Author: Mary Ting
Genre: YA Fantasy/Paranormal
Cover Designer: Naija Qamber Designs
Hosted by: Lady Amber’s PR
Book Title: The Curse
Author Name: H.L. Girton
Name of series and book number in series: The Accalia Series Book 2
Genre: YA paranormal fantasy
Publisher: self-publish with Amazon and createspace
Date of Publication: 2018
Formats available: ebook and print
Cover Artist: KL Donn
Genesis Berkley’s place in this world is more confusing now than ever. After struggling for months to bring her aunt’s murderer to justice, she feels lost in the turmoil that his death has solved nothing. To make matters worse, the love of her life has gone, leaving in shame. Disappointment sets in and Genesis must find her way back to herself. Only the acceptance of who she must become will set her free.
Liam Volkov is on the run. He has become the monster that Genesis fears they all are. The love and trust between them is broken. The only way to free himself from the agony of becoming someone he hates is to face the consequences of his actions. He must cleanse himself for redemption.
With the prophecy looming over them, they find themselves at a crossroad. Can they learn to accept their fate and find their way back to one another or will their path lead to destruction?
I heard the whistle of the metal as it was unsheathed from its case. The blade vibrated quickly from the slick movement. I felt the sharp point when the young man, hidden by the shadows, pressed it into my cheek. It sliced my face open with little pressure. It was well kept and sharp. So sharp it could easily cut through bone.
The blade was pressed against my neck, ready to end it all. I closed my eyes and tears spilled out. This was it. My life would end at their mercy to finally give me the death that I deserved. I thought of the night I first saw her. Genesis. My love. Seeing the terror on her face as she fled for her life broke my heart. I was glad I made the choice to step in and defend her then. It was no different with Thomas, and if dying at their hands meant she lived for eternity because of that one choice, then I served my purpose.
I remembered the way her lips felt the first time I kissed her. I took away her heartache, if only for a moment. It was blissful. Her kiss was as sweet as honey. I would never get to kiss those gentle lips again. Every one of my choices were worth it to have had her love for the time I did. Every argument, every kiss, every stolen touch, all of it worth it. I would do it all again for her if it meant that she would live on.
I felt the sharp edge cut slowly into my skin. The blood trickled down my throat as the sharp point found its place on my neck that it was looking for. I was ready. Death had finally found me.
To discover who she is, she must first believe…
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Award-winning author Casey L. Bond resides in Milton, West Virginia with her husband and their two beautiful daughters. When she’s not busy being a domestic goddess and chasing her baby girls, she loves to write young adult and new adult fiction.You can find more information about Bond’s books via the following links:
Daughter of Nótt, your sacrifice will bring the end.
When Serena returns home from a day of work, she witnesses a terrifying event which uproots her quiet existence. Attacked by a vicious creature, she is saved by a mysterious figure and introduced to the Einherja, warriors trained to protect Earth from demons.
Serena soon finds out she is the descendant of an Aesir god, and her recurring dreams might just be the answer to Avonmore’s ritualistic murders. Will she be able to protect her hometown, or will she be forced to sacrifice her new love?
Daughter of Nótt, your sacrifice will not be in vain.
A tale of passion, loss and self-awakening, Daughter Of The Nightis the debut release of Tiki Kos, and the first in the Daughter Of The Night trilogy.
For fans of Mortal Instruments and Buffy, let yourself get sucked into the whirlwind of adventure and Norse Mythology.
She followed the dirt road until the willow trees became pine trees and she arrived at the highway. Both legs grew tired as she trudged down the road that took her to the outskirts of Avonmore. She crept through a backyard, ducking underneath the patio to avoid being noticed by the family sitting watching a movie. Opening the fence gate, she ran across the lawn and into another empty backyard. As she tried to wiggle the next gate open, a loud creak ﬁlled the quiet night. Her eyes grew big and she shook her head. You’re going to wake someone up. Gripping the rough edges of the wood, Serena hoisted herself up and over the fence. Letting out relieved sigh, she landed softly on the ground. Cat woman has nothing on me! Whew!
She wiped the sweat rolling off her forehead. More yards were crossed until Serena reached the main street. The Avonmore pub light sputtered, followed by a hum, loud music, and chattering from inside. The police had barricade tape blocking the front door of the Steaming Mugs. Serena ducked underneath the tape and tried to turn the doorknob, rolling her eyes at her belief that it may have been unlocked. Annoyed with herself, she made her way up the main street. A light thudding came from behind her. She whipped around, but nobody was there. An eerie wave of cold air went through Serena, down to her bones. Her body rippled from the chill, sending goosebumps down her spine. Nothing was behind her, but she ran the rest of the way to her house. She scurried through the door and locked it. One knee after the other, Serena crawled on the ﬂoor to the front window and slowly pulled back the curtains, looking outside. You are being paranoid. Chill out, Serena.
Whatever she thought was behind her refused to pop out of the darkness, even after ten minutes. Each knee throbbed when she arose from the hardwood ﬂoor. She ﬂipped the light switches to get out of the darkness and opened the wooden closet in the front entry. Digging through the empty boxes and winter clothing, she pulled out a purple backpack. She grabbed her family photo album from the rickety book shelf propped against the wall. Gently placing it in her backpack, she glanced around the room to see if there was anything else she wanted to take. Few photos hung on the walls, but she pulled a couple off, placing them in the photo album. She headed straight into the bathroom, opened the door to the vanity, and pulled out her hair straighteners, along with her favorite shampoo and conditioner. Twisting the lid off the shampoo, she sniffed the top.
Oh coconut, my hair has missed your mystical detangling powers. Laughing to herself, she put the shampoo bottle into a plastic bag before she placed it in the backpack. Everything else was in her room. Opening the dresser, she pulled out as many clothes as she could ﬁt and shoved them into the bag, letting out exasperated grunt while doing so. A puff of air came out of the backpack as she struggled to zip it up. “Whew!” A noise came from downstairs. Quickly, she looked through the bedroom window. A dark ﬁgure stood in front of the door. Whoever they were, they raised their leg up, slamming it down into the door. After a few minutes of silence, the high-pitched shatter of glass came from the living room, and the hardwood boards let out a moaning creak. Heavy footsteps came stomping up the stairs. Serena pulled out both of her daggers and hid behind the bedroom door. The footsteps stopped for a minute as the bathroom door creaked. Then, they continued down the hall. As the steps came closer, the smell of rotting ﬂesh ﬁlled Serena’s nose, making her stomach queasy.
YA Author of Daughter of The Night (Halloween 2017) House Stark, Rebel, Sailor Scout, Hufflepuff, Cthulhu obsessed, Board game addict.
Born and raised in Alberta, Canada. She started working on her YA novel Daughter of The Night in 2016. The first book in the trilogy. Tiki has been married to her husband Joel since 2015. She is a mother of two wonderful children. When she isn’t working on her novels, you can find her drinking coffee and eating sushi. She enjoys baking/canning, reading fantasy books, gardening and playing video games.
The Kiche Chronicles, book 1
From one generation to the next, legends of good and evil have been passed down around Indian campfires. With each passing generation, less is believed. To the young, they’re just stories, but to the elders, they are warnings.
In the woods, which border between the reservation and the Everglades, four teenage Cree braves recite an ancient ritual. Not understanding the words they say or the implications of their actions, they call forth a demon which had been cast into the netherworld with no chance of escape . . . unless man called it back. Free, it has one plan; build an army of beasts, and ultimately, become immortal by feeding on the spirit of the one destined to become the Kiche—the Sky Spirit Goddess.
It has been foretold that the gates of the netherworld will be opened and it will take the wiles and courage of a sixteen-year-old girl, whose skin is as white as winter’s snow, to send the demons back and save an entire nation.
Pamoon, left abandoned at birth on a Cree reservation, has been marked with a flame on both her neck and left palm. All her life, they have been a nuisance, but now they mark her destiny. With the fate of her friends’ lives on the line, will she have the courage to pick up the gauntlet and walk the path the fates chose for her before her birth? In EVIL AWAKENED, Pamoon and her wolf cub, Scout, begin a journey that may end in her demise or might possibly take her to worlds only humans can imagine. A journey to both heaven and hell. A path only the one destined to become the Kiche—the Sky Spirit Goddess—can travel. She’ll need help if she is to survive; help only the spirits can provide. Let’s pray it arrives in time.
Whatever evil man creates, only man can defeat.
The woods have always been sacred to Native Americans, but sacred doesn’t always equate with good. Like the sweet smell of Pine sap mixed with the pungent odor of decaying humus, spirits run the gamut of good and bad.
Spirits always hear the cries of those who call them; tonight . . . they’ll answer.
March 2, 12:10 a.m.
The smell of the Slash pines and Live oaks permeated the thick blanket of humidity. The temperature remained tolerable, but with air so thick, it was as if the clouds had descended from the sky and fallen upon the earth. The stillness of night and cover of foliage made the environment more oppressive. To a tourist or stranger, the weather might have seemed unbearable, but to those who grew up in and around the Florida Everglades, it was just another early spring evening.
Bobby and his friends huddled around a small, dimly lit fire nestled in the woods between the city limits of Swamp Ridge and the Indian reservation. Sweat poured from their skin, and alcohol swam through their bloodstream. Their teenage, liquor-infused imaginations burned hotter than the heat emanating from the glowing embers. Beer cans and an empty bottle of cheap gin littered the makeshift campground.
“I’m not sure about this,” Bobby, the most rational of the four, said. “You know what Powaw says about this stuff.”
Scott laughed at Bobby’s apprehension. “Don’t be such an âpakosîs,” he slurred. “We’re just screwing around. Besides, Powaw’s nuts. All the elders are crazy.”
Glassy-eyed, Bobby glared at his friend and pointed a stick in his direction. “Don’t call me a mouse. It just doesn’t feel right messing with this kind of thing.”
Mike, the alpha of the group, took his last swig of beer and crushed the can, belching at the same time. “You two losers are always arguing. Let’s do this.” Bobby watched him look over at Ralph, lying on the ground, passed out with pine needles stuck to his face. “Wake up the lightweight,” Mike said. “He has the spell.”
“They’re not spells,” Bobby mumbled under his breath. “We’re not witches.”
“Witches are girls, warlocks are guys,” Scott corrected.
Grunting, Bobby threw his hands up. “Witches, warlocks, it doesn’t matter.”
Mike took a step toward Bobby, his hands balled into fists. “What’d you say?”
“Relax, Mikey,” Scott said, stepping between them. “Every time you get drunk, you want to pick a fight with one of us.”
“I’m not drunk. I just don’t like when Einstein over here says shit under his breath.”
Bobby eyeballed his friend, squinting, trying to erase the double vision. “I said we’re not warlocks, we’re Cree braves. We don’t cast spells; we conduct ceremonies to awaken spirits.”
Scott shoved him, jokingly. “You’ve been spending way too much time with the elders. We’re just out here screwing around. You know as well as I do, this stuff is just legend. These things don’t actually work.”
“Then why bother? Let’s just clean up and go home.”
Mike brushed the dirt off his jeans, tied his long, black hair back in a knot on top of his head, and smirked. “We do it because it’s cool. There is nothing for us to do back on the reservation; at least this gives us a reason to come out here and drink. If you’re scared, little âpakosîs, then go home.”
Tossing the stick into the fire, Bobby’s face crimsoned. “I’m here, aren’t I,” he said. Balancing himself precariously, he shoved Ralph with the toe of his boot. “Wake up.”
Mike splashed beer on his friend’s face to speed up the process.
Drunkenly, Ralph slapped at the alcohol, smudging the dirt on his face, then stumbled to his feet.
After giving Ralph a few minutes to focus his thoughts, Bobby and the others formed a circle around the fire. Taking in the view, he thought of how all his friends looked different, yet they were, at their very core, the same. He was the smallest of the four, but the smartest. Ralph was the quiet one, yet he could be dared into trying anything. Scott was the biggest, the group’s protector. He’d stand up to anyone who dared insult his friends. And then there was Mike. Mike was the athlete, the one who seemed to go through puberty when he was ten, and always acted as if he had too much testosterone rushing through his veins.
All different, yet the same. They all had an olive skin tone with a complexion most girls would kill for. They all had straight, silky, black hair which they wore long and straight. And they were all proud of their Native American heritage.
All different, yet the same.
Bobby’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Ralph clearing his throat. Turning his attention to his friend, he watched Ralph pull the ritual he had torn out of his grandfather’s old book from his pocket, unfold the paper, and start reading.
“Kihci Macimanito, Pimihawin Mistikwan, koskonowewin. Tatawaw ota. Kîyânaw natohtamawin kiya ôma wîcihiwewin. Kiya katikaweyin peyakotipiyimisiwin ohtâyihk ana asahpicekewin kiya.”
The trio repeated the Cree words none of them understood and could barely pronounce.
Bobby eyed Ralph, who had stopped reading and gruffed his frustration. “If you want the spirits to hear us, we need to say this like we mean it.”
The four exchanged glances; Ralph nodded and started reading from the beginning. This time, the others repeated the words as if they believed whatever it was they were saying.
The still, stale air was broken by a breeze that whistled through the woods causing the rustling of leaves and branches, creating the sound of shaking maracas. The sudden change in the environment seemed to energize Ralph, who began to recite the words with increased attitude and volume. The others followed suit, and with every word emoted, the winds surged and swirled.
The gusts swept the dirt, pine needles, and dying embers into the night, making them feel like bee stings striking Bobby’s face. An unexplained fear began to bubble inside him as he slapped the dirt from his eyes. Trembling, he tore the paper from Ralph’s hand to stop him from repeating the ritual. Crumpling it in his fist, he threw the paper towards the fire. An acrid blast of wind blew it away from the flames and swept it toward the trees.
The hair on the back of Bobby’s neck tingled. “I don’t like the way this feels,” he whispered, dread dripping from his words. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The others must have felt the same way, for they hastily grabbed their packs and started running.
As Bobby raced through the low-branched pines, he thought he heard Mike. The squeal was so short-lived, he couldn’t be sure; his fear forced him to run faster. With each burst of wind, he heard another one of his friends cry out. The combination of running, alcohol, and adrenaline made him want to throw up; he choked it down and kept moving. Turning back toward the noise, Bobby saw nothing through the curtain of night. The air, thicker and heavier than before, forced him to breathe through his mouth. Turning forward, he glimpsed a low hanging branch in his peripheral vision—too little, too late. The bow smacked his forehead, knocking him to the dirt. Instinctively, his hand went to his cheek; he felt the sharp sting of the gash and the wet warmth of fresh blood. His feet scrambling, his hands clawing, it took all his resolve to put one foot in front of the other. His legs finding a rhythm, he sprinted onward.
Seeing the lights of the reservation through the thickness of leaves, Bobby emitted a short sigh of relief before one last gust of wind struck his face. His eyes screamed in horror and his vocal cords danced in pain, but sound never moved past his lips.
Mark Adduci, writing as J. M. LeDuc, is a native Bostonian, who transplanted to South Florida in 1985. He shares his love and life with his wife, Sherri and his daughter, Chelsea.
Blessed to have had a mother who loved the written word, her passion was passed on to him. It is in her maiden name he writes.
J.M. LeDuc’s first novel, “Cursed Blessing,” won a Royal Palm Literary Award in 2008 as an unpublished manuscript in the thriller category and was published in 2010. The rest of the Trilogy of the Chosen: “Cursed Presence” and “Cursed Days” followed in 2012, as well as a novella, “Phantom Squad”–a prequel to the trilogy. “Cornerstone,” the continuation of the Phantom Squad Series was published in 2013 to critical acclaim.
“SIN” is the first book in the new Sinclair O’Malley Series.
J.M. is a proud member of the prestigious International Thriller Writers (ITW) as well as the Florida Writers Association (FWA) and loves to interact with his fans. He can be reached at email@example.com and on Facebook on his author page.