411 on Books, Authors & Publishing

Kiss of a Witch
S.G. Slade
(Darkness Rising, #2)
Publication date: December 14th 2023
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Historical

Trapped in a spreading web of darkness, the power of an ancient book might be their only hope.

Mary Sparrow was cursed at birth, and the bawdy house is the only home she’s ever known. Like most of the girls, she dreams of escape. But when an old man drives her friend to madness, she swears she will have her revenge.

Toby Chyrche also hopes for a better future, away from the tailor’s shop where his fate seems set in stone. Then afateful meeting seems to promise freedom, until an ancient book of magic reveals chilling truths.

Ensnared in the spreading web of darkness, they turn to magic to protect themselves. But shadowy forces crave a sacrifice, and the spectre of death is beckoning. Can they wield the power of the book to protect those they love? Or will they pay for their courage with their lives?

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

—

EXCERPT:

Then Toby ducked through the low door from the street and her breath stopped short in her throat. She was on her feet in a moment, shoving the sewing back into the basket at the hearth, straightening her skirts, checking her hair and adjusting the neckline of her bodice, small breasts pushed up and on display to their best advantage. She waited by the hearth, a coy smile on her lips and her head tilted in invitation. He saw her straight away and made his way towards her, and the little light of hope inside burned brighter. He had come, not for any girl, but for her.

‘Ale, Rosalind,’ Mary ordered to the other girl, who still sat staring at the unlit fire. Rosalind turned towards her, frowning in question. ‘Get us ale,’ Mary told her again, and eventually the girl got to her feet and headed out the back to where the barrels were kept.

‘Master Chyrche.’ She dropped her best curtsey, and he returned it with a bow.

‘Mistress Sparrow.’

They sat at a small round table beside the fireplace, and he looked around the empty room. ‘Where is everyone?’

She shrugged. ‘Elsewhere.’

‘Then I’m glad,’ he replied. ‘Because it means I can have you all to myself.’

She laughed, taking pleasure in the pleasantry. ‘I am all yours, Master Chyrche.’

He took her left hand in his, and began to caress the extra finger, gaze intent on the movement of their hands. Then, looking up, his eyes fixed hers in question. ‘Are you truly cursed, Mary Sparrow?’ he asked. ‘Does the Devil suckle at night on this finger?’

She gave him an uncertain half-smile in answer. Why was he asking the same questions again? ‘I cannot rightly say,’ she murmured. ‘I hope not.’

Lifting her palm to his mouth, Toby kissed it, then briefly, discreetly, slid the extra finger between his lips, his tongue warm and moist as it curled around the tip. Her breath lifted in response, warmth in her gut. Then Rosalind returned with the jug of ale and Toby let her hand go. Mary poured for them both and she drank, unsure of him now. She had met men before who made a fetish of her fingers, but Toby’s sudden interest disconcerted her. She lowered her cup and looked at him. He was watching her closely, eyes grey and pale in the candlelight, and she was self-conscious under his scrutiny.

‘Perhaps I’m your Devil,’ he said.

‘Perhaps,’ she replied, but she had no understanding of his meaning. He must have seen the confusion in her eyes, though she tried her best to hide it, because then he gave her a smile that made her fall a little deeper.

Author Bio:

S.G. Slade was born and raised in the historic city of Bristol in England, and now lives in Sydney, Australia, with her husband, son, and a very small dog called Livvy. She has worked variously as a secretary, a teacher, a shop assistant and a nurse, but lifelong obsessions with books, history, and magic have never waned. When she isn’t reading or writing (which isn’t often), you can find her either doing yoga, going for long walks, or watching old movies. Touch of a Witch is her first historical fantasy book.

She uses the pen name S.G. Slade for her fantasy books, and also writes Historical Fiction under the name Samantha Grosser.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok

GIVEAWAY!
http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/d04251235646/

—

Trust No One
Glenn Dyer
(Conor Thorn Series, #4)
Publication date: December 11th 2023
Genres: Adult, Historical, Thriller

Loyalists meant to rid their country of a double-dealing collaborator. Instead, they created a threat that could destroy Allied unity.

Algiers. Winter 1942. Conor Thorn is devastated. He’s been fired from the OSS. His wife, Emily, has been fired from MI6. They allowed their morals to bend certain truths concerning the outcome of their last mission. Forever dedicated to defeating Axis powers, these skilled operatives jump at the chance to secretly help General Eisenhower deal with a political time bomb threatening Allied harmony and to redeem their honorable standing. To recover a rumored archive holding the truth about an assassination plot, they must travel deep into perilous Axis territory.

In the crosshairs of those determined to keep the information out of Allied hands, Conor and Emily fall victim to a violent assault. Though the resulting injuries leave him severely concussed and confused, Conor refuses to stand down while his beloved ventures deeper into danger.

Can Conor and Emily piece together a political puzzle in time to keep Allied unity from fracturing?

Trust No One is the high intensity, gritty fourth book in the Conor Thorn WWII espionage series inspired by true events. If you like heart-pounding action and white-knuckled tension, then you’ll love Glenn Dyer’s thrill ride through history.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble

—

EXCERPT:

Conor stirred. His head was pounding like the bass drum in the US Naval Academy marching band. When he opened his eyes, one person stared back at him. The facial features were out of focus, as if he were looking through cheesecloth. He blinked. The onlooker’s mouth began to flap. He sat up, but his head almost exploded. A hand pushed him back. The cheesecloth dissolved, and he could see someone smiling at him. Given the slow shake of his head, Captain Jack Waddon was not pleased to see him.

“You are one lucky bastard, Conor,” Waddon said.

Conor looked around and recognized that he was back aboard Waddon’s Consolidated PBY-5 Catalina, the ship that had taken him, Emily, and Father Sean Sullivan to Italy on their mission to snatch Ettore Majorana. “What did you say?” He could barely hear his own words. “What the hell happened?” He reached for his throbbing forehead and felt a knot the size of a billiard ball. The surface of his forehead radiated a low heat.

“You were introduced to a blackjack swung by one angry MP, that’s what happened,” Waddon said. “As far as being lucky, well, that’s because Commander Butcher saved your butt. Told the MP that he’d take it up with Colonel Eddy himself and see that you, being nonmilitary, would exit the theater as soon as he could arrange transport.”

Conor rolled over onto his right side. The two men were in the plane’s compartment forward of the waist gunner’s area and aft of the flight engineer’s compartment. He reached for the back of his head and discovered a lump where the blackjack had ambushed him. “Stevens?”

“Hauled out of there to the field hospital. Out cold. Like you were.”

Conor groaned.

“Here,” Waddon said as he handed him a damp handkerchief.

Conor spied white gauze peeking out from under Waddon’s left sleeve. Waddon had been wounded three weeks prior when his PBY approached the beach near Anzio to exfiltrate Conor, Emily, Sean Sullivan, and Ettore Majorana.

“How’s the arm?”

Waddon waved off the question. “On the mend. Already back in the left seat.”

Conor nodded, then held up the handkerchief. “What’s this for?”

“Your ear. There’s some dried blood. Stevens must have landed at least one blow.”

Conor took the handkerchief and dabbed at his right ear, loosening some dried flakes but also coming away with some fresh blood. The bass drummer in his head pounded away. His head had seen better days.

“So you dragged my ass here after Butcher saved it?”

“Yep. Me and DiLazzaro. We thought you had some lead bars in your pockets. You were a load getting you in here.” Seaman Eugene DiLazzaro was one of Waddon’s crew and had wound up part of Conor’s team that went ashore at Anzio. The New Jersey–born Italian American had handled himself like a pro, particularly when the shooting started.

Conor’s stomach roiled. Bile crept upward. A mixture of oil, perspiration, fuel, and grease hung in the air, fanning the flames of his nausea. “Jack, do you have a bucket? I don’t feel too good.”

“Conor, don’t you lose it in my ship,” Waddon said, scurrying forward in search of something to keep his Catalina puke-free. Conor wondered what did the most damage: the blow to the back of his head from the blackjack or the oak bar that gave no quarter when his head collided with it. Waddon returned with a collapsible canvas bucket and shoved it into Conor’s hands. “Here, and don’t miss.”

Conor leaned over the side of the bunk and let loose a stream of vomit that filled the bottom two inches of the bucket. When he finally felt he had no more to give, he handed it to Waddon and lay back. “So you just happened to be in the area when the action started?”

“Hey, I was thirsty.” Waddon went aft and tossed the bucket’s contents out through the open starboard-side blister. He returned and sat across from Conor on the port-side bunk. “When I approached the bar’s entrance, I saw Butcher coming from the other direction. We were about ten feet from the bar when we heard a massive crash. That must have been Stevens doing a back flop on the backbar. Two MPs were already there. We saw one lower the boom from just inside the doorway. We both cringed when your head hit the bar.”

“Well, thanks for the sympathetic cringes. Then what?”

“I already told you. Don’t you remember?”

Conor shook his head and felt the pain surge as if his brain were bouncing around inside his skull.

“Like I said, Butcher jumped in, threw Ike’s name around a bit, and eventually, the MPs backed down. He told them to get Stevens to the field hospital and told me to take care of you, but not to go far. That he needed to see you when you got put back together. He wanted me to get this to you.” Waddon handed over a note.

Conor unfolded the paper. It was short and sweet. He folded the note and put it in his pants pocket, then settled back to let the whitecaps in his stomach calm down.

“Well, you going to let me in on it or not?”

“He wants to know why Donovan shitcanned me.”

Author Bio:

GLENN DYER is a former commercial television executive whose career spanned over thirty-five years. That career took him to cities such as Salt Lake City, Dallas, Washington, DC, and Denver. He returned to Park City, Utah in retirement in 2013 to write full-time. He is an associate member of the International Thriller Writers, the Author’s Guild and The OSS Society. Glenn attended Villanova University and graduated from Boston University. He and his wife, Chris, have three children, all of whom live too far away. Visit his website at http://www.glenndyer.net and follow him on Twitter @duffy_dyer and Instagram @glennduffydyer.

Website / Facebook / Instagram / Twitter

GIVEAWAY!
http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/d04251235642/

—