Death stalks the guests at a seaside resort...

While staying at Brighton with the formidable old Mrs. Montford, Anna Fairweather witnesses a drowning. Suspecting the "accident" is something more sinister, Anna begins a search for the truth - and the killer.

Does a belligerent brother-in-law carry an old grudge? Is the victim's grieving husband a little too quick to move on? With an entire hotel full of suspects, Anna must uncover the secrets, and the motives, the hotel guests and employees are desperate to hide. But with the clock ticking, will Anna get to the bottom of the mystery - or find herself at the bottom of the ocean?

A portrait of death...

Anna has barely had time to settle in at the Montford town home in London, when she is drawn down a new path of danger. After she witnesses a stabbing in an alley, it's up to Anna to find the killer - before the killer finds her.

When suspects abound, Anna must delve into the art world and the personal life of the victim, searching for the truth. Will the reintroduction of her employer's attractive nephew, Jerome Townson, complicate matters? And will the stirring of old shadows from her past blind Anna to the dangers of the present?

At a 1921 garden party, murder is on the menu...

The sudden death of her employer sets loyal maid Anna Fairweather on a dangerous quest for justice. Discovering who killed the quarrelsome Colonel will require joining forces with the victim's attractive nephew, Jerome Townson, but is the charming Mr. Townson hiding darker motives than anyone guesses?

A formidable dowager, an incompetent Chief Constable, and a host of greedy relations become obstacles in Anna's search for the truth. Will the head butler and the other inscrutable household servants become her allies? Or will Anna face her ultimate fate - and a ruthless killer - alone?

Sometimes the simplest of choices can have the most devastating of consequences.
Sometimes falling in love can be a curse.
Sometimes being the hard man is the hardest job.

Hungary, 1949. George, Eva and Zoltan. Three people trying to live by the rules within a system that demands total obedience.

George, a rising star of Hungarian football, is told to throw a game. Faced with an impossible dilemma, George has to decide - to risk everything to fulfil his dream or, for the sake of his future, obey the rules.

Eva, reeling from the tragedy of losing her baby, Anastasia, falls in love at a time when love is fraught with danger.

Zoltan works for the secret police where having a heart is a sign of weakness. A torn man trying to suppress the good within him, his job takes him further and further from the things he values most.

Seven years later, in 1956, their destinies collide as Hungary erupts into revolution. Secrets can no longer be hidden as loyalties are pushed to the limit.

Set against the violent backdrop of suppression and revolution, Anastasia is a tale of people caught in the machinations of history, where the choices you make determine your fate. And at the heart of the novel, the unseen presence of Anastasia.

"Characters come alive -- you get into their heads. They are empathetic or cruel and heartless, but always interesting. There is the dark side of human nature as well as its opposite."

"Skilfully developed with a suspenseful plot which keeps the story moving."

"The characters are very human, and the descriptions of these tragic events make for an excellent read."

"Impactful. Heart-wrenching. An important read."

Rupert Colley is the founder, editor and writer of the bestselling 'History In An Hour' series of ebooks and audio, published by HarperCollins.

Historical fiction with heart and drama.

About the Author
Colley, Rupert: - "Rupert Colley was born one Christmas Day, which means, as a child, he lost out on presents. Nonetheless, looking back on it, he lived a childhood with a "silver spoon in my mouth" - brought up in a rambling manor house in the beautiful Devon countryside. It's been downhill ever since. He was a librarian for a long time, a noble profession. Then he started a series called History In An Hour, "history for busy people", which he sold to HarperCollins UK. Rupert now lives in London with his wife, two children and dog (a fluffy cockapoo) and writes historical fiction, mainly 20th century war and misery. Historical fiction with heart."

A forgotten treasure. An old foe. A present-day threat.

A coral restoration project at the East End of Grand Cayman unearths a relic lost to the sea for centuries. As dive boat operator, AJ Bailey, and her friend and mentor, Reg Moore, delve deeper into the 300-year-old mystery, a man Reg wished to never see again returns - along with his habit of stealing other people's treasures.

Anchor Point follows the early 1700s story of a young lad and his family as they fight to survive a Caribbean fraught with danger, from fierce storms to ruthless privateers, while in present day, AJ and Reg do their best to untangle an infamous tale from the Age of Sail.

Book 13 in the best-selling series returns AJ home to the Cayman Islands, and straight into the path of a ruthless man with a bone to pick.

“A lucidly described coming-of-age tale” about a young boy and three teenage sisters who have “a mysterious, almost mythic feminine glamour.” —Kirkus

"Linda Mahkovec discusses the importance of family, friends, hope, and love, in happy and difficult times. I would highly recommend this thought-provoking and memorable story for other readers!" —Linda's Book Obsession Blog

In this coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of the Vietnam War, a lonely boy finds acceptance when he spends the summer with a loving family with three beautiful daughters.

Twelve-year-old Joey Roland is sent away to family friends while his parents try to work things out. He’s eager to leave sadness and secrets behind in Chicago and head downstate to the small town of Greenberry, where the Vitale family awaits him. He thinks of their town as boyland—a world of bike riding, fishing, and going barefoot. Though initially shy of the teenaged daughters—Anne, Vita, and Beth—they welcome him into their lives of adventure, beauty, and dreams.

Joey especially bonds with the middle sister, Vita, and her all-or-nothing pursuit of an acting career. Joey's “there must be more” merges with Vita’s “I must make it happen” resulting in a magical summer where the town of Greenbury becomes the crucible for two desperate dreamers.

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Author Bio: 

Linda Mahkovec is the author of World War II historical fiction, short stories, and contemporary novels.

Themes of love, family, and home dominate her stories, and though they may be set against the backdrop of war or deal with the disappointments in life, the overarching feel is uplifting and hopeful. Threads that run through her work are the search for beauty and meaning, and the artistic female character—whether she is a painter, a gardener, or simply someone who lives creatively and seeks connection.

Mahkovec was born and raised in a small town in Illinois. She then spent several years in the San Francisco Bay area and Seattle, and for the past thirty years has lived in New York City. She has a PhD in English, specializing in Victorian literature. She has previously published as Agnes Irene.

Book Excerpt:

Prologue

Stage lights, glittering chandeliers, ornate balconies. Crimson brocade curtains and period costumes, a deafening applause. All the stuff of magic and dreams she had so loved.

Joseph’s eyes burned with pride as he watched his old friend and mentor, Vita Vitale, standing center stage bathed in adulation from the audience. Luminous. That was the word that kept coming to his mind. Tall and graceful, the stage lights casting a golden halo around her long auburn hair. She was as beautiful as ever. No. More so. She owned it now. When he knew her, she didn’t know who she was, what she had. She was just a bundle of adolescent yearnings with vague visions of her future.

“Vita!” “Brava!” “Vita!”

All around him the audience cheered her—Vita, Vicky, Victoria, Vi. The girl with all the names. Joseph rose to his feet with the others and continued to applaud. He smiled down at his wife, happy that she was finally encountering one of those three magical sisters he had told her about—Anne, Vita, and Beth. His work had taken him to the far-flung parts of the world, and he had lost touch with the family that had helped to shape him.

Now the gap of almost twenty years had, in an instant, closed on this New York City Broadway stage. And he saw that Vita had kept her promise.

There had been updates from his mother over the years, news that Vita had met with some success. But it wasn’t until recently, now that he was back in the States, that he understood just how successful Vita had become. An unexpected trip to New York City had him reaching out to all his contacts to help get tickets for the final night of her performance.

And now, there she was, the star of a play that had been written for her. He realized with a jolt how appropriate this role was, a play that reminded him of The Tempest. From high above—cliff tops, a tower, a balcony—she wielded her power. Vita—the girl who had been afraid of heights. The brave girl who had sought out the high places in her small, flat Midwestern town in order to conquer her fears.

The curtain briefly closed, and then reopened for another round of applause. The cast linked hands and took another bow. Calls of “Brava!” and “Vita!” continued from the crowd, flowers falling about her feet. Vita took a step forward, gathered up a large bouquet into her arms, and graciously swept a low bow. She placed one hand on her heart and let her eyes travel over the audience, as if thanking each person individually.

Joseph looked about him. They loved her. Wanted more of her. She had made them feel the weight of sorrow, the desperate longing for love, and the ultimate transformation—triumph after despair. They were grateful that she had confirmed hope and love, after loss and hopelessness. She had made them believe in themselves and in the magnificent beauty of life. They didn’t want this moment to end and clapped harder in hopes of prolonging the affirmation.

The crimson curtains slowly closed, and the brightness of the house lights increased. The audience became aware of themselves now, self-conscious of their clapping, of the awkward smiles that passed between people, of the desire to linger in the afterglow of the performance.

After several minutes, the applause lessened, and eyes left the stage. The closed curtains in the bright lights no longer held the universal and the wondrous. The show was over, the magic dispelled. The lights revealed the disarray of people gathering their coats and playbills, exiting the rows, commenting amongst themselves.

Joseph put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and kissed her hair. He saw other couples with arms linked, friends placing a gentle hand on an arm or shoulder, “after you” gestures allowing others to exit the rows—he laughed at himself. Was there really such kindness and gentleness? Or was he once again seeing her world vision?

“We must hurry if we want to catch her,” his wife said, pulling Joseph into the aisle.

They wove their way through the lobby and, once outside, fell in with the line of eager fans. As they waited, the crowd grew larger.

They stood close together in the crisp autumn night, trying to maintain their position by the police barricade that separated the star-struck crowd from the path Vita would take to sign playbills and smile for photographs. Across the street, Joseph saw a similar crowd burst into cheers as the star of that show greeted his fans.

Joseph’s eyes filled with worry. Perhaps she wouldn’t come. She should have been outside by now. When would he have another chance to see her—

His wife drew a sharp breath. “Here she comes! Oh, look at her.” She pulled Joseph a step closer. “Stand here. You haven’t seen her since she was fifteen and you were— what, ten, eleven?”

“I was twelve.” Joseph realized he sounded like a boy again.

“I wonder if she’ll recognize you.”

He shook his head. Of course she wouldn’t.

He could see her clearly now. Though close to twenty years had passed, he recognized the charm and beauty, the smile and determination—and, behind the gaze, the yearning. An unanswered hunger in her eyes. The quest always in the distance.

Joseph had his playbill ready. He overheard the comments from the crowd:

“Don’t worry, she’ll sign.”

“She always makes time for her fans.”

“She’s even more beautiful up close!”

Joseph inched forward. He felt like an overgrown groupie, but he wanted to see Vita face to face, to see if she might remember him.

She made her way down the line. Though she was tall, the crowd diminished her size. Outside, she was an ordinary mortal at the end of her workday.

Yet, there was also that element that made her different from everyone he had ever known. Something that set her apart. Something solitary, otherworldly. Both proud and vulnerable. A contrast that pulled you in. She had access to the world of magic and beauty, and like an alchemist, could transmute the ordinary into the extraordinary. But it came at a price. He saw the world weariness behind the smile and imagined that she desperately needed to be alone now—or was he projecting again? They were alike, after all.

Playbills were thrust forward as Vita’s name was called out. Her manager-husband shielded her from the pressing line of admirers and kept a protective hand on her shoulder, his eyes scanning the adoring crowd.

She was close now and Joseph’s heart beat faster at her nearness. Would she recognize him?

The woman next to him extended her playbill. “To Debbie, please.”

As Vita signed, the woman bounced on her toes in excitement. “Oh, thank you! You were just wonderful! Can I take a picture with you? My sister won’t believe me otherwise.” Vita nodded as the woman twisted sideways so her friend could snap a photograph. “Thank you!”

Joseph leaned forward and offered his playbill.

Vita took it. “How shall I sign?” Her face lifted in a quick smile at him.

His heart sank. Of course, she wouldn’t recognize him, after so many years. She posed for a few cameras, poised her pen, and asked again. “To . . .?”

Joseph swallowed. “To—D’Artagnan.”

Vita’s head snapped up and her eyes flashed. “Joey!” She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him.

“Oh, Joey!” Her embrace tightened. “Let me look at you!”

Tears shot to his eyes as she said his name. There she was, his old small-town, ordinary friend. Smiling her familiar smile.

“Hello, Vita. You were brilliant!” He took his wife’s hand. “My wife—Souad.”

“Your wife!” Vita embraced her as well. “So pleased to—”

Vita’s husband leaned forward to shake Joseph’s hand. “So this is D’Artagnan! How nice to finally meet you. I wasn’t sure you really existed.”

Joseph flooded with happiness. She had talked about him? His head turned from Vita to her husband to Souad as they all talked over one another.

“Oh, how I wish we could visit—” said Vita.

“But we leave for London in a few hours,” finished her husband. “The show opens in the West End next week.”

Vita clasped Joey’s hands. “Mom sent us photographs from your Moroccan series. They were magnificent!” Her eyes locked on Joseph’s in pride.

“They hang in our London apartment,” said Vita’s husband. “National Geographic!” “That’s—”

“Please sign,” a young woman said, snapping a photo and handing Vita a playbill.

Vita’s husband shrugged in amusement at the demanding fans. “We must get together. Soon.”

Vita looked up from signing and placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Give him—”

But he was already handing his business card to Joseph.

Vita squeezed their hands in goodbye as she was pushed and pulled down the line. “Call us! We simply have to—” Her words were lost but she kept turning her head back, seeking Joseph, as if convincing herself that he was really there.

In a flash, he remembered her old word. “You were wondrous!” he called after her, and was rewarded by a sweet smile—the shy smile he knew so well, not the professional smile of the actor.

As she signed and posed, her eyes kept searching for him in the crowd.

“She’s just as you said, Joseph!” Souad linked her arm with his and craned her neck to keep Vita in sight.

He followed Vita with his eyes. He was filled, once again, with visions of the world as beguiling and beckoning, and the wild desire to set off on a quest.

He wrapped his arm around his wife. “I knew she’d make it.”

Souad reached up to kiss his cheek. “Just as she knew you would.”

Vita stood tall, scanned the crowd, and found him one last time. Their eyes locked and she gave the old nod of collusion—and waited, just a moment, to see if he would remember.

He broke into a smile at their old “handshake,” their unspoken pact that nothing would get in their way. Their “I will, if you will” bond. He nodded back.

He filled with all the things he wanted to say. That it was she who planted the seeds of hope in him. She who believed in the part of him that was bold and brave and adventurous. She who convinced him that nothing was more important than playing an active role in this wild and wonderful world.

Joseph watched the crowd as it closed around her and her magic. The glittering lights of the theater marquees doubled in brightness for the Night Queen. Or perhaps it was tears of joy that blurred his vision.

Seeing her again had conjured up the past, and he remembered—as if it were just yesterday—that summer.

The summer he learned to dream.

Chapter 1

This was why he didn’t like Chicago. The train station so crowded you couldn’t see anything. Just a swirl of people, brushing and bumping against him as he stood next to his parents. His dad reluctant to hand over the small suitcase.

His mother leaned over one more time to kiss his cheek, smooth his hair, and straighten his collar. “You be good. And call us the moment you arrive.” She handed him the sack lunch she had made.

Joey wished she hadn’t stayed up late baking cookies for him. Her face looked strained, as if she hadn’t slept.

They moved closer to the train.

“You brought your books?” his father asked.

Joey patted his jacket.

“You have a good time,” his mom said. “Play with the neighborhood kids. Remember, the girls are older now and have jobs and boyfriends.”

Joey nodded. “I won’t bother them.”

“And remember, Victoria—as she’ll always be to me—now goes by Vita.”

Joey added that to his list of things to remember.

His father gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Everything will be all right, son. We just need a little time to work some things out. That’s all. And in the meantime, you’ll be with your friends, having all kinds of adventures. And the girls . . . What did you used to call them? The Petticoat Junction sisters?”

Joey shrugged. “I don’t know.” He reached for the suitcase.

“Take care, son.” His father’s voice broke.

Joey’s eyes darted around his dad’s face, looking for an answer. Inside, he said, Please don’t cry, please don’t cry, not sure if he meant him or his dad.

“ALL ABOARD!” came the conductor’s long up-reaching cry.

The people in line began to make their way onto the train, waving goodbye, giving a few final embraces. Joey turned around and hugged his mother. “Sorry, Mom.”

“Nonsense. This will be good for you. A little break is all you need. We’ll—we’ll . . .”

“Call when you get there, son.” His father lurched forward in an awkward embrace.

“I will. Bye, Dad.” His eyes began to burn and he squeezed them shut. For one safe moment, he let himself sink into the comfort of his dad’s chest. Then he broke apart and boarded the train.

Joey turned to the left and walked down the aisle behind the other passengers. Midway, he found an empty row. He stashed his suitcase on the overhead rack and sat at the window.

There was his dad, standing marooned, his shoulders pulled down by heavy rock hands. A pasted-on smile that matched his mom’s.

She touched a hankie to her nose, raised her hand, lifted her head.

Joey waved back. Please don’t cry.

Then, in a gesture Joey would always remember—because it was so unfamiliar—his dad draped his arm around his mom’s shoulder. They stood smiling with worried eyes, looking like cardboard-cutout parents that he didn’t recognize.

He became aware of the shuffling all around him as people took their seats. A quick reassuring glance out at his parents. He waved again. And again. They hadn’t budged.

Joey’s hand tightened on the armrest when the train began to move, leaving his parents behind. A final wave, in case they were still looking, in case they could still see him.

He leaned back and released his clutch on the sack lunch, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of the seat ahead of him. Like gazing into a deep black pool that had no reflection. It grew deeper and darker.

He rubbed away the vision and raised his head above the seats, looking in front of him and then behind.

He didn’t see any other kids on the train—none by themselves anyway. He had never traveled alone before. He felt a little older. Like he was already thirteen and had been for a long time.

People were settling in, putting bags and suitcases on the overhead rack, then deciding that they needed a jacket or book that was packed, and getting settled again.

Across from him, two older ladies arranged their knitting projects on their laps. One had a ball of pale pink yarn. The other had shades of blue.

Behind them, two men with Afros were talking about ’Nam. Twisting in their seats, spitting mad. Saying it wasn’t their war. Joey’s next-door neighbor in Chicago, Tony, also had to go to Vietnam. He gave Joey his football pennant when he left. It had felt like a goodbye gift. Maybe it was.

One of the men shot his eyes to Joey and raised his chin.

Joey leaned back in his seat, realizing that he had been staring.

He wanted to tell them that he hoped they would come back. That they wouldn’t get hurt. That’s what he had told Tony. But once the words were out of his mouth, he wished he had thought of something better to say.

Joey looked at the seat back again. In six years or so, it would be his turn to go to war. And who knew if he would come back.

People from the train car behind his were pushing the doors open, hoping to find seating together. He was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, he would have the whole seat to himself.

No such luck. He moved his jacket to his lap as a large man claimed the seat beside him. Joey looked up at him, ready to give a smile, but the man wasn’t interested in being friendly.

Joey leaned his head back. They were outside the station now. A fine drizzle on the window obscured his view.

The conductor made his way from seat to seat, waddling with the rhythm of the train. Joey lifted his ticket and tried another smile, but the conductor didn’t feel like being friendly either. He punched Joey’s ticket and continued down the aisle.

Joey wondered if his parents were out of the station by now. Were they seated in their car yet? Were they talking on their way back home? Or sitting quietly, deep in their faraway worlds.

After chugging along, the train picked up speed. The drizzle blew sideways in little streaks and cleared the window somewhat, revealing the wide railyard and the world outside. The pale morning air looked sooty. Like some kid had chosen a gray crayon and colored the world blah. His stomach tightened as he gazed out at the rails and tracks converging and splitting off to countless destinations. If the train broke down and he had to get out, he would be lost for sure. This time, without any idea of how to get back home. Broken bottles and papers littered the tracks. Farther away, industrial warehouses and sad-looking buildings leaned against the gray sky. Not a speck of color anywhere. He shut his eyes against the dizzying pull of so many different directions, glad he was going to one place. One very specific place where it would be hard to get lost once he was there.

He rubbed his eyes. They felt grainy from barely sleeping last night. “Don’t bother the girls,” his mother had said as she packed his suitcase. “They’re four years older since the last time you saw them. Teenagers now. Play with the neighborhood boys. And help Sal with his garden.”

“I will.” He would try not to get in anybody’s way. His parents had talked late into the night, this time in soft voices. The one time he wanted to hear them, he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

They were sending him away for the remainder of summer. Alone for the first time in his life. Shipping him off. Dumping their problem on someone else. Joey folded his arms. For the rest of July and all of August, he would be far away from home.

And he was glad.

Anything was better than the arguments. Sitting in his room. Waiting for it to be over. Trying to read. Sometimes covering his ears. Pretending to be asleep at night. His dad sitting with his head in his hands. His mom staring out the window while tears rolled down her cheeks. Was it really so hard to get along? Sometimes he wished they would get a divorce. Just to make it end. But then—he didn’t want to be without either one of them. It was at such times that he wished he had a brother. Or sister. A big family.

He twisted angrily in his seat and stared at the passing world. Shoving him off to his mom’s old friend so he wouldn’t be in the way while they probably got divorced. Then what? Or more likely, they would move somewhere. Again. They had moved many times—three towns or cities that he could remember. Four different houses. It always seemed to help for a little. He bounced back and forth between anger and sadness and just plain old feeling lost in it all.

He looked out the rain-streaked window again. The same sad buildings were still there—as if they had moved along with the train. Making their escape. Or maybe they just went on forever.

The train was speeding along now. The wooden ties and rails ran on and on, a low heartbeat throbbing beneath the wheels. Now and then the long, sad wail of the train whistle sounded above the heartbeat. It was comforting, somehow. Like it was on his side. It was comforting to be moving. Going somewhere. Anywhere.

He pulled up the collar to his jacket, tucked his head between the seat and wall, and closed his eyes. His body rocked with the rhythmic rumble of the train. The fatigue of the past few days took over, and he gave into a deep, welcoming sleep.

Shop all Linda Mahkovec books

What's done in the dark will be brought to the light...

The silhouette stood at the edge of the woods like a spider watching a fly enter its carefully crafted web. Only a few more steps and she'd be within its grasp.

Stacy Shaw has her whole life ahead of her. New job, new house and now a baby on the way--everything she's ever hoped for is finally coming true. But on a warm summer night on the way home from work, she vanishes. The police race to find her, but the clues don't add up. Conflicting facts emerge as her story twists and turns, sending the trail spiraling in all directions.

A hometown hero with a heart of gold, Jack Stratton was raised in a whorehouse by his prostitute mother. Jack seemed destined to become another statistic, but now his life has taken a turn for the better. Determined to escape his past, he's headed for a career in law enforcement. When his foster mother asks him to look into the girl's disappearance, Jack quickly gets drawn into a baffling mystery. As Jack digs deeper, everyone becomes a suspect--including himself. Caught between the criminals and the cops, can Jack discover the truth in time to save the girl? Or will he become the next victim?

Grab your copy of this brand new novel in the highly-acclaimed, wildly-popular Detective Jack Stratton Series and start reading this electrifying whodunit today

And Then She Was Gone is part of the Detective Jack Stratton Mystery Series, which has more than 3,000+ five-star reviews and over a million readers and counting. If you love a page-turning thriller with mystery, humor, and romance, pick up And Then She Was Gone today.

"The sound mystery brims with red herrings" --Kirkus Reviews

Novels featuring Detective Jack Stratton are all standalone and can be read in any order:
And Then She Was Gone
Girl Jacked
Jack Knifed
Jacks Are Wild
Jack and the Giant Killer
Data Jack

About the Author
Greyson, Christopher: - Christopher Greyson is a bestselling author of mystery, action, and thriller novels. His acclaimed Detective Jack Stratton Series has been read by over a half-a-million readers and counting. This action-packed series has a broad appeal, finding favor with mystery, thriller, and romance readers alike. The series includes Girl Jacked, Jack Knifed, Jacks Are Wild, Jack and the Giant Killer, and Data Jack. And Then She Was Gone, the next new book, will be released October 1st, 2016 with Jack of Hearts to follow. Christopher Greyson has also penned the successful epic fantasy Pure of Heart. Greyson's love of mystery and adventure began with his grandfather, a World War I decorated hero. He will never forget being introduced to his grandfather's friend, a WWI pilot who flew across the skies at the same time as the feared legendary Red Baron. Since he was a little boy, Christopher Greyson dreamt of what mystery was around the next corner, or quest lay over the hill. If he couldn't find an adventure, one usually found him! Now he weaves those tales into his stories. Christopher Greyson's educational background is an eclectic mix of degrees in Computer Science, Theatre and Communications. He resides in Massachusetts with his lovely wife, Katherine Greyson, author of the bestselling romance-mystery series Everyone Keeps Secrets and their two wonderful children, Laura and Christopher. Please visit ChristopherGreyson.com where you can message Christopher Greyson. He enjoys hearing from his readers. Sign up for his newsletter, join in the Detective Jack Stratton discussion on the blog, enter the giveaways and win prizes like a HD Kindle Fire Tablet! Follow Detective Jack Stratton on Twitter @chris_greyson and Facebook https: //www.facebook.com/ChristopherGreysonAuthor.

Book Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away—oh, sorry, that’s another story. But it could be this one, too. Could be the beginning of a lot of stories. All stories, really. But actually the galaxy isn’t far, far away, because nothing is far, far away, really…everything is just a thought away. Everything.

So in this galaxy that isn’t very far away after all is a very large room. Very large. Emphasis on very. And large. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the love and dedication that fills this room! This room spreads on for miles and miles and miles in every direction. You can’t even see its walls. But more about the room itself in a little bit. Right now we’re standing in front of an office. The sign on the office door reads MANAGER, ANGELIC AFFAIRS— which makes no sense at all, really, because everything, everywhere would fall under the category of affairs of angels. And we’d all be managers managing them. But anyway….

Henry, a plump, balding angel sits behind his large, angelificial desk. Now you might wonder why this angel would choose to be plump and balding and sitting behind a large, angelificial desk when he can choose to be anything, anywhere. Well, what do you think of when you see a plump, balding man? Wasn’t your favorite uncle like that? How about your favorite, old art teacher in that frumpy, navy-blue cardigan with the frayed elbows? And didn’t you just want to throw your arms around him in a big, sloppy bear hug? Well, that’s why Henry chooses to be plump and balding, and why anyone would choose to be plump and balding—because it’s all a choice. All of it, every last bit—it’s a choice. Maybe the choice isn’t made consciously, top-of-mind, but it’s made. Not sure how many big, sloppy bear hugs Henry, your uncle, or that old art teacher actually got, but I’m sure lots of folks thought about it.

Now as for sitting behind his desk, that’s another choice, because, as you now well know, anyone can be anything, anywhere. But Henry chooses to sit behind his large, angelificial desk to be of high service. And since he is a very organized angel and loves being an Angelic Resources Manager (you know, like the best Human Resources Manager in the best organization you ever worked for?), that’s what he chooses. And he chooses the angelificialness of his angelificial desk to weed out the ones who don’t really mean it. The chaff from the wheat. The angels from the, well, angels. Okay, the less-than-dedicated angels from the highly dedicated angels.

Henry looks to be about sixty-five—in Earth Time. Sitting in front of him is Brooke. Now Brooke is what you might picture an angel to look like...if an angel could be of Northern European descent, anyway: long, blond hair and big, blue eyes that soak in the worlds around her. She appears to be about twenty-five in Earth Time. But really, she’s as old as the universe. And so are you, by the way. Put in that perspective, you’ve been holding up very well. It’s truly amazing how wonderful everyone looks, considering.

Do angels have wings? Well, they do if they want to. Brooke and Henry don’t have them, nor do any of the angels in our story here, but many an angel or two have donned a pair of wings for that special occasion or two or eighteen million when they wanted to look especially angelic.

“Why would you want to do this?” Henry demands of Brooke. “It’s the hardest job in the universe!”

“It’s all you hear about,” Brooke answers, “all over every single galaxy: Earth, Earth, Earth. I figure if I can’t get in as a human, I could try it this way.”

“These humans can be as thick as wood. And just as pliable.” Henry looks at her over the top of his bifocals. Angels sometimes wear bifocals when they want to have that professorial look, too, just like humans. “Why don’t you go to Arcturus and just be content with peace, love, and instant manifestation?”

“This is what I want. More than anything in the entire universe.”

Henry sighs. “Alright then. Follow me. It’s not like we couldn’t use a willing volunteer down there.” But he smiles to himself, as if at some joke.

Henry leads Brooke out the door and through a tiny part of that seemingly infinite room. In thousands upon millions upon billions of cubicles, thousands upon millions upon billions of angels sit at their computer desks in groups of three, sometimes four, and sometimes two groups of three or four sitting side by side with numerous monitors in one bigger cubicle. The room has a distinct thrum as it hums with the voices of these thousands upon millions upon billions of angels. If you heard this thrum, you’d realize that, well, you do hear this thrum. All the time. The Earth has this thrum, the galaxies have this thrum, the universe has this thrum, and you have this thrum. The thrum is everywhere, resonating in one universal harmonic.

At first glance, a first-timer—which would be you— might think that the room’s vibrant radiance comes from the monitors and other external light sources. But a second glance would inform you that the monitors are actually somewhat dim and there are no other light sources. Oh, what love and devotion in billions of angels can do. Just imagine what love and devotion in seven billion—well, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.

Henry and Brooke pass two angels conferring over their computer monitors while the third in their triumvirate whispers softly into a microphone.

“No, no,” one angel says to the other. “You can’t have them meet yet. They’re supposed to have a child that’s going to be the Senator of Tennessee in 2067, and they can’t conceive her until after the accident, which can’t happen for another two years.”

Brooke looks at Henry in surprise. If she were one of your teenagers, I believe she would be saying, “WTF?”

Before Henry can say anything, the second angel answers the first: “Okay, let’s send this schlub along. That’ll keep her occupied for a little while.”

The first angel appears shocked. “Schlub?”

“Okay, okay,” the second angel replies, somewhat abashed, “a drop of divinity cleverly disguised as a schlub.”

Brooke again turns to Henry. “They do this while their assignment sleeps?”

“Right. Their assignment is obviously a late sleeper. Could be a hooker.” And then, to the surprise on her face, “Not to worry, it’s all good. It’s all a divine path.”

He leads Brooke past a closed office door. RAINDANCERS, the elaborate sign announces.

“Raindancers?”

“Oh,” Henry shakes his head, “you’d be amazed at how many humans want to rain on their own parade, keep worrying about nonsense, look at the bad side of anything. Raindancers only perform when asked, but they are in hot demand. You want to be extra busy, sign up for Raindancing.” And to her still-surprised expression, he adds, “It’s all good.”

Henry and Brooke continue walking and arrive at a bank of elevators. While Henry presses the down button, Brooke notices a very serious angel nearby, closely watching graphs and trends appear on his computer screen. His piercing blue eyes, which peer out from under hooded eyelids, look like they belong in a bird of prey, not in an angel.

“What’s his gig?”

Henry puts his fingers to his lips, imploring that she keep her voice down. “Karmic enforcer,” he whispers. “A job nobody wants. They have to recruit from the dark side.”

“Dark side? There’s no such thing!”

“Tell him that. Anyone in creation can believe anything he or she wants to and create that reality.”

“But—”

“And he’s found a lot of people on Earth willing to participate in that reality.”

“Yuck!”

Henry leans close to Brooke’s ear. “Don’t tell him this, or the humans who want to participate, but karma can be changed the instant the intent to change it is there.” Henry stops for a moment to consider what he just said. “Actually, no, my mistake—your job is to tell humans that. It’ll save them a lot of time. If they can hear you, that is.”

Ping! The elevator arrives and they hop aboard. Out of two hundred and fifty buttons with different codes, letters, and numbers, Henry locates E.

“E for Earth,” he tells her. “But it’s not too late to choose A for Arcturus or S for Sirius.”

“I’m good with E,” Brooke responds.

“Just double-checking.” Henry presses the E button and turns to Brooke. “Love and remember. Love and wake up. That’s all these humans have to do. And you’d be amazed how many mountains they put in their own way.”

The elevator departs from the enormous angelic hall—okay, it’s really part elevator, part rocket ship—and shuttles across the galaxies. Brooke gasps as the beautiful blue orb of Earth appears through the window. “Oh!”

“Beautiful, isn’t it? One of the finest creations in the universe. And they insist on decimating it, even though they have alternatives.”

The shape of North America appears in the window, and in just a matter of seconds, California appears to be rushing up to meet them.

“But they’ll get it,” Henry assures her. “That’s their job—to get it—and they have eternity.”

“They do?”

“If not here, somewhere. But it would be a shame to waste this incredible creation. Do what you can about that, okay?”

“Absolutely.” Brooke gasps again as the Southern California coast is now right beneath them.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yeah!”

“What?”

“Yeah!”

“What?”

“YES!”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You sure you’re sure?”

“I’m SURE I’m sure!”

THUD! The elevator lands on E. The elevator door opens and Brooke is too surprised even to gasp. They have landed in a small patch of grass by the 405 Freeway, somewhat near the Los Angeles airport. The trees, leaves, and grass shimmer and radiate with their own internal light. From Brooke and Henry’s vantage point, the veil has been lifted, and bending over every single blade of grass is an angel whispering, “Grow! Grow! Grow! Thank you for being here. You are so

loved. You are such a blessing. You are a miracle.”

As Brooke looks up and down the freeway, she sees more and more areas of grass, and she marvels at the amazingly stunning sight of more and more angels becoming visible to her.

The freeway is completely clogged. The cars are lit up by the light of the human occupants inside of them. But the exhaust from each car and the smog that hangs over the city seems to move, even dance, in a demonic way.

“What—what are they doing to themselves? Can’t they see what they’re doing?”

“It’s just wild how much denial humans can put themselves in. All of some can see, and part of the others can see, but they suppress it. It’ll be part of your job to help all of all of them see.” To Brooke’s confused expression, Henry adds, “You’ll see what I mean, all in good time.”

He gently takes her by the arm, and they float over the cars. “We landed a little too far east,” he tells her. “We have to cross over the freeway to that neighborhood over there.” The houses he points to are barely visible through the thick smog.

Brooke becomes aware of something that sounds like a beehive. And the beehive is growing louder and louder. As they glide over the freeway, she peers through the car windows. Inside each vehicle, accompanying but completely unbeknownst to the humans, are three angels—two are sitting beside their human and the third is in the backseat consulting a laptop computer.

A seriously suntanned man with a seriously bad hairdo shakes his fist out the window of his BMW to the driver that just cut him off.

“Goddamn son of a bitch! Where in the world did you learn to drive—on a farm?”

“Actually,” Henry chuckles to Brooke, “the answer to that is yes.”

They float over the car next to the boorish Beamer driver to find a woman who appears to be very composed—almost as if she’s about to step onto a ballroom dance floor. But inside her head, her thoughts are going a mile a minute.

“Oh, why didn’t I tell him what I really wanted to say? Why did I say what I said? What was I thinking? Should I call him and tell him what I really wanted to say? Oh, how could I have done that? What should I do?”

“Ouch!” Brooke winces, although she can’t feel pain. But she feels compassion—that’s her job. “That must hurt!”

“Oh, yes,” Henry sighs, “it does. Quite a bit. Takes most of ’em a long time to learn that—if they ever do, that is.”

The beehive, Brooke realizes, is really the cacophony of millions upon millions of thoughts drifting up to her.

Brooke and Henry float over the next car, where the driver is singing to his dashboard. “I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt!”

They float over the next car, where the driver is doing the exact same thing. “I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt.”

Puzzled, Brooke turns to Henry. “That sounded a little different.”

“He was singing in Japanese. But you can understand everything, everywhere.”

“Why aren’t their angels talking to them, any of them?” Brooke asks.

“How in the world could they hear their angels if their minds are so overly overactive?”

They float over another car and no thoughts float up to them.

“She must’ve meditated this morning,” Henry answers Brooke’s quizzical look. “And every morning for the past thirty years.”

Brooke notices the woman has four angels sitting in meditation around her. “So why aren’t her angels talking? They could get through to her.”

“No need,” Henry replies. “She’s on her right path. They speak to her from time to time just for a touch of guidance and reassurance.”

One of the angels opens one eye to look at the graphs on her laptop and then returns to her meditation. One of the other angels breaks from his meditation to address the woman: “Thank you for all that you do. You’re such a blessing.” As the woman smiles, the angel returns to his meditating.

“See?” Henry says to Brooke. “Actually, every single person on Earth has an angel who says that, over and over, when he or she can get through all the noise of the TV, radio, and the human’s own thoughts. But, even then, so few hear it.”

They float over another car with two people inside and six angels accompanying them. The radio is blaring loudly. The angels have their hands over their ears.

Brooke notices one lone angel over one lone blade of grass growing through a crack in the concrete by the freeway.

“Grow! Grow! Grow!” whispers the angel. “You’re a miracle. Thank you for being here. You’re such a blessing to us all.”

They float over the freeway wall, and Brooke sees an entirely different world as they glide down an attractive, tree-lined street of lovely, little homes with tidy, freshly mowed yards and well-tended gardens. Henry leads her to one particular house with requisite tidy yard along with innumerable angels talking to each blade of grass, each flower, even each leaf on a shrub.

“When it gets too much,” he tells her, “just fade them. You’re not even seeing all the dimensions. Even I don’t, when I can avoid it. It’d make you crazy if you did. But if you do want to see other dimensions, just choose. The choice is always there.”

The angels in the yard fade away as Brooke makes that choice.

The two voyagers float into the house. A pile of shoes greets them and piles of who-knows-what line the foyer. They float down the hallway and into a large family room off the kitchen. Now if you had just walked into the room, you would see a man playing with his young son and a woman potatoing on the couch to an early-morning quasi-news show. And if you could see like an angel, you would see the three humans and nine other beings in the room—a committee of three angels for each human. And that’s not counting the angels for the plants around the room, who are working even more intensely because their charges haven’t been watered in weeks.

Jack. Ohhhhh, Jack. He’s the man playing with the little boy. Yikes—you just want to grab him by those tightly hunched shoulders and shake him loose! The only thing tighter than his clenched fists is his jawline. Jack could be very handsome if he weren’t so sad. And even if you weren’t particularly sensitive, and even if it was a rare moment when Jack had a smile on his face,

you’d still know he’s sad. You could feel it, even across the room. If you were to take one look at him, you’d probably want to close your eyes so you could reenvision him as a strong, beautiful, powerful man—what he could be, perhaps what his original blueprint depicted about thirty-five years ago.

“But it’s kind of like someone came along and deflated the balloon of his being,” Brooke says.

“If someone else actually has that power,” Henry replies. “Which no one does.”

Three angels surround Jack: Christopher, Sapphire, and Blake. Your quintessential computer geek, Christopher wears glasses over his sharp, black eyes (yes, as you probably already surmised, angels wear glasses, too, when they want to proudly present that intellectual look). His ebony skin contrasts against his red and blond Mohawk—even angelic geeks like to sport that alternative look from time to time. Christopher constantly studies his laptop to watch graphs, analyze trends, make mental notes from the running tick of information gathered from all corners of the universe, and calculate statistics. On occasion, he looks up from his computer, but it has to be quite the occasion—which you know will happen because you certainly wouldn’t be reading a book about a non-occasion. But basically picture an angelic actuarial services analyzer albeit from the very hip part of town, and Christopher’s your guy...well, your angel.

Sapphire whispers into Jack’s ear. She’s the sweet librarian type—you remember that truly great librarian, the one you wondered about and asked your friends if they thought she had a life? At least a life that didn’t involve reference desks and card catalogs? Or for those of you younger ones who have never researched away from the Internet and are wondering what in creation a card catalog could possibly be, picture instead a woman who loves to look on her computer to see what wisdom is found where. At any rate, this librarian from your hometown library just loved researching things and helping you find information. She was born to work in a library, and you thought, wow, it’s really good we’re all interested in such different things, so it all gets taken care of. (And yes, everyone thought she had a very boring life, but oh how wrong they were—you wouldn’t believe the life she had!) Behind Sapphire’s thick glasses and tightly wound bun, she is actually very, very beautiful.

They’re all beautiful. Honestly, have you ever seen an ugly angel? Or, if you’ve never seen an angel, have you ever imagined an ugly one? Impossible. Just like humans. Maybe there are some less-than-attractive humans, but most are pleasant looking. A small percentage fall in the absolutely-breathtakingly-beautiful category and an even smaller percentage fall in the far-less-than-absolutely-breathtakingly-beautiful category. But they’re all beautiful—all angels, all humans. You know what we mean.

Sapphire’s job is to whisper continuously in Jack’s ear, which is exactly what she’s doing now. And what does she whisper? A compendium that goes something like this: “Jack, you are so beautiful. You are loved. You are a blessing. Thank you for being here. Thank you for blessing us. Jack, you are such a wonderful being. Jack, you are loved. You are so dear. You are such a blessing. Thank you for all that you do.”

Well, you get the idea. Everyone, everywhere on Earth, has an angel whispering to him or her like that. So why isn’t life a steady stream of perfection? Because very few can hear these words. But that’s starting to change, at least here and there.

Next to Christopher and Sapphire stands Blake. Remember your favorite high-school coach? Well, he probably was very Blake-like. “Atta boy,” or “Atta girl,” he’d say to you when you did a particularly good maneuver on the playing field. Or, if sports were not your thing, he’d say, “Nice try, kid.” And you’d know that while he didn’t understand how in the world sports weren’t first and foremost in your every thought, he really could tell you tried, and he sure did appreciate that.

Blake pats Jack on the shoulder. “Jack, you’re a wonderful father. You’re a wonderful businessman. But you know what? There’s more for you to do, son.” He pats him again—if Jack could’ve actually felt that pat, he probably would’ve fallen over.

“Hey!” Christopher exclaims, watching a graph on his computer. “Check it out—his awareness just went off the charts! I think he heard you. It looks like he might finally be getting it—no, no, forget it…just a passing thought.”

“Nah, he didn’t hear me,” Blake says. “His heart is open from playing with his little boy. You’ve seen this before—happens every day when he’s with him. With his baby girl, too. But it doesn’t stay.”

Meanwhile, Sapphire simply whispers in Jack’s ear: “You are so dear. You are such a blessing. Thank you for all that you do.”

“Jack, Jack, Jack,” Blake practically hollers to him, clapping his hands. He bends over next to him, hand on Jack’s shoulders, like a coach trying to pep up a reluctant-but-necessary player sitting on the bench. “It’s time to run with the ball, son. Time to know there’s even a ball in play. Time to know you’re even on the ball field. Time to know there’s even a game going on!”

Henry looks at the clock on the mantle. “He’ll be off to work soon,” he tells Brooke, “but he’s getting as much as he can of the most joyous thing in his life before he drops him off at preschool. One of the most joyous things, anyway. The other joy is his daughter. And this is Lacey, his wife,” he says, pointing to a form that has very successfully merged with the couch.

Brooke glances over at Lacey, who’s still doing the most wonderful job of potatoing. Yes, well, everyone on Earth has his or her special talent, and if a higher talent isn’t cultivated and nurtured, the lowest common denominator talent tends to prevail. Lacey might have been prettier in her day, and she could be on this day, if she wanted to be. Nope, doesn’t want to be: the bulge is winning this particular battle, dark roots are taking over the blond in her stringy, shoulder-length hair, her hazel eyes have long gone slack.

Surrounding Lacey are her three angels. If this team’s computer aficionado was from Earth, you would think she’s from Southeast Asia, and she’d be gorgeous if she weren’t so bored. She watches Lacey for a moment and then sighs as she starts to play a game of solitaire on her computer. There aren’t too many charts to watch when the human is so, well, uninvolved with life.

A chubby, adolescent-looking angel plays paddleball while an even younger-looking angel plays jacks on the floor. Adorable? Off the charts.

“Have they given up on her?” Brooke asks.

“Oh, no,” Henry answers. “But they have to wait ’til she turns off the TV. They’ll work on her when she gets up to use the bathroom. Can’t work on people while their minds are fully occupied with rot.”

“Why such young angels for her?”

Henry laughs. “Those two are ageless, timeless, eternal beings, just like all of us. But young-looking ones tend to act more young-at-heart. Sometimes angels like that are the only ones who can reach people like Lacey here. Special assignment.”

Brooke looks over at the couple’s son.

“And that’s Ben, their three-year-old.”

Ben’s three angels huddle around him, devoted to their tasks for him. (You’ll never see an angel working hard, but always with immense devotion and diligence.) One whispers in his ear, one studies her computer, one watches Ben carefully.

“You are so loved,” whispers Ben’s whisperer into his ear. “You are such a light. You have so much to give.” A smile spreads across Ben’s face.

Brooke glances into the kitchen. Piles of dishes from meals obviously long past sit in the sink, drops of milk and cereal decorate the placemats on the table, and there are more piles of that who-knows-what everywhere. Brooke notices that piles even surround Lacey on the couch.

Brooke points to Jack. “So he’s my assignment?”

“In living color,” Henry says.

Brooke watches Jack as he and Ben work on their creation, a dinosaur made of Legos. Giggling, Ben adds pieces of Legos in the shape of what you could guess is an elephant’s trunk. Jack chuckles. Wow! His shoulders start to move down to a level far more appropriate for a human shoulder. Lacey laughs—snorts, really—as a television announcer jokes, however; even though he doesn’t look up at her, Jack’s shoulders zoom right back up to his ears and his jawline goes rigid again.

“He doesn’t exactly flow with the go,” Brooke sighs.

“Go with the flow,” Henry corrects her. But he ponders for a moment. “Actually, I like it better your way.”

“Oh, Jack,” Brooke whispers to him, this man who clearly could be so very handsome and vibrant, but for some reason lives far, far below where he could be living. His son looks like a happier version of him in miniature: curly brown hair, big brown eyes, irrepressible smile. As Ben adds a giraffe’s neck to the dinosaur, Jack’s demeanor softens and relaxes—until Lacey snorts again, that is.

“At bottom, everything is a choice,” Henry says. “Everything.”

"...exciting and breathtaking...a triumph of courage and womanhood."  —Readers' Favorite

In 1778, war is men's business. That doesn't stop Anna Stone from getting involved in the fight.

As the wife of a preacher-turned-soldier, a healer, and mother of three, Anna knows her place in this world. She tends to things at home while her husband and brothers fight for liberty. But when her loved ones face starvation at Valley Forge, she refuses to sit idly by.

Armed with life-sustaining supplies, Anna strikes out alone on horseback over 200 miles of rough and dangerous terrain. Despite perilous setbacks along the way, sheer determination carries her toward her destination. When she learns of a plot to overthrow General Washington, her mission becomes more important than ever. With the fate of the American Revolution in her hands and one of the conspirators hot on her trail, Anna races to deliver a message of warning to Valley Forge before it's too late.

Based on events in the life of the author's sixth-great-grandmother.

More Reviews: 

The Historical Fiction Company Book of the Year Contest, Honorable Mention 

"...vivid and authentic detail...Lawson makes all the trials of the American Revolution come alive." —Jodi Daynard, author of The Midwife's Revolt

"This novel is a grand and rollicking revolutionary adventure undertaken by a young mother and brave American patriot." —Historical Novel Society, Editor's Choice Selection

"Ms. Lawson takes us back in time, but also connects the reader and history by showing the same kinds of conflicts affecting people then and today...a remarkably compelling read." —The Historical Fiction Company

Author Bio:

Tracy Lawson's passion for storytelling led her first into the world of dance and educational theater. She now has three nonfiction books and six novels to her credit, and in her latest, Answering Liberty's Call, she blends extensive genealogical and historical research into a page-turning thriller. A Cincinnati native, Tracy splits her time between homes in Ohio and Texas. She and her husband have one grown daughter.

"...elements of magic and mystery abound....Tanner also does an admirable job weaving in politics and mythology of a bygone people. A complex and promising start to a new fantasy series." —Kirkus Reviews 

"History truly comes alive under the pen of author Linnea Tanner, but there’s also plenty of room left for characters to breathe and develop under watchful narration. The plot is stellar: well-thought-out and executed with a great sense of beat and pacing as each moment of both the romance arc and the curse is portrayed. Overall, an un-put-down-able fantasy adventure from start to finish."  —Readers' Favorite

"An engaging historical fantasy, Apollo's Raven by Linnea Tanner is a captivating tale of triangles [and an] epic Celtic tale of magic and a curse.“ —2019 Pencraft Book of the Year Award

A Celtic warrior princess is torn between her forbidden love for the enemy and duty to her people. Award-winning Apollo's Raven sweeps you into an epic Celtic tale of forbidden love, mythological adventure, and political intrigue in Ancient Rome and Britannia. In 24 AD British kings hand-picked by Rome to rule are fighting each other for power. King Amren's former queen, a powerful Druid, has cast a curse that Blood Wolf and the Raven will rise and destroy him. The king's daughter, Catrin, learns to her dismay that she is the Raven and her banished half-brother is Blood Wolf. Trained as a warrior, Catrin must find a way to break the curse, but she is torn between her forbidden love for her father's enemy, Marcellus, and loyalty to her people. She must summon the magic of the Ancient Druids to alter the dark prophecy that threatens the fates of everyone in her kingdom. Will Catrin overcome and eradicate the ancient curse. Will she be able to embrace her forbidden love for Marcellus? Will she cease the war between Blood Wolf and King Amren and save her kingdom?

SCROLL FOR SAMPLE!

More Reviews: 

2020 Readers' Favorite Bronze Medal Fiction Magic/Wizardry

2019 PenCraft Best Book of the Year Award

2018 New Apple Book Awards: Official Selection Fantasy

2018 eLit Book Award: Silver Medal Fantasy/Science Fiction

2017 Global Ebooks Award: Bronze Medal Fantasy/Historical

2017 New Apple Book Awards: Official Selection Historical Fiction and Cross Genre

"...a captivating tale of triangles; love, lust and espionage, friend, foe, and spies., barbarians, civilized Rome and spiritual-supernatural beings. The author's knowledge of the mythology and the history of 43 AD Celtic tribes is astounding as she weaves a tapestry of intrigue, a Gordian knot of rivalry and a love story." —Authors Reading (2019 Pencraft Book of the Year Award)

"...a historical fantasy with strong elements of romance, political intrigue, and magic. Many surprising twists enrich the historically drawn plot. Points of view shift between different characters effectively, heightening the tension from one moment to the next." —Historical Novel Society Review

"If you're looking for something entertaining with a fast, action-paced rhythm, Apollo's Raven by Linnea Tanner is a definite must. For a women who is trying to figure out where she belongs in her world, this tale is relatable to other young women in our timeline who are also trying to figure out where they belong." —Literary Titan (Gold Book Award) 

"... a soaring epic that carries its audience on an adventure full of ancient magic, passionate romance, and political intrigue."  —IndieReader (Indie Approved)

"The historical romantic fantasy takes readers to 24 AD to the Southeast Coast of Britannia, blending magic, romance, and politics into a satisfying tale of one determined Celtic woman who must choose between doing her duty and following her heart." —BlueInk Review

"Apollo's Raven is a good introduction to what life was like for the Celtic Brits when the Romans invaded. The plot is intriguing, and the forbidden love angle adds to the punchiness of the story." —Author Luciana Cavallaro

"An unpredictable, spellbinding tale, made so much richer by the historical integrity of the research carried out by the author, Linnea Tanner." —Author Ann Frandi-Coory 

"...an enticing avalanche of one revelation after another....I like to think of this story as a huge metaphor for history rewriting itself through fiction and allowing individuals to take charge of their own destinies."  —OnlineBookClub.org

"a rapturous read that mixes Celtic mythology into a good historical romance." —Foreword Reviews 

Author Bio:

Award-winning Author Linnea Tanner weaves Celtic tales of love, magical adventure, and political intrigue into the backdrop of Ancient Rome and Britannia. Since childhood, she has passionately read about ancient civilizations and mythology which held women in higher esteem. Of particular interest are the enigmatic Celts who were reputed as fierce warriors and mystical Druids. 

Depending on the time of day and season of the year, you will find her exploring and researching ancient and medieval history, mythology and archaeology to support her writing. As the author of the Curse of Clansman and Kings series, she has extensively researched and traveled to sites described within each book. 

A native of Colorado, Linnea attended the University of Colorado and earned both her bachelor's and master's degrees in chemistry. She lives in Windsor with her husband and has two children and six grandchildren.

Book Excerpt:

Chapter 1: Raven’s Warning

24 AD, Southeast Coast of Britannia

Princess Catrin reined in her horse at the edge of the precipice overlooking the sea below to study the pattern of her raven’s flight, seeking an omen. Her dream of the skull-faced moon, bleeding crimson, still plagued her. It was as if she had glimpsed both into her soul and into the future, yet she did not know how to interpret it.

The Raven, her animal guide, shot like an arrow into the thickening mist that partially obscured the sun. The sudden nip of a cool, salty breeze made her shiver. Longing for the disappearing sun’s warmth, she nestled into her plaid cloak and focused on the bird’s aerial acrobatics, first diving at the sheer cliff, then darting up. This close to the edge, one misstep of her horse could dash them both onto the jagged rocks below. Only her raven, a divine messenger, had the power to overcome such a fall and rise into the heavens to soar with the gods.

The Raven disappeared into the fog. Out of the haze, the red-striped sail of a flat-bottom ship suddenly appeared. Driven mainly by oars, it thrust to and fro in the turbulent water; it was unlike the deep-hulled vessels of seafaring merchants powered by air currents over their sails. At the bow of the ship was a strange looking beam shaped like a bird’s beak.

Catrin’s gaze followed the Raven’s movement beyond the white cliffs, where more striped sails were emerging from the mist. She counted ten, but there might be more. A chill feathered up her spine.

Could these be warships?

From the distance, she could not determine the total number of ships or the country of their origin. She needed to see through her raven’s eyes for that. But to do so, she had to be alone to meld her thoughts with the Raven. Uneasy that her sister, Mor, and their companion, Belinus, might disrupt her connecting to the Raven, she scanned a clump of brambles some distance down the grassy slope where she had left them. A few weeks back, the couple had met at the Beltane’s spring festival and had since become intoxicated with each other.

Catrin was still rankled that Belinus had tricked her into weapons training. His real purpose had come to light the evening before, when he told her to wait on the hillside so he could finish practicing with Mor. A warm blush spread across Catrin’s face as she imagined their legs entangled with each other. Did they think that she was deaf and blind and that she was too dimwitted to understand what they were doing? The king would not think kindly of it if one of his trusted warriors charged with training his daughters for battle was seducing one of them.

Now barely discerning the couple through the thick brush, she surmised they were again fully occupied with each other, leaving ample time for her to take the next step with her raven before they again joined her.

She dismounted and raised her sword, a signal for her raven to return. The large bird swooped toward her like a dark shadow. She lifted an arm on which the bird landed. Its midnight-black plumage contrasted sharply with her fair skin and gold braided hair. On the threshold of womanhood, she felt closer to this creature than to many of her own kind. Still, she hesitated connecting with the bird.

A few years back, she had told her father of her ability to see the present and future through the Raven’s eyes. She desired to be a Druidess. He denied her request to be trained in the spiritual order, saying, “I have decreed that no one in my family can use the powers of the Ancient Druids.”

When she asked why, he responded with a grim frown. “The magic is too unpredictable and often alters in deadly ways. Foresight is not a gift but a curse in our family.”

The king’s answer confounded Catrin, but she dared not defy him openly or get caught when she secretly practiced her new mystical ability that the Raven had shown her.

The Raven first sought me out, she reasoned in favor of using her newly discovered powers. I must heed the Raven’s warning. If I am to assess the danger the ships pose, I need to study them up close.

She had to hurry, though. The fire between her sister and Belinus would soon cool.

Catrin lifted her arm and looked to the Raven, considering her decision. “What do I have to fear from you? I am a Cantiaci warrior.”

The Raven cocked its head and gawked at her, as if ready to answer her question.

She asked, “Did the sun god send me an omen about the warships offshore?”

When the Raven mumbled some gibberish, she tapped its beak. “What does that mean?”

The Raven screeched, bobbing up and down. She smoothed its ruffled feathers. “Do you know why the ships are here?”

The Raven grew still on her arm. She winced, recalling the image of the blood moon in her dream. She asked, “Do they plan to attack?”

The Raven nodded excitedly, as if in response. Encouraged, she asked, “If I saw through your eyes, could I learn who they are and the reason they’re here?”

The creature tilted its head sideways, the signal for her to enter its mind.

She hesitated. “What if Father learns that I've taken this next step? Will he punish me for disobeying him … for ignoring his warning?”

The Raven shrieked and arched its wings. She chuckled. “That is right. He did say to study the enemy before each encounter, but never hesitate in battle. That’s what I’m doing—exactly what my father expects. I’m finding out if enemies are aboard the ships, but to do so, I must see through your eyes.”

Catrin again hesitated. Once before, when she had melded and disconnected from her raven guide, she lost consciousness. It took awhile for her head to clear after that episode. If that happened again, it could spell disaster so close to the precipice.

She stepped away from the cliff ’s edge and stared into the Raven’s eyes, which glowed like amber gems. The bird’s talons emitted a bolt of electric heat into her arm. A light flashed in her mind, and the Raven’s essence permeated her core being. She knew that she had entered the Raven’s prescient mind.

The landscape appeared blurry until she adjusted to the Raven’s eyesight. Brightly colored wildflowers dazzled her with purple hues that she was unable to detect with her human eyes. A thrill rushed through her veins as she sensed the bird’s breast muscles contracting to flap its wings. When the Raven began its thrust into flight, she felt the misty air lift its outstretched wings.

When the Raven soared toward the channel, she could see her human form standing as motionless as a statue on the emerald hilltop clasped to the jagged precipice. The sheer chalk cliffs formed an impenetrable wall against the crashing waves. Beyond the cliffs, there was a sparsely vegetated shoreline toward which several ships were sailing and where other vessels were moored. Armored infantry-men were disembarking, wading to the shore, and marching across the beach. On higher ground, soldiers set up tents in a square encampment. One of the guards had a lion’s head covering his helmet. In his hands was a pole with a silver eagle on top. She assumed it meant powerful animal spirits were guiding them.

A palatial tent in the center of the encampment caught her eye. Its outside walls were made of twined linen sheets, violet and red, brocaded with eagles. Surrounding the central structure were crimson banners, each emblazoned with the sun god in a horse-driven chariot. At the tent’s flapped entrance were two foreign noblemen attired in purple-trim white togas. Another man, towering over the foreigners, wore a rustic toga and plaid breeches—garments that nobles from her kingdom typically dressed in. From the back, he looked familiar, his thick coppery hair draped over his shoulders like a lustrous wolf pelt.

To confirm her suspicions that she knew this tall, brawny man, Catrin directed the Raven to circle around, so she could get a closer look. When the man’s ghostly, disfigured face came into view, her heart wrenched. She recognized her half-brother, Marrock.

Grotesque images of ravens pecking tissue out of his face flashed in her mind. For seven years, she had believed herself safe from him, but there he was—a specter arisen from the cold ashes of her nightmares.

Why has he returned with an army?

A sense of doom crawled all over her when Marrock’s head tilted back, as though he knew her essence was flying overhead. His blue-green eyes began glowing and changed to the same amber-gem color as her raven whenever she harnessed its magical power. The Raven’s muscles suddenly paralyzed, freezing its wings. A strong force pulled her through a crevasse in the Raven’s mind and hurtled her into a tunnel of brilliant gold light.

She plummeted, tumbling out of control, toward a black portal in the center of a rainbow-colored arch.

Chapter 2: Secret Magic

Just before Catrin burst through the portal, she found herself lying on familiar, yellow-flowered grass on the cliffs. Above her, the Raven’s wings disappeared into a gray haze. A shiver of panic as sharp as needles prickled down her back.

Was this what my father meant about the magic being unpredictable?

With the landscape settling around her, she inhaled the briny air and felt her own world again. Still, a burning tingle lingered in her arm as questions barraged her mind.

Did Marrock do this to me? Did he somehow sense I was spying on him by using my raven’s eyesight? Did he put me into another world? Is this the deadly magic my father warned me about—the double-edged blade that others who detect my raven-sight can do me harm?

A woman’s shrill voice startled Catrin. She rolled on her back to find her sister, Mor, looking down at her, the reins of her bay horse in hand. Gusty wind swirled Mor’s ebony tresses around her face, which was etched with concern.

“What happened?” asked Mor. “Your horse was loose. From a distance, I saw a raven on your shoulder as you collapsed.”

“I slipped and fell,” Catrin said, trying to wrap her mind around what had just happened. “Help me up.” She grasped Mor’s extended hand and pulled herself to her feet. Still light-headed, she teetered while brushing the chalk from the cliff stones off her leather chest armor.

“Did that raven do something to you?” Mor asked. “Before you collapsed, you appeared frozen; your arms twisted over each other like broken wings. It was as if you left this world and became some-thing else. A wraith or a soulless corpse comes to mind.”

Catrin glanced around, thinking it odd that Belinus was not with her sister. Assuming he was nearby, she looked beyond Mor, but there was no sign of him.

“Why don’t you answer me?” Mor snapped. “This is the second time I’ve seen this happen to you this week. You know what Father said. You are not to do magic with that raven.”

The image of Marrock with the foreign troops flashed in Catrin’s mind, and she blurted, “I saw warships offshore. Marrock is leading them!”

Mor scanned the ocean channel, now thick with rolling fog. “I don’t see anything.”

Catrin pointed northward. “Look beyond the cliffs.”

Mor shielded her eyes with a hand to search again. A moment later, she gave Catrin a dubious frown. “There is too much fog to see clearly. When did you see Marrock?”

“A bit ago—” Catrin suddenly realized it could have been quite some time since she had been in the Raven’s mind.

Mor gripped Catrin’s arm and pulled her closer. “Did your raven cast a spell on you, and you imagined this? People say your raven makes you mad!”

Catrin bristled. “That is utter nonsense! I only connect to the Raven when I need its help and have complete control over it.”

When Mor’s jaw dropped, Catrin realized she had let her secret slip out. She bit her lower lip, but it was too late to take the words back. Upon further consideration, she didn’t know how to convince Mor of the threat posed by Marrock and the foreign army unless she disclosed her use of forbidden magic. She finally admitted, “When-ever I need help—like … like seeing something in the distance—I can enter the Raven’s mind and see through its eyes.”

“Explain exactly what happens when you see through its eyes,” Mor said. “Do you shape-shift into a raven?”

“My human vision turns off when I switch to the Raven sight. I can see below me when it flies. The Raven also sends me dreams of the future. Last night, I dreamt the moon turned into a bleeding skull. I took this as an omen that our kingdom is in grave danger. When I saw Marrock with foreign soldiers, I confirmed this was true.”

Mor paused, as if trying to absorb what Catrin had just said. “Merchant ships are always sailing near the coastline. How could you even tell they were warships from the distance?”

“Armed soldiers were disembarking from vessels moored on the beach beyond the cliffs—”

Mor interrupted. “Nobody can see that far, even through raven eyes.”

“Let me finish!” Catrin snapped. Mor’s lips clamped into a scowl as Catrin continued. “My raven flew over the bay, where I saw hundreds of soldiers setting up camp on shore. That is where I saw Marrock!”

“I find your tale truly hard to believe,” Mor said, shaking her head.

“I’m not a liar,” Catrin insisted. “We must heed the Raven’s omen. Soldiers would not be with Marrock unless he plans to attack us. We need to warn our father.”

“Warn him of what?”

“Marrock is back with a foreign army!” Catrin declared. “Remember, sister, Marrock swore to slay everyone in our family when Father banished him seven summers ago.”

“You’ve made a bold claim without proof.” Mor exclaimed. “I never saw Marrock with my own eyes and, for that matter, I never saw any warships. What if you’re wrong? You don’t have any evidence that he is plotting to attack our kingdom. Father will be furious when he discovers you used your raven’s magic. Besides, I want to stay here and finish training with Belinus.”

Catrin could feel her face flush with anger. Train with what—his sword? She pointed to herself. “I’ll accept the blame if I’m wrong, which I’m not. We must go back now!”

Mor put her hands on her hips. “I’m not leaving until I see these phantom soldiers and ships with my own eyes.”

Catrin, noticing her sister suddenly glance up, turned and spotted Belinus waving from the adjacent hilltop to signal weapons had been set up for practice. The last thing she wanted was for Mor to persuade him to stay so they could finish their tryst before slinking back home. Mor had lost all sense of propriety with a common warrior.

Of all days to practice, I should be warning Father!

When Mor pulled the reins of the bay and began walking away, Catrin yanked her by the arm to halt her. “What are you doing?”

Mor spun toward Catrin. “Belinus is set to go. I am getting your horse ready, so you can practice spear throwing."

Catrin wagged her head in disbelief. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? We must go now and tell Father what we have seen.”

Mor glared. “I don’t take orders from someone who practices black magic with a raven. You see things nobody else can.”

Catrin ripped the reins from her sister’s fingers. “I don’t care what you think. I’m going. If Father asks me why you are not with me, I will tell him about your little meeting with Belinus.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

Wordlessly, Catrin mounted her bay and stared at her red-faced sister.

“Answer me!” Mor shouted.

Catrin pointed to the spear on the grass. “Hand me that lance.

I’ll tell Belinus about what I saw. You can load up your weapons and join us.”

Mor flung the spear up to Catrin.

Catrin adjusted the weapon and kicked her horse into a gallop. Gale breezes from the channel stung Catrin’s eyes as she drove her horse near the cliff’s edge and up the ridge to where Belinus was waiting. With thoughts running wild about a possible attack by Marrock, she ignored the perils of the precipice and the rocks below. With spear in hand, she clamped her legs against the horse and threw it.

The metal tip pierced the raven’s image on a shield that Belinus was holding. Clad in leather breeches and chain mail, he yelled, “Why did you do that? I wasn’t ready.”

Catrin halted in front of him. “We need to get back! Warships have landed; Marrock is leading them!”

Belinus gave a shocked look. “Marrock? Warships? Where?” Catrin pointed northward. “In the nearby bay.”

Hearing horses approaching, Catrin turned and found her sister riding the black stallion and leading a pack horse.

Mor huffed. “Why didn’t you wait for me? You’re lucky I don’t have to scrape your smashed bones and flesh off the rocks.”

“No time to argue!” Catrin snapped. She ordered Belinus, “See to the weapons. I’ll explain everything to you on our way back to the village.”

Mor blazed at Catrin as Belinus packed the weapons. After he mounted his horse, he told Catrin, “With the coming fog, it may be difficult to see the ships on our way home. Ride with me and tell me more about what you saw.”

Catrin rode with Belinus on the pathway while Mor followed them. As they descended the grassy hilltop, Catrin told Belinus about the warships and Marrock's return. Belinus appeared alarmed, glancing all around. He asked Catrin more questions and suggested they take a closer look at the seashore.

They directed their horses into a darkening forest in the valley. When they rode out of the woods and approached the beach, thick fog was swallowing the ships in the bay and marching out of the haze were soldiers heading their way.

Catrin glanced back at Mor. “See … there is the danger.”

Mor’s shoulders stiffened. “Keep riding.”

Belinus rode ahead and kept his hand on his sword’s pommel. “Follow me. Don’t look scared. These are Romans!” 

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About the Author
Dr. Lucinda Berry is a trauma psychologist and leading researcher in childhood trauma. She uses her clinical experience to create disturbing psychological thrillers, blurring the lines between fiction and nonfiction. She enjoys taking her readers on a journey through the dark recesses of the human psyche. If she's not chasing her eight-year-old son around, you can find her running the streets of Los Angeles prepping for her next marathon. To be notified of upcoming releases, please visit: https: //about.me/Lucindaberry

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