I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE TIME KEEPERS by Alyson Richman Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Alyson Richman

Pub. Date: October 15, 2024

Publisher: Union Square Co.

Formats: Paperback, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 336

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/THE-TIME-KEEPERS 

An unforgettable novel that captures the power of longing, loss, and love, The Time Keepers transports us from 1979 suburban New York to war-torn Vietnam, revealing that sometimes the most unexpected friendships can save us.

Two women from different worlds, Grace and Anh, are indelibly changed when a runaway boy is found on a street in their small Long Island town. Brought together by the love of this child displaced by war, the women find friendship and healing from their own painful pasts when their lives intersect with a mysterious wounded Vietnam vet. The vet, Jack, works at the Golden Hours, a watch store that mends timepieces—and might even mend damaged souls. 

Richman interweaves the journeys of these wonderfully diverse characters who will grip, fill, and break your heart—only to bring them together with the care and precision of an expert watchmaker, one piece at a time. Inspired by the true story of a Vietnamese refugee who entrusted the dramatic account of her escape from Vietnam to the author, and also that of a wounded veteran, Richman sheds light on those whose lives were forever impacted by the devastation of that war.

Excerpt:

PROLOGUE 

Vietnam, 1978 

They have been waiting all night by the river, the dark  water smooth as glass. They carry nothing but a bundle filled with  food and canteens of fresh water all tied in a square piece of cloth. A  single tin pot. A sack of lemons and a box of sugar. 

The boat is late. The children are hungry. The men and women  who are with them are standing still as trees. 

The moon cuts through the darkness like a scythe. As they wait,  looking for the boat they were promised, the tide inches closer to their  silhouettes. They walk backward, retreating into the marsh, tall spears  of reeds behind them. The cicadas loud in the wet grass. 

It is the youngest boy who first sees the flash of light. A small beacon from a torch pulsating atop the head of the fisherman. They walk into the river. Treading past the water hyacinth, a mass  of green leaves and singular pink flowers. First, ankle-deep. Then,  knee-deep. Finally, waist-deep. The children are afraid. Seaweed wraps  around their legs, pulling them down. Still, they inch toward the boat.  The weight of the river slowing them with each step until there is no  sand or silt beneath their feet. 

They reach their arms up toward the boat. The current flows  against them. In the shadow of the ship’s hull, they see a woman  extending her hand. A rope is thrown out to reach them, curling first  on the surface of the water before sinking down. 

PART I 

CHAPTER 1 

Long Island, 1979 

Grace Golden would never know why, on that sunny  afternoon in late May, she had chosen to walk down Gypsum Street  after Mass instead of her usual route to the grocery store. Maple Avenue had always been the fastest way from Saint Bartholomew’s to  Kepler’s Market. 

Her husband, Tom, believed Grace picked Gypsum Street because  the cherry blossoms there were at their peak. That was the thing about  his wife, he explained. She’d always go out of her way to encounter  something beautiful. But neither of them could have anticipated on  that fine spring day, as Grace’s heels rhythmically struck the sidewalk,  her shopping list tucked inside her leather purse, that she would notice  a little boy curled up against the side of a building. Sleeping on the hard  cement, his body was tucked so tightly, he reminded Grace of a small  whelk nestled into its shell. 

She stopped and hovered over him. Then she leaned down to  nudge him. 

“Are you lost, love?” The lilt of her Irish accent, still detectable  after years of living in New York, floated through the air. “Let me help  you up,” she offered her hand. 

But the boy remained fixed in a fetal position, his arms locked even  tighter around himself and his feet inched closer to his bottom. One  of his tennis shoes had a hole in its rubber sole. The other was missing  its laces. 

She still could not see his face, only the tiny edge of his ear and the  shock of straight black hair. 

“Please.” 

His head rose slightly, revealing his dark eyes, heart-shaped lips,  and small nose. 

It was the face of a child, frightened and alone. 

About Alyson Richman:

Alyson Richman is the USA Today bestselling and #1 international bestselling author of several historical novels including The Velvet Hours, The Garden of Letters, and The Lost Wife, which is currently in development for a major motion picture.  Alyson graduated from Wellesley College with a degree in art history and Japanese studies.  She herself is an accomplished painter and her novels combine her deep love of art, historical research, and travel.  Alyson’s novels have been published in twenty-five languages and have reached the bestseller lists both in the United States and abroad. She lives on Long Island with her husband and two children, where she is currently at work on her next novel. 

Website | Twitter (X) | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub

Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of THE TIME KEEPERS, US Only.

Ends October 29th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE MIRRORS BY WHICH I END THE WORLD by Kira Blackwood Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Kira Blackwood

Pub. Date: January 16, 2024

Publisher: Epic Publishing

Formats: Paperback, eBook

Pages: 232

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/u/bajRPQ

From debut author Kira Blackwood comes a captivating and engaging urban fantasy thriller that will leave you breathless.

Instead of celebrating being the youngest in her PhD graduating class, Chelsea is suddenly mourning the death of her parents. And worse? No one knows who did it. Until she meets him, with her world turned upside down, the last thing she needs is a dark-haired stranger with hypnotic eyes to distract her. But when he tells her he knows who killed her parents, she believes him. But can she trust him?

Today, his name is Michael. But tomorrow? He could be anyone because Michael didn’t exist. Burdened by the memories of everyone he touches, he’s always one step ahead of The Order, a dangerous cult wanting to use his powers to bring evil to the world. Michael can’t let that happen. So he runs. But this time, he runs right into her. He knows he shouldn’t help her. She’ll only slow him down. So why can’t he walk away?

They are searching for the truth while running for their lives. Can they succeed, or will The Order find them first?

Excerpt:

Part One: Empty Skies 

Prologue 

Michael Sanders’s life could be contained in a fourteen by eighteen-inch suitcase, and all  proof of his existence could be stowed away in a Chinese food take-out carton. This was just as  well because Michael Sanders did not exist. The fact that he did not exist did not stop him from  being an ordinary looking man in his mid-twenties who hadn’t held a stable job for more than a  few months at a time, just as it did not stop his eyes from opening when he heard three car doors  shut below his motel room window. 

His heart pumped a wave of cortisol and adrenaline through his bloodstream. It was a  situation he had become all too used to. He always slept fully clothed, with the exception of his  socks and shoes, which were wearing thin. 

Through the broken metal slats of his window, he saw the same details he always saw: a  black car with tinted windows and no plates driven by men wearing dark, long-sleeved shirts and  matching pants, as if dressed in shadow. The street beyond was desolate, the parking lot empty,  the sky blank. Neither man nor God would protect him. 

He skipped socks, shoving his feet into sneakers, then snagged his toiletry kit from the  bathroom sink. He shoved it into the constantly packed suitcase he had left at the foot of his bed.  He made sure it stayed packed, ready to grab at a moment’s notice, whether to keep him  organized for a hasty escape or to use as a blunt weapon if they got the drop on him. The man  crouched low, listening to where his would-be abductors were. 

The sound of splintering wood came from somewhere nearby as somebody kicked in a  door. Damn it, they’re close. Another slam, this time from the room next door. They’re learning.  They split up this time. 

Michael crouched behind the corner of the bed, pressing himself flat against a floor  stained by countless former tenants. The doorknob rattled shortly before the door itself exploded  inward in a shower of splinters, dust, and rusted hinges. His eyes, which had adjusted to the  darkness, focused on the looming silhouette of his latest stalker. A hand wreathed in darkness snaked through the air to the nearby light switch, temporarily blinding him.

Mentally spouting off a string of obscenities, he listened as the soon to be assailant  trudged into the bathroom, flicking a switch in there as well. He would only have one moment,  one chance to get out of there, but there would be no way of leaving undetected if he didn’t make  the first move. Michael counted to five and darted from his cover, flicking the lights off. 

He heard the alarmed grunt of someone who both was and was not expecting this to  happen. He crouched low again as the individual stepped back into the dark room. His attacker  would need a moment to adjust from the lights outside to the darkness in Michael’s room. That  moment of transition was more than enough. 

Michael sprang, curling a hand around the man’s jaw while using the other to remove the  attacker’s dark sunglasses. Such affectations, though seemingly pointless at night, were part of  The Order’s uniform, as they prevented him from using his powers. The man behind the lenses  was thick and balding, probably about forty years of age. His skin was sunburned and there was  a slight tinge of jaundice in his eyes. 

There was no doubt that the attacker had been instructed extensively on why he should  never look into the eyes of the man who called himself Michael Sanders, but few who knew of  his ability could resist the temptation to see it in action. This curiosity got the better of him. 

Connected only by their gaze, the attacker found himself transfixed, trapped in a bluish black tunnel that seemed to surround them, each staring down the other through a luminescent  tunnel. Memories poured from the man, Elijah Johnson, who had a severe drinking problem and  had been promised salvation from the emotional struggles that drove him time and time again  into the bottle. He was nothing but a lowly acolyte, someone who had been sent along as backup,  a disposable bruiser who happened to find their target before the higher-ranked members. Elijah  had been assured things would turn out all right in the end; he was an animal that had been  brought along as a distraction. Michael couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting pain on an  individual so lost. 

It was easy to grant him the relief The Order emptily promised. Michael felt a familiar  sensation flow through him, a tension where there had been nothing before, like steam filling a  sealed container, pressure rising, yet not ready to blow. Elijah’s face softened, the pain attached  to his memories ebbing away like driftwood being brought out to sea. The alcoholic’s past  became Michael’s. Elijah remembered the history, but not the sorrow.

“Now you know they weren’t lying.” Michael’s voice shook as he fought the sadness of a  life that wasn’t his own. “Get out of here and stay away from The Order.” Elijah could only nod  as Michael grabbed his suitcase and left. He vaulted over the railing, landing hard, though the  cultists were making too much noise to hear his comparably quiet landing. 

He reached his car when heavy footsteps came from behind. One set. Male. Moderate  size, aggressive. A man Michael had been waiting for. Each abduction regiment had a leader, and  tonight, this was the unfortunate soul tasked with taking him in. 

Michael spun and delivered a devastating right jab to the bridge of the group leader’s  nose, smashing cartilage and the plastic frame of another set of sunglasses. The leader found  himself slammed into the side of the ’98 Volvo Michael had been given a few months earlier.  Michael pried the leader’s eyelids open, locking their gazes. He unleashed the two decades of  alcoholism and emptiness he’d collected from Elijah upon the man, apparently named Herschel;  Elijah’s pain now resided in this attacker’s heart. It would kill him, as it had been slowly killing  its original owner. Michael thought nothing of dooming a man who’d condemned so many  others. 

When Michael looked away, he heard a thud, followed by Herschel sobbing hysterically  on the ground. He rolled his shoulders and smiled. 

“Thanks. I needed to get that off my chest.” 

He slid his key into the ignition, the engine kicked over, and Michael barreled down the  interstate, heading north along the east coast. A few hours passed with nothing but the dark  windows of nearby buildings and long-past-blooming foliage to keep him company. As the sun  crested over the horizon, Michael found himself pulling over, parking in a small lot by a beach in  Maryland. There were a few other cars there, some with surfboards still strapped to the top. They  were unimportant, their owners easily avoided. 

Getting out, he retrieved his wallet and other pieces of ID from his suitcase, then got a  Chinese food take-out carton from his trunk. A splash of kerosene would ensure it burned up in a  minute, tops. He brought his satchel with him. 

Crossing the sands to a nearby jetty, its rocky outcropping thrusting back at the relentless  crash of the ocean, he sat cross-legged atop the rocks and sighed. That one exhalation was all the  mourning he’d allow. He didn’t have time to grieve the death of Michael Sanders. Since he was a  boy, he’d led a series of short lives punctuated by a sudden burst of flame. He was no phoenix, though. There was no rising from the ashes. He was an arsonist at a masquerade ball, setting fire  to his own costumes. 

Flipping through alternative identities, he eventually decided on David “Dave”  Helmholtz. He then made a few calls: one to Jill Palls, to let her know Michael was returning to  California after a death in the family; one to Louis Jorgen, a short order cook at the local diner, to  say that he had to leave for Europe due to work; and one to Phillis Glabbern, the motel  proprietor, saying that someone had broken into Michael’s room, he didn’t feel safe and would  be heading to Florida. 

After this, he snapped the burner phone in two, cheap little flip-phone that it was, and  threw it in the Atlantic. After sealing his cut-up driver’s license and registration for the Volvo in a  take-out container, he shut the lid, tucked the box in between a few boulders, and lit a match.  Michael Sanders perished in that flame, trapped inside a tiny cardboard tomb that smelled of soy  sauce. 

Glancing at a man and woman who were dressed to surf (though they seemed busy  tearing each other’s wet suits off), he made sure no one else was around. His privacy secured,  Dave pulled out a new vehicle registration card and changed the plates, bending the old set in  half as a reminder that they could no longer be used. He heard splashing from the waves and  knew that the two beachgoers were either awful surfers or great at having sex in the ocean. Dave  spray-painted his gray Volvo a pale blue and, with a swift kick, dented the rear side paneling, to  ensure people wouldn’t recognize his car. 

Moments later, he drove away, the giant red sun and burning sky seeming to reflect the  endless process of transition in which he’d been caught. An endless road yawning out before  him, hours ticking by until, eventually, he found himself in White Plains, a town of roughly  seventy-five thousand people along the south-eastern edge of Pennsylvania. 

Dave found an affordable apartment building―twelve hundred a month for one  bedroom―and dragged his one suitcase to his room. He surveyed the flaking paint, meager  fixings, and cracked bathroom sink. This was the nicest place he’d been in two years. 

“Yeah…this could work,” he mumbled aloud, as if striking a business deal. He took one  glance out the window to appreciate the town around him, another into the mirror to take in his  bloodshot eyes, and stumbled into the bedroom, letting his eyes shut as fatigue dragged him into  the void, where he didn’t have to be anyone at all.

Chapter 1 

Chelsea Valenti stared out across the sea of drunken, gyrating bodies at Mickey’s Sports Bar,  her teeth crunching down on another stale pretzel, tongue playing with the crumbs before  sending them down her esophagus to their destruction. One half of her agitated mind focused  almost obsessively on her looming graduation from the White Plains Institute of Technology,  while the other half casually deduced the angles of the architecture, the strength of the support  beams, and the average square footage of sitting versus standing room. If you’d asked Mickey’s  typical patron as to how Mickey could make more money, they would likely have told you that a  new decor might bring in a few more customers. If you’d asked Chelsea, she would’ve said that  by moving the bar against the adjacent wall and extending that bar by about six feet, Mickey  could double his profits in a month on the increased volume of sales alone. Having more room to  move and serve people is kind of important. 

Having entered college at sixteen, many professors didn’t take her seriously until she  proved herself and earned their envious hatred. Others treated her like the only student in class,  which led her peers to despise the teenager who showed them up at every turn. Some male  students wouldn’t go near her, afraid that the law would frown on a grown man so much as  talking with such an underage woman, while others couldn’t stand anyone smarter than them,  leaving her without any romantic attachments, even through graduate school. The female  students almost unanimously regarded her as a freak. In fairness, she was set to get her doctorate  at twenty-three, so maybe they were right. 

“Chelsea! Hey, are you still with us?” A smooth voice snapped the daydreaming woman  back to reality. Her head swiveled, turning to face Jordan Garcia, a twenty-two-year-old Latina  double-majoring in sociology and political studies. She had a body like a stained-glass  window—dazzling from every direction. The two had formed a bond during countless chill out  sessions of lukewarm pizza delivered from Shelly’s Eatery eaten over the course of a Dexter or  NCIS marathon. Jordan’s silken black hair would be tied up in a lazy bun and her curves would  be hidden by pajamas or sweats, serving as a reminder to Chelsea that, despite some rumors to  the contrary, Jordan wasn’t a goddess.

While Jordan seemed to weave through society like a snake through tall grass, Priscilla  Aberdeen, seated in the back of their round booth, seemed to take the path of most resistance,  whether it was getting decent grades through all night study binges then sleeping through the  whole weekend, or dieting by, well, doing the same thing—strict calorie counting and three-hour  gym sessions coupled with huge binges. Despite this, she maintained that happiness did not lead  to success, and she hadn’t gone to college to become a failure. 

Next to Chelsea sat Theresa Sillim, who was majoring in religious studies even though  she intended to be a full-time yogi, so she didn’t need the degree. Her passion gave her a  justifiable reason to always wear yoga pants and an athletic top or sweats. It was a style that  required little effort to put together, but more importantly, she was always comfortable. 

“Hey, Chelsea.” Priscilla smiled a little, glancing around with a conspiratorial drop in her  voice, as if anyone could’ve overheard them among the bar’s crowd. “Can you do the thing?” “Oh, yeah!” Jordan grinned, egging Chelsea on. She could convince damn near anyone to  do her bidding with little more than the spark in her eyes. “Do it, come on. Please? For me.” She  took a long sip of her White Russian, keeping her eyes trained on the soon-to-be-Doctor of  Psychology—Chelsea’s real passion, despite her skill in mathematics. 

Theresa glanced between them, chuckled weakly and joined in. “It’s so cool!” She  disapproved because it normally meant irritating someone or spoiling a drink. Still, she couldn’t stand between her friends and a good time. 

Chelsea sighed, masking a smile with a swig of Coke. “What do you want me to hit?” Jordan pushed the bowl of peanuts her way and glanced around. “Oh, look, Lenny  McGuire’s here. Poor lonely Lenny. Think you can stick one in his eye?” 

Chelsea looked out at the crowd. The bar was oddly crowded, considering it was almost  time for the Ghost to strike. People must’ve moved on from that news cycle. Even serial killers  can get boring, apparently. 

Looking around the bar, Chelsea couldn’t blame people for being out, celebrating the end  of the semester. She was out, too, after all. It’s natural for people to want to blow off steam.  Ironically, the looming threat made people want to go out even more. 

Her gaze fell on the disheveled computer engineering major sitting a few booths away,  fingers striking on his laptop like pale lightning. He was a junior who’d had to take a semester  off for ‘personal issues’ and hadn’t managed to survive falling into the chasm left where his social life had once been. 

“Lenny? No, not Lenny…he’s nice,” she protested half-heartedly, knowing it wouldn’t  change what was coming. All her training failed her when it came to talking herself out of  intense situations. 

“Can’t do it?” Priscilla teased, a little more sharply than she meant to. Jordan shot her a  look. Priscilla turned whiter than playground chalk. “I mean, it’s not like you ever get caught,  you know? You’re every teacher’s pet. No one suspects you of anything.” 

Theresa took a different approach. “Focus, my friend. Center yourself. We talked about  this, remember?” 

Internally rolling her eyes, Chelsea thought, Ah yes, the breathing exercises, the balance  of one’s chakras against the chaos of life, or some such thing. 

Theresa laid her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I believe in you.” 

“That’s…kind of weird to say…but thanks.” Chelsea grabbed a peanut. 

She surveyed the room, watching Lenny hammering away at his laptop in the center of  the crowded room, sixty feet away, with his back to their booth. Her vision flitted across the  tables, glasses, ceiling fans, and decorations, calculating the angles between each. Movement  speeds, percentiles, and force readings danced through her thoughts, fitting perfectly into her  equation. Then, the bartender disappeared into a storeroom, giving her the window she needed. “Well?” Jordan prodded. 

“If theta equals one seven dot one six two…” she trailed off, placing the nut along the  back of the seat, “then with a minimal application of force…” She cocked her finger back and  flicked. The miniscule projectile bounced off the rim of the raised glass of yet another muscle bound simpleton, into the spinning blades of the fan above his head, at which point it darted  

across the room and ricocheted off the edge of Lenny’s laptop, directly into his right eye. He let  out a yelp, which caused a handful of drunken revelers to glance in his direction. The man whose glass she’d used in her equation didn’t even notice the disturbance. His  attention seemed squarely focused on the mounds of exposed flesh popping out of the shirt of the  woman at whom he was drooling. 

“I knew you could do it!” Theresa hugged Chelsea. Priscilla’s face fell as she looked  away. Jordan smirked, perfectly happy to sit back and let mayhem unfold as long as she got to  push the first domino. Of course, she’s easygoing, Chelsea thought, never daring to express aloud, because her sister works for the FBI. 

Chelsea shifted about, feeling her stomach knot as she wondered what Lenny was  thinking, or if he knew that she was responsible. Not that he could have. Out of the dozens of  times she’d performed that trick, her friends were the only ones who knew the source of the  aerial peanut. She’d landed them in shot glasses, the mouths of Tiki statues and unsuspecting  strangers, and now, someone’s eye. 

“I need a drink.” She slid out of her seat, standing before her friends could interject. A  quick glance at Lenny, who was trying to rub oil and salt out of his eye, conjured a memory of  her father standing over her when she was seven and the school had called her parents because  she took Dan White’s crayons. 

“Chelsea,” he had said, “what made you think it’s okay to do something like that?” When  she tearfully attempted to respond, he held up his finger, admonishing her. “It’s never okay to  hurt people. How would you have liked it if he took your crayons?” 

Guilt, to a child, is the end of the world. As it is, they understand little beyond their own  environment, and no matter how intelligent Chelsea was, the idea that her parents were angry at  her threatened catastrophe. Shaking with uncontrolled sobs, she’d apologized to him, then to Dan  the next day, and to her teacher, since she made Ms. Kelly upset. She never stopped being sorry. 

Rubbing her eye and shaking her head to dismiss the flashback, Chelsea approached the  bar. She spent a moment glancing over the bartender, whose most striking characteristic was that  he seemed to look exactly like everyone else despite his blue eyes and messy, medium-length  hair. While not unattractive, he was far from the best-looking guy around, though something in  how he carried himself held her attention for a little longer than she intended. His face, as far as  she knew, never moved, never betrayed what was going on in his head, much like The Thinker.  What he was thinking, no one was sure, but he seemed to always be thinking about something  terrible. Who was going to waste the time of a man who looked so forgettable, yet so tense? 

“Another Coke?” he called out to her, his rough voice breaking through the din around  her. It sounded rough and smooth at the same time in an impossible way. Sandpaper covered in  oil. 

“Uh, yeah, thanks.” She nodded vehemently to make sure he understood. Dropping a few  crumpled bills on her tiny corner of the bar, she watched as he pulled a small, red can out from  behind clinking rows of Bud Lights and other assorted intoxicants. She unknowingly rolled her eyes, unable to figure out why so many people seemed eager to guzzle what most studies and  autopsy reports indicated was poison. 

He approached her, holding out the drink, his stone face still set in its serious expression.  Their eyes locked and she felt transfixed for a fraction of a second. His forgettable eyes  almost…glowed. Despite how ordinary they were, she felt totally, physically captivated. As she  curled her fingers around the can and tried to pull away, she found that he was still holding tight. “By the way, we prefer our snacks to stay out of peoples’ eyes.” 

Her heart stopped, and her eyes went wide. The world fell away, leaving her alone with  the too-serious bartender with moss green eyes, ancient spherules that reflected a thousand years  of lost wisdom. No wonder he was the one to catch her. Everyone else looked, but something in  her gut told her this man could see, and he did, in fact, see her. Now she was screwed and about  to get kicked out of her favorite bar, which she loved even though she didn’t drink. That meant  buying soda from the 7-11 and drinking in her dorm, alone, like an undergrad. 

Then, the twenty-something’s stone face cracked a wry grin, his calloused hand releasing  her drink. It nearly tumbled from her hands, but she managed to compose herself before anything  disastrous happened. 

“Nice shot, though.” 

“T-thanks, Dave,” she whispered, unable to speak louder. 

The enigma known as Dave the Bartender defied her considerable deductive powers. She  knew nothing of him, other than that he came to White Plains a few months ago, nor could she  derive any details from his clothing, demeanor, or personality. Everything about him seemed to  be the most ordinary possible choice. That smile was a clue to something, but she didn’t have  enough information to make it meaningful. 

Chelsea wondered if ‘exceedingly ordinary’ could be a clue. Nobody looked that plain by  accident. Maybe Dave didn’t want to be noticed—but that smirk, lording his strange  knowingness over her, suggested he couldn’t resist showing off. Some kind of gift, maybe? 

Dave appeared to like certain kinds of attention, though he hated being noticed. Even as  the bartender, he made sure to never command the room…which likely meant a traumatic past,  or he was on the run. Or both. 

But still, how did he catch me? 

She wove her way through the crowd but was so perturbed by his having caught her that, for once, she didn’t stop to think enviously of the buxom, flat-stomached women lining the  room. It wasn’t as though Chelsea didn’t have her own ‘assets,’ but having extra weight around  her middle (albeit, only a little extra) made potential suitors hard to come by, especially if Jordan  was around. Food filled a void that had always lurked in the center of her heart, swallowing her  up when she allowed her mind to wander. 

“What’s wrong?” Priscilla asked, scrutinizing Chelsea as soon as she sat down. “N-nothing, why?” 

“You’re so pale. Are you well?” Theresa placed a palm against Chelsea’s forehead,  though it was quickly slapped away. 

“I’m fine!” Chelsea cried, watching her friends draw back in surprise. She sighed, and  then looked over at them, still reeling. “Dave saw me.” 

“Saw you? With the peanut?” 

“No way!” 

“Oh, dear!” came the chorus of hushed murmurs. 

“Yes…with the peanut…” She began to trail off as she attempted to figure out how the  man could’ve caught her. Hadn’t he been in the back room? 

“How?” 

“Was he mad?” 

“Do we have to leave?” 

“No, he…fine…” she mumbled absently, trying to review which mirrors and security  cameras were placed where, and if it was possible, he’d been tipped off by a phone call or text  message, or if another patron, perhaps, had— 

“Hey, stay with us!” Jordan snapped, bringing Chelsea back to attention. “It’s ladies’  night, and we’re celebrating. No zombies allowed.” 

Chelsea forced herself to laugh, both insulted and charmed by Jordan’s comment. She  couldn’t deny that she tended to zone out when something really captivated her interest, usually  to the point she’d forget homework and miss meals. During one particularly intense semester,  she’d gone into ‘zombie mode,’ as Jordan called it, frequently enough to convince her friends  that she’d become anorexic, often forgetting to eat, once for over a day. She lost seventeen  pounds before her friends staged a three-hour intervention. She was able to persuade them she  wasn’t anorexic, just distracted. Mostly. They kept a wary eye on her for a while, but she loved them all the more for it. 

“Relax, I’m with you, it’s just…” She bit her lip, finishing quietly, hoping they might  have insight to his knowledge. “He wasn’t even there.” 

“What was that?” Theresa looked over. 

Chelsea glanced between her friends, meeting their eager eyes, wondering what was  running through their minds. Something told her not to mention that little connection she and  Dave shared, when his gaze went straight through her and, for the briefest instant, warmed the  chill that had lingered in her soul for so long. He’d connected with her. It felt like she could’ve  told him anything, and Dave would have been happy to take that pain away. But how? He’d done  that with his stare. He’d done something impossible. 

She just didn’t know what. 

“Nothing.” Flashing a grin, she rose from her seat and made for the door. “Listen, I told  my folks I’d head out to their house for a little bit.” 

“Aw, come on, stay a little longer! For me?” Jordan smiled cheekily, showing off her  teeth. There was a slight gap in her dental structure, the only flaw grounding her on Earth with  the other mortals. 

“Sorry, tomorrow’s reading day, and I promised them I’d hang around and spend some  quality family time.” 

“Good thing you don’t study, Dr. Valenti.” Priscilla pouted, pretending she said it as a  joke, only fooling herself. 

“But we’re having fun! We barely ever get to come to the bar anymore. When you  graduate, I imagine we’ll have even less time together.” Theresa slumped onto the table, staring  at Chelsea with giant, shimmering eyes. 

“We can come here any time. That’s what finals week is for, right? Pound out a test, then  a few drinks, and repeat?” Chelsea called over the growing din. 

“Who gave you that crazy advice?” She laughed. “Your parents would worry, huh?” “Precisely.” Chelsea smiled, eyes lingering on her friends. They laughed and waved as she  slipped out into the starless night.

About Kira Blackwood:

Kira Blackwood has written many things under many names. The Mirrors by Which I End the World is her first major work under this one. She’s also died at least once, maybe four or five times, depending on who you ask. Her work is as unapologetic and weird as she is. Don’t ask her about raising pet chickens unless your schedule’s clear. When she isn’t writing, she can be found in cold places, the gym, or honking at geese. 

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Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of THE MIRRORS BY WHICH I END THE WORLD, US Only.

Ends October 29th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the PLEA TO A FROZEN GOD by C.M. Skiera Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: C.M. Skiera

Pub. Date: August 22, 2024

Publisher: C.M. Skiera

Formats: Paperback, eBook

Pages: 471

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/PLEA-TO-A-FROZEN-GOD

Read for FREE with a Kindle Unlimited membership! 

Prince Ligo endured a troubled engagement. Betrothed to a foreigner to save a realm abandoned by their god, the prince suffers a seizure during a sacred hunt, and awakens to see his fiancée’s family usurp the volcano-menaced realm. Indeed, Prince Ligo has seen better days.

When the enigmatic Mystic Riggan rescues Prince Ligo from the deadly coup, she leads him on a pilgrimage to the cryptic God of Death’s secret sanctum. Fugitives in the frigid wilds, the beleaguered duo conscripts a badly wounded soldier to help them survive. Pursuing answers to what truly ails the realm, the misfit trio discovers more ancient mysteries at their journey’s end. They also find the beginnings of a home and family like none they’d ever known.

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Before civilization blossomed on this watery planet, seven celestial visitors descended from the firmament in a fiery air boat.

Ligo

While a brisk wind buffeted Ligo’s face, his harnessed dogs pulled the basket sled across the white expanse. Calamir followed him, and both siblings trailed their father, King Kolf Fiegard. The patriarch led the early morning hunting expedition. Familiar ashen clouds hung low, shedding powdery flakes on the tundra and adjacent turbid sea.

“The Triplets are angry today,” Ligo said into a biting gust. He cast a sideways glance at three bumps on the gray southern horizon—one of which leaked a smoke stream.

“As usual,” said Calamir.

“Just one of our problems,” said Ligo.

“Why so glum? You’ll soon be married to save the realm. So what if you never see the sun?”

Ligo bit his tongue. My betrothal’s nothing more than a desperate gambit for a king with few options left. Though accustomed to his younger brother’s thinly veiled jealousy, Ligo tired of the subtle jabs. Not my fault I was born first.

Ligo often pondered what it would be like as second born. He envied Calamir’s apparent freedom from the heavy burden of responsibility. Ligo dreaded taking his father’s hectic, pressure-filled position. Oh, to be the spare, and not the heir.

King Fiegard craned over his shoulder and signaled his intention to stop. With a whistle and a stomp on his sled’s brake pedal, the king halted his dogs on an outcropping overlooking the icy shore. Ligo and Calamir parked their dogsleds beside their father’s.

Two dozen harnessed canines panted, their breaths visible in the chilly air.

“Tend to your hounds,” the king instructed his sons. “I’m going to have a look-see.” Ligo’s father unsheathed his spyglass and strode to a vantage point facing the ragged coast.

Ligo scratched one of his lead dogs behind her ears. “Good girl. Bet you don’t want to be here any more than I do.”

A stoic command rang out from behind, as a fourth, larger sled stopped behind the royals. Ligo nodded to the lanky Firon Halcha as he dismounted his toboggan sled, earmarked to haul the hunting bounty back to Castle Fieg.

Ligo acknowledged the royal hunt master, who returned the prince’s nod. Firon squinted at Ligo.

“Something bothering you, my lord?”

Ligo shrugged and shook his hooded head. “Just tired from the ride.” Though they’d spent the morning on the trek from Skelmoth, Ligo lied. An early morning scene he witnessed from his sled haunted him.

“Ligo doesn’t enjoy hunting,” Calamir said while patting his brother’s back with a gloved hand. A puff of snow escaped Ligo’s thick coat.

“But this hunt’s for your betrothal feast.”

Beneath his fur-lined hood, Firon’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Surely the importance of this tradition outweighs your . . . queasiness—my lord.” The huntsman flinched at his choice of words.

“I’m not queasy.”

“Just too lazy to hunt your own meat, then?”

Calamir asked, a smirk twisting his cheek.

Ligo sighed, recalling a limping arctic deer and her calf struggling through the snow on the ride out.

Moments later, three ice wolves closed in on the vulnerable caribou. The inevitable jarring cacophony broke Ligo’s heart. Though he didn’t see the slaughter, he experienced it aurally, while his imagination painted the gruesome imagery.

“No, it’s just, sometimes, I like to imagine a world where creatures don’t live in constant fear of death, and need to kill each other to survive.” Before the last word left his mouth, Ligo regretted speaking.

Stupid thing to say to a hunter.

Firon scoffed and shook his head. “Well, that ain’t the world we live in, my lord.” Crystals feathered the huntsman’s beard as he tempered his response to something appropriate for royalty. “But maybe in the next realm, if you’re lucky, my lord. Almighty Fieg willing, that is.”

“Those are near blasphemous sentiments for a son of Fieg,” Calamir replied, loud enough for their father to overhear. “Our ancestors worshipped the God of Death since she founded our line. Fieg is in our name.”

“I know,” Ligo said, bristling at his brother’s theatrical posturing. As if he’s more learned in the ways of Fieg than I. “I’m not saying death isn’t an integral part of the cycle.” Ligo avoided his brother’s gaze.

Should have kept my mouth shut, as usual.

“Kill or be killed’s the law of the land,” Calamir said. “You wouldn’t be a prince if it wasn’t for your ancestors battling for resources since the dawn of time.”

Ligo ignored his brother and daydreamed. Not being royalty appealed to him. We wouldn’t have to kill a walrus just so I can marry a woman I’ve never met.

“Don’t be sad,” Calamir teased as he wiped a frozen droplet from his nose. “You get to be king someday. Then, you’ll never have to hunt for yourself—you can delegate all the slaughter.”

Will I? What if I have a child who becomes engaged? Must I take them on some fool quest to kill an innocent beast for naught but ancient custom? “I suppose so.”

Calamir’s cheeks stretched into a victorious grin. Ligo ignored his brother’s unearned gloating and spat a wad of phlegm into the whiteness.

What if there’s a tragic accident and we all die out here? Just to appease Fieg with a pointless tradition? Ligo leaned into a stiff gust that pushed him southward. I suppose, if Fieg wanted us dead, she could take us while we sleep. Who knows, maybe she really appreciates symbolic efforts on her behalf? Ligo’s chapped lips curled into a subtle smile. He punched his smug brother in the arm.

Calamir fished a pouch from inside his coat and offered Ligo some dried caribou. “Last chance to eat something besides walrus for the next week.”

Ligo grasped the proffered packet and peeked inside. He salivated at the salty meat. Gloved thumb and finger extracted a lean strip, and he slid it into his mouth. Ligo’s stiff cheeks retracted into a smile as he chewed the caribou. I’m such a hypocrite for savoring meat and not wanting to kill my own food. His grin vanished, yet he took another piece.

“Hey, leave some for me,” Calamir said as he swiped the pouch.

Ligo’s tongue picked meat strands from his teeth while he crunched through the wind-crusted snow toward his father.

“See anything?” Ligo whispered.

The king handed Ligo his spyglass and spoke in a low voice. “A two-ton bull and his herd, at the edge of that ice field.” With his free hand, King Fiegard pointed toward the massive walrus.

Through the frosty lens, Ligo spied the slick beast and his prominent tusks. The alert bull served as sentinel while his herd rested on the ice. A mighty creature, doomed so we can feast on his tongue. Maybe he’ll get lucky and escape.

“This is as far as we take the dogs,” King Fiegard said. “Anchor the sleds. We walk from here.

Prepare our weapons, Firon. Lads, take your bows and don your quivers.”

The huntsman unloaded spears, clubs, and sealskin bladders from the sleigh bed. He inflated four sealskin balloons, and then attached them to cords at the end of each spear. If the wounded walrus reached the water, the floating sealskin would aid the hunters in recovering their prey.

While Firon Halcha secured the inflatables, each Fiegard grabbed a studded club. Both princes trained extensively with the standard Fiegardian melee and ranged weapons. Though proficient with a variety of blades and blunts, Ligo wasn’t an expert with any. Now that Calamir had grown to the same size as him, Ligo struggled in the practice yard to best his younger brother. He entertained no delusions that he’d ever beat the Master at Arms, much less be remembered as a warrior king. Ligo considered himself more of a scholar and spent his rare free time in the castle library. He smacked the club barrel into his gloved palm. Don’t need to be a tournament champion today, just steady aim and brute strength.

“You lead, Firon,” the King said. “Calamir, behind me, and Ligo, flank your brother.”

Ligo rankled at the order, yet logic drove his father. I’m the most vulnerable, and need to be protected for the wedding. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what role his unfortunate condition played in his father’s decision. He fears I’ll suffer another attack.

Ligo found it difficult to blame his father, though the king displayed little talent at hiding his embarrassment.

That didn’t stop Ligo from longing for a cure for his affliction, or his father’s praise.

“Stay low, and quiet as can be, my lords,” Firon instructed the princes. “If we spook ’em, they’ll head for the water, and we’ll catch naught.”

Ligo exhaled a warm breath that froze on his chin. Wouldn’t that be nice? He shivered more from fear than the persistent chill. “What if they don’t spook?”

“Oh, they’ll spook alright, my lord. Walruses are fearsome in the water, but vulnerable on ice. Soon as that bull gets wind of us, they’ll all be swimming.”

The hunter secured his club to his belt, and then tucked his seal bladder under his arm before hoisting his spear.

“Soon as I harpoon the bull, charge in after me and stab him first, so we can keep him on the ice.”

“Then we club him,” Calamir said.

“Quiet, now,” King Kolf said. “Go on, Firon.”

The huntsman crouched and slid his feet across the snow, careful to avoid generating any crunching noise. King Kolf, Calamir, and Ligo mimicked him.

The four slunk down the embankment, creeping behind sculpted drifts to hide from the sentinel.

“Just think,” Calamir whispered, “right now, your princess is sailing into Worglen.”

Ligo wondered what his bride-to-be looked like.

Gael Drachia. They had only exchanged letters, filled with tepid small talk, and Ligo had never even seen a portrait. Her father, King Eronak, was reportedly a tall man, silver-haired and handsome. I’m sure she’s lovely.

“Still can’t believe father agreed to marry you to King Drachia’s daughter.”

Calamir’s whisper snapped Ligo from his trance. He shot his brother a stern look, under the guise of maintaining Firon’s mandated quiet, but truly, for interrupting his musing.

Ligo’s glare had no effect on Calamir, who continued speaking hushed words over his shoulder. He should watch where he’s going. The huntsman’s cautious pace provided time for the Fiegard sons’ minds to wander. The problem was, when Calamir grew antsy, so did his lips.

“S’pose Father has no choice,” Calamir said.

“Since Mother fled, and The Triplets started acting up, the realm’s fallen on hard times.”

Ligo agreed that the time had arrived to seek aid outside their dominion. Yet, an arranged marriage to his family’s former rival worried him. But Father knows what he’s doing. Doesn’t he? Calamir was correct about one thing; ever since their mother’s controversial disappearance, events had accelerated for the worse.

“Think father’s told King Drachia about your spells?” Calamir asked. “Bet he hasn’t.”

Ligo knew the truth and wasn’t proud of it. His father’s words echoed in his head: “Perhaps you’ll never have another, but if you do after marriage, pretend it’s your first. They’ve no way to know.”

Ligo loathed starting a union while hiding his worst secret. He yearned to please his father by helping the family, but feared deceiving his future in-laws. I’ll find a cure someday, with or without Mystic Riggan’s help.

Firon stopped and signaled his royal followers for silence. The huntsman’s fierce gaze relayed the message that they were close enough for the massive sentinel to hear them. With King Kolf glaring back at them as well, Calamir held his tongue and Ligo struggled to focus. Firon resumed his forward crawl, even slower than before.

Without Calamir’s whispering to distract him, Ligo’s mind wandered back to their pre-dawn exit from Castle Fieg. They guided their sled dogs through the dark, empty streets of Skelmoth in near anonymity. Few residents were awake that early, and of those that were, even fewer recognized the hunting party. Still, Ligo caught glimpses of a handful of salutes, bows, and waves as they sped through the town and past the hibernating farmlands. Most early morning folk paid them no mind, however. And I’m sure just as many cursed us under their breath, or worse.

Ligo recalled how, as a boy, the townsfolk adored the Fiegards. Did things appear different because I was a child? Ligo doubted this was the case.

When times are tough, blame the rulers.

The Realm of Fiegardia existed for centuries, with its territory encompassing the main island of Fiegsland and countless smaller outer islands. Fiegardia boasted the great mines, its source of wealth, and also supported a hearty fishing and whaling economy, bolstered by local seasonal farmers and a robust merchant trade.

During Ligo’s eighteen years, the southern volcanoes’ spewing increased incrementally, while the Fiegardian seasons turned colder. The more days the harbors froze, the fewer days trading ships could travel in and out of Fiegardia. The same applied for fishing boats, although fish could still be caught through holes in the ice. Only the miners remained undeterred, far underground during the working days, and mostly oblivious to The Triplets’ ash-laden skies and shortening summers.

Despite his layered leathers and furs, a chill radiated from Ligo’s bones. The cold bit so deep, his fingers and toes numbed. He feared the ominous aura signaled an oncoming attack. Ligo glanced over his shoulder at the barren landscape to shake the feeling he was being followed. He envisioned the ravenous wolves from earlier that day, but saw nothing. He ignored the sensations and convinced himself paranoia got the better of him. I always assume the worst.

With every cautious step, Ligo’s anxiety heightened. His body shivered, and he struggled with his fear. Ligo rationalized his condition. It was a long ride, and I’m nervous about the feast. And I really do hate hunting. He longed for the ordeal to end and imagined himself in bed beside a roaring hearth flame.

With Gael Drachia beside me, someday soon.

Behind a shiny ridge, Firon halted and faced the royals. His hands signaled the walrus herd was on the drift’s opposite side. The Fiegards understood they were to wait while Firon attacked the bull.

A hammer pounded between Ligo’s ears and an icy sweat coalesced on his trembling flesh. He gritted his teeth as Firon crawled over the ridge. Just hold on a little longer. It’ll soon be over.

From beyond the crystalline crest, the bull’s agonized wail echoed across the tundra. A split second later, Firon’s shout launched the Fiegards into action.

Spears raised, King Kolf and Calamir bounded over the bank. With both hands, Ligo clutched his spear and followed his kin into the fray. As he slip-slid over the ice-coated snow bank, he spotted Firon struggling with the wounded bull.

It’s huge!

The herd scattered into the sea while the huntsman drove his spear into the furious sentinel.

Ligo’s father and brother raced toward the fearsome bull, weapons poised. They need my help.

With his next step, Ligo’s vision blurred, and a scream escaped his lips. His spear dropped from his grip and warm fluid ran down his thigh. He pitched toward the unforgiving ice—and the enraged walrus.

Before impact, Ligo’s world disappeared.

About C.M. Skiera:

C. M. Skiera currently lives in San Diego, California, a long way from Michigan, where he grew up, graduated from Michigan State University, and started a career as an environmental engineer. He and his wife are devoted dog-lovers who share their home with two rescue Chihuahuas. Crimson & Cream is C. M. Skiera’s debut epic fantasy novel.  He started writing the epic fantasy in 1999, and after many twists and turns, 13 drafts, plenty of rejections, the arrival of the 21st Century and  the advent of online self-publishing, the ebook was published in 2012. After Crimson & Cream, Mirrors & Mist (2015) and then Warlock & Wyrm (2017) followed as the second and third books of The Oxbow Kingdom Trilogy.

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Giveaway Details:

5 winners will receive an eBook of PLEA TO A FROZEN GOD, International.

Ends October 29th, midnight EST.