Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Dimension Drift by Christina Bauer - Book Blitz + Giveaway

Dimension Drift
Christina Bauer
(Dimension Drift Worlds, #1)
Published by: Monster House Books
Publication date: April 24th 2018
Genres: Dystopian, Fantasy, Young Adult
“Fans of A Wrinkle in Time can’t miss Dimension Drift!” – Christina Trevaskis, The Book Matchmaker
Truth time. I go to a Learning Squirrel High School. Don’t judge.
On second thought, judge away. Learning Squirrel is one step above attending class in a junkyard. But what do you expect? Everything’s made out of garbage these days. At least, I have my freelance work to keep Mom and me housed, clothed, and fed. How? I’m your regular high school science geek for hire, except my work manipulates space-time. The good news is that these gigs pay really well; the bad news is that the government likes to kill people like me. Whatever. I’m not worried; hiding from their detection systems is easy for me.
Then I screw up one of my illegal projects. Badly.
In fact, things go so sideways that my house slips into two-dimensional space-time. The shift only lasts for a few seconds, but that’s long enough to set off a dozen government alarms. If those goons track me down, Mom and I are as good as dead. Long story short, I need to pay someone off, hide the evidence, and keep us safe.
Unfortunately, that means asking the Scythe for help. He runs the local underground crime scene and has absolutely no conscience…Or at least, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. It’s hard to think straight when a guy’s that hot in an ‘evil Mafioso kingpin’ kind of way. Most importantly, the Scythe is a crime lord who can conceal my slip-up with a few clicks on his minion’s computer keyboards. But the man has his price. In this case, the Scythe wants me to finish a certain dimensional prototype for him in twenty-four hours. I can do it, but it might mean Learning Squirrel High gets blown up in the process. Oh yes, and there’s also my new hot classmate who may or may not be an alien…and he says he’ll do anything to help me.
This job won’t be easy, but I’ve gotten out of worse scrapes. Maybe.

Nothing like waking up at the butt-crack of dawn to find your mother standing over your bed holding a thermos, moldy picture frame, and plastic bust of Albert Einstein.
That wakes me up, fast.
This whole thing is a shocker because for the last year, Mom’s been doing nothing but staring out the window, hoping my older sister, Luci, will come home. Such a disaster. Back in 2611, Luci ran off with her high school beau, Josiah, saying they wanted to start a new life somewhere that wasn’t Western New Massachusetts. For the record, I don’t blame my sister for leaving. Mom isn’t exactly the poster girl for stable parenting. And Josiah is a nice enough guy. You know, in the way that vanilla is a nice enough flavor.
That said, Luci only left us a quick note on the kitchen table the day she took off. Since then, my sister hasn’t sent us any word. Mind you, this is the same Luci who couldn’t go six hours without talking to Mom. Now, twelve months go by without so much as a peep? That’s not Luci.
Long story short, Mom and I are both pretty worried.
We just show it in different ways.
Mom holds up the bust of Einstein and stares at me wild-eyed. She doesn’t say anything, but that’s pretty typical. After Luci left, my mother’s routine has been pretty predictable.
Bed to window.
Window to bed.
No talking.
A little eating.
Not much sleep.
But now, Mom’s out of her chair with a vengeance. Plus, she’s even wearing one of her old lab coats from her researcher days. The frayed insignia of “United Americas” is still visible on her pocket protector. We’re not even supposed to know the name of the United Americas anymore, let alone save themed clothing. My high school teaches us that the only government that’s ever existed are the sickos in power today: the Righteous Command and Ultimate Authority. Mostly, we call them the Authority.
So what’s Mom doing in her old lab coat? Tons of scenarios skitter through my head. Most of them end with Mom getting trucked off to a mediprison. The Authority strives for purity in all things. Any signs of what they call mental weakness, and the Authority declares you an enemy of the state, and you disappear.
At this moment, the words total panic pretty much sum up my life. “What’s wrong, Mom? It’s four a.m.”

Author Bio:
Christina Bauer knows how to tell stories about kick-ass women. In her best selling Angelbound series, the heroine is a part-demon girl who loves to fight in Purgatory’s Arena and falls in love with a part-angel prince. This young adult best seller has driven more than 500,000 ebook downloads and 9,000 reviews on Goodreads and retailers.
Bauer has also told the story of the Women’s March on Washington by leading PR efforts for the Massachusetts Chapter. Her pre-event press release—the only one sent out on a major wire service—resulted in more than 19,000 global impressions and redistribution by over 350 different media entities including the Associated Press.
Christina graduated from Syracuse University’s Newhouse School with BA’s in English along with Television, Radio, and Film Production. She lives in Newton, MA with her husband, son, and semi-insane golden retriever, Ruby.


Visions Through a Glass, Darkly by David I. Aboulafia - Book Tour + Giveaway

Visions Through a Glass, Darkly
by David I. Aboulafia

Psychological Horror

Two days, eighteen hours, fifty-eight minutes...The time of your life on
this earth.
 Richard Goodman is the caretaker of a unique institution that trains disabled
youth in the art of watchmaking. But he is no ordinary administrator.
He possesses extra sensory powers he does not fully understand and
cannot control. But an innocent outing to Coney Island results in him
obtaining a more disturbing ability, along with a terrifying prophecy
that he will die in less than three days. As the clock of his life
counts down, a still greater threat emerges. An uncanny assassin who
will destroy everyone he knows and loves. Unless he can discover who
the killer is. And stop him in time.

AWARD (Best Adult Fiction - Classics) and the 2017 GLOBAL EBOOKS AWARD (Bronze - Horror Category) and was a FINALIST in the 2016 FORWARD REVIEWS EDITOR'S CHOICE AWARDS (Horror Category)

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Richard Goodman, Sr. chose to end his life by hanging himself with an electrical cord suspended in his bedroom closet. The cord had been scavenged from a table lamp I bought him as a birthday present; a heavy, bulky, antique-looking metal and glass thing; a blue and bronze colored, iridescent glass fish resting on its chin, mouth wide open, with the apparatus for the light bulb arching from its uplifted caudal fin.
It was strange, to be sure, unusual, even unique. But it was his taste, I imagined; hell, I thought he would like it. That he used a piece of it to murder himself I never took personally. Maybe it was because I thought that, in his own way, he was trying to say something to me. Not a bad something; not a sinister message of any kind. It was like a nod of his head, an acknowledgment that he shared a connection with me.
I don’t think this conclusion so strange. That he would have said anything at all to me of any substance, any time, after a certain point in his life would have been special. That he chose the instrument of his death as a small means by which to communicate was better than nothing. He must have tried other ways to do so over the years, but I don’t remember too many attempts. I never gave him many opportunities in the first place.
It was hard for him to express himself to others. When he did speak to me – I mean really speak to me – well, I just wasn’t listening.
As much as I really did care for him, maybe I wasn’t interested in what he had to say. I was always so selfish and self-consumed by my projects and problems. Maybe I just thought we were communicating in other ways, easier ways, ways that didn’t require words. Maybe I thought everything important had already been said, or didn’t need to be.
I just don’t know.
Anyway, by the way, Dad was a meticulous carpenter and a gifted woodworker, possessed with a natural talent that provided him significant joy throughout his life and that often produced remarkable results. We used to say, my brother and I, that he could build a Boeing 747 with a stone knife and three scraps of wood.
He used this skill to fabricate the means of his demise, securing a decorative oak support he had constructed with some care directly into two wall studs so that it would sustain his weight. He hung the support a mere five feet off the floor; he did not avail himself of the traditional step stool or chair as a launching point. I imagine that in his condition he didn’t trust himself to climb furniture. It had been necessary for him to bend his knees throughout the process in order to complete the job.
I try not to dwell on the perfect horror of this. I try not to imagine the suffering he endured in the exquisite silence and loneliness of his last moments on this earth, nor to speculate as to what thoughts, if any, raced through his dying brain, or even why he had done himself exactly as he had. I do sometimes marvel at the discipline that was required for him to accomplish the task.
There was no question he had been highly motivated. I have neglected to mention that he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. He sought medical care infrequently and he was too far gone at the time of his diagnosis for any effective treatment to be rendered. My sense is that he knew he was sick long before this, and finally went to the doctor out of curiosity alone, merely to confirm what he already knew.
It was true he hadn’t been feeling well for a while. He seemed to have lost a few pounds, and he looked more tired than usual, but other than that he didn’t appear to be suffering any overt symptoms of disease. He called me one day and asked me to come with him to the doctor’s office. That was unusual; hell, that he had called me in the first place was a downright phenomenon.
I thought he just wanted to hang out, I guess. But the Wave blew formless whispers into my ear from the moment I picked up the receiver that day.
I guess I wasn’t listening even to myself.
To my surprise, the trip was to a specialist and not his regular doctor. To my further surprise I learned he had been to this specialist on several recent occasions.
He was escorted into the physician’s office, not his examination room. No nurse or attendant hesitated as I accompanied him.
My father looked up and smiled gently as the physician entered his office, closing the door quietly behind him. I looked from the doctor, to my father, and back to the doctor again. The doctor’s demeanor said it all. So did Dad’s. Apparently, I was the only one who was going to be surprised.
So much for super powers. No supernatural deity waltzed out of any parallel dimension that day to tap me on the shoulder and kindly tip me off to what was going to be the biggest shock of my life and by the fucking way have you brought your valium with you today Ricky-Boy?
in essence, Dad was given two choices: First, he could writhe in agony for weeks or even months, wasting away gradually until he died, and as a bonus
he could slowly crush the souls and sensibilities of those friends and relatives as could be convinced to witness his end, all of us victims of a pious society so civilized that it will mercifully avoid a dying animal’s suffering with a momentary injection but insist that another animal, blessed with a brain slightly largely and the ability to perfectly comprehend his demise in advance, bear personal witness to his own agonizing end as the purported condition of his birthright.
His second choice was to dope himself up until he became a vegetable. Little pain would accompany this alternative; except at the very end, of course.
Then, God, or the Devil, or Death or the World, or the Truth or the Random, or Krishna or Gaia, or whatever the fuck it is that is responsible for all this shit in the first place would make itself known in such a way as to open his eyes so fucking wide that he would have no choice but to see.
There would be no eloquent last words, no final goodbyes. And, following all of this, he would also be dead.
A red pepper, I believe it was. Or was it a fruit? Did they say he could be a fruit? Perhaps it was a banana. Dad always liked bananas. Consistent with his rather strange culinary tastes, he used to mix one inch pieces (always sliced with a plastic knife) into a green salad and combine that with Spanish rice. None of us knew precisely why he did this, except that this had been his favorite meal as a kid. I wondered who had thought up this kind of dish, just as I once wondered what thoughts went through the mind of the man who ate the very first squid.
Extreme hunger, and limited choice, I imagine. Extreme hunger for something drives us all. Limited choice just drives us harder.
Eventually, he decided he did not want to become any category of produce. The way he explained his view was that he was given a choice between dying as a human being and dying as something else, and had simply selected the former. To him, it was the only logical choice.
It didn’t seem quite so logical after the excruciating misery of the first few weeks, as he lived with the practical results of his reasoning. So, always one to admit when he was wrong, Dad quickly altered his decision, availing himself of a third option the doctors had neglected to mention.
I visited him every day, at first, as he slowly passed; why, I’m not quite sure. Maybe there was something I wanted to say. Maybe there was something I needed to hear from him. But I never said much and never heard much of anything from him, except low groans accompanied by the soft rustling of bed sheets.
Even these wordless exchanges didn’t last very long. One night, in the small hours of the morning, he simply left the hospital. That he was able to gather the strength to remove himself from his bed was remarkable. That he made it home unassisted and undetected was nothing short of magical.
There was a nurse’s station on his floor. A security guard was posted at the elevator on the ground floor, and a manned receptionist’s desk was situated just before the hospital’s main entrance. He was haggard, terminally ill, and unimaginably weak, and for any exit he might have chosen he had to pass someone. He never bothered to dress in street clothes; I’m not sure he even had any in his room. It’s not as if anyone ever expected him to leave that place. Except in a box.
Notwithstanding, he escaped from the facility unnoticed and traveled a mile to his house in his hospital bedclothes, which is how I found him in the closet.
Yes: how I found him.
Maybe it was magic. Dad always had a knack of making shit happen, you know? For a guy who was basically quiet, humble and unassuming, he had this way of forming ideas in his mind and then imagining them into existence. That was how he explained his success in the world. He said you had to imagine stuff in your head before you could make it real. He said that everything that we see, and hear, and do, and know, and touch, are just the end products of ideas that were in the mind of someone or something, somewhere at sometime. The universe itself, he believed, was nothing more than an idea conceived in the mind of a divine spirit, the ultimate consequence of a God’s imagination. This was not an original precept, he was always careful to mention, but it was a true one.
Is it conceivable that he wished his way out of the hospital, then? Is it rational to believe that a dying, bedridden man might breach the confines of our physics using the force of his mind? And do what? Make himself invisible and walk on currents of air? Disassemble his molecules like some Star Trek character and beam himself into a clothes closet? And for what purpose? To murder himself?
I guess to believe all this you’d have to believe in magic.
I appeared at the family home in Westchester at 3:00 a.m. that morning, using my little-worn key to let myself in. That I already knew precisely where he was might appear to some as sorcery, too, particularly if they were to consider that I had to walk through Dad’s spirit – posted like a guard dog outside of the closet – to retrieve his body.
He seemed to be trying to say something to me, but I walked right through him, just as if he wasn’t there at all.
Hah hah.
I guess I wasn’t listening to him even then.
In any event, to me, there was no real magic to any of it. That even an ordinary man can summon forces within himself that appear superhuman or other-worldly, I have come to believe. That there are spheres of existence other than this ball of dirt, water and rock we currently exist on has been made clear. That some of us decide to come back after we pass from this earthly domain, and somehow violate the inter-dimensional levies of whatever place we have been situated in, I understand. That there exist inexplicable forces in this world, most of them wholly beyond the ken of the common man, I get.
I, after all, am Richard Goodman. Without regard to my oh-so-human form, I am inimitable. Although I breathe, and feel, and cry, and bleed, nevertheless, in all of this world I am unique; the only one of my kind.

DAVID I. ABOULAFIA is an attorney with a practice in the heart of New York
City. He spends the wee hours of the morning writing books that
terrify and amuse. His days are spent in the courts and among the
skyscrapers, and his evenings with the trees, the stars, his wife and
his dog in a suburb north of the City.

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!

Dragon God by Ava Richardson - Audio Book Tour

Author: Ava Richardson

Narrator: Tiffany Williams

Length: 8 hours 49 minutes

Series: The First Dragon Rider, Book 1

Publisher: Relay Publishing

Released: Jan. 2, 2018

Genre: Young Adult Fantasy

The new world is calling....

Niell Torvald is desperate to prove himself - his father’s kingdom depends on him. When a vicious attack on the way to the Draconis Order monastery nearly kills him, it becomes clear that grave trials await him on this path. Joreth, the wise monk who saves his life, advises caution upon entering the sacred halls. His mission is to learn arcane magic from the monks that will help to cement his father’s power, but Niell will need more than magical arts alone to navigate the challenges before him.

Among the monks’ students, Niell meets the lovely and mysterious Char, who senses evil deep within the ranks of the dragon order’s members. She takes him to a dragon she has raised, Paxala, and the three of them become fast friends. Niell soon grows in strength as he and his fellow students gain ancient knowledge, and his closeness to Char blossoms into something more.

When Niell’s brothers grow impatient and attack the monastery in a bid to seize power, he will have to decide where his loyalties lie: with his warlord father’s domain or the new friends he has made in the wider world.

Ava Richardson writes epic page-turning Young Adult Fantasy books. She creates lovable characters and drops them into intricate worlds that are barely contained within your eReader. Her current work is the ‘Return of the Darkening Series’, which features Seb, Thea and their shared dragon, Kalax.
She grew up on a steady diet of fantasy and science fiction books handed down from her two big brothers – and despite being dog-eared and missing pages, she loved escaping into the magical worlds that those authors created. Her favorites were the ones about dragons; where they’d swoop, dive and soar through the skies of these enchanted lands.
Narrator Bio

Tiffany Williams is an Audible approved narrator who has been narrating audiobooks since 2013. Tiffany graduated from the University of North Texas with a Bachelor's in Theatre with an emphasis on acting and directing, plus a minor in psychology - so watch out! She may just analyze YOU! Tiffany has been working professionally since 1993 as an actor; director; producer; costume, sound and prop designer; stage manager; technical assistant; box office assistant; board member; business manager, production manager and college professor for theatres such as the Shakespeare Festival of Dallas, Dallas Theater Center, Berkshire Theatre Festival, Undermain Theatre, Project X, Theatre Britain, Audacity Productions, and Collin Theatre Center; and has pursued additional studies at the Kennedy Center, Folger Theatre, the National Stage Combat Workshop and Fairfax Public Access. She also provided voice-overs for plays, phone messaging services, and training videos. Tiffany is the author of the children's play, The Great Texas Treasure Hunt. She is an eight-time winner of a Collin Theatre Center Award and received the 2004 Unsung Heroine Award at Collin College. She has directed numerous productions of The Vagina Monologues which raised monies for Hope's Door, Victims Outreach and the Dallas County Sexual Assault Coalition. Since moving to Virginia to be with the man she has loved since our sophomore year in high school, she has been narrating audiobooks. Working with her husband and being home with the kids has been awesome! That is until the youngest refuses to nap.

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Can't Stand the Heat by Peggy Jaeger - Book Tour + Giveaway

Can't Stand the Heat
Will Cook For Love #3
by Peggy Jaeger

Contemporary Romance

In Peggy Jaeger’s delectable series, delicious food is just an
appetizer for life’s main course: the kind of love that feeds your soul.
With three successful TV series under her belt, including her cousin
Kandy’s, executive producer Stacy Peters is ready to helm her own
show. But to make that happen, she has to do her network boss one
favor first—spend two months on a ranch in Montana wrangling the
notoriously difficult director of Beef Battles. Apparently, he eats
producers for breakfast. Yet all Stacy can think when she meets the
lean, rugged man is how hungry he makes her . . .
Dominic Stamp—Nikko to his very few friends—has had enough interference
from TV newbies. And when Stacy climbs out of the car in Montana,
he’s not convinced she’s even old enough to drive, much less
produce his show. But he can’t deny that the long-legged blonde
with the stubborn will and the dazzling smile whets his appetite. And
as Stacy proves her talent with the crew and the budget alike, Nikko
vows to prove to her that love is on the menu for both of them . . .
Look for exclusive recipes in each book!


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I wish you’d do that more often,” he said, his hand circling her upper arm as he turned her, slowly, back to face him.
What? Leave?”
He stared at her a beat, the line between his brows deepening. “Smile.”
Flabbergasted, she stood, rooted.
More specifically,” he added, “smile at me. You do at everyone else. From Dixon, to his son; the crew. Even Melora. Everyone, but me.”
His grip tightened a little as he pulled her in closer, their torsos almost touching.
Why? Why can you show everyone else that little piece of yourself, but not me?”
I…I don’t know how to answer that,” she said. “I know I was thrust on you without you wanting me here. I know you don’t like me, I—“
That’s not true. I didn’t want to like you,” he admitted. “There’s a difference. You’re a producer. A bottom line watcher. An annoying necessity. Liking you goes against the grain.”
At that she did smile, because she knew it was true.
See now,” he said, as he slid his other hand up her arm to settle on the back of her neck, fingers curling up into her hair to hold on. “When you do that? When you smile at me like that, so openly, so…freely? I can’t think about anything else.”
A gentle tug and he had her head pillowed in his spread palms as he bent his own down to hers.
Through her glasses she watched the fine whiskey in his eyes blend with the ink of his pupils as they dilated.
I haven’t been able to think clearly about anything for the past few days.” His mouth was a whisper from hers. His gaze skimmed from her eyes to her mouth and back again in one slow string of heat. “Except for this.”
She thought she’d be prepared for the feel of his lips on hers again. After all, she’d done little else but reminisce about their texture and taste for days. But she was wrong.
So wrong.
Nothing could have ever prepared her for the way the slight pressure he placed on the back of her neck as he brought her closer sent a shiver of such carnal delight down her spine she almost hummed. Or the way his breath, warm and full, felt as it washed over her cheeks. And she certainly wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of emotions he released within her when he quite expertly parted her lips and deepened the kiss, pulling at her very soul.
No, nothing in her life had equipped her with how to deal with Nikko Stamp’s kiss.
So she simply let go of all thought, fear, and concern, and surrendered to it.

Peggy Jaeger is a contemporary romance author who writes about strong
women, the families who support them, and the men who can't live
without them. Peggy holds a master's degree in Nursing Administration
and first found publication with several articles she authored on
Alzheimer's Disease during her time running an Alzheimer's in patient
care unit during the 1990s. A lifelong and avid romance reader and
writer, she is a member of RWA and is the Secretary of her local New
Hampshire RWA Chapter. When she’s not writing she can be found
cooking. With over 100 cookbooks, dog eared and well loved, her
passion for writing is only seconded by her desire to create the
perfect meal for those she loves.

Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!