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I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE SWORD & THE SOPHMORE by B.P. Sweany Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: B.P. Sweany

Pub. Date: July 9, 2024

Publisher: Th3rd World Studios

Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook (Read by Tami Stronach, The Childlike Princess from the NeverEnding Story)

Pages: 297

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/THE-SWORD-THE-SOPHMORE

Check out the 3WS shop and get 15% off on EVERYTHING in the store!

“Terrifically entertaining! …a whirlpool of teenage hormones, high-school life and Arthurian magic. Hilarious and engaging!” — Diana Gabaldon, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Outlander series

Arlynn Rosemary Banson is an atypical sixteen-year-old—the cool, popular outsider, effortlessly straddling the line between divas and dorks. Her forever young mother, Jennifer, is dedicated to making her life awkward by trying to be her friend. Her father, Alan, is a workaholic history professor who barely acknowledges his family’s existence. Her boyfriend, Benz, the quarterback and homecoming king, has just broken up with her, while her best friend, Joslin, bears reluctant witness to Rosemary’s romantic drama. But nothing prepares any of them for a Welsh foreign exchange student named Emrys Balin. Emrys looks like a teenager, but he seems to act much, much older.

Rosemary discovers she is part of the Lust Borne Tide, children born to the royal line of King Uther Pendragon who are imbued with mystical powers after being conceived in lust. Rosemary’s parents are Guinevere and Lancelot, banished by King Arthur to twenty-first century suburban America prior to Rosemary’s birth as punishment for their affair. Rosemary is the third in the Lust Borne line, after King Arthur and his son Mordred, the latter of whom has traveled to the future to continue the line of the Lust Born Tide by retrieving Rosemary and returning her to the late fifth century to conceive a child with her. But Rosemary has other plans—plans that involve training under Emrys and kicking Mordred’s butt, as long as it doesn’t interfere with prom or getting back with her boyfriend Benz.

Packed with action, emotion, and humor, The Sword and the Sophomore goes beyond the Camelot you know with an Arthurian tale fit for the modern world. Combining sword fights and epic quests with the real-life teenage issues of fitting in, sexual agency, and profound personal loss; this fresh take on the classic story of what it means to wield Excalibur and all the power it entails will make you rethink the power of legend.

REVIEWS:

“A tongue-in-cheek, self-aware Arthurian fantasy set in a 21st century American suburb that’s anchored by an empathetic, hilarious, whip-smart, fierce teen protagonist. The Sword and the Sophomore almost makes me want to write a young adult novel. Almost.”— Pierce Brown, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Red Rising Saga

“Captivating worldbuilding and an irresistible main character. I couldn’t put it down.”— A.G. Riddle, internationally bestselling author of The Origin Mystery Trilogy and The Lost Colony Trilogy 

“What wonderful storytelling, for any age! Loved this book and especially the incredible protagonist—I would have loved to have known her in school! An excellent read!”— Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author of the Krewe of Hunters series

“Dark forces from an ancient world descend on a high school near you. The Sword and the Sophomore is funny, scary, astute, and up-to-the minute. The pages turn themselves and you’ll be cheering the unforgettable heroine on every single one.”— Peter Abrahams, New York Times bestselling author of the Edgar Award-winning young adult mystery Reality Check and the Agatha Award-winning Echo Falls series for younger readers

Excerpt:

Chapter 1  

Sixteen years ago, give or take a millennium.  

She stumbles outside the building made of reflective glass and red stone, the  contractions noticeably ripping through her body. Two steps. Three steps. She loses her  footing again, reaching for the wall beside the doors that slide open and closed of their  own accord. She catches herself before she falls, but just barely.  

I hide behind a tree as her water breaks. The people in aqua-blue vestments come  to her aid, unfurling around her beneath the portico that reads South Entrance Hospital  Pavilion.  

The baby is coming early.  

When the soon-to-be mother is asked her name, the reply catches in her throat.  She groans once, twice. “Jennifer,” she says. When asked the name of the baby’s father,  she answers, “My husband’s name is Alan.”  

Neither “Jennifer” nor “Alan” are their given Christian names, but I will maintain  this ruse on their behalf.  

I saw Alan earlier that morning. He and Jennifer were standing outside as I  walked by their house. Alan told Jennifer he was taking “a day trip sailing on the  Chesapeake Bay” with some “friends from the pub.” Jennifer nodded, saying something  in reply that I couldn’t hear from a distance.  

Whilst observing them these last few weeks, I’d pieced together that they arrived  in this place, in this time, roughly seven months ago. Right after Alan and Jennifer  discovered she was pregnant and their world turned upside down. Neither of them carried  around those personal communication devices people called “cell phones.” Jennifer  walked to the hospital because, I assumed, she could not yet afford a low-slung metal  carriage.  

Alan never had the time nor the inclination to sail when I knew him, but the water  had always been his escape. Not so long ago, it was Jennifer’s escape as well. When her  husband was away, she would often rendezvous with Alan at his lake cabin, far from  prying eyes. Even when Jennifer couldn’t make it to the lake, a passageway beneath the  stone bridge near her home allowed for many stolen moonlit kisses. 

Jennifer loved Alan, and Alan loved Jennifer. They thought they could carry on  with their illicit affair indefinitely, but theirs was the worst-kept secret in the kingdom.  They were always being watched.  

It seemed the water was no longer a shared experience for Alan and Jennifer.  Nothing in their life seemed shared, really. The conversation I witnessed this morning  was the same exchange they had every morning these last two weeks: Alan lamenting his  commitments, Jennifer silently suffering from loneliness. It was as if she could not  summon the courage to impose on him after he’d already sacrificed so much for her. His  best friend, his kingdom. All of it gone. Even in the short time I’d been here watching  them, I saw how that sacrifice weighed on Alan, in the way he withdrew from Jennifer’s  touch at times. I’d catch a wistful glint in his smoky blue eyes when he thought no one  was looking. His eyes to the east. Always to the east.  

This is not to suggest that Alan and Jennifer are alone in this world. The other  person in their lives is a man, or a boy, depending on your perspective. Jennifer is still  young, nineteen. Alan is in his thirties. Emrys Balin—that is what people call him here at  least—appears to be somewhere between the two in age.  

It is Emrys waiting for Jennifer at the hospital.  

I walk carefully behind a large man as I follow Jennifer into the hospital, using his  girth to shield me from view. I sit on the opposite side of the room of the sick people,  slumped in a chair, my face buried in a thin book of pictures that I grab off a nearby  table. I’m still within earshot of Jennifer and Emrys, but barely. I peer over my book. An  individual wearing the customary aqua-blue vestments taps her fingers on a board of  individual lettered cubes while looking at a bright rectangle of illuminated words and  asks Jennifer questions. Jennifer refers to Emrys as a “close family friend.”  

After a few more questions, Jennifer is surrounded by several more people in  aqua-blue. The one giving the orders is distinguished by a long white coat. She is the one  they call “doctor.” I hear someone call her, “Dr. Mirren.” They take Jennifer into the  delivery room. Emrys does not follow her. He stands watching as Jennifer is wheeled  away on a bed, then turns in my direction.  

I lean in close to the large man to shield me from view. The man looks at me,  fidgets uncomfortably. I know that Emrys will eventually sense my presence, but I am  not ready for our reunion. Not yet.  

The delivery was quick. Mother and child are resting now, attended to by a midwife. I  hide in the small basin room attached to their larger room; the door cracked open enough for me to hear their conversation. The midwife just asked Jennifer about her English  accent. I suspect the magical herbs they gave her during the procedure are doing the  talking, as Jennifer is now presenting an inspired, albeit completely imagined, biography.  She was a member of the British Archery Team before a surprise pregnancy derailed her  Olympic ambitions, forcing her to move to the States with her fiancé. Her competency  with a bow and arrow makes this lie believable. Jennifer is skilled with a lot of  weapons—swords, axes, slings, bo staffs… Her father taught her how to use them,  famously bragging to his friends on more than one occasion, “My daughter will grow up  to be more prince than princess.”  

Jennifer had a beautiful baby girl, as Emrys and I knew she would. She named her  daughter “Arlynn Rosemary.” The name carries sentimental value that is obvious to me,  although not to most. “Rosemary” is a version of Jennifer’s original middle name,  Rosmarinus. “Arlynn” is a combination of her two husband’s names, Arthur and Alan.  Arthur was Jennifer’s first husband and Alan’s best friend. Arthur didn’t want to have any  more kids after his son was born. He didn’t mean to hurt Jennifer by neglecting to tell her  about the bastard he had with another woman—just as Jennifer didn’t mean to fall in love  with Alan’s best friend.  

Jennifer and Rosemary have fallen fast asleep after another successful feeding.  The nurse retrieves Rosemary, tucks her into her crib, and exits the room.  

I squint as I open the door and enter Jennifer’s room. My eyes have not adjusted  to these hard artificial lights, preferring the muted glow of a thick-wicked candle. If  Jennifer wakes, she might recognize me; there is only so much that can be concealed by a  white doctor’s coat, bright lights, and a pair of eyeglasses. Then again, maybe Jennifer  would not recognize me. We were always more acquaintances than friends. We never  frequented the same gatherings, Jennifer being mortal and me being—well, not.  

Ancient words come to me in an almost conversational flurry. The great secret of  magic is that it is not unnatural; you are merely asking the world a different question and  getting a different answer. I stand over Rosemary’s crib, on the side opposite Jennifer’s  bed. Arms raised over Rosemary’s sleeping form, I start to sway and chant. I hope I have  enough left in me to cast this spell correctly. If someone had walked in at that moment,  they might dismiss the vague buzzing sound as one of those flickering lights in the  ceiling. That is, assuming they don’t notice the tiny swaddled bundle in the crib glowing  like a giant ember.  

I open my eyes at his touch. 

“Hello, Fay,” the warm, familiar voice says. Too warm. Too familiar. Emrys  Balin cradles my head in his lap.  

Fay. Emrys is the only one who has ever called me that. It is a childhood  nickname. A nickname given back when all I ever wished was that Emrys look at me the  way he looks at my sister, Vivian. “I wondered when you and I would be reunited.”  

Emrys brushes my hair back from my brow. He is dressed plainly, in blue pants  and a shirt rolled at the sleeves. His eyes travel down to the small brass placard on my  white coat. “Dr. Mirren?”  

“She’s not using it right now,” I say.  

“I can see that,” Emrys affirms. “Should I be worried?”  

“The doctor is fine. It will be dismissed as a mere fainting spell.”  

“Looks like she isn’t the only one fainting around here.”  

His comment was probably sincere, not that it matters. If there is one thing on this  earth by which I cannot abide, it is a man’s pity. “Spare me your condescension disguised  as concern. I am still far more powerful than—”  

“How many spells, Fay?”  

“What do you mean?”  

“How many did you do?”  

I inhale a deep breath, then exhale. “Two.”  

“You shouldn’t have done that to yourself. A cloaking spell? Really?”  

“Never mind the cloaking spell,” I say. “It was the temporal displacement spell to  transport me here that about did me in. I’ve been here following you, Jennifer, and Alan  for weeks, and I’m still not what I would call dependable on my feet.”  

“Oh, my dearest Fay…”  

The look on his face confuses me. Concern? Remorse? Affection? Have we been  apart so long that I can no longer read his emotions? “I am struggling, Emrys, to recall a  time when I ever qualified as ‘dearest’ in your universe.”  

“Temporal displacement spells are dangerous, especially when they go horribly  wrong.” 

“You should know,” I counter.  

Emrys ignores me. “And to throw on top of that a cloaking spell?”  

“What else would you have me do?” Swatting away Emrys’s hand, I sit up  defiantly. “A cloaking spell will hide Rosemary’s powers. You of all people should know  he will not stop until he finds her. There’s no telling what might eventually come after  her—incubi, succubi. Those wretched demon scouts would have been already tracking  Rosemary by her smell. She has a unique signature. You know this. The cloaking spell  will mask that signature while limiting her powers.”  

Emrys has yet to break eye contact. He points back to himself and shrugs. “I’m  the magician here. I should be the one lying in your lap right now.”  

“You should be so lucky.” I hate it when Emrys does this, the flirting. To Emrys,  it’s innocent—the stroking of my hair, the staring. To me it, it is everything. Or at least, it  used to be everything.  

“I still have a trick or two up my sleeve.” Emrys’s assertion sounds more like a  hopeful guess than a boast.  

“By the looks of things, two tricks might be pushing it.” I reach up and rub his  peach-fuzzed face. Seeing him here now, looking so young, brings back the old feelings.  “Is it really you?”  

He smiles while squeezing my hand. “I ask myself that same question every day I  look in the mirror, expecting the man I was and seeing this boy’s face staring back at  me.”  

 I try in vain to ignore the pang of want at seeing Emrys, who I once adored as an  aged man many years my senior, now younger and even more attractive. “Oh, Mer—”  

“Please,” he interrupts, helping me to my feet. “It’s Emrys here.”  

“Of course it is,” I say. “My apologies.”  

“Took me a couple hundred years to get used to it. I’ll cut you some slack for not  nailing it on the first try.”  

“Cut me some slack? Nailing it?” They are sayings with which I am unfamiliar.  “Never mind,” Emrys says. “It’s good to see you, Fay.”  

I ignore the sentiment, reminding myself that I did not embark upon this quest to  see Emrys. “When did you know?” 

“That Jennifer was pregnant?”  

I nod.  

“The day I sent her away. How about you?”  

“Soon thereafter,” I say. “It has taken me this whole time to track you down.”  “So you have been in Maryland how long?”  

“As I said, a few weeks.”  

Emrys cocks his head. “And you waited until now to show yourself?”  “I had to be sure of your…” I trail off, the Fates whispering in my ear.  “My what?” Emrys asks, as if telling the Fates to mind their own house.  “Intentions,” I answer.  

Emrys presses on. “Does anyone else know you’re here?”  

“You think I’d go to the trouble of nearly killing myself traversing space and  time, casting these soul-sucking spells, just to let myself be followed?”  

“‘Soul sucking.’ You know that’s what you’ve done, right? The cloaking spell  gives the baby—gives Rosemary—a part of your soul to hide her identity. You’re  basically mortal now, even if you still retain a trace of your immortality. You might be  long-lived, but you can die from injury or disease a lot more easily. And temporal  displacement spells will diminish your powers for centuries. Believe me, I know. Is that  what you want?”  

“Please, Emrys.” I exhale dismissively. “I have lived a thousand lifetimes and  grow bored with the tedium. Perhaps knowing my life has limitations will make it more  meaningful. And besides, contrary to your earlier sentiment, you’re not the only magician  here. If they come for Rosemary, they’ll be looking for a donkey or a horse—but all that  they will find is a mule.”  

“So, she’s safe?”  

And there’s the Emrys I was once so accustomed to: feigning concern before  obliviously segueing to the next girl in the room. “Our mutual enemy will not be able to  find her, if that’s what you are asking. Rosemary will still be of course enhanced as a  child—a little stronger, a little faster. A cloaking spell can only do so much to diminish 

the magic inside this little girl. But to borrow a phrase from this world I have recently  learned, she will ‘remain off the grid’ as long as no one fully activates her gift.”  

“Her gift?” The Emrys I knew had always been good at disguising most emotions,  but this younger version of his self cannot contain his resentment. “I believe the word  you’re looking for is curse.”  

 I place my hand on his shoulder. “The moon shall beest from wh’re the flote  engluts the fallen son…”  

“You don’t need to recite the prophecy to me.” Emrys scolds. “Was I not the one  who the goddess Arianrhod came to in a dream? Was I not the one who first sacrificed  nearly all my powers to save Jennifer and Alan, to ultimately keep Rosemary away from,  away from…him?”  

“Then you of all people cannot deny the prophecy,” I said.  

“Sure, I can.”  

I reach for his hand. “I know you are well-intentioned, Emrys, but I think you  might be too close to this. Rosemary cannot hide forever. At some point, she will need  these powers, and the training that comes with them. Just think what would happen if he found her before she was capable of fighting him off.”  

“So eventually Rosemary will be a lot stronger and a lot faster?”  

“All that and more.”  

“Well, she’s going to need all that and more.”  

“I trust you to put her on the correct path, Emrys, to be her mentor and her—”  “Bestie?”  

“Her what?” I ask.  

“Bestie,” Emrys says. “It’s short for ‘best friend.’ Another word for it is ‘BFF,’  which stands for ‘best friends forever.’”  

“May I make an observation, Emrys?”  

He bows slightly. “By all means.”  

“Twenty-first century vernacular fits you like an ill-fitting codpiece.” 

“Don’t I know it?” Emrys smiles. “So what’s left for you to do here?” 

“Between finding you and cloaking Rosemary, I fear I am stranded for the  foreseeable future. I guess I am what you call a ‘tourist’ now. What can you tell me about  this place called Mexico?”  

Emrys shakes his head, smiling.  

I bow again, stepping well back from the crib. “Hwyl fawr, Myrddin.”  

It has most likely been centuries since anyone has spoken to Emrys in his native  Welsh. He nods in appreciation of the gesture. “Hwyl fawr, Muri-gena.”  

I kick off my white shoes. While comfortable, they are ghastly looking, also  borrowed from Dr. Mirren. I focus on my body’s movements more this time around,  lifting onto my toes and spinning like a top until my scrubs and lab coat become a blur of  blue-white light. I can feel my body starting to fall away, like a waterspout receding into  a spring.  

“Until we meet again,” I whisper. I am disappearing into the ether, saying  goodbye one more time to my dear Emrys. Leaving him to turn the page with a  disinterested father, a weary mother, a newborn baby, and a pair of ugly hospital shoes.  

“Uh, Fay?”  

I open my eyes. “Why am I still here?”  

“I told you those spells would tap you out,” Emrys boasts. He reaches down into  his pocket. “Allow me to help.”  

“Absolutely not,” I snap, grabbing him by the wrist. “I do not need you to cast an  enchantment on my behalf with whatever talisman or bauble lies hidden in your pocket.”  

Emrys wrenches his hand free from mine, retrieving his cell phone from his  pocket. “I was just going to call you a cab.”  

“What is a cab?” I ask.  

“It’s a mode of transportation,” Emrys answers.  

“So this cab would convey me to Mexico?”  

“Not technically. The cab will take you to a place where they have large vessels  that will then fly you to Mexico.” 

“I am flying?” This was a welcome, unexpected surprise. “So I am to be escorted  by this cab to a den of benevolent dragons?”  

Emrys laughed. “I guess you could call an airport that.”  

About B.P. Sweany:

A veteran of the publishing industry, B.P. Sweany has worked with many notable content creators, including Pierce Brown, Dean Koontz, Diana Gabaldon, Alice Walker, and Dolly Parton. The Sword and the Sophomore is the first in a projected trilogy. 

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Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of THE SWORD & THE SOPHMORE, US Only.

Ends July 23rd, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the CABARET MACABRE by Tom Mead Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Tom Mead

Pub. Date: July 16, 2024

Publisher: Mysterious Press

Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 320

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/CABARET-MACABRE 

This latest puzzle mystery from the author of Death and the Conjuror and The Murder Wheel takes stage magician sleuth Joseph Spector to a grand estate in the English countryside.

Victor Silvius has spent nine years as an inmate at The Grange, a private sanatorium, for the crime of attacking judge Sir Giles Drury. Now, the judge’s wife, Lady Elspeth Drury, believes that Silvius is the one responsible for a series of threatening letters her husband has recently received. Eager to avoid the scandal that involving the local police would entail, Lady Elspeth seeks out retired stage magician Joseph Spector, whose discreet involvement in a case Sir Giles recently presided over greatly impressed her.

Meanwhile, Miss Caroline Silvius is disturbed after a recent visit to her brother Victor, convinced that he isn’t safe at The Grange. Someone is trying to kill him and she suspects the judge, who has already made Silvius’ life a living hell, may be behind it. Caroline hires Inspector George Flint of Scotland Yard to investigate.

The two cases collide at Marchbanks, the Drury family seat of over four hundred years, where a series of unnerving events interrupt the peace and quiet of the snowy countryside. A body is discovered in the middle of a frozen pond without any means of getting there and a rifle is fired through a closed window, killing a man but not breaking the glass. Only Spector and his mastery of the art of misdirection can uncover the logical explanations for these impossible crimes.

An atmospheric and puzzling traditional mystery that pays homage to the greatest writers of the genre’s Golden Age, Cabaret Macabre is the third book in Tom Mead’s Joseph Spector series, hailed by the Wall Street Journal as “a recipe for pure nostalgic pleasure.” The books can be enjoyed in any order.

Reviews:

“Ingenious . . . Mead hides all the clues in plain sight, constructing a fair-play puzzle that will delight and challenge readers who love pitting their own wits against the author’s. It’s another crackerjack entry in an exceptional series.”― Publishers Weekly STARRED REVIEW

“Mind-bogglingly complex . . . A lovely valentine to Mead’s idol, John Dickson Carr, and even more to Clayton Rawson’s tales of The Great Merlini.”― Kirkus

Excerpt:

Bit by bit, Joseph Spector’s world was shrinking. He was an old man now; his friends were dying off one by one; his legs and back ached. A new decade―the 1940s―was scarcely a year away, but to Spector this felt less like a new beginning than an eked-out ending.

However, time had left two of Spector’s attributes mercifully unharmed. The first was his mind, which was as quick and devilishly brilliant as ever. The second was his hands, which had lost none of their spindly dexterity. In the distant past he had been a music hall conjuror, and he still dressed like one in a suit of black velvet, with a cloak lined in red silk. He brought a touch of old-world flamboyance into the murky 20th century; he walked with a silver-tipped cane and dabbled in the occult. He was out of step with his era, and yet he was an indelible product of it; an embodiment of the baroque, the Grand Guignol.

Spector was on his way back from a meeting of the London Occult Practice Collective when he first realised someone was following him. The meeting had been out in Greenwich. It was a pleasant trip with good food, good conversation, and one or two amusing tricks into the bargain. Spector waited for the train back into the City feeling fat and happy. But as he perched on one of the metal benches which lined the platform, he felt eyes on him.

It was mid-afternoon, and already dusk was closing in. The platform’s overhead lamps flickered to life and clutches of travellers chatted, smoked and stamped their feet to stave off the chill. Spector sat motionless with his bare fingers twined around the handle of his cane.

Once he realised he was under scrutiny, he waited a moment or two to make sure it was not simply his imagination, or a trick of the gathering dark. But it wasn’t. Somewhere among the little clusters of waiting travellers, somebody was watching him. Very slowly, Spector turned, and with a sweeping glance took in the entire vista of the platform. There were a few lone commuters, but only one viable suspect: a tall man whose head was now hidden behind a three-day-old Herald. Spector studied the man’s lower half, which was all that could be seen of him. Smart, tailored trousers and impeccable patent leather shoes; a poor choice for this weather. Whoever the man was, he was certainly no professional.

Soon enough, the train arrived in a shriek of steam, and Spector smiled to himself as he boarded.

He disembarked at Paddington and took a gentle amble through the crowds. He was in no rush to get back to Putney. And once again, the eyes were on him. The man followed him along the central concourse, past the various concession stands, as he threaded his way through the bustle and toward the stone steps down into the Underground. Before he began his descent, Spector cast a quick glance in the man’s direction, just to check that he had not lost him.

He hadn’t. There the fellow was, loitering in the shadow of a nearby pillar beneath the clock. Spector headed down the steps, and the man followed.

His pursuer maintained a careful distance on the Tube, but even though he frequently employed his out-of-date newspaper, Spector got a good look at the man’s face. He was younger than Spector had first thought, which went a considerable way toward explaining these idiotic “Boy’s Own” antics. He had a merciless Gwynplainian grin, but there was a vacancy in his eyes that told of both ignorance and arrogance. He was convinced that he had the upper hand.

Stepping off the train at Putney, Spector ascended the steps to street level and wondered briefly how best to go about dealing with this fellow. There were two places in which he was truly comfortable: the first was his home in Jubilee Court, a weird ramshackle dwelling crammed with decades’ worth of macabre bric-a-brac. The second was the nearby public house, The Black Pig; an ill-lit, low-ceilinged Elizabethan tavern. To step through its door was to step back in time. Spector was as much of a fixture there as the brass beer taps; it would not be the same without the grey fug of his cigarillo smoke choking the atmosphere, or his skeletal, cheerily funereal figure seated by the fire in the snug. From time to time he gave impromptu displays of legerdemain: cardistry or coin manipulation to bamboozle the regulars.

The Black Pig glowed warmly at the other end of the street, its painted sign swinging in the icy breeze. The young man halted. The magician had pulled off some kind of vanishing act―the street was empty. The young man continued at a slower pace, his brow creasing. He tilted his trilby back, as though he might find Joseph Spector hiding behind the brim.

“What in the hell―” he said, before his words were cut off by a sudden, sweeping motion at his feet. The silver-tipped cane clipped his ankles and sent him sprawling, his hat scudding off into the darkness.

The young man rolled onto his back with a groan, and Joseph Spector towered over him. The old conjuror smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

About Tom Mead:

Tom Mead is a Derbyshire mystery writer and aficionado of Golden Age crime fiction. His debut novel, Death and the Conjuror, was an international bestseller, nominated for several awards, and named one of the best mysteries of the year by The Guardian and Publishers Weekly. Its sequel, The Murder Wheel, was described as “pure nostalgic pleasure” by the Wall Street Journal and “a delight” by the Daily Mail. It was also named one of the Best Traditional Mysteries of 2023 by CrimeReads. His third novel, Cabaret Macabre, will be published in 2024.

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Giveaway Details:

3 winners will receive a finished copy of CABARET MACABRE, US Only.

Ends August 6th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the ENNEAGRAM IN MARRIAGE by Christa Hardin Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Christa Hardin

Pub. Date: October 3, 2023

Publisher: Baker Books

Formats: Hardcover, Paperback, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 288

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/ENNEAGRAM-IN-MARRIAGE 

Most books exploring the Enneagram are focused on understanding oneself. But how does the Enneagram lend insight to our relationships? Specifically, your relationship with your spouse and the unique pairing you share?

In this incredibly practical and easy-to-understand book, counselor and psychologist Christa Hardin combines her expertise in psychological assessment and marriage and family counseling to explore all 45 possible Enneagram pairings in relationships. She calls it the Enneagram Glow–the unique, mutual influence of two types in intimate relationship across the seasons and shifts that every couple experiences. She helps you learn to

· understand your partner’s emotions and reactions
· extend more grace to your partner and yourself
· have productive conversations that foster connection
· build a legacy together with intention

You’ve never read a relationship book or an Enneagram book like this before! Discover how you and your partner can build on your shared gifts, overcome the shadows, and shine a bright and beautiful light on each other and everyone you encounter.

Excerpt:

About Christa Hardin:

Christa Hardin (MA, Wheaton College) has counseled and coached couples all over the globe for two decades. Founder of Reflections Counseling Center, LLC, Christa hosts the popular Enneagram + Marriage podcast, which has over 1 million downloads and has helped thousands of couples find refreshment, joy, balance, and connection together. Christa uses the Enneagram and other research-based marriage tools to give couples deeper insight into their strengths and shadows and to help them determine how they can shine brightest in the world together. She lives with her husband and children in Florida.

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Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of ENNEAGRAM IN MARRIAGE, US Only.

Ends July 13th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the YOU’RE NOT LAZY by Georgia Homsany Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Georgia Homsany

Pub. Date: January 25, 2024

Publisher: Georgia Homsany

Formats:  Paperback, eBook

Pages: 151

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/YOURE-NOT-LAZY 

Did you know the average person has 60,000 thoughts per day? Even more surprising is that 80% of those thoughts are negative! How do our words impact how we show up in the world?

In “You’re Not Lazy,” Georgia dives into the impact our words have on our self-esteem, showing us how self-talk is killing our self-worth. Learn why we seem to focus on the bad and the typical “lies” we tell ourselves, such as “I’m so lazy,” and how we can reframe self-talk to boost confidence to live a more empowered life.

Excerpt:

INTRO

This book is meant to de-bunk things society conditions  us to think and feel. It’s meant to inspire us to live our  best lives with child-like awe and wonder without us  giving a damn what we think we’re supposed to do or  feel. Above all, it’s meant to teach us to love ourselves  and how our words are more powerful than we’ll ever  know. 

I like to read books and listen to podcasts that educate  me. I always say my two genres are 1) psychology and 2)  business. Unless I’m learning how to do something that  can teach me about my work or self-growth (a.k.a. – self help books… P.S. I hate that phrase!), I’m uninterested.  

“Don’t you love getting caught up in a novel? Or lost in  fiction?” (I’m picturing my friend Allison and her love for  fiction and getting lost in a book.) Nope, not me. I hate  to read. Eek, did I just say that out loud? I did. I have to  be honest, but here I am, writing a book. Why? Because  I believe in the message. 

My eighth-grade teacher, Miss Donohue, would always  say, “Knowledge is power.” Despite being someone who  struggles with recollection, this is something that stayed  with me. (Knowledge in this context is awareness.)  Through therapy, I’ve learned that you can’t make  change without awareness. After all, how can you make  a change when you don’t even know there is a problem  or are willing to admit it?

So, in honor of Miss D and her lesson of “knowledge is  power,” this book is meant to educate you in the ways  you want it to. I am not in the position of telling people  what to do or judging them. Trust me, I am in the  wellness business, and there are plenty of lifestyle  choices someone could call me out on as a fraud. But I  am human, and I make choices, and I will never make  only good choices. That is okay, and the same goes for  you. This book is about giving yourself grace. You are the  one capable of deciding what to improve upon when it  comes to you, not others. 

Before we get into things, I want to tell a story…  

I was on a plane back from Los Angeles when a friend  (let’s call her Donna) asked me to accompany her to a  work conference. I booked the trip at the last minute  because I was frustrated with a new side job I had  started, which was a lot of manual labor. I had been  working hard, and I felt I deserved some time away. I  love California and hadn’t been so far that year. I  envisioned myself sitting poolside with a cocktail, feeling  like a luxury. Dining out at the best restaurants and  “treating myself.” The trip didn’t go as planned. Nothing  went wrong, per se, but there was a strike going on, and  our hotel in Beverly Hills was replaced with a conference  hotel downtown in a not-so-charming area. The swanky  pool turned into a family pool with kids yelling, and I  spent a good amount of time working from a hotel room  (depressing). 

Disclaimer: I realize this is a first-world problem here,  but stay with me. 

My flight wasn’t cheap, but I opted for one with a layover  because it saved me $200. That return flight got delayed,  and I had to re-route since I would’ve missed my  connection. Then that flight got delayed, and it took me  about 13 hours to get home to Raleigh from LA (normally  a 5 ½ hour flight). Most people would be livid, having a  fit, but I kept calm. ‘I have nowhere to be,’ I thought. I  was planning on that day being a travel day, and so it  was. Granted, it was longer than anticipated, but who  cares? I’d be sitting at home vs. in an airport… Not the  end of the world, and it’s what I signed up for by trying  to save money! (I’ll also add that I ended up in two  middle seats in the back of the plane on both my flights  to LA. If that doesn’t say luxury, I don’t know what does!  Thanks, United.) 

As an occasional journaler and someone working on  manifesting more, I wrote in my journal that day: ‘I  manifest flying first class consistently someday.’ Then I  added another line with more intention: ‘I will be a first 

class flier.’ 

‘Yeah, that’s right, girl,’ I thought to myself. You tell the  universe what you want! (I also wrote after that  sentence: ‘I will be an author.’ ) 

So, my point in telling you this stems from the book I was  reading at the time, The Universe Has Your Back, by  Gabrielle Bernstein. Things started happening for me  when I started reading this book. Coincidence? Or was I taking in (perhaps even subconsciously) all of the  messages? I could sum up the main takeaway of the book  in one sentence: “No matter what you’re feeling (fear,  anger, etc.), just change that to say, ‘I choose love.’” It’s  a good reminder to get yourself back to a good headspace  (I almost said headplace – thank you, second glass of  sparkling wine on the plane as I write this). 

When I booked the trip to LA, I thought I might be meant  to meet someone on that trip or even on the plane. When  writing this, I was 41–42 years old, single, and giving  myself opportunities to meet people in real life because I  wasn’t a fan of dating apps.  

There is likely a bigger reason I made the decision to go  since, when Donna first mentioned it, I winced that it’d  only be 2 to 3 days going all the way across the country.  And even though spending time with Donna in California  was attractive enough, the unattractiveness of the short  duration was surpassed by my gut telling me to go.  

As I was stuck in airport #2 on the way back, I thought,  ‘Hmmm. This trip wasn’t what I anticipated, but that’s  ok. I thought maybe I was meant to meet someone  unique, perhaps a new client or love interest… But as I  sit here, on the plane, writing this book, I wonder if this  is where I was meant to be.’ 

Part of how I justified the trip to myself (not that I  needed to, but why do we feel the need to justify  spending money on things?) is I told my best friend that  I would use the plane time to work on my book. On a  plane, you have minimal interruptions. Plus, you are inspired by going to a fun place, and that excitement  created an optimal environment for me to write. 

On the plane ride to LA, I wrote zero. Not one word. Not  because I was watching Netflix on my laptop but because  I was catching up on work from my other jobs and trying  to sleep since I had been up since 3:30 am taking an early  flight (due to booking a flight that had a layover).  

[Question: What is the opportunity cost if I had spent  money on a better flight that could have led to me writing  on the flight? Something to think about, but I digress  since this isn’t an economics book.] 

Anyway, I made up for it on the return flight. So, back to  Gabby and her book. I’m nearing the end of her book,  and the last chapter is all about being a beacon of light.  Her words are making me warm and fuzzy, to the point  where I’d like to quote her because I feel responsible for  passing on this message to you.  

Gabby says: “I write these books to have an impact on  your life so that you can have an impact on the world. As  each individual lights up their life, the world becomes  brighter. While I want all my readers to learn how to  manifest their desires, thrive in their careers, and enjoy  wildly incredible relationships, what I want most from  you is to be the light. I perceive myself as a can opener  who is here to crack you open to your highest potential  to serve the world with your joy.” 

This warmed my heart so much. Clearly enough that I’m  directly quoting her in my book. I include this because I think so many of my readers would probably think to  themselves, ‘That can’t be me. I’m definitely not a light!’ or some other negative, self-deprecating comment.  That’s why I’m here. To make you aware so you can  understand how you are a light.  

We have to blow off the dust of that light and get an  energy-efficient bulb to bring us into the current day  frequency so we can shine so bright that we see that light  in daylight and darkness. 

About Georgia Homsany:

Georgia Homsany, Founder & CEO of Daily Dose Wellness, began her career in Marketing & Brand Management, before creating her own corporate wellness company. After spending over 15 years in Corporate America, Georgia started Daily Dose to provide virtual “wellness breaks” to give employees the time needed to prevent burnout and promote positive mental health.

She is a self taught, wellness guru with a business background and completed courses on “Managing your Mental Health during COVID,” “Digesting Nutrition” and “Yoga Psychology”. She is a member of Raleigh Metro SHRM and is responsible for writing RMSHRM’s Wellness Blog. She recently published her first book- You’re Not Lazy- Change Your Words to Change Your Worth to help people build their confidence through the power of self-talk.

Georgia is a New Jersey native and holds a bachelor’s degree in Marketing from the University of Scranton and a Master’s in Business Administration (MBA) from Boston University. She is trained in level 2 Reiki, loves yoga, oysters, wine and is an avid traveler.

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Giveaway Details:

3 winners will receive a finished copy of YOU’RE NOT LAZY, US Only.

Ends July 16th, midnight EST.