Thursday, April 27, 2017

Excerpt Tour & #Giveaway for Regenerate by Sarita Leone

Welcome to my stop on the Except Tour, presented by Goddess Fish Promotions, for Regenerate by Sarita Leone.  Please leave a comment or question for Sarita to let her know you stopped by.  You may enter her tour wide giveaway, where one (1) randomly chosen commenter will be awarded a $25 Amazon/BN GC, by filling out the Rafflecopter form below.  You may follow all of the stops on the tour by clicking on the banner above.  The more stops you visit, the better your odds of winning.  Good Luck!  I will be posting a review of this book later this week. 

Guest Post by Sarita Leone
Regenerate Book Tour

REGENERATE is a story of redemption, rebirth, and the restoration of order from chaos. It’s a paranormal romantic thriller but these are themes that are relevant to even those of us who don’t list “superhero” as our day job.

The Octopus is a top-secret government intelligence agency whose operatives keep the globe and its inhabitants safe from all sorts of evil.

When the world’s economy is threatened, the two best agents on the planet are called in. Benjamin Sinclair is one-of-a kind, a regenerated commando—that is, science has restored his life after a sniper’s bullet killed him. He’s indestructible and immortal, yet his regenerated heart longs for the only woman who’s ever claimed it. Nicole Anima is brilliant, beautiful, and badass—and she’s psychic so every mind on the planet is open to her. That is both a blessing and a curse, and she fights the madness that hearing humanity’s secrets brings her way.

Anima and Sinclair have a past. She hasn’t forgiven him for his betrayal so when they’re assigned to work together it puts them both in precarious positions. They jump from planes, track down assassins, and kill zombies. That’s right, a zombie army is being manufactured to bring about global madness and the only two beings on the planet capable of putting a stop to it are this amazing pair.

While this is an action-packed adventure—with plenty of sparks flying between the two agents—it is, as I said earlier, a story full of undertones.

Regeneration is a subject that is near and dear to my heart. I’ve been personally affected by the medical miracles stem cell usage can bring. While they don’t save everyone who prays for a cure, they do save some. I hope that eventually they save more patients—but until that time, I will write Sinclair, the man who lives through the miracle of stem cells and now saves humanity.

Nicole’s a strong, smart woman but she isn’t infallible. She is human, so she can be killed but she undertakes the most dangerous missions on the planet in order to keep the world safe for everyone. Her psychic gift doesn’t spare her from heartbreak, something that is clear from the very first page of this book. Still, she doesn’t shy away from doing what she is called to do. And while this pair jumps from planes, crashes into continents, and kills those who would kill them, she wages an internal war over her feelings for Ben. Forgiveness doesn’t come easily, especially when the offense is so devastating.

We’ve all suffered in one way or another, and the characters in REGENERATE are tested—just like the rest of us!

The second book in this series releases in December 2017. Nicole and Ben are once again saving the world from evil, doing battle where regular military tactics will not suffice, and dealing with the unique issues that face the most advanced team of agents on the planet.

One world—and a mission to save it. Again.    

Thank you for allowing me to chat about my latest release, REGENERATE! It’s been fun! 

By Sarita Leone

Publisher:  Sarita Leone
Release Date: November 24, 2016
Genre: Paranormal Romantic Suspense
Length: 316 Pages
ISBN: 978-0998388977

Buy Links:  Kindle | Amazon Print B&N Print

About the book:

The Octopus isn't an urban myth—and its agents are anything but ordinary. The intelligence bureau is so well-hidden most doubt its existence. A handful know its location. And fewer walk the halls in the subterranean compound.

Benjamin Sinclair didn't ask to be a scientific miracle but every mission has its risks and one perfectly-placed bullet ended his life—for a brief moment in time.

Nicole Anima battles demons every day. Life as a paranormal resources operative gives her tortured mind a rest—and keeps her from contemplating her own death.

When Anima and Sinclair partner on a globe-trotting race to eliminate the threat about to cripple humanity, all hell breaks loose. Leaping from planes, crashing into continents, dealing with voodoo priestesses, and running through jungles with zombies hot on their trail doesn't leave much time for romance, but this duo somehow manages to sizzle.

Two agents. Telepathic mind paired with regenerated commando. One world—and a mission to save it.


Rating high on the awkward factor—facing someone you’ve just had earth-shaking, huge-tidal-wave-climax sex with and feeling as if it may have been the best—and worst—choice of your life.

Nicole could have hit herself in the head, payback for her brain not doing its job when she needed it most. She’d thought with her heart, not her wits and now she was going to have to deal with that.

Who was she trying to fool? Her heart had nothing to do with it.

No, that wasn’t true, either. She’d kicked common sense to the curb and let her heart rule. Now she felt a victim of an emotional ping pong match.

Heart? Mind? Did it matter?

They had rekindled something that never should have happened in the first place.

Only now, she wasn’t sure about that, either. Hard to shake off the feelings she had for him. Her emotions didn’t care what he was—but her mind? A different story. Now, both heart and mind were more tangled than ever.   

Crashing onto South America after nearly being eaten by a zombie in a cemetery had left her psychologically vulnerable. Grabbing Sinclair—and his to-die-for body and better-than-any-fantasy penis—had been marvelous but the truth was, she had never been this confused in her life. About anything.  

Damn it, but she was screwed.

In more ways than one.

If only…


If only she hadn’t enjoyed it so much.

Staring at herself in the miniscule bathroom mirror wasn’t helping. Her skin glowed, the result of a mind-shattering orgasm. She had a flush that seemed so tell-tale she was embarrassed to have anyone see her. And her eyes, they were the worst. The glimmer in a satiated woman’s eyes was unmistakable. 

AUTHOR Bio and Links: 

Sarita Leone is an award-winning author who has written romance in many forms including Regency, paranormal, and contemporary. She loves happily-ever-afters in any setting!

When she’s not writing, Ms. Leone spends her time hiking, learning languages, and traveling. She loves adventure and can pack a suitcase, grab her passport, and hit the road in less time than it takes to peel an apple!

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Spotlight for The Mourning Ring by Sarah Parke

The Mourning Ring by Sarah Parke
Publication Date: October 10, 2016
CreateSpace eBook &
Paperback; 350 Pages
Genre: Young Adult/Historical Fantasy


Sixteen-year-old Charlotte Bronte lives to tell stories. She longs to improve her fortunes through her writing. Charlotte’s father expects her to leave behind her childish fantasies in order to set an example for her three younger siblings. But the Bronte children hold a secret in their veins—a smidgen of fairy blood that can bring their words to life.

When Charlotte discovers that the characters from their childish stories exist in an alternate world called Glass Town, she jumps at the opportunity to be the heroine of her own tale. The city of Angria teeters on the brink of civil war and Charlotte and her siblings must use their magic and their wits to save its people from a tyrant with magic abilities.

But entering the fictional world means forfeiting control of their own creations. If they fail, the characters they have come to know and love will be destroyed. Charlotte is determined to save the city and characters she loves, but when the line between creator and character becomes blurred, will she choose her fantasy or her family?

Amazon (Kindle) | Amazon (Paperback) | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

About the Author

Sarah Parke writes fantasy and historical fiction (sometimes at the same time) for young adult readers and those young at heart. She has a MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from the University of Southern Maine's Stonecoast MFA program. Her work has been published internationally, most recently in the July 2015 issue of The Writer magazine. For more information, please visit Sarah Parke's website. You can also find her on FacebookTwitter, and Goodreads.

Blog Tour Schedule

Wednesday, April 19
Review at 100 Pages a Day

Thursday, April 20
Excerpt at What Is That Book About
Review, Excerpt & Interview at The Book Junkie Reads

Friday, April 21
Excerpt at The Lit Bitch
Review at History From a Woman’s Perspective
Review & Excerpt at Adventures Thru Wonderland

Saturday, April 22
Interview at T’s Stuff
Review at A Book Drunkard

Sunday, April 23
Review, Excerpt, & Interview at Quitterstrip

Monday, April 24
Review & Excerpt at Rainy Day Reviews

Tuesday, April 25
Guest Post at Let Them Read Books
Review at Svetlana’s Reads and Views

Wednesday, April 26
Review at Just One More Chapter
Review at A Chick Who Reads
Spotlight at Queen of All She Reads

Please check back later this week for my review of this book.

Book Tour & #Giveaway for Dr. Vampyre by S.N. McKibben

Welcome to my stop on the Book Tour, presented by Silver Dagger Book Tours, for Dr. Vampyre by S.N. McKibben.  Please leave a comment or question for S.N. to let her know you stopped by.  You may enter her tour wide giveaway by filling out the Rafflecopter form below.  Good Luck! 

Dr. Vampyre
by S.N. McKibben
Genre: Paranormal Romance

When a college professor is blackmailed by a student …
… he has to walk the fine line of being true to his principles and not letting his bloody secret out.

Dr. John Tennison, professor and physician, wakes up every morning and counts his spoons—a measure of how many tasks he feels he can accomplish during his day. One spoon to walk down the stairs, one spoon to teach a class, one spoon to deal with tardy students. Lupus limits him, but he still gives lectures and works at a hospital. He also makes time for friends, and once a week visits Sanguine Loon’s to sate—or subvert—his one strange desire. His nemesis, the one thing besides lupus that keeps him from leading a normal life, is the blood at the bottom of a little paper Dixie cup.

While Tennison’s blood-drinking habit is a secret, it’s well known that he’s the campus asshole and has no tolerance for students who show up late. When he kicks Vogue model Ylati Badashi out of his lecture hall for wandering in ten minutes late, she’s having none of it. She pouts, she seduces, she blackmails, and puts Tennison at odds with his butler, and finally she tells him the truth about why she needs to be in his class.

Tennison is a man of principles, and though he swears he won’t change his mind, he starts to react unexpectedly to Ylati even as he hates her for making him suspicious of his trusted butler. Tennison has to find out where Mitch goes on his nights off and must deal with a budding attraction to a woman he occasionally hates, all while learning new secrets about himself. It’s going to take a lot of spoons.
Scroll up and help the doctor count his spoons!

Today, I woke up with nineteen spoons instead of twenty-two. Not literal spoons—figurative. I don’t go to bed placing utensils on my face or twirl the family silver from my extremities. Such behavior would insult my Mensa-acceptable 133 IQ.

The spoon theory is a fellow sufferer’s explanation of what it’s like to live with lupus. Spoons represent how much energy I have before I begin to deteriorate, and I am grateful to each and every one of them. Every spoon I wake up with means I can do that many tasks. Tasks like walking down the stairs, teaching my class, seeing patients. The type of things others take for granted.

When my students in the blood cell biology class at the University of Southern California inquire about my condition, I describe lupus as a life-sucking force in which you have to constantly balance your time and energy against the downhill spiral of lethargy and pain. My explanation usually stops anyone from asking more questions. As if not talking about my condition will make the disease go away.

The pain used to anger me. Succumbing to a body that jails my actions is a study in humiliation. Worse is knowing lupus affects more women than it does men. Some call it a woman’s disease. Being a man, you might think that is what bothers me. What bothers me is I don’t like to see women in pain. Knowing what they are going through helps me as a doctor, but as a man, it doesn’t help my psyche.

You see why I strive for a logical life. Emotion takes so much energy that it’s better not to feel. In fact, suppressing any emotion is key to my success. It doesn’t stop the pain lupus gives me. Nothing stops the pain except one unnatural addiction, and that only for a brief moment. So with my shield of apathy and my sword of cynicism, I venture forth into the morning to heal and teach as a doctor and professor.

You’d think I would slow down or take it easy today knowing that I’ve already begun without my usual amount of spoons, but today is the first day of a new semester and I won’t be late. Never, in my nine years of teaching, have I ever been late. Besides, I can’t let those beemer brats wreak havoc in my lecture hall, now can I?

The one indulgence that would solve my lethargy problems flits through my brain. I resolve to shove that thought out. Anything not normal, right now, is not in the plan.


I stroll into my lecture hall at exactly nine fifty a.m. and the whispers stop. Old and new faces attentively follow my shuffle as I round my desk to the dry erase board at the front of the room. I pick up a marker that could make any fifth grader swear off glue and write Dr. Tennison - Blood cell biology.

Thankfully, the counselors and older co-eds let it be known that I am “a real dick” and have an aversion to those who are not on time. So, I rolled my eyes when at ten minutes after ten, she of the model-thin body, sporting six-inch stilettos, tight jeans, and a frou-frou blouse, walked in.

“Ms. Tardy, don‘t bother.”

She gave me the oh-gosh-I’m-really-sorry face. “Are there any more seats?”

“Not for you. Please, don’t waste our time. I don’t take add-ons.” I reached under my desk for the medical book I would use to assist in today’s lecture.

“But, I registered for the class.” Ms. Tardy pouted.

“I don’t care. You’re late. No more room. Get out.” The slam of the thousand-page medical dictionary I tossed on my desk should have been enough articulation in my statement for her to leave.

“I got here as soon as I could!” Her whine climbed the scale into annoyance territory.

“Which is not good enough. You’re done.” I pointed at the door. “Get out.”

“Oh come on. What could I have missed in five minutes?”

“The point . . .” I flashed my Rolex from under my sleeve and checked the time. “. . . And it’s been twelve minutes.”

“That’s not fair!”

“What would not be fair is to make a pulmonary patient, lying open on the table, wait twelve life-or-death minutes for a replacement valve. I’m here to teach. One of those lessons I wish to instill is an appreciation for the value of time.”

Ms. Tardy stood there in her tight jeans and pursed lips with a hand on her hip. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. ”You can go now.” I waved a hand in a sweeping motion. “There isn’t room for you anyway.” There were seats in the back, but she looked like a front-of-the-class, I-want-all-the-attention kind of girl.

“But I pre-registered.” She used her hands for emphasis and struck a classic pose that probably got her into any club or out of any trouble she came up against.

Snorting out my disgust, a glimmer of recognition hit me and I looked harder at Ms. Tardy.

This face before me belonged to Ylati Badashi, the recently “retired” model, and her million dollar Vogue body was in my lecture hall. She must have taken my fluster of disdain for admiration, because her supposedly non-collagen-filled lips curved. But it was that I-have-you-now twinkle in her eye that jostled loose my wrath.

I whisked my walking cane from under my desk. Quick as a turtle in sand, I advanced on her with my geriatric, cane-wielding old man shtick, trying to scare her off my lawn. The fear in her eyes fueled my words. “Get out of my hall!”

I was seething by the time she turned tail and bolted out of the room. She looked like a shackled cat running from the spray of a hose. The image brought tears of laughter to my eyes. It had been a while since I’d laughed that hard. I’m sure my students never see me so much as smile.

Even though I knew the price for expressing my emotion would cost me another spoon and wreak havoc on me later, I couldn’t help the satisfied feeling of living up to my so earned title among the students, Dr. Asshole.

“Dr. Tennison, are you alright?” One of my more faithful students, Ms. Phillips, actually sounded concerned.

I returned to my drab demeanor, leaned heavily on my cane, and grunted an acknowledgment to the third-year co-ed. My physical display allowed the monster of lupus inside me to seek retribution and sap away my energy. Disgruntled for wasting precious vitality on a fritter of a person, I forced down my angry self-reprimand. There was no use getting angry over getting angry.

I resumed my emotionless state and taught as I have for the past nine years—with ruthless abandon. No whining, no excuses, and if you’re late, you fail. If you can’t beat my turtle-ass to class, you’re wasting my time, your time, and everybody else’s time.


After teaching all day, I was down to thirteen spoons. Three spent starting my day: one for teaching class, one for each trip walking to the car, and one for the gallant ass-chewing I gave to Ms. Tardy. When I get down to five spoons, it’s time to think about calling it a day, but I wasn’t there yet.

Mitch, my butler and savior for most my life, picked me up in the blue BMW Alpina. I have never had the privilege of driving it. The DMV denied me a license because of my condition. I did have the honor of paying for it. If you were to ask me, Mitch had a damn nice car to chauffeur me around in.

I called Mitch not only my savior, but also jokingly, my wife. Without him, my life would be impossible. He cooked my food, did my laundry, dropped off and picked up the dry cleaning, scrubbed the house to the point of peeling off paint, scheduled my day, tidied the yard, took some phone calls for me, and made sure I take my medication. I did stop him from wiping my ass—occasionally. Okay, so I’m joking about the last part. He doesn’t wipe my ass, but what unmarried guy in his thirties is going to deny the rest? If sex weren’t involved, I’d marry him. Sure, he’s an adorable thirty-nine year old in a small stout package with dark hair and soft dark eyes, but that’s not how I roll. I’m pretty sure that’s not how he rolls, either.

Off we go to the medical center with Mitch at the wheel and me in the back seat orienting myself with the next class session. Mitch is quite the chatty type, but I’ve learned to drown him out as any good husband would do. Routinely, after the days I teach, he drops me at the hospital where I work. My assistant nurse, Mary, is the old battle ram of the team—wise enough to tell patients to be here an hour early, kind enough to be the matron of compassion, knowledgeable enough to know what to do if ever I seize from pain.

She leads me to the five-minute staff review and then my first patient of the day. I’m handed a clipboard and being a doctor, I read the case symptoms first. Yes, it’s bad to look at what’s wrong with the person before looking at the name, but we all do it. I wish I had looked at the name before I walked in the patient room, but it was too late to walk the other way when I opened the door.

“Ms. Badashi.” Smooth as a virgin dry-erase board, I did not give away one iota of the seething hate boiling through my veins to Ms. Tardy. “It says here you have all the symptoms of river blindness. What would you prescribe yourself?”

“Ivermectin.” The big brown eyed lost puppy look of hers could have cracked a walnut. That’s when the pain behind my right eye surged. Was the eye torture from her annoyingly correct answer, or lupus? I couldn’t tell. “Do you have river blindness?”

“Please let me into your class.”

The audacity! “Am I to believe that my staff bumped you to my first patient when there are real people in need of my services?”

“Hey!” She actually looked put out. “I am a real person. I am in need of your services!” Again she was wasting my time. You’re late, you fail.

“You, young lady, are a fraud. Get out of my office.” I pressed a palm against my pounding eye. It relieved some of the pressure.

Her whining made my eye worse. “What I need is for you to teach me Blood cell biology.”

“Why me?” I said more to myself than to anyone else.

“Because you’re the best.”

Mitch says flattery will get you anywhere. Yes, there is appeal to being called the best. My ego did flutter a little, but not enough to forgive her cardinal sin number one. With my one hand still pushing back my right eye, my index finger pointed at the door—hard to do with a clipboard still in my hand.


She leaned forward; just enough so her frou-frou top’s fringes hung lose. “I’d do anything to get into your class.”

“Anything?” I smiled and suggestively touched my chest. I did not fail to notice the pink bra she had on.

She nodded and accentuated, “Anything.”

“Sign up next semester and be early.” I threw the clipboard on the counter and tried to slam the door on my way out. Too bad hospital doors didn’t slam. Amazing how my eye felt better after I left her sitting there, but dealing with her cost me yet another spoon. I had eleven spoons left and I needed to get through the rest of my five-spoon work day. Fortunately, I didn’t see her again. I figured that was that.

Mitch picked me up from work at six o’clock. He mentioned Puzo, the dean of students, called. Randolph Puzo is a good man. Works hard, cared about the students, and had gone to bat for me in front of the board about my special condition. He’s the kind of guy you wanted on your team because he did anything to get the job done right.

“John, how are you?” Randolph’s voice came through my iPhone as clear and crisp as a new Benjamin.

“I’m fairing well. What can I do for you?”

Now, Randolph knows I can’t waste energy on chit-chat, and being the good man that he is, he gets to the point.

“John, I have a student that says you chased her out of the lecture hall.”

“Ah, Ms. Badashi. I was afraid she’d fall in those stilettos for the vertically challenged.”

“John,” Randolph chuckled, though I was quite serious, “can you please let her into the class?”

It’s tough and unpopular to be a hardnose, but principles are principles and I refuse to compromise. “She was late, Puzo.”

“It was the first day of the semester.”

“All my other students arrived early. Even before I did.”

His comment was barely audible. “They got the asshole alert.”

“Excuse me?”

To Randolph’s credit, he was as gracious as he always is. “Mr. Tennison, I would greatly appreciate it if you forgave this one transgression and allowed an eager student access to your lectures.”

I should’ve been grateful to Randolph. He’d done so much for me. If I couldn’t make it to class, he would cover for me. He makes sure my lecture hall is the closest to the parking lot. I never had to move desks, books or arrange my classroom during the off season. He’s probably going to catch hell for me denying a student what seems like her dying wish. But when I thought about her suggestive comment, thinking her womanly guiles would work on me, my temper rose to boiling.

“Mr. Puzo, I abide by the school’s program, requirements, curriculum, and every rule and regulation your fine institution implements. Please abide by mine.” I hung up and thought the next call would be a request for my resignation.

Mitch eyed me briefly from the rearview mirror as he was driving. “Sounds like women troubles.”

“Student issues,” I corrected. I wished he wouldn’t call them “women troubles,” as he knew I never had so much as a girlfriend. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been promiscuous. I went to college. Don’t think that lupus affects one’s sex drive, because it doesn’t. I just never had time or the energy to have a steady girl.

“Tim called. Said he’d come to collect you at seven.”

I only had six spoons left for the rest of the night. But I know what Tim would say if I tried to get out of going with him tonight. Just come with us to Loon’s and have a shot and you’ll be fine. Tim wasn’t the type to let me break routine. The schedule never did me wrong. I had a good life, just a limited one.

I sighed and rubbed my temples. How could I deny my best friend since high school? If I didn’t go with him, he’d take every opportunity and every one of his ambulance-driving skills to annoy the fuck out of me at work the next day. Anastasia, fellow lupus sufferer and Tim’s girlfriend, would call me relentlessly and whine in my ear all night. Ever since I can remember, Wednesday nights belonged to the three of us. It’s hard to break tradition.

By six forty-five, I sat ready in the kitchen of my two-story house. Tim usually managed to get Anastasia dressed and ready to go out almost on time. His secret was telling her they had to be there half an hour beforehand. I could have waited upstairs lying down, but going up and down the stairs costs me a spoon. I should have moved to a one-story house, but I’d never sell this home. I’d never be able to replace childhood memories and nostalgia.

Mitch was wiping down the swirled-granite counters while I sat at the four-seat mahogany dining set. His time off was Wednesday night and all of Sunday, fitting perfectly with my schedule. Wednesday I went out with my friends while Mitch went—wherever he went, and on Sunday he left after breakfast and returned on Monday before dawn. But he always made sure I was in safe hands or he could be reached by cell phone before leaving.

I looked at the hundred-year-old Simplex grandfather clock that hung at the opposite end of the entryway to the kitchen. The hands read seven-o-five. My fingers drummed on the table as I counted every second that ticked away. From outside, the sound of Bach booming from distorted speakers was a sure sign Tim’s Tercel was speeding to my driveway.

Mitch raised his head and folded his towel. “Ah, well, here they are.”

We both sauntered out of the kitchen to the rap of Tim’s knuckles on the glass of the window. Mitch grabbed his overnight bag, opened the door, and nodded a greeting to Tim. I scowled and pointed at my Rolex.

Like me, Tim was white bread. But where I had brown hair, he had jet black. I wasn’t as pale as he was, though he tended to stay out of the sun like me. He wore lots of brown and brass and occasionally topped all that splendor with some hat bearing mechanical constructions. Opposed to my daily suit and tie tonight, I lost the jacket and noose, but my slacks were pressed and my button-down collar was appropriate for where we were going.

Tim smiled nervously. He lived up to his nickname of “Jackrabbit,” bouncing on the balls of his feet. Heavy eyeliner accentuated his shocking blue eyes, which pleaded forgiveness. “You know Anastasia.”

I gruffed at Tim and waved at Mitch. I always told Mitch he could take the car, but he insisted on taking the bus. Public transportation was a block away and he never seemed to mind. I didn’t argue. It would have been an exercise in futility as “he was always right.” Just like asking him where he went on Wednesday and Sundays, it was pointless to ask. I stopped wondering where he spent his time off long ago.

Tim bounded to his four-door Tercel and opened the back passenger door for me with a flourish. Anastasia hung over the open window of the front passenger seat. Hourglass figure, impressive chest, thin lips, a strong nose combined with Bette Davis eyes set wide on a heart-shaped face—Anastasia was beautiful. Though I couldn’t understand why a natural redhead dyed her hair auburn. Probably to reap as much attention as possible from her cardinal red strands. Most men would lie down just for the pleasure of saying she stepped on them. But she was as crazy as monkey-flung feces. I had no idea how Tim puts up with her.

“Hi, John.” Anastasia greeted me with a breathy smile and hungry eyes.

I smiled, took her hand, and kissed it lightly. “Good evening, Anastasia.”

She giggled and swatted her free hand on Tim’s butt. “How come you aren’t so charming?”

Tim pivoted around and gingerly took my hand, mimicked my knuckle-kissing gesture and nailed my professor voice perfectly, “John, how lovely to see you. Won’t you please get your ass in the car?”

“Whatever, Jackrabbit.” I said, climbing into the trusty Tercel. I noted that I was down to five spoons and was leaving the house. But it was unlikely we’ll be out too late.

Slave to a 100 lbs. GSD (German Shepard) and a computer she calls "Dave", you'll often see her riding a 19 hand Shire nicknamed "Gunny" to the local coffee shop near the Santa Monica mountains.

Stephanie reads for the love of words, and writes fiction about Dark Hearts and Heroes revolving around social taboos. When ever asked, she'll reply her whole life can be seen through a comic strip ~ sometimes twisted, sometimes funny but always beautiful and its title is adventure. Come play!

Book Tour & #Giveaway for The Spoils of Allsveiil by S.N. McKibben

Welcome to my stop on the Book Tour, presented by Silver Dagger Book Tours, for The Spoils of Allsveil by S.N. McKibben.  Please leave a comment or question for S.N. to let her know you stopped by.  You may enter her tour wide giveaway by filling out the Rafflecopter form below.  Good Luck! 

The Spoils of Allsveil
by S.N. McKibben
Genre: Fantasy, Romance

Murder. Marriage. Forgiveness. The kingdom of Allsveil is the chessboard, and the royals are the pieces.

Two noble families meet in a whirlwind of battle, conquest, hate, and passion.
When a neighboring army conquers her home, Princess Alexia is forced to marry her father’s murderer, Darrin, the new king's young prince. While Alexia grapples with revenge and flirtation, finding her own strength in the process, the new king, Goththor, seeks forgiveness from his queen and from himself. Two generations learn that the game of chess is nothing compared to the game of love and forgiveness...
Play chess with a princess...get your copy today!

1 - Alexia

Months of fighting, and finally it had come to this—an evacuation. The City of Allsveil defending against The Empire of Dreshall. The Horse against The Hawk. My father, King Fieron Tyilasuir, fighting King Aiden Goththor at the gates of our regal castle. All because two men couldn’t see eye to eye about a small city being under one banner.

At that moment, I’d never wanted anything more than to be a son for my father. Especially while I stood in the high tower evacuating the servants, wet nurses, and maids. But I was not a boy or a man. I was my father’s doted-on princess. A girl allowed to swing a sword with my father’s permission because he was the monarch.

My mother had a sword of her own and used it in defense of my unladylike desire to hold more than a misericorde. Her blade was not tempered in metal, but its steel cut and the ring of her tongue drove deep. They say the pen is mightier than the sword. I’m personally aware that my mother’s word is mightier than a frail quill from a duck’s arse.

Mother kept sneaking glances out the windows. I could tell that, like me, she wanted nothing more than to be down there, wielding a sword against invaders beside our king.

Horrors I’d been told about in stories lay on our courtyard battlefield. Arrows stuck out from the chests and sides of our men as thorns to a rose. Not one man died with feathers in his back. Brave warriors, all of them, who knew they would never see past this day and did not turn away from protecting us. 

Mother’s dark eyes expressed more fire than a hearth flame when she said, “Get them all out.” Worry tainted her expression even through her unwrinkled skin and hair pulled back in a severely tight bun. My mother, the queen, never out of place, never out of sorts, remained that way even in dire situations.

“Come, Emvery.” I offered my maid a hand and stepped patiently while the woman, who tended me since birth, waddled down the stairs one step at a time. “We’re under attack. You have to move faster.”

My mother drilled that sword of flesh with tone and timing. “Alexia, respect those who’ve protected you from rain and wind down to their bosom.”

“It’s all right, milady.” Emvery’s plump hand patted my arm. She always defended me—even against a queen.

“I’m sorry.” I took my maid’s arm firmly. She had a tendency to fall and was careful going down stairs. “But the castle gate is failing. We must hurry.”

Near the bottom of the stairs, Mother spoke to the guards assisting our escape. “Are we the last?”

The two queen’s guards, Clay and Heinsley, looked at each other.

“I asked you a question, gentlemen.”

“No, my lady,” Heinsley answered. “Samalia refused to leave her quarters.”

Mother huffed and spun on her heel, stomping back inside the tower.

Emvery held me tight, or I would’ve followed.

“My lady!” Heinsley leapt and caught Mother’s arm. “We must leave.”

The queen of Allsveil ripped out of her guard’s grasp. “Do not touch me, Heinsley. I will not overlook your inappropriateness again.”

Clay grabbed both my mother’s arms from behind. “I’m sorry, my lady, king’s orders.”

“Emvery, go!” I left my maid’s side and rushed back up the stairs.

Mother elbowed her guards while I passed them to get my Nanna, Samalia. A stubborn old nanny wasn’t going to be my martyr.

“Heinsley! The girl!” Clay said.

“You will address her as princess, or Princess Alexia!” My mother even now concerned herself with propriety. My practice in skirmishing with castle guards quickened my feet but while I could take three steps at a time, Heinsley, with his long legs, could take five or six even in his heavy armor. 

Hands scooped me up by my waist. “No, Heinsley! We can’t leave her here!”

“We can and we will.” The guard’s rough voice rushed in my ear.

We struggled down the stairs. Heinsley squeezed my arms together while he leaned against the wall. I kicked and hit all the right places to tumble us both, despite the stupidity of falling down a stairwell. I was too angry. Too fevered in my desperation to get to my Nanna. We could not leave her to these plunderous savages.

Heinsley took my blows without so much as a grunt. My attempts became an embarrassment and after the eighth strike, I stopped. I didn’t want to hurt him or me. He was only trying to save us.

Clay held Mother fast by the shoulders, his back to the open escape. He was the brawny type that filled an entire doorway. If he stood in the archway, Mother wouldn’t be able to get around him. Not even if she crawled. Which, no matter the dire consequences, could I ever see the queen of Allsveil doing.

“Good.” Clay’s relieved face swept over me and Heinsley. “Let’s get out of here.”

Clay took hold of Mother’s wrists and turned around, engulfing the open door. A buzzing, the sound of a thousand whistles, then screams echoed off outside the tower walls. Clay stumbled back. My mother scrambled away just in time before Clay fell flat on his back. If it wasn’t for Clay’s size, we’d all have arrows in our bodies. Twenty or more bolts stuck out of Clay’s chest, stomach, and legs.

“Oh bloody hell!” Heinsley let go of me and leapt down the stairs.

My legs wobbled and I leaned against the wall. Heinsley pulled Clay all the way in and slammed the door. Thuds pelted the thick oak door.

“Clay?” Mother knelt to the man who’d saved her life and took hold of his hand.

Clay lifted his head. “Go, my lady.”

Dread shot through my stomach. The pain Clay must be in. Not only that, but in pain and knowing he was going to die. I leaned forward to force myself out of my locked position. “Nanna can help!” I turned and ran up the stairs.

“By God, Alexia, duck under the windows!”

Tears threatened behind my eyes, knowing but hoping that wouldn’t be the last warning Clay ever gave me.

The thousand whistles of death came again and I dropped and shielded my head. Glass tinkled. Arrows broke through and clattered against stone.

I ran up the tower of stairs until the next window. I didn’t hear whistling, but I ducked under the sill anyway. Five flights of stairs and endless windows later, I reached the top of the tower and into the sixth-floor corridor. Rooms were on the right, while the left wall displayed sculptures, paintings, glassware, and artisan creations of our people. There was no time to save most of the precious items. Only my Nanna and my people were more valuable than the items of culture. Empty corridors greeted me as I raced down the hall.

“Nanna!” My breath labored. I barged in to her room, not bothering to knock. 


No answer. I went to her bedchamber and there, in bed, surrounded by all her scrolls, sat Nanna Samalia. The wrinkly old woman nestled a book the size of a small tabletop between her knees.

“Nanna.” At my wits’ end, I crossed the room.

“And I’ll repeat myself.” Nanna’s jowls shook. “I’m too old to run around. Leave me.”

When I was younger, her scowl, chin whiskers, and wrinkles could scare me into behaving. Now that I was older, I searched beyond her gruff manner. I saw a woman born from a life that cut and made people wise to the ways of the world or devoured them whole. Nanna told me the truth, when so many slathered butterscotch or jam over the rubbish of innocence.

“You will run or I will carry you.”

Nanna pinched her face into a scowl. “I told Clay to carry you and the queen out.”

“Clay is dead.”

Her face never changed. Almost as if she expected as much.

Ringing of metal and shouts brought my attention to the window. I peeked through, careful not to be spotted by the enemy. Shadows cast down on the courtyard. Arrows flew. But not even their arrows could reach up to the top of Nanna’s tower. A hole in the twelve-foot-thick front wall looked like a screaming mouth with angry ants pouring out. The portcullis was breached.

“Nanna, we have to leave, now.”

The old woman flung her comforter and turned to get out of bed. “Damn guards can’t even get you the hell’s breath out.”

My attention went back to my father’s men. Every one of those brave souls was trying to stave off the attackers to enable us to escape. To fail them and be captured would not honor their deaths. Beautiful steeds of white, bay, and chestnut charged into an onslaught of enemy soldiers. We had spirit, but they had numbers. The clanging of swords reached my ears, the sound making me shake from anticipation. And then I saw him, my father, in his plate armor. I could tell it was him even from this height. No one could spot the riveted armor, the subtle grandeur, the meticulous detail in the gorget, breastplate, and vambrace, and say it didn’t belong to a king. And that king was at the front of the lines, protecting us.

“No!” He should be protected! What was he doing meeting the battle head-on? But father in battle was magnificent. No one escaped his flank. Soldier after soldier fell under his mace and sword. Hope grappled with fear, but my elation at seeing Father at his finest was a boon. Clay would not die in vain.

A man, in a suit of armor equal in quality to Father’s, fought against the tide, headed straight for my king. Some men avoided the two. The other king was certainly bound and determined to reach father. Desire to be there, to protect the one man I truly loved fueled my frustration at being born a girl. I should be down there, fighting with him. The two equals met and my father gave the man no soft touch, no breath to hold, no shield to hide behind. I recognized the emblem across the opponent’s breastplate. A white hawk with a gold eye. The emblem of Dreshall. For his salt, the other man took the blows and delivered his own. But the aggressor overreached and left his right side open. Father swung his mace and knocked the man down.

“Yes!” I hopped in my excitement.

The bird’s golden eye faced the sky and my father maneuvered his sword to punch a hole through the metal. A cry as high-pitched as an eagle’s ripped through the air. I covered my ears and watched a blond man bound from the aggressor’s ranks like a gazelle. Father looked up, and the bloody tip of a sword broke through his back plate. 

My eyes saw, but I refused to believe.

Father dropped his sword and I staggered back. The king of Allsveil sailed backwards and the window that let me see the battlefield now seemed too high to reach. My vision tunneled. My breaths came with excruciating clarity. My palms hit the floor. My neck could no longer hold my head. The long braid of my hair curled in a perfect circle under me.

Cool hands touched my cheeks. The wrinkled face of a woman who scared most men looked into mine. Her pitiless glare softened. Nanna, whose life’s ravages destroyed her youth but not her wisdom, was there to comfort me. But her face faded, and all I could see was my father tumbling down and the blood on his back.

Soldiers came inside Nanna Samalia’s room. Mother was there. Heinsley disappeared into what seemed a sea of men entering the bedroom. I watched with numb precision Heinsley’s extraordinary footwork as he battled to protect us. Our man, the queen’s guard, was both beautiful and deadly while protecting us. But Heinsley’s life’s work, keeping the queen safe, wasn’t enough. Seconds later, he too fell. My death was coming and I welcomed it. For the rest of my days I would not forget the blood on the sword and my father’s descent.

I stood for our turn. Mother stood in front of us, hands clasped in greeting as if accepting one of her subjects for conference. The men, solemn and wary, kept an eye on her, but their swords remained low. One man dipped his head and approached.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He sheathed his sword. “I’m looking for hierarchy.”

Mother’s posture remained straight, her chin held high. “You’ve found the queen of Allsveil.” She held her hand, exposing the ring with our house emblem, a red rearing horse.

The soldier dipped his head. “I am Paul Cartell, King Goththor’s military commander. In the name of my Liege King Aiden Goththor of Dreshall, I ask for your submission.”

“Submission can only be given by my husband.”

She didn’t know Father was dead.

Sir Cartell’s face turned stone hard. “I’m sorry, but your king has been dispatched. The fighting continues despite the loss. Please tell your man-at-arms to submit and we can avoid any more useless deaths.”

Mother swayed but I could do nothing to help her. I leaned upon Nanna, my life ending before my eyes. Sir Cartell reached to steady her, but thought better and remained where he was. My noble queen stood her ground. “If I’ll not go after the survivors.”

“Agreed. Do you yield?”

“Stop fighting and we’ll yield.” Mother slipped off the ring in clumsy diminution of status and handed it to Sir Cartell. “Show them this.”

Sir Cartell turned to a man in front of the line and handed him our family ring. “Get word to our liege.”

The man took my heirloom in hand, nodded, and pushed through the other soldiers. A voice from the hall echoed through the corridor and into Nanna’s apartments. “Paul? Have you found anyone yet? This place is as deserted as a friggin’ desert.”

Paul winced. “Excuse me.” He turned and the men behind him stepped in line, making a human corridor and letting Paul walk past. Though his voice was hushed, even I could hear Paul admonish whomever he was talking to. “Darrin, women and children are present, watch your mouth.”

Sir Cartell and my mother had propriety in common. Said women and children had just seen a man killed. Why would cursing matter? Then again, why would a queen preoccupy herself with formalities while fleeing from enemies? But mother drilled politeness in me and everyone around her. Much like Paul.

A blond man, just beyond his gawky years, strode with confidence and bloody clothes through the corridor of soldiers. My haze of loss cleared. Revenge burned off the rest of my murky reflexes. I bolted from Nanna’s grip and lunged for Heinsley’s sword. The grip of the steel handle burned cold. Its weight was unfamiliar, but I was no stranger to this type of weapon. Heinsley’s sword wobbled heavily as I lifted the massive blade.

Dreshall’s soldiers were slow to raise their swords against my newfound weapon, laughing at my challenge. I didn’t care for those men. My sole mission was to kill the man who took my father from me. The blond man raised his weapon and a slight smile brightened his face. A mischievous twinkle in his eye scalded me more than a thousand suns. He pushed one guard out of the way and barked an order to “stay back” before metal hit metal and I swung, not as an angry youth who takes up arms in spite, but as the warrior I’d wanted to be.

“Alexia!” Mother screamed. But the name slipped past. The other men faded to gray.
My father’s killer barked words, but I heard nothing. My breath, slow and deep. My strength, hard and flowing. My skill poured from my soul. I was going to kill this man. His smile infuriated me. But it didn’t affect my footwork, or my strikes. He deflected blow after blow, but the art of battle guided my actions. I would not lose.

A force of nature slammed into my back and pinned my arms. Both my backstabbing assailant and I went down. “No!” I shouted. The tool of my vengeance clattered on the stone floor. We landed and I thrashed, wanting to resume my vendetta.

“Alexia, stop!” My mother’s voice shattered my cracked heart. “I gave my word. Stand down.”

“Let me go!” I wailed at Mother, the traitor to father’s memory.

“No! I will not lose you, too.”

I froze. Her loss of faith in my abilities, when she had fought for my right to take up arms, cut the flow to my reserve of energy. My father, my light in the dark, my rising sun, had slipped beyond the hills never to return. Never to see my wedding or hold his grandchild or meet the man I’d call my own. I cried for death. The murderer sat at the far end of the chamber smudging blood all over Nanna’s chair.

“I can see where the spirit of their people comes from.” He gripped his thigh. I’d struck him and hadn’t known. If I had my way, he’d be little pieces to feed pigs.

“Paul, warn the others. If the fairer sex fights like her, we’ll be crushed.” He flashed a smile my way. I scowled.

“Stay here. I’ll bring the barber surgeon.” Paul clasped the man’s shoulder and left.

No one spoke for a very long time. Swords pointed at me from every angle. Mother clutched me, but with my reserve depleted, there was nowhere I wanted to go. With little will to stand, Mother helped me up and we both leaned on each other for support.

Paul returned, and the men holding a seventeen-year-old girl and her mother at bay parted for Sir Cartell.

“Noblewoman...” Paul trailed off, asking for a name.

“Aighta Tyilasuir.” Mother squeezed my arm and we separated.

Cartell raised his eyebrows and proceeded to slaughter my family name. 

“Noblewoman Talliassher.”

I huffed. “Tyilasuir, Tie-la-ser, Tyilasuir.”

Cartell dipped his head to me. “Tylasure.”

“Close enough.” I crossed my arms. Across the room Darrin the orphan-maker, for I was sure Mother would be killed before me, chuckled. I hated him for it.

“Yeah, Paul, get it right. Tyilasuir.”

My hate bloomed to a full loathing of everything Darrin. He’d been able to say my name flawlessly the first time. That only fueled my desire for vengeance.

Paul bowed to Darrin and gave an ungracious smile. “As you say, my prince.”

That wiped Darrin’s smile clean off with an extra dose of soap-root. Paul, my newly endeared enemy, turned back to us. “Lady Aighta Tylasir, may I present Prince Darrin Goththor, heir to the White Hawk, son of Aiden Goththor.”

Mother pulled me close and gripped my arm so tight my fingers tingled. If she hadn’t let go so quickly I might have lost my arm from lack of blood. “This is Princess Alexia Tyilasuir. King Fieron Tyilasuir’s only daughter.”

Paul’s eyes flicked to Mother and he gave her a slight nod.

Darrin rose from the chair. He looked pained. Good. “Well, now that we know each other, your new lord and master awaits.”

Nanna stepped over to me, taking my other arm in a death grip. “Hopefully, the father is not as abrasive as the son.” Nanna’s tenacious rasp cut through our whispers. 

Mother glared at Nanna, but Nanna never shied away from a contest of will.

A line of soldiers escorted us out of Nanna’s rooms and into the hallway. Where before the halls were empty, now soldiers hulked about. They took no care as to what broke. The glass sculptures, the priceless art, the best of our people all became loot.

“What are they doing?” I said.

“Plundering.” Nanna scowled at one man shoving a glass chalice in a sack. He went for another item and I cringed at the sound of shattering glass muffled by burlap. That was one of the artisan glassblower’s finest gifts to Mother. I knew she loved it.

“Fool,” Nanna said under her breath.

Men roamed everywhere. No room was without soldiers grabbing anything and everything they could. My heart burned all the more.

We were escorted to the dining hall, where we had our meals most nights. It was the largest room in the castle because father wanted to…had wanted to…dine with servants and nobles alike, right alongside each other. Every man was a jewel, he said. Fascinated by the “colors” each person reflected, Father had wanted to know them all. He had wanted to soak in their knowledge, their creativeness. But even with my father’s geniality, I did not wonder why he could not get along with the sullen, stern, forbidding chunk of a man that now sat in my father’s chair. If I were on the battlefield with my king, this one would be dead. Cold gray eyes assessed Mother. I expected him to ask, “How much for the sow?”

I’d never met King Goththor, but this man was a king, no doubt—his air overconfident, comfortable with everyone looking to him. But he also looked devoid of any love. His eyes were hard. Much like the glaze of death I saw in soldiers’ eyes after battle. 

Straussler, our man-at-arms, warned me of men like this one. I didn’t believe one could be soulless. The king of Dreshall proved me wrong. His eyes skated away from Mother and I felt the stone in my belly lift.

Paul nodded. “Lady Aighta Tillyasuir of Allsveil, may I present to you—”

“Aiden Goththor,” my mother finished. “We’ve met.”

Darrin strode up to his father, pushed a chair out with his foot, and fell into the seat. A tiny spark of life lit up in the king’s eyes when Darrin joined him.

“Your king is dead, and your people still fight,” King Goththor said. “Call in your men-at-arms.”

“I’ve given you my ring and my word, what more do you need?” Mother clasped her hands.

“Which Paul showed your commander,” King Goththor’s cold gaze remained on my mother. “He thought you were dead and fought all the more.” He’d said it more as a threat than fact. As if Mother had given them the ring to set a trap in motion.

Darrin leaned over and whispered in his father’s ear. King Goththor grunted and said, “We’ll find him.”

Straussler, head of the Black Knights, was still alive. He had to be. A Black Knight would not surrender. They would avenge. All eyes stared at Mother, who said nothing.
The span of silence grew. King Goththor flicked a finger and a guard pulled Emvery through.

Leaning toward Mother, King Goththor said, “If you want your maid to live, tell them to stand down.”

I grabbed Mother’s hand. Emvery trembled, fear in her eyes, but she didn’t speak a word.

“Father,” Darrin leaned forward. “Hasn’t there been enough for one day?”

The words didn’t remove that cold, dead mask on King Goththor’s face. Instead he ignored his son and gave the signal, a raised thumb, to slit Emvery’s throat. The soldier holding Emvery flicked a knife from his palm and brought the sharp edge to Emvery’s neck.

“Wait!” I stepped forward. Emvery’s eyes popped out.

“Alexia,” Mother whispered. I ignored her. The gray, lifeless eyes of a king who no longer cared for much other than himself stared at me.

“Blow the horn four times,” I said.

“And you are?”

Paul cleared his throat. “Sire, may I present Princess Alexia Tyilsure.”

Darrin snorted. “Keep trying, Paul.”

King Goththor did not look amused with his son or his commander. “And what will happen if the horn is blown four times?”

“The people will know that we’ve yielded and they will retreat.”

The golden eye of the hawk on King Goththor’s breastplate flashed. He glanced at Paul. The man-at-arms bowed and walked behind the row of chairs at the long table to the end of the room. A large horn spanned the wide window. Its pipe tapered from the mouthpiece and was long as a man was tall. My spine went rigid. For an enemy, Paul seemed a decent man. It would be painful to watch him convulse and die when his lips touched metal.

An arm twirled me around, a sharp blade pressed upon my neck. Mother yelled but I couldn’t see her. “What aren’t you telling me?” King Goththor whispered in my ear. 

“Tell me now, or you and the maid die.”

“Poison, the mouthpiece is poisoned.” But only to those not immune to the drug. Father had bested an enemy by the same tactic.

“Paul, stop.” The king’s baritone boomed down the dining room. I staggered as the pressure around my neck relaxed abruptly. King Goththor sprawled back into my father’s throne and glared death at me. His eyes glinted dire threat if I defied him again. The soldiers around me echoed his expression, disdain painted across their features. I held my neck. Red, sticky fluid coated my fingers.

“Clever.” King Goththor smirked wickedly. His eyes found my mother. “You have another mouthpiece? Or is that even the method?”

Mother nodded. “Four blasts will halt the fighting.”

“You do it.” King Goththor stared at me. “If things go well, I’ll let your mother live.”

I could hear the lie. But it was my mother’s life. I looked to her. With a pause, and her reserve back in place, she nodded once. I paraded down the hall with my head lifted, past Paul and to the horn. The closer I came to the window, the more I could hear the shouts of men, the ringing of steel; our forces were still fighting. All for naught. I could only hope the invader on my father’s throne would keep to his word.

“Stop,” King Goththor said. “You don’t dally to your death, do you, child?”

I whirled around. “What does it matter to you?” Before anyone could stop me, I blew four times. Outside, the fighting slowed. The clatter of swords dropped on stone rang in the air. Goththor’s people called out, my people shouted in surrender. The stench of death that had surrounded us for months still lingered, but the battle was over. I turned around, walked back to my mother, and stood next to her.

“You’re still alive.” Darrin smiled. He had the kind of smile a girl could swoon over, but he would not win me.

“The Tyilasuir family is immune.” My prim voice did me proud.

“Or maybe it’s not poisoned,” Darrin said.

“Want to try it for yourself?”

Darrin waved a hand. “Oh no, you did a fine job. A surprise to see such a talented horn-blower.”

Soldiers around me laughed. Confused, I frowned and looked to Mother. She gave me a stern look that told me to say nothing. Still…I expected to die anyway. “I could teach you, although you might do better if you used your other end.”

Paul snorted but regained himself. Some of the soldiers snickered. Darrin flushed and frowned. Mother grabbed my arm. “That’s enough.”

It was slow in coming, but King Goththor started to cackle. “Fiery like my Bridgette, that one.”

The soldiers went silent. Paul gave me a very sad look—a look you’d give a favorite goose before the hatchet went down on its neck. Chills ran down my spine. I’d forgotten about the stories of King Goththor. For every laugh of his, another dies. Was he truly that mad?

Still chortling, King Goththor said, “Take them back to their rooms. Make sure they’re comfortable.”

At his command, we were escorted out of the room.

Slave to a 100 lbs. GSD (German Shepard) and a computer she calls "Dave", you'll often see her riding a 19 hand Shire nicknamed "Gunny" to the local coffee shop near the Santa Monica mountains.

Stephanie reads for the love of words, and writes fiction about Dark Hearts and Heroes revolving around social taboos. When ever asked, she'll reply her whole life can be seen through a comic strip ~ sometimes twisted, sometimes funny but always beautiful and its title is adventure. Come play!