Saturday, January 31, 2015

Green Muse by Jessie Prichard Hunter, Blog Tour



This morning I was called upon to photograph the dead again.

The messenger boy came at five-thirty. His name is Martin. I gave him a few sous: Martin works hard for his sous, running errands all over Paris for the Prefecture of Police.

I sent the lad off and packed up my camera and plates; I took the omnibus to the  rue Mazarine, in the Ninth Arrondissement. The building, number 21, proved to be a dreary four-story tenement. Police Captain Bezier was there; he led me around to the back courtyard. The morning sky with its huge racing clouds seemed far away. The windows no longer went up in straight lines but listed as though the whole building were a rocking ship. There was an empty wheelbarrow; there was a tunnel leading to the front of the building; there were two dirty awnings; there was offal on the ground.

Of course a crime scene cannot be photographed at night, but the dead can wait till morning. It is all the same to them. I change nothing, other than to cover a naked body. We must preserve the setting quite exactly as we find it but a sheet disturbs nothing, and I cannot bear that the dead be subjected to indignity.

Capt. Bezier motioned me to a patch of darkness under one of the awnings. Night had not left it yet. A woman lay there.

I checked the camera’s register to see if the magazine was full: eighteen plates. It was just a habit, a necessary part of the ritual; I have never gone out on a job with an unloaded camera. The night before, I had treated cotton papers with albumen and sodium chloride, dried them, and dipped them in a solution part silver nitrate, part water, to render the paper sensitive; I had again dried the paper, then fixed it carefully against the glass plates that it might be ready for my camera when I awoke. There is always a stack of newly treated plates in my darkroom, as I never know when I may be called upon. I am naturally in need of but little sleep; sometimes I think that the city wakes me early, like a lover, because she knows that there is so much each day to be seen and experienced together. And sometimes I awaken so refreshed, so eager, that I almost feel I might indeed have been kissed awake by this city I love so much.

But now I readied myself to kneel in foul semidarkness and see the unbearable.

“Have you questioned the tenants?” I asked the captain.

“No,” said Capt. Bezier. “There will be time for that. It’s not likely to be someone from the building, anyway. Why leave her here to be found?”

The captain is something of an ass.

I ran my right hand up and down the pebble-grained leather of the side of my camera box, once, as I raised it to my eye: another facet of the ritual. I walked around the body, looking at the corpse through my lens. Through the round aperture,everything recedes except sight, and you are alone with the image before you.

And yet the image is made distant, merely a collection of lines and angles of light. This distance is necessary if I am not to be overwhelmed by pity, anger, and disgust. For my day-to-day existence I work part-time in a fashionable studio where tintypes are turned out as though they were loaves of bread. I also make sentimental portraits of those who die in their beds, either peacefully or after long illnesses. Sometimes I photograph them before they die, that the family might having a living subject for their memento instead of a dead one. For the police I record the scenes of murders. Sometimes, if the victim is unknown or well-known, my photographs are put up on flyers all over the city. More commonly they are filed with the police and used later, as a tool to incriminate the murderer.

I stooped to capture the image before me.

The woman was young; she was lying on her back with her hands folded over her heart, and her head was turned away from my camera. She was wearing a black bolero jacket and a sky-blue silk waist; her skirt was dove-gray. Her shoes were of leather too soft for these streets. It is difficult not to put a story to the posture, clothing, and obvious social standing of the dead: This woman did not belong here.

I took a shot; then I lifted the back of the camera and held it at the proper angle to let the exposed slide drop down from the magazine so that the next slide would be before the lens. I do not always like my job. The simple, mechanical tasks associated with it soothe me and enable me to maintain both composure and a seeming objectivity in even the most hideous of circumstances. I moved slowly around the side of the body. The woman’s hair was loosed from its pins and flowed in a yellow cascade across the dirty ground. There was blood in it.

“The identity of the victim gives us the identity of the killer,” Capt.

 Bezier said. He said that every time.

There was blood on her dress, on her folded hands. I did not want to see her face. I knelt by her side and focused my lens on her neck, which had been severed. The blood there was dull and clotted, and the wound looked like nothing more than a cut of meat.

“—not a gentlewoman,” Capt. Bezier was saying. “A midinette, a shopgirl. A night of drinking, an argument with her boyfriend. It is always the same story.”

My hand trembled, but I kept my silence. Her long, curved fingers were not marred by the stings of the sewing needle or the calluses of the shopkeeper. She was not as thin as the midinettes, who have only a snack instead of a full midi lunch. She was not a member of the upper classes, that much was clear by her manner of dress and by the short lavender glove I noticed beneath her left hip and pointed out to the captain. Ladies of the upper classes wear gloves that reach to the elbow and are almost always of white kid.

I prepared myself to see her face. Her dress was neither rich nor poor; perhaps she could afford a maid, and that is why her hands were unmarred; perhaps she had children at home even now.

Capt. Bezier picked up the glove and spanked it against his thigh to dust it off.

“Very fashionable,” he said shortly. He brings his prejudices to his job. He does not approve of fashionable women unless they are of the upper classes; he will make assumptions about their morals from the cut of their gloves.

I stepped around the blood that had gathered at her neck. She had not been dead when her killer brought her here. I knelt again. I moved her hair away from her face. She had been beautiful in life; she was not beautiful in death. Her features were very fine, indicating a lively temperament; her forehead high and white, a sign of firm yet maidenly intelligence; the space between her nose and mouth was somewhat large, and the dint was so faint as to be nonexistent—the —angels had not touched her there with their fingers that she forget heaven—what —visions had she had while she was alive? She did not look as though she were seeing heaven now. Her eyes were wide with evident horror, her mouth contorted with fear. But from behind my lens I was reassured. Her agony was spurious, nothing more than the effects of rigor mortis. It was death that had contorted her pretty features into a grotesque mask. There was no way to tell what had been on her face at the moment of her death—fear, —resignation, fury? In a few more hours her hands, which lay so prayerlike now, would be trying to claw their way into her heart. And within less than thirty-six hours all of these effects would soften and disappear, leaving her once again unembattled.

I stroked my beard, which is gingery and sharpens to a point in my hand. With my goatee and mustache I look like any young man of my station, although perhaps somewhat more fair. I have a photographer’s eye, made more noticeable for being exceedingly pale blue: I must be careful not to appear always to stare. My features are quite regular, which would seem to indicate a moderate, even modest, temperament. There is no indication of the passion I feel for my work.

Capt. Bezier had gone over the body and found no identification, and surely a woman dressed as she was did not live in this sordid tenement.

“We will begin questioning the tenants shortly,” he said.

No one will have seen or heard anything. No one ever does.

Why here? I wondered as I dropped the second-to-last slide into the tray. Perhaps the courtyard was a piece of the puzzle. Perhaps not. I stepped back to take in the entire scene: the awning, the piles of dirty clothing and human waste lying behind the body, the body itself, which seems to float in the early morning light.

“Thank you, Edouard,” said the captain. “I do not know what we would do without your work. The state of the body at death is often what turns the jury toward conviction. And, of course, we will pass the photographs out among the various police precincts, to see if any of our contacts recognize the lady.”

“They will not recognize her,” I said, closing my camera with a satisfying click.

“And why not, Edouard?” Capt. Bezier thinks I overstep my bounds. I do although all I do is tell him what my camera shows.

“Because your contacts are all among the criminal class, and I would be surprised if this unfortunate young woman had any such connections.”

“Ah, Edouard, you are such a sentimental young man! A becoming figure, an abundance of pretty hair, and you cannot believe that a woman could have contact with my criminals! It is a good thing you are not a detective, young man—you —are far too idealistic. This woman could be a whore, have you thought of that?”

“She is not dressed as well as a whore,” I said shortly, then turned and busied myself with my equipment. The entire equation was there in the foul-smelling tenement courtyard on that drab spring morning, although I did not yet know the answer.

None of them can speak. I am their voice.

You will no doubt see them in the Morgue. But they do not tell their stories there, as they tell them to my camera. In the Morgue the world sees only their empty husks. The dandies of Paris who go to see the latest morsel of flesh are dupes to their own desire. The dead show their secrets to me. They show nothing to the crowds: Even most of death agonies have faded and altered by the time the bodies are transported. The slightest movement displaces the original expression of death. I wish it softened it. Sometimes I think of the one among the dandies and curiosity seekers who may sincerely be looking for a lost loved one, and both fears and hopes to find her at the Morgue. Of the one who stands waiting his turn on the queue, not wanting to see, cursing sight that it can bring him to this. It is my job to look at things no one else wants to. But I cannot not touch the bodies. I have been asked, as I pack away my photographic equipment, if I would be willing to lend a hand; and I’ve been curt in my refusal. I could not violate these corpses that so lately were animate souls, I cannot move limbs that have no more volition, cannot support a head or back, that the body be taken where no living person ever lies.

“Captain Bezier, this young woman was not yet dead when she was laid here. And yet there is a trail of blood, so she must have been wounded elsewhere and killed here.” My voice was flat, as though I did not care. I cared. She was evidently”—I wanted to say, obviously—“brought  here from another location. If I were you, I would look toward the tenements within a quarter-mile radius. Perhaps she was on her way home late, after dinner with friends. She should not have been walking alone after dark, but perhaps she felt herself emancipated, and not in need of an escort. Perhaps she found the wrong sort of escort. But I will tell you this: that she was left with her hands thus folded at her breast indicates a reverence for life or for death.”

“Oh, Edouard, you are such a fool!” Capt. Bezier said complacently. “Always I have to hear your theories. It is true that you have sometimes been right in the past. But you let your poetic imagination rule your intelligence. Leave police work to the police, young man.”

He would, of course, take careful heed of what I had I said. But he would take blustery credit, too, for any information he gleaned from me.

“I am done here,” I said brusquely. I was not irritated by Capt. Bezier, any more than I was intimidated. But I was done with the dead. High above the listing tenement the wide sky of Paris awaited, the day awaited, and I was hungry for the day. I glanced once more toward the young woman who had not seen this day come. And turned away. Later, in the quiet of the darkroom, I would see her again.

And she would tell me her story.


Book Link The Green Muse








What Inspires Me by Jessie Prichard Hunter



I have this beautiful cat, Madeleine. She is near me every moment of the day: We raised her and her two brothers, Samkin and Cornelius, from the time they were ten days old. We still call them the Kittens, even though they’re almost ten. Maddy is a gray-and-peach tortoiseshell; she’s called a blue-and-cream, which makes me want to eat her.

Maddy is a great inspiration to me. When I simply do not know what to do next, I hold her. She purrs. She tries to climb on my head. She pulls me into the present moment. She calms and refreshes my mind. And suddenly whatever seemed amorphous and inchoate a moment ago feels manageable again.

And I read poetry. I try to read poetry every day, whether I’m writing or not; and yes, there are days I don’t write. I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you this, but it’s true. I think I’m supposed to tell you to write every day, every day, no matter what. And you may love that. I run out of steam after a few weeks and take a few days off. But even on those days I want and need to be inspired.

I read Keats and Tennyson. I even have the last lines of Tennyson’s “Ulysses” tattooed on my upper arm: To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. I read some sort of poetry every day, preferably when I get up in the morning., Whitman, e.e. cummings, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Shelley, Bukowski, Plath. I rise with my red hair. And I eat men like air. That makes me want to rise too, and see what I do.

I read. I first got the idea for The Green Muse while reading The Yale Journal of
. There was an article about the Paris Morgue. I thought the Paris Morgue was one of the craziest things I had ever heard of. I loved it. I knew right away I was going to write about it.

While I was writing The Green Muse I wore a certain perfume virtually every day. It’s called Cinema Rouge and is available here:
My daughter bought me Cinema Rouge for Christmas one year, and somehow it just captured the period I was writing about and the feel of my characters, especially V. It put me right in the mood.

Paintings inspire me. I try to look at them every couple of days. Frida Kahlo, Vincent, Vermeer. Edvard Munch, Jan van Eyck, Chagall. I look at paintings and I am taken away. I am in the fields with Vincent, in the sky with Chagall. And it makes me want to see what field and sky I can evoke.

            I love to drive alone with the music up loud. Maroon 5 says it: I know where you hide, alone in your car. Long drives with K-pop that makes me dance in my seat. Driving at night with Amy Winehouse and Lana del Ray. It’s rejuvenating and exhilarating, and I love it. I think, too, while I’m driving, and sometimes I write scenes in my head that I am able to remember long enough to get home and write down.

And that’s the point, isn’t it? To come away with new ideas or new ways of forging the ideas you’ve been mining.






Friday, January 30, 2015

Moonlight Fade by Sabrina Archer, Cover Reveal

Are you Ready?   

Moonlight Fade by
Sabrina Archer

Release Date:  February 3, 2015


With all darkness there is light. Sometimes you have to look really deep within yourself to see it and if you don't the darkness will consume you.

Scarlet Coxs world has been turned upside down. Her best friends birth mother has taken away everything from her and in a chaotic turn of events she meets someone she has seen in her vision. This man with his bright hazel eyes and dark auburn hair turns out to be much more than she anticipated.

The darkness in her soul, as a result of a curse placed on her by a scorned woman, grows stronger with each passing day. With Madeline and Ravens help her curse is broken, but not entirely. The darkness lingers within and is a constant threat to her soul. With a blooming romance and a fear of what she has seen, Scarlet must make the ultimate decision before the darkness becomes all consuming. Will Madeline be able to pull her from the brink? Can she stay and risk becoming the weak link or must she go to ensure the survival of those she now calls family?

Hello. I'm Sabrina! I'm a mother of three ages 3, 6 and 9. I'm a full time cake decorator, full time mom and have recently written my first official book. I've written for years and have always wanted to be published. It's a dream I've had since I was diagnosed with leukemia at 11. Here I am 23 years later finally fulfilling that dream. 
I studied business administration and management at Gulf Coast State College. I never have been able to do much with that living in a small town. I do enjoy my job, I get to be creative and messy, ( think finger painting for adults) and it inspires me to write. 
My book may not be literary work of art but it was fun to write!

Good Reads



The Dangerous Love of a Rogue by Jane Lark Book Blast & Giveaway

Dangerous Love of a rogue_Jane Lark 300dbi

Title: The Dangerous Love of a Rogue
Author: Jane Lark
Series: Marlow Intrigue
Genre: Historical Romance, Regency
Release Date: January 29, 2014
Publisher: HarperCollins

"The game is on with Pembroke’s little sister…" Lord Drew Framlington watched Miss Mary Marlow. The woman had been warned to keep away from him, but she had a little contrary in her soul. She had not been deterred. Perhaps she had a taste for bad hidden beneath her cold denials, or a liking for naughtiness in her soul – either of which appealed.
"Stop pretending you do not like me…" Lord Framlington had urged Mary, "Stop running..." Her body urged her to as much as he did. Something pulled her towards him. Something unknown and all consuming… and yet how could she disobey her father and her brother...


~ About the Author ~

Jane Lark reads at The Festival of Romance, 2013
Jane is a writer of authentic, passionate, and emotional Historical and New Adult Romance, and a Kindle top 25 bestselling author.
She began her first historical novel at sixteen, but a life full of adversity derailed her as she lives with the restrictions of Ankylosing Spondylitis.
When she finally completed a novel it was because she was determined not to reach forty still saying, I want to write.
Now Jane is writing a Regency series and contemporary, new adult, stories and she is thrilled to be giving her characters life in others’ imaginations at last.
You might think that Jane was inspired to write by Jane Austen, especially as she lives near Bath in the United Kingdom, but you would be wrong. Jane’s favourite author is Anya Seton, and the book which drew her into the bliss of falling into historical imagination was ‘Katherine’ a story crafted from reality.
Jane has drawn on this inspiration to discover other real-life love stories, reading memoirs and letters to capture elements of the past, and she uses them to create more realistic plots.
‘Basically I love history and I am sucker for a love story. I love the feeling of falling in love; it’s wonderful being able to do it time and time again in fiction.’
Jane is also a Chartered Member of the Institute of Personnel and Development in the United Kingdom, and uses this specialist understanding of people to bring her characters to life.

Connect with the Author

Facebook | Twitter | Blog | Website | Pinterest 


Jane Lark Giveaways

Signed copy of The Lost Love of a Soldier and The Illicit Love of a Courtesan (One Winner)
      Historical books for £20 or $30 Amazon voucher plus signed copies, to end April, 30th

New Adult books for a £30 or $40 Amazon voucher and signed copies of The Starting Out Series £30 or $40 Amazon voucher and win all of the Starting Out Series in print to close on March 31st.

  a Rafflecopter giveaway

Something Wicked by Carol Oates Promo Blitz & Giveaway

by Carol Oates

Infected by the vampire virus on the streets of Dublin in 1886, the search for a cure brought Henry Clayton to London and to the brink of madness. Salvation and friendship arrived in the form of Dougal, an immortal Highlander with a devilish sense of humor and a love of life.

Amidst turmoil in vampire society, Henry returns to modern day Dublin. The Circle, a cult determined to awaken their Celtic blood god, the first vampire, is once again active.

When Henry meets a young American woman who sees past his human pretense, he fears exposure. However, his fear is overshadowed by curiosity. What is the source of the strange energy between them? Why are vampires stalking her? Determined to find answers, Henry takes Ari into his home and under his protection.

As their connection grows, Henry begins to suspect Ari isn't what she claims to be. Their shared history may hold the answers to his uncontrollable bouts of rage and thirst. Perhaps, even a cure for his wicked blood.


19th century

“It’s not very inventive.” The Scot caught up to me.

“I beg your pardon.”

“No need for begging, brother, I give it freely.” He chuckled at his own ridiculous joke. “The name, The Leather Apron” He rolled his eyes and waved his fingers by his head in a gesture I felt sure meant to insinuate fright, but came nearer to emulating a fit of some sort. “Well, aprons don’t exactly instill terror, eh?” 

I noticed the intensity of his accent fluctuated, indicating he had probably travelled extensively outside his homeland. 

“How about The Ripper—‘Jack the Ripper’?”

I spared him a sidelong glance in question and he scratched his temple. 

“I knew a man named Jamie once, well hardly more than a boy really, but a big bugger. Legs as thick as tree trunks and a face that looked like his mother dropped him a few times. Anyway, when he swung a sword, sure it’d nearly cut men in two. They called him The Ripper.”

“So why not ‘Jamie the Ripper’?”

“Och, we’re in England. A good English name for an English madman.”

I flinched at his insult, but he didn’t appear to notice. “So what happened to The Ripper?”

“I killed him.” 

I hummed thoughtfully. “The Ripper got ripped.”

“So, where are we going?” enquired my new acquaintance, appearing suddenly anxious for a shift in the direction of our conversation. 

“We are going nowhere,” I answered flatly.

A weathered preacher stood at the junction of the Whitechapel high street, half-crazed and hollering at the top of his lungs to a rag tag captive audience. He called on them to repent and return to God, lest they be struck down for their sins.

I chuckled darkly. Now I was doing God’s work.

The preacher’s glassy eyes grazed across the two mysterious, beautiful gentlemen passing by his improvised pulpit. He heart stuttered out an uneven beat. By the sound of it, the man would be dead before the week was out—a blockage of some sort, preventing steady blood flow.

“Keep your pretty speeches, old man. Own the salvation of your soul before mine. He has already struck me down and I will rage against His damnation until the heavens burn and He feels the heat of the fire He cast me into.” The perfect vision of a tiny child’s hand dripping blood fortified my whispered vow, too low for the preacher to hear.

“How do you move?” The other vampire asked curiously, his eyes narrowed briefly, all joviality suddenly gone.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“That weight you wear around your neck like chains.”

I pursed my lips and continued walking. He was persistent—I had to give him that—and almost childlike in his enthusiasm, albeit a naughty child. I couldn’t help wondering what his story was.

With no warning or explanation, I experienced a pressure at my breastbone, as though a hand pressed over my chest. My own covered the curious warmth. I experienced the strangest sensation of being observed, of someone staring at the back of my head. I turned, searching. However, as quickly as it manifested, the sensation vanished and the only thing I felt was the London chill settling deep into my bones.

“I live a good distance west,” I told the vampire. “Keep up or I will leave you behind.”

“Nae problem. I’m Dougal, by the way.”

Carol Oates came into the world on Christmas morning, in an elevator. Raised just across the street from the childhood home of Bram Stoker, author of Dracula, it was only a matter of time before Carol’s love of all things supernatural would emerge. 

She began experimenting with fiction at school and keeps the notebook containing her first unpublished novel in her desk drawer. Over three decades later, all her stories still begin life scrawled on paper. 

When not writing, Carol can be found exploring history, old buildings, castles, and tombs.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Ensnared by Marissa Honeycutt Cover Reveal

Title: Ensnared   

Series: (The Life of Anna #4) 


Author: Marissa Honeycutt

Release Date: February 13th

Everything Anna cared about is lost; the only thing left is Devin. She gives him all of herself, but even that seems too little.
As Anna realizes the truth of her Master's desire, she must decide what it is that she truly wants.

There is a subculture within our own world that you’ve only heard whispers of. The conspiracy theorists wish they knew Anna’s story. What the conspiracy theorists think they know is only disinformation, put out there to keep them from the real story.

This is not a stand-alone novel. This is the fourth of five novels that tell Anna’s story.

This book is for grownups. This book is not for people who are easily offended, get nightmares easily, or have difficulty reading books about tough subjects. I do not glorify bad things, but bad things do happen to my poor characters. This is not your typical love story. My heroine does not fall in love and live happily ever after... at least not like the typical heroine.

There is a happily ever after, but it is a long, painful journey to that end.
This book will likely offend you. This book might make you cry; it might make you throw up. It is a dark book. As my friend, Heidi, said, “It’s dark. It gets darker. It gets even darker, and then it gets even more darker. And then, just when you think it can’t get any darker, it does.”
But, don’t worry. I take you to the deep end gradually.
There are many sexual situations in this series of books. People die. People get hurt. Things aren’t always truly the way they appear. The antagonist isn’t just a bad guy; he’s EVIL. My heroine’s worldview is skewed; things that may appall you are perfectly normal to her.
Any violence in this book is non-gratuitous and crucial to the plot and character development.
Do not read this if you are under the age of consent in your country. Do not get angry if the subject or actual book upsets you. If you're reading this, you've been warned.

Pre-Order links:

Have you joined the release day party:

Other books in the series:
The Life of Anna, Part 1: Enslaved (FREE)

Anna's entire life was scripted out before she was born by Devin Andersen, a man who doesn't have her best interests in mind. She is to be a tool in his hands to gain ultimate power in the USA.
No, not as the President, but as the man who controls the President.
Raised by an extremely abusive guardian, Anna was molded into the perfect sex slave for Devin's use. Devin will use Anna's unique gifts to control everyone around him and eventually take her gifts for himself.

When Devin took her for himself at the age of twelve, she had a vision of a man. A man who Devin was very interested in. But why? Why would Devin care about a little girl's dreams?

Buy Links:

The Life of Anna, Part 2: Entwined

Anna has two masters, one she hardly knows, but who makes her feel safe, the other
she's known all her life and says he needs her.
Alex wants her to be free.
Devin demands her obedience.
As Anna takes her first steps into the world, into love, into friendship, she wonders if she
will ever understand either of them.

Buy Links:

The Life of Anna, Part 3: Embraced

Devin has achieved his goal of becoming Chairman and all seems peaceful...until Devin
performs an act of cruelty that pushes Anna to fight back for the first time in her life.
Meanwhile, Alex is working hard to give her something that Devin can never take away.
As her Masters work around her, Anna must navigate a life she never wanted.

Buy Links:

Author Bio:
Marissa's story of Anna began with a dream about being kidnapped with Adam Savage from Mythbusters (Yes, really). Over the next year and a half, it morphed into the story that is now known as "The Life of Anna." She has several other stories in progress, one of which is based on her kidnapped dream.

When she's not writing or editing, Marissa is taking care of two young boys, training to be an astronaut, running her household, wrestling with gorillas, playing around on Facebook, promoting whirled peas, and busting her tush for her accounting degree. She enjoys chocolate, air conditioning in the desert's summer heat, really good strawberry margaritas, sleeping, and shopping.

Author Goodreads Page   ~ Twitter: @marihoneycutt ~  Facebook Author Page

Gwendolyn vs the Band of Barren Hearts Blog Tour

Where to Buy

Other books by Mary:
Monsters. They don’t hide in your nightmares. They steal you away from the good life and prevent you from living your dreams.
That’s where 17-year-old Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick found herself; surrounded by wicked fiends after everything she thought she had was gone in the blink of an eye. She was shuffled away with one bag of memories miles away to a pair of foster parents that hardly had her best interests at hand. Forced to obey and listen to her caregiver’s commands, Gwendolyn buries her old self and focuses on the pain to become one of them.
A monster herself to seek vengeance.
While yearning for her teeming point to come, Gwendolyn starts to connect with another 17-year-old foster boy living with her who calls himself Welch. Just when Gwendolyn starts to feel faith splice its way through the venom of pain, the connection she has with Welch is put in jeopardy as the harshness gets worse with each passing day.
Will the two tattered spirits make it out alive?

**Not suitable for readers under the age of eighteen due to graphic content.**

The Author
Mary E. Palmerin currently resides in Indiana with her husband and two small boys. She enjoys writing raw, taboo tales that strike various emotions in her readers. When she isn't busy writing, she usually has her nose in a good book. Mary enjoys spending time with her family and friends, anything outdoors, cooking, art, tattoos, red wine, traveling, and anything that makes her laugh. You can keep up with her work on her blog at
as well as her Facebook page at
for release information and signing schedules.
Follow her on Twitter @MP_writer8!
Mary loves to hear from her readers!

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