Showing posts with label Let's Talk Promotions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Let's Talk Promotions. Show all posts

Friday, February 22, 2019

Circle of the Moon by Faith Hunter (Spotlight, excerpt, and giveaway) LTP






by
Faith Hunter


Set in the same world as Faith Hunter's New York Times bestselling Jane Yellowrock novels, the fourth Soulwood novel stars Nell Ingram, who channels her power from the earth.
Circle of the Moon, Faith Hunter’s 4th Soulwood Novel, is available February 26th! Keep up with Nell Ingram and the PsyLed bunch by following the tour stops February 11- March 11 to check out the reviews & excerpts, and to enter the giveaway!





Blurb:
 
Nell can draw magic from the land around her, and lately she's been using it to help the Psy-Law Enforcement Division, which solves paranormal crimes. Joining the team at PsyLED has allowed her to learn more about her powers and the world she always shunned--and to find true friends.

Head agent Rick LaFleur shifts into a panther when the moon calls him, but this time, something has gone wrong. Rick calls Nell from a riverbank--he's naked, with no memory of how he came to be there, and there's a dead black cat, sacrificed in a witch circle and killed by black magic, lying next to him.

Then more animals turn up dead, and team rushes to investigate. A blood-witch is out to kill. But when it seems as if their leader is involved in the crime, the bonds that hold the team together could shatter at any moment.


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Excerpt:

Lainie made it to the parking lot in under an hour and a small KPD night-shift team met us in the parking area behind the warehouse-type building on Unnamed Road. Lainie and I went over the psy-meter numbers I had collected, and made an informed guess at the location of whatever or whoever awaited us in the brush near the creek. It hadn’t moved. I mentioned the robberies and the remote possibility that the two were related, based on my theory of a witch under glamour.

The KPD team listened in. There were six of us, the cops looking psyched at going into the wild and kind of freaked too, probably at the combination of an armed, magic-using suspect in the area, though I explained that the readings were wrong for a witch lying in the grass or for a vamp. There were no apparent heroes and no obvious para haters in the cop group, so that was good. Better was the fact that we could all share a single communications channel. After the crazy things that had happened with strange magic in the last year, KPD, KFD, and Knox County Sheriff’s Department had dedicated a single frequency to ops involving paranormal investigations or creatures. Most cops call it the para freq, and laughed.

Together we moved into the brush, every officer except T. Laine with service weapon drawn, tactical flashlight glaring, and wearing a vest. Over a shoulder, I carried a gobag with my pink blanket, tablet, and the psy-meter 2.0. T. Laine was armed with bright yellow number two pencils that R&D at PsyLED central in Virginia had imbued with a null force working to stop magic and magical attack. The null sticks were impossible for a human to activate, and painful for a witch to handle, making it nearly impossible for T. Laine, our moon witch, to carry a gun too, so she wore night-vision gear, both low-light and infrared oculars, and took a track beside me and a little ahead so my flash didn’t interfere with her headgear.

The null sticks were General brand pencils, with the word semi-hex on the side, surely a joke on the part of the witch who had spelled them. T. Laine carried one by the eraser and was ready to toss it at will.

As we moved through the tall grasses and brush, the only sounds were the trickle of water in the creek ahead and the swish of the summer grasses on our clothes. We’d have to do a thorough tick search when we got back to HQ. Maybe Lainie had a tick-search spell. That would be handy. Stupid thoughts to indulge in when there was something magical on the creek shore ahead.

“Halt,” T. Laine said softly into her mic. She turned to her right in small angled degrees. “Two o’clock from my location, twenty paces ahead. No live bodies in infrared, no DBs on low-light, but . . . something. The null sticks just flashed hot.”

“They shouldn’t flash hot unless there’s an active working,” I said. “Let me read the earth.” Which meant, let me put my fingers to the ground.

T. Laine tapped her mic and explained to the others, as she swished through the grass around me, “Ingram will be vulnerable, unable to seek cover in case of attack.”

“Copy,” several voices said.
-->


Buy link:

 Amazon


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About the author:


Faith Hunter's Jane Yellowrock series is a dark urban fantasy. Jane is a full blooded Cherokee skinwalker and hunter of rogue-vampires in a world of weres, witches, vampires, and other supernats.
Her Rogue Mage novels—Bloodring, Seraphs, Host, and the RPG Rogue Mage—feature Thorn St. Croix, a stone mage in a post-apocalyptic alternate reality.

The Soulwood series is a dark-urban fantasy / paranormal police procedural /para-thriller series featuring Nell Nicholson Ingram, an earth magic user and Special gent of PsyLED.

Faith writes full-time, tries to keep house, and is a workaholic. She gave up cooking for lent one year and the oven hasn’t been turned on since. Okay – that’s a joke. She does still make cold cereal and sandwiches. Occasionally, she remembers to turn on Roomba (that she named Duma$$ because it fell down the stairs once.)

Faith researches in great detail, and tries most everything her characters do. Research led to her life’s passions – jewelry making, orchids, bones, travel, white-water kayaking, and writing.

Jewelry-making was the occupation of two of her characters: Thorn St. Croix, the Rogue Mage, and the main character of BloodStone, written by her pen name, Gwen Hunter. She fell in love with the art form. Faith makes, wears, and sometimes gives away her jewelry as promo items to fans and as prizes in contests. See her FaceBook Fan Page at http://www.facebook.com/official.faith.hunter for pics. She works with stones, pearls, crystal, and glass, wire wrapping larger, undrilled, focal stones. Labradorite, Amazonite, apatite, aquamarine, and prehnite are her favorite stones.

Faith loves orchids. Her favorite time of year is when several are blooming. Pictures can be seen at her FaceBook page. And yes, she collects bones and skulls. Many of her orchid pics are juxtaposed with bones and skulls —a fox, cat, dog, cow skull, goat, and deer skull, (that is, unfortunately, falling apart) and the jawbone of an ass. She just received a boar skull, and the  skull of a mountain lion (legally purchased from a US tannery) killed in the wild.

She and her husband RV, traveling to whitewater rivers all over the Southeast.  

And that leads Faith to kayaking – her very favorite sport. Faith discovered whitewater paddling when she was researching her (Gwen Hunter) mystery book, Rapid Descent. She took a lesson and—after a bout of panic attacks from fear of drowning—discovered she loved the sport.

Faith is one of the founders and a participant at the now defunct and archived www.MagicalWords.net, an online writing forum geared to helping writers. And she is a voracious reader.

Under other pen names, notably, Gwen Hunter, she writes action adventure, mysteries, and thrillers. As Gwen, she is a winner of the WH Smith Literary Award for Fresh Talent in 1995 in the UK, and won a Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award in 2008. As Faith, her books have been on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller lists, been nominated for various awards and won an Audie Award with Khristine Hvam. Under all her pen names, she has more than 40 books, anthologies, and complications in print in 30 countries.

For more, including a list of her books, see www.faithhunter.net , www.gwenhunter.com , and www.magicalwords.net. To keep up with her daily, join her fan pages at Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/official.faith.hunter

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GIVEAWAY

a Rafflecopter giveaway




TOUR STOPS



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Tuesday, July 24, 2018

Wet Work by Donald J. Bingle (Spotlight, guest post, excerpt, and GIVEAWAY) LTP





I have the pleasure of sharing a guest post by author Donald J. Bingle, who explains...
You Might be Blocked Because You've Written Yourself into a Corner
by
Donald J. Bingle

I confess, I'm not much of a believer in writer's block as an affliction in the same vein as contagious diseases or forces of nature. Most of the time, I believe that what people think of as writer's block is not a disease or an Act of God, but rather a symptom of other problems:

One possibility, of course, is that you aren't writing because you simply don't want to write. (You might, instead, simply want to have written.) Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who say you must write so many words every single day. I certainly don't. I don't write every day. I don't write every week or, sometimes, every month. I get that writing often is good discipline and helps train your mind to efficiently get into "writer mode." But it's not the only possible approach out there. Instead of writing a little every day, I tend to write a LOT when I do sit down to write, regularly completing short stories at a single sitting and doing thousands of words at a time on longer pieces (occasionally over 10,000 words on a book if I put in a long day). Deadlines help (external deadlines, especially, as I am a responsible person, but self-imposed deadlines are helpful, too). Two other things help this burst-writing approach. One, I tend to fill the time between bursts with research relevant to the upcoming section. Sure, I know where I am headed from the get go, but fine-tuning details about weaponry (not something I know from real life) or locale or whatever means that when I next write, I don't get off-track (out of "writer mode") by stopping to grab some detail or distracted by a bracketed [insert geographical details here] in the midst of my flowing prose. Second, I try not to stop writing when at the end of a scene or chapter. Instead I write the first sentence or three of whatever is coming up next. If doing that inspires me, I may just keep on writing, but if it doesn't, it means my mind is geared up to subconsciously work on the problem of what comes next while I am goofing off and not writing.

Another possibility for not writing is simply that writing is hard. Parts are fun, but parts of it are a slog you have to power through to keep going. Writing can be especially hard if you don't know if what you are writing will ever be published or read by anyone. I tend to write much more quickly and easily for anthologies I have been asked to write for, than when writing for open calls. Worse yet is writing on spec, when I know I may spend hours and hours finding an appropriate market for the topic, tone, and length of whatever I am writing. Poor payment prospects don't help, either. It's hard to make money writing, but I won't (and you shouldn't) write for free. Knowing that self-publishing is a viable option these days helps, but then there is a marketing hurdle. Writing is like acting or direct sales--there's a lot of rejection and odds are you will never get rich or famous from doing it. Is it any wonder that motivation is sometimes lacking?

The most likely possibility for writer's block, however, is that you can't think of what to write next because you have a basic problem with what you have already written. Sure, this could be a character problem or even a tone or voice problem, but nine times out of ten, this is a plot problem. You've put your protagonist into a situation he or she doesn't have the skills to get out of or which can't be gotten out of because you, in your infinite and wily cleverness, have boxed her or him in without room to maneuver, much less escape, so you are left with cheesy deus ex machina solutions or fortuitous, helpful interlopers. You can't move forward because you have to move back. You have to look at how your character got into this situation and change something: ratchet down the difficulty (especially in the earlier parts of the story/book); give the bad guy or gal a failing that makes them overlook a way out or leave a way out to taunt the protagonist; give the protagonist some skill or arcane knowledge that will be not only useful but interesting to the reader; add a secondary character who can help; etc.).

I've found that two things (aside from better planning) can help me avoid or get out of these plot problems. First, I control my narrative. What do I mean by that? Well, I don't let my characters control my plot. I tend to snarl when someone says they create characters, then just listen to the voices in their head and write what the characters tell them. Not only do I find that somewhat bizarre, I think it disrespects what an author does--we don't transcribe, we create. But, more importantly for today's essay, it relinquishes control of the storyline to fictional characters who don't know what the storyline is and don't care whether the readers are interested in continuing to read more. I'm a control freak; I control what happens to my characters and what happens in the story or book I am writing. And, to create something which propels the reader to read more, you have to care about tension, pace, suspense, and variety--things that characters care nothing about.

Of course, I know the importance of characters and staying in character. I was the world's top-ranked player of classic roleplaying game tournaments for the last fifteen years of the last century. I've played over 600 different characters (men, women, animals, robots, sentient weapons, dwarves, elves, orcs, rangers, princesses, starship captains, cowboys, monsters, dragons, gangsters, cub reporters, and more) in a bunch of different settings in my roleplaying tournament days, so I completely understand getting into character and finding innovative solutions which are based in the character's personality and skills. I understand how letting a character do what they would do is important, but that doesn't mean the characters dictate plot. In fact, one of the skills I learned in writing tournament adventures was to create a plot and then fashion characters who would have, if well-played, the skills, abilities, attributes, attitudes, and cohesiveness necessary to work together to accomplish the tasks which make up the plot.

The second trick which helps me avoid getting stuck on minor plot obstacles is to keep my roleplaying experience in mind when a problem arises. In a roleplaying game, if the gamemaster asks you what your character does and you don't have a response, you don't get to take an action--which is invariably bad. To dither is to die. So, when I get into that kind of situation when writing, I ask myself what I would do if I were playing that character in a roleplaying game and the gamemaster asked me what my next move was. I wouldn't dither; I would try something. It might be stupid or brave, or stupid and brave, or clever or ineffective, but I would do something. And sometimes finding out what doesn't work may lead to thoughts about why it doesn't work, which in turn leads to thoughts about what might work or what needs to change about the situation to make it work. And suddenly, I have a solution. It may mean I need to go back and fix something to go forward, but it means I can once again go forward.

In real life, they say you shouldn't look back too much, because nothing ever changes there. But in writing, looking back can be the only way to go forward, because you can make things change back there. It's your world, your plot, your book. If you can't go forward, it's probably your fault.

You can find out more about me and my writing or check out my blog, where I sometimes pontificate about writing topics, at www.donaldjbingle.com.
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ABOUT THE BOOK 

Dick Thornby is not Hollywood's idea of a spy.

He's not a supercool guy in a tuxedo or a crazed loner who does nothing but kill and drive fast. He's just a regular guy with some skills for a job that needs doing. He also has a wife, a teenaged kid, a mortgage, and all the mundane problems associated with life. His friends from the New Jersey subdivision where he lives all think he is a wastewater treatment consultant. But instead of dealing with the dirty job of processing sewage in third world countries, he is really on missions, some mundane and dirty, others of vital importance and even dirtier.


After taking personal revenge on the criminal behind both his son’s injuries and the continued disintegration of his marriage, Dick Thornby is teamed with Acacia (“Ace”) Zyreb, a young, female agent from the East European office of the Subsidiary, to deal with the mystery behind coordinated hacking of the braking systems of several car models.
Doing his best to maintain his vows to his wife, Dick struggles to deal with the inexperience and provocative attitude of Ace on her first non-European mission. Their somewhat combative investigation takes a left turn by uncovering a much more sinister threat to the world and to Dick’s family. He’s willing to risk his job, his partner, and his life to eliminate the threat, but the clock is ticking.




Says author and award-winning editor John Helfers: “Dick Thornby would be the first person to tell you he’s no James Bond. And that’s a relief, because he’s something even better in the world of slick, breathless thrillers with superhuman protagonists—Dick is a real person. Whether he’s bending the rules of the super-secret spy agency in an effort to hold his rocky marriage together or breaking in an assistant who’s just as acerbic and to the point as he is …  Dick is a fully-realized, living, breathing person with hopes, dreams, and fears, all of which he juggles while trying to save millions of lives. Don Bingle’s written a taut, gripping spy thriller, and with Agent Thornby at the center of it, you’re in for a wild ride.”



WET WORK
DONALD J. BINGLE
Genre: Mystery/suspense
  • Print Length: 283 pages
  • Publisher: 54-40′ Orphyte, Inc. (June 11, 2018)
  • Publication Date: June 11, 2018
  • Language: English
ASIN: B07CCMR2JL



Excerpt:
The lava here was fresher and, thus, more barren. The din of Uncle Robert’s party quickly faded as they walked along the desolate flow as twilight gave way to full night. Surprisingly, the lava field was dotted with a smattering of shacks, tents, and even a full-blown house or two, though Ace couldn’t imagine how the squatting residents managed to haul water, food, supplies, or lumber, much less biological waste, across the broken gullies and sharp cracks of the lava field or why they would even want to do such a thing.
Before long the noise of the crowd fell away completely and the darkness deepened until there was nothing but black lava below and black sky above bedazzled with more stars than Ace had ever imagined, featuring a broad, bulging band of glittering light extending at an angle almost from horizon to horizon. She couldn’t help but stop to gaze at the spectacle.
“Sakra!” she whispered in awe.
“Damn impressive, isn’t it?” said Dick. “Most people who grow up anywhere near a big city have never even seen the Milky Way, much less the bright, expansive version you can see from the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Puts things in perspective, I guess.”
Ace responded without looking at Dick. She couldn’t draw her eyes away from the heavens. “You mean it makes you feel small and insignificant, like nothing you do here has any real impact on the universe?”
She heard her companion give out a short huff. “Some people see it that way. Me, I think that if ... just possibly, mind you ... if we’re the only intelligent life in the big, wide universe of which the Milky Way is only an infinitesimal fraction, then keeping the world safe and its inhabitants as happy and healthy as possible is the most important, most monumental, and most sacred task in the universe.” He paused. “And, I think I’d damn well better not screw it up.”
“Ty jseš debil!” She turned to look at him in the dim light. “You are such a fucking idiot! The happiness of the entire universe doesn’t rest on your shoulders.” She shook her head violently and looked back to the heavens with a muttered: “Men! Everything’s always about you.”
Her accusation hung in the air for a few moments before Dick replied, his voice soft. “Maybe. But I’d rather believe my life matters and try to live up to the calling that implies, than decide nothing I can ever do will make a difference and prove the point by only fulfilling that potential.”
     Ace wanted to believe him, to believe her life mattered, that she could make a difference, but so far her life ... and this mission ... seemed trivial in the grand scheme of things. And with the weight of the darkness enveloping her while the stars above twinkled at her from billions of light years away, feeling important was nigh impossible.






Purchase at:
Wet Work, Amazon
Wet Work, Nook
Wet Work, Kobo
Wet Work, PRINT
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR 
Donald J. Bingle is the author of five books and more than fifty shorter tales in the science fiction, fantasy, thriller, horror, mystery, steampunk, romance, comedy, and memoir genres.

Random true facts about Donald J. Bingle:
  • He was the Keeper of the World’s Largest Kazoo.
  • He made up the science of Neo-PsychoPhysics for a time travel roleplaying game.
  • He is a member of The International Thriller Writers.
  • He once successfully limboed under a pole only nineteen inches off the ground.
  • He has written short stories about killer bunnies, civil war soldiers, detectives, Renaissance Faire orcs, giant battling robots, demons, cats, werewolves, time travelers, ghosts, time-traveling ghosts, spies, barbarians, a husband accused of murdering his wife, dogs, horses, gamers, soldiers, Neanderthals, commuters, kender, Victorian adventurers, lawyers, and serial killers (note the serial comma). Of those subjects, he has occasional contact in real life only with dogs, cats, gamers, lawyers, and commuters (unless some of those are, unknown to him, really time travelers, ghosts, demons, serial killers, spies, or murder suspects).
  • He prefers gamers to commuters.

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Let’s Talk! Promotions is thrilled to announce Donald J. Bingle’s Blog Tour. The tour runs July 23rd thru August 6th. Follow tour stops below to check out the reviews, guest posts, Q&As, excerpts, and to enter the giveaway!


 GIVEAWAY



a Rafflecopter giveaway


TOUR STOPS

7/23:  Disquieting Visions (with Gail Z. Martin). (Guest post).
7/24:  The Reading Addict  (Guest post, excerpt).
7/26:  Book Junkie Reviews   (Excerpt).
7/27:  Faith Hunter’s Blog  (Guest post).
7/29:  Writers Spark
7/30:  GirlZombieAuthors  (Q and A, excerpt).
8/1:     Ken Schrader   (Q and A, excerpt).
8/2:    Words About Words (with Jean Rabe).  (Q and A with Agent Dick Thornby, excerpt).
8/4:    JBronder Book Reviews  (Review).
8/5:    The Million Words   (Q and A, excerpt).
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Friday, April 6, 2018

The Bone Shroud by Jean Rabe (spotlight, review) LTP (updated 4/8/18)


I have the pleasure of sharing a guest post with a deleted scene from author Jean Rabe with a title that is an interesting play on the events of the story. I apologize that technical difficulties, i.e. a black hole in my mailbox, lol, prevented me from posting this in a timely manner!



A Discarded Piece of The Bone Shroud

When I reviewed my finished novel, The Bone Shroud, I decided to take one more pass to trim and tighten it. Among the cuts was an entire chapter. I liked the chapter; I thought it gave some insight into two of my secondary characters. But it wasn’t necessary. The scene was not required to move the story forward. I present it here, a little window opening into Sister Sophia’s life.



“What is your life? It is a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.” Sophia spoke in English to the child, as Hamadi insisted that be his son’s primary language. The boy would learn other languages when he was older. Only age five; the one tongue was sufficient for now.
She selected another passage: “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.”
“Shadows,” the boy said. “You and Papa talk about shadows.” The boy had dark brown eyes, seemingly always wide with wonder; and long lashes that she envied. His hair was the color of polished maple and had soft curls. It covered the tips of his ears and should be trimmed. “I like to make animal shadows with my hands.”
He perched on the edge of a high-backed chair across from her, gaze fixed on the large book in her lap. It was old and valuable, an illuminated vellum manuscript—one of a set that together was a hand-printed bible from the 1300s. It was written in Latin, which Sophia could translate. Someday the boy would be taught to read Latin, too. The colorful letters and gold trim held his attention.
“James, do you understand what that means? Coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows?”
“Shadows,” the boy repeated. Then he drew the word out like he toyed with it: “Shaaaadows. Papa talks about being in God’s shadow.”
“You overheard us talking about being in the shadow of a man from some time ago,” she kindly corrected.
“Did Papa know him, this man?”
“The man lived a long, long time ago, James.”
“Before Papa was born?”
She smiled. “Hundreds and hundreds of years before your father was born.”
“So he’s dead, right?”
“A very long time ago. He choked after a feast in honor of his most recent wedding.” She surprised herself by being so blunt with the boy. “Some say he was murdered. Poisoned. But it was so many centuries ago no one knows for certain.”
“But they’re certain he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“He should have chewed his food better. He might not have choked.”
“I suppose he should have.”
“Or he should not have angered people. Then he might not have been murdered.”
“Yes, he should have been nicer.”
“But he wasn’t.”
“No, James, he wasn’t.”
“He’s still dead.”
“Yes, James.”
The boy rubbed his chin. “Then how can you and Papa be in his shadow if he’s dead? He’d be all bones. There wouldn’t be much of a shadow, just bones. It would be a skinny shadow and Papa would not fit in a skinny shadow. You are skinny, but not as skinny as bones. I’ve seen pictures of bones and—”
Sophia let out a long breath and James quieted. Hamadi entrusted James to her a few hours every day. Part of the time was play, sometimes she walked in the vineyard with him, but mostly she read and tried to teach him something. Already he could read rudimentary children’s books. He was the proverbial sponge soaking up so much, ahead of his years. Blessed. She hadn’t intended a history lesson today.
“An archaeologist friend of your father’s is digging—”
“Archaeologists build houses.”
“No, that’s architects, and they design houses. Archaeologists discover history by digging in the dirt.”
“Why?”
“—do they dig?”
“No. Why does the ar-kay-ol-o-gist look for a mean dead man’s bones?” The boy drew out words that were new to him. “What good are old bones, Sister Sophia? Why dig up a buried man? If you bury someone aren’t they supposed to stay buried?”
“I—” Sophia studied his face. James looked honestly curious. “Usually yes.”
“I want to go to the museum. The Conservatori.”
“Tomorrow, James. I promised you we would go tomorrow.”
“You keep your promises, Sister Sophia.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Papa said I could come to the party tonight.”
“For a little while,” Sophia said, grateful he had changed the subject. Despite his brilliance, the boy’s attention often wandered from one topic to the next. “There will be music, a local folk band. Some dancing.”
“I like music. You will dance with me Sister Sophia?” James did not wait for her to answer. “I like music a lot. Musica it is called in Italian. It sounds better in Italian than English.” James smiled, his face dimpled and his eyes widened. He slipped off the chair and started to sing:
“A frog he would a-wooing go. Heigho, says Rowley. Whether his mother would let him or no. With a rowley powley gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley.” He stopped and looked expectantly at Sophia.
She picked up the next part: “So off he set with his opera hat. Heigho, says Rowley. And on the road he met a rat. With a rowley powley gammon and spinach.”
The boy continued. “Pray, Mr. Rat, will you go with me—”
Sophia thought he had a strong, clear voice for one so young, and that he’d memorized the entire “frog” song and several others suggested to her that he was going to go far in life. Hamadi had great ambitions for his son. She was doing her best to help, teaching him phonics and a rudimentary understanding of the alphabet and forming words, teaching him the Bible and about early Christian sects.
Though James always showed interest in the religious tomes in his father’s collection, his favorite book was no great piece of literature in her mind. It was insipid: Green Eggs and Ham…the author had used only fifty different words, and James could read it, had memorized it. The boy would be enrolled in a private school for the gifted next year, where they focused on reading and math, and where he would select a musical instrument to play.
“When they came to the door at Mousey’s hall. Heigho, says Rowley. They gave a loud tap, and they gave a loud call. With a rowley powley—”
Sophia wished James was as interested in scripture as he was his Dr. Seuss books and silly songs. She took him to church on Sundays—different churches on occasion so he could experience various arms of the Christian faith, but sometimes had to leave him in the daycare room because he could not yet sit through an entire sermon without squirming and making a ruckus.
“Pray Mrs. Mouse, are you within? Heigho, says Rowley. Yes, kind sirs, and sitting to spin. With a rowley powley—” He tugged on her skirt, and she sang the next line.
“Pray Mr. Frog, will you give us a song. Heigho, says Rowley. But let it be something that’s not very long.” Sophia shuddered as James continued the song…about a cat and kittens appearing and eating the rat and mouse, and a verse later a lilywhite duck gobbling up the frog.
“With a rowley powley gammon and spinach!” James clapped and twirled, then hoisted himself back into the chair. “Rana. That’s the Italian word for frog. Sometimes it’s ranocchio. They don’t sound right in my song.” He suddenly looked all serious. “Read me more, Sister Sophia. Read to me from Papa’s old book.”
She did, and he listened attentively—or at least politely pretended to. Sophia earnestly hoped he caught some of the meaning behind the words. After more than a half hour, he started to fidget. It had been her longest session of reading scripture. She finished with one of her favorite passages: “What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if people claim to have faith but have no deeds? Can such faith save them?”
“I will have good deeds, Sister Sophia,” James said. “And I will go to heaven. All Dogs Go To Heaven…I saw that movie. That dead man with the shadow … he is not in heaven, is he? I would not like to meet his mean ghost.”
“No, such as he is denied heaven.”
“He’s in the dark place, right?”
“Yes, James.”
“But I will go to heaven, Sister Sophia.”
“I am certain you will, child.”
“Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray. Is anyone happy? Let them sing,” James said.
Sophia’s mouth went wide. It was the first time James had quoted scripture back to her. Five years old. Truly gifted, destined for something amazing. Sophia knew with all certainty she had done the right thing, leaving the convent for this new endeavor, helping Hamadi, and finding a new calling on the grounds of this perfect vineyard…even if part of her work involved trespassing in cemeteries late at night.
“Is anyone happy? I am happy, Sister Sophia. I will sing another song.” He slid off the chair once more and ran to the window. “Sister help to trim the sails, Hallelujah. Sister help to trim the sails, Hallelujah. Jordan’s river is deep and wide—”
Sophia carefully closed the book and returned it to the shelf. Hamadi had so many old and valuable books, though she considered this illuminated Bible set the finest. One of a kind, priceless, holy.
James continued to sing, misremembering the lyrics and making up some of his own. “Sister help to trim the sails,” he sang. “For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer. With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach. Hallelujah!”
“Would you like to play, James? Outside? The weather is lovely.”
The boy turned from the window and rushed to the door. “Croquet, Sister Sophia!”
“That would be fine.”
“The sun is out,” he announced. “It makes shaaaadows.”


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The Bone Shroud
by
Jean Rabe


Genre: Mystery/suspense
Date of Publication: March 30, 2018
ABOUT THE BOOK
Irem Madigan’s wedding trip to Rome turns into a desperate search for an archaeological prize, and a struggle to stay ahead of a killer.

Set in and under Rome, The Bone Shroud is a love story wrapped in a perilous relic-hunt.
Irem flies to Italy to be the “best man” in her brother’s wedding. He’s marrying an archaeologist bent on revealing the graves of some famous ancient dead. Irem, an archivist at the Chicago Field Museum, becomes obsessed with the centuries-old mysteries.
Unfortunately, Irem discovers there are other players in the game, and some of them are playing deadly. Can she survive and uncover the ancient secrets?



“Intrigue, romance, and danger amid the relics of Rome’s storied past, with compelling characters and building tension that will keep you turning pages!” Gail Z. Martin, bestselling author of Vendetta


“Strong characters, shady dealings, ruthless villains, a beautiful setting, an ancient mystery–The Bone Shroud has ’em all. Don’t miss it!” New York Times bestselling Richard Baker, author of Valiant Dust


Amazon link


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jean Rabe is the author of three dozen novels and more than a hundred short stories. When she’s not writing or editing, she tosses tennis balls to her dogs, indulges in fantasy football leagues, and fuses glass jewelry in her basement.



Amazon author page

Personal webpage 

Newsletter filled with tidbits about my upcoming books, reviews of things I’m reading, and writing advice. You can subscribe here

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GIVEAWAY




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My review:


4 stars

The Bone Shroud by Jean Rabe provides a delicious look at the city beneath the streets of Rome as an intrepid archivist from the renowned Chicago Field Museum gets involved in a remarkable treasure hunt. The ambiance of the rich cultural resources is nicely evoked, with a chilling counterpoint of the danger and excitement attendant with searching for history that some may feel better off left buried. There are shivery violence-laden scenes that contrast with the slowly building heat between the heroine and the policeman she keeps crossing paths with, and at times I almost couldn’t decide if I was willing to continue reading without the reassuring light of day!

Although the heroine ostensibly is a combination of many of the characteristics I like—intelligent, loyal, and kick-ass—she tended to irk me at times, and I never quite connected with her. To me, she is a bit wishy-washy at times…with respect to her job, her brother’s joy in his new life, and the excavation her brother’s fiancé is involved with. I also found the ending less than satisfying, as there are plenty of dangling threads that have yet to be resolved.

Despite all of these drawbacks, I enjoyed the chance to armchair travel and develop a desire to retrace these characters’ footsteps (at least the ones above ground, lol). The mystical aspect combined with the frightening ruthlessness of the villains who have their own lofty agenda makes this an entertaining and thought-provoking story that is vividly portrayed. I hope the next story will be coming soon, as I am impatient to discover what is going to happen next.



A copy of this title was provided to me for review.
 
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