window carried the scent of his clothes toward her. The distinct smell of gun-fired residue and blood made her gag. She decided not to wait for him to kick the bed to wake her. She got up and dressed in the bathroom. Without saying a word, Eliza zipped out to the hallway.

She listened as the ancient city of Samarra woke up to harmonic sounds. The city came to life each morning at six o’clock with the first call to prayer: Fajr, the prayer before sunrise. The haunting musical sound of the Muezzin called the devoted. Dogs, roused by the earnest supplication, barked. Even Eliza, who had no religious convictions, sat in quiet contemplation, deeply moved. She stilled her mind’s chatter and waited.

Waited for a thread of wisdom to be shared by The One Most High. Waited for merciful revelation of why she had survived and her little boys had suffered and died. Waited alone in the heavy silence.

With each of the four daily prayers, Eliza had watched in awe as the city’s ambiance shifted during prayer. Even within the compound walls, the Muslim faithful halted their activities for prayers. An air of tranquility was palpable. Even those who appeared less devout and ignored the religious practice slowed their pace. The Muezzin’s melodious voice reminded the devout of their connection with Allah, of the teachings of Islam’s prophet, Muhammad.

She had learned that everyone regardless of rank, wealth, sins, or honor stood shoulder to shoulder and intoned their praises to Allah, the forgiver of sins, the lord of peace and harmony. Women were segregated to the rear of the prayer hall, the musallah – for sake of modesty, Eliza had been told.

She eavesdropped on Sharif’s prayers. The change in his demeanor struck her. He became like a child singing songs of praise to an adoring father. His devotion to Islam and the teachings of the prophet Muhammad appeared to be based on genuine love, rather than fear of Allah’s punishment.

When Sharif had gone to bed, she listened and watched as the city’s soul burst forth. From her high vantage point, she could see the insane rush of traffic, businessmen competing for a cab, and women ushering their children to school. The vibrancy of the scene reminded Eliza of the excitement of Cairo. Old men bravely pushed carts of vegetables and fruit, others skillfully herded their goats among the passing vehicles. An air of expectancy, anticipation, even urgency in the way the citizens walked and talked spoke of their eagerness to get on with day.

She opened the kitchen window which offered view of the city. A few blocks away, a wide river rushed toward the Persian Gulf, a few thousand miles to the south. A treed park bordered its banks. She spotted a soccer field, possibly a school, and a two-story mall. Tall office buildings and luxury hotels in the distance dotted the downtown section. The four minarets of the city’s ancient Guardian Mosque reached high into the morning’s tangerine sky.

In so many ways, Samarra appeared like every other urban center stuck in the 1990’s, with a strong agricultural element. Adapting over thousands of years, the city had endured countless invasions and survived as a phoenix rising from the ashes time and time again. The land possessed a soul. It emanated an energy of an untouchable guru – indifferent and yet passionate, unconquerable and yet benevolent.

Eliza felt a connection to the land, its history, and its people. It was more than the exotic culture’s sensory seduction of spices, architecture, and mystical landscape. As the human race migrated out of Africa thousands of years ago, tribes had settled in the Middle East. Perhaps the ancient bones of her ancestors lay in unmarked graves beneath her feet. She sent a prayer to the old ones, just in case they were open to favor her with a miracle.

Eliza began making breakfast. She placed the frying pan on the little stove, careful to not wake her keeper. She made scrambled eggs with peppers and onions mixed in. Aromatic coffee infused a feeling of home.

Sharif had bought her a jar of blueberry jam. “For good behavior,” he had said as he set the glass jar onto the old wooden table with a smack, and left.

A white cloth-covered the small worn table. Well, it used to be white. It looked as though it had been used for multiple tasks, perhaps wiping up spills from the floor and soaking up blood from a wound. It appeared clean.

The aromas of street food vendors blended with the car exhaust, her eggs, and the blueberry jam on her bread. Eliza settled in for another long day keeping her distance from Sharif, and dodging her PTSD triggers.

She glanced around the room. It was getting smaller. Her heart pounded. She forced her shoulders to relax. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought as she forced down a mouthful of her breakfast. Yesterday she had pressed Sharif for time outside. His reply remained steadfast, “Not today.” When she had continued to push for more freedom, he threatened to put her in a regular cell and build a cement wall to keep her out of sight.

Over the past four days, she had developed a routine to pass the time. Yoga, meditation, snack, repeat. However, today she had reached the outer limits of controlling the PTSD, triggered by the walls closing in.

While Sharif slept, she planned to inform the day shift officer, Captain Khizar, she was going for a walk. She shivered. When Sharif had introduced him to her, Khizar barely acknowledged her. She had detected the smirk on the senior officer’s thin face. Her intuition emphasized the need to tread carefully around the officer who walked with a limp.

Eliza wore the required black uniform, put on her polished work boots, and pushed her hair up under the black cap. At the bottom of the stairs she listened for sounds of the men. She approached Khizar’s office and sighed with relief to find he had left. Going down a short hallway, Eliza turned right towards the crew quarters’ door. She hesitated, listening for sounds that indicated the mood of the cops.

Belly laughter and smacks against the wall made the door shudder. The men were absorbed in their amusement and might not be interested in challenging her request.

Eliza knocked on the door, careful to sound neither cowardly, nor aggressive. The door was swung open by a constable.

She held her breath. Skilled at hiding her emotions, Eliza looked into the officer’s eyes. The officer relaxed a little. An intimidating smirk grew on his face. Three other men in the room gathered behind him.

The day sergeant, a heavy-set man, came forward and said in a trivializing manner, “The whore is mine. Leave her to me.”

The sergeant sauntered up to her. His eyes lit up like those of a child about to open a birthday gift. He lowered his gaze to her dark boots, and then raised his focus to her mid-section, then to her chest. Finally, he looked at her eyes.

Eliza did not change her expression from that of bland indifference to his suggestive piercing stare. He had called her a whore, but she repressed the impulse to admonish him. She resisted the urge to put her hands on her hips. That would be sexually suggestive and body language might defeat her faster than the wrong choice of words.

“My apologies for the interruption,” she said in Arabic, her voice trembling despite her resolve. “I’m going for a walk.” She swung around toward the exit door.

The officers chuckled as the sergeant stepped forward and blocked her. His face came uncomfortably close to hers. He spoke with a grin, accompanied by the rhythmic flexing and gyrating of his hips.

“Welcome. Come in.” The three men cheered as the sergeant grabbed her shirt and pulled her into the room.

 

LAUNCH SCHEDULE

February 13:

Review by Lily Eva Blake

February 14:

Guest Post with Pat Garcia

Review and Guest Post with Juneta Key

February 15:

Featured in OPAL Magazine

Guest Post with Lily Eva Blake

February 16:

Review and Showcase with Nicki Elson

Showcase with Jennifer Lane

February 17:

Showcase with Nancee Cain

Interview with Tyler Wiegmann

February 18:

Review and Showcase with Yolanda Renee

Showcase with Michelle Willms

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Romance Under Fire
Author Feather Stone / F. Stone / Judy Weir:

On our cattle ranch, when an animal was in distress or injured, I was put in charge of nursing it back to health. Never mind that I was just a kid and hated the sight of blood, but I had to muster up the courage to apply home remedies. My survival rate was pretty good. It seemed like a foregone conclusion that I would progress to nursing – humans. After one year into nurses training, I bolted. Bed pans and chronic diseases pushed me in different direction; a career of dealing with drug addicts, murder, suicide, fatalities, and biker gangs. In 1983 I graduated with honors as a paramedic and worked in the City of Edmonton’s Emergency Services.

For the next twenty years, I came face to face with scenes most people would rather not think about. I loved it. Having experienced life in the most deadly and gut-wrenching events, and work alongside the police service, I gained the fodder for creating intense novels.

My first novel, The Guardian’s Wildchild, was published by Omnific Publishing in 2011. The setting is on a naval ship, under the command of a surely man who is under suspicion of treason. When a battered woman is brought to his ship for execution, he has no idea that she is about to turn his disciplined life into chaos – and that she is no ordinary woman. The Guardian’s Wildchild has a rating of 4.1 at Amazon.

Social Media Links: Stop by and say hello at:

Romance Under Fire Blog

Facebook: FSauthor

Twitter: Featherwrites

Pinterest

Goodreads

 

 

 

 

 

REDEMPTION RELEASE BOOK TOUR

Good morning everyone! I’m participating in the book tour for Jessica Therrien’s release of Redemption, the last installment in the Children of the Gods series. I’ve included an excerpt for your enjoyment.

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Hello All! I hope you enjoy this little peek at the final book in my CHILDREN OF THE GODS series.

I traced my fingers below the gash on the right side of his chest and another on his left side. His collarbone was scraped from sliding against asphalt and his shoulder had been punctured by something.

I reached for my bracelet. “Let me—”

“Don’t.” He grabbed my wrist and stopped me before I could draw the blood. “You’ve given too much today.”

“It’s okay I—”

“I’ll be fine.” His fingers traced the skin beneath the hem of my shirt. “How about you? Any cuts or scrapes?”

“I don’t know.” I swallowed at the warm feel of his touch. “You should check.”

He smiled and our eyes stayed locked as he lifted my tank top over my head. I brushed my limp brown hair aside, and he pulled me closer. Skin on skin. Even after such a day, I could still smell the lingering hint of lime and warmth on his body. As he moved his fingertips up my back, he grazed a sore spot I didn’t know was there, making me flinch. “Just a scrape.”

His lips tickled my shoulder, and the feel of him so close was too much. My fingers curled into his hair and rested on the back of his neck.

“Shower?” I whispered in an exhale.

Without answering, he took my hand and led me to the bathroom.

The steam wrapped us in silk sheets of vapor. Warmth soaked into every pore. Clean water dripped from our eye-lashes and painted our flushed lips. It washed our wounds and rinsed away all the blood and pain. Breath and skin and bodies so close. A blissful ending to an otherwise un-worthy day. 

Lead Council member, Christoph, is dead by Elyse’s hand, and Descendants have begun to emerge, exposing their secret to the world. Some see this as the prophecy come to fruition, but the prophecy caries a heavy consequence. It was never meant to be as peaceful as most had hoped.

Humans and Descendants struggle to live together in a world that isn’t ready for such a change. America is divided. Those who glorify the supernatural race believe Descendants truly are the gods they claim relation to. Others see them as a threat.

When Elyse gives birth to the next generation oracle, she sees one final vision—war. The destruction of the country’s major cities, and the end of America as we know it.

After her daughter is born, Elyse finds herself without the ability she needs to predict the future. Desperate to save the world from such conflict, she puts her faith in the hope that Descendants are the key to survival. After all, they have the power to supply a broken society with the means to survive.

Only from the ashes can a new world be born.

GOODREADS | AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE (Links available soon) 

Elyse’s Story…

OPPRESSION (Book #1)

UPRISING (Book #2)

REDEMPTION (Book #3)

The Children of the Gods Series

 

 

The Descendants have waited long enough for freedom… 

About The Author

JESSICA THERRIEN spent most of her life in the small town of Chilcoot, California, high up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. In this town of nearly 100 residents, with no streetlights or grocery stores, there was little to do but find ways to be creative. Her mother, the local English teacher, inspired her to do all things artistic, and ultimately instilled in her a love for language. Jessica currently lives in Southern California with her husband and their two children.

 

You can visit her online at

jessicatherrien.com

 

 

 

 

 

AUTHOR MARK KOOPMANS ON WHY HE WRITES

Good morning everyone! Today is an exciting day in my life and the life of my blog. I am hosting my first guest. What makes it special is that my guest is author Mark Koopmans, who’s been close to my heart since lilicasplace was still a ‘baby blog’.

I didn’t know how the blogging community worked at the time, so I’d visit various blogs and leave comments on posts I liked. One of Mark’s impressed me, so I left a comment. He shocked me when he made his way back here and commented. When I told him I was ‘honored’ by his reply, it affected him in some kinda way, because he wrote a post about it! Read it here. I think I was enamored with the fact that he was a journalist and the winner of a memoir award (which I come to find, happens to be for REVIVAL!) 

I’m proudly taking part in Mark’s current book tour for the release of Revival, the book I reviewed a couple of weeks ago. You can find it here. You’ll also find author information there too!

Just about everyone who follows me knows my background. Writing is one of my biggest outlets. It’s one of the few creative strategies I use to help myself and my brain heal. I love reading about Mark’s stories and what inspires him, so busy-body that I am,  I just ask. As long as there’s some wine layin’ around, he doesn’t mind answering. 😀

Take it away, Mark …

Aloha,

As I continue the REVIVAL – The Donald Braswell Story Tour, I’ve been looking forward to today. Eva and I know each other a couple of years, and as her regular readers are aware, she’s a fighter, and a true friend with the hugest heart.

Eva asked me to describe why I write.

I had to stop, take a sip of cheap boxed red wine before I answered with a deep, quiet conviction.

“Oh, anyone can write, love. I’m just in it for the money. Thanks for hosting and tomorr— ”

What? You want the real reason?

Easy. I love using the power of words in a positive way. (My superhero name would be WordWarriorManDude-Guy. A handful, perhaps, but we’d fix it in CP edits.)

I was a beat reporter my first few writing gigs, but there was (is) enough bad news reported, so I thought, why not focus on the “silent majority.”

Every day, I drove around spacious neighborhoods, (and we all have a story to tell, right?) I decided to get to know some of our readers.

Armed with my trusty photo ID, reporter’s notepad, recorder (and extra batteries after the first time the darn thing died) I soon wrote features on:

• A Holocaust survivor
• A 99-year-old former jazz player who worked in Chicago during the Roaring ‘20s
• Several veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan
• A Rwandan Army officer in Cocoa Beach—who’d never touched the ocean
• Several pastors who were planting new churches
• A Mom who lost her son in a motorbike crash
• A Dad who lost his son in Afghanistan

For those last two features, my goal was never, (and never will be), to “ambulance chase” the parents, instead I just let them talk about—and share—the goodness of their child—and what we, the local community had lost.

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In the past, I’ve worked as a cowboy server in France, a drunken clown in Spain, a busboy in Holland, a restaurant manager in England and a bank teller in Florida.

All those jobs had positive moments, but earning the trust of an interviewee—and honoring that trust—via the final, published piece… well, to me there was (is) no better feeling.

That’s why I write.

Why do you write?

Tomorrow, I’ll be visiting Lisa Buie-Collard who wants to know a little of my history and what life was like growing up in literary Ireland.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

WAIT EVERYBODY!! Don’t leave yet!! There’s a giveaway for some really cool prizes! Click the Rafflecopter link below the prize list to enter!

● GRAND PRIZE (2 winners): Donald Braswell to sing (Happy Birthday/Anniversary) via
Skype or phone call. (A unique gift idea!)
● 1st PLACE PRIZE: Signed Donald Braswell CD/REVIVAL book combo
● 2nd, 3rd and 4th PLACE PRIZES: Signed copies of REVIVAL (by Donald and Mark)
● 5th, 6th and 7th PLACE PRIZES: Signed copies of Donald Braswell CDs
● 8th, 9th, and 10th PLACE PRIZES: Signed Donald Braswell 8×10 picture

a Rafflecopter giveaway

If any of you missed it, here is the Season 3 audition video for America’s Got Talent. Talk about turning the crowd around!

Go to donaldbraswell.com to find out more about this amazing man.

 

 

 

You can find my beloved boxed-wine drinking buddy at markkoopmans.blogspot.com.

 

 

 

If anyone has questions, leave them in my comments! I’m sure Mark will be stalking checking back periodically during the day, and will answer any questions or respond to any comments you have!