#CoverReveal “Awakened: The Oracle Chronicles Book One” by Moni Boyce

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Awakened Bk 1 cover


Secret lineage, a ruthless vampire, and forbidden love.

Willow Stevens dreams of stardom are eclipsed by the real nightmares of a sinister man haunting her dreams. Unbeknownst to her, Eli Walker, her hot but snobbish co-worker, may know the reason nightmares plague her, but their history shows he is more prone to reject her, than help her.

Then Willow passes out at work only to wake in Eli’s apartment. There she has her chance to learn more about her heritage. But, knowing why the vampire king stalks her doesn’t make the nightmares disappear. If anything, they become more real as she now faces off against a slew of creatures she’d always believed were myth.

That Eli is one of those creatures is just her luck. Secret witch guild or not, his natural ways are casting spells her heart can’t escape. As a Protector his only focus should be her safety. Anything else is forbidden. He plans to stay in task, but some women break a man, or tempt him to break the rules.

Can Eli keep Willow alive and safe from the vampires long enough for her to grow her own powers or will both cast aside rules for a reckless passion that will only lead to danger?

Fans of A Discovery of Witches will love the mix of magic, adventure and paranormal romance in the first book of the series THE ORACLE CHRONICLES from Moni Boyce.


            A couple minutes later, she followed him. Whatever he’d prepared smelled delicious. He moved around the kitchen unsure. She raised her eyebrows while she watched him. He caught the gesture and looked embarrassed. “Most of the time, I cheat and use magic so I can do something else. I haven’t manually cooked in a while.”

            She looked at him wide-eyed, with her mouth gaped open. Even though he’d told her earlier, they were witches she still was having a hard time believing it. “You cook with magic, like they do in Harry Potter? That’s so cool. I know you told everyone not to use it, but just show me a little something. I won’t tell.” Awe and child-like wonder permeated her voice. “Cross my heart.” She made the sign of the cross over her heart.

            “You heard everything didn’t you?” His eyebrow quirked upwards, daring her to lie.

She gave him a sheepish smile and looked away before she continued talking about magic, in the hopes he’d forget her listening to their conversation. “I would be the ultimate multi-tasker if I was a witch. Say ‘Abracadabra’ and make the food magically appear on the plate or something.” Willow was giddy with excitement.

            Eli chuckled. “I’m not a wizard. I don’t say ‘Abracadabra.’” He shook his head.

            His explanation confused her. “What does that mean? I thought wizard was a name for a male witch.”

            He sighed and put down the pot he was holding. That comment appeared to get his undivided attention. “You watch too much television. First, regardless of gender, we’re known as witches, those of us that practice white magic. Warlocks are witches that practice black magic. Wizards are charlatans, posers. They don’t know magic, but are exceptional at trickery so they can give someone who doesn’t know any better the illusion they do.”

            She digested the information he’d just given her.

            “That’s why everyone went silent earlier when Matty referenced black magic, because none of you practice it?”

            He nodded and picked up the pot of noodles. “Yes. Now may I finish making dinner?”

            “So you’re not going to cook with magic?” She was expecting him to do tricks and wow her. Disappointment marred her brow, when he didn’t whip out a magic wand or say a spell.

            “You just said so yourself, that you overheard me tell everyone magic is off limits.”

            Her shoulders slumped in discontent and she pouted. “You can’t do even a tiny little spell?”


            She rolled her eyes. “Great. A witch who can’t do any spells or magic.”

            Eli looked offended. “I didn’t say I can’t do magic. I’m just unable to do any at this time.”

            “Uh, huh.”

            He bristled at her disinterest and she had to hold back a sly grin. “Wizard.” She mumbled under her breath, knowing it would get a rise out of him.

            “I’m not a wizard! I can do magic!”

            If she lit a match and threw it at him, he would have gone up in flames he was fuming so hard.

“Whatever.” Maybe she’d just…



Moni Boyce is a writer, filmmaker, poet and author of contemporary and paranormal romance novels. She spent the last fifteen years working in the film industry and now creates characters of her own and brings them to life on the page. Moni has ghostwritten romance novellas and novels for over a year now and decided to put some of her own creations out in the world. She considers herself a bookworm, film buff, foodie, music lover and an avid world traveler having visited 32 countries and counting. She lives a bit of a nomadic life, but considers Los Angeles home. Which is the subject of her first travel book: Greater Than A Tourist – Los Angeles, California: 50 Travel Tips From A Local.



#Awakened #TheOracleChronicles #MoniBoyce #HonMagPR


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#GuestPost “Perfecting ‘The Twist'” by Jeff Bond, author of “BlackQuest 40”

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A note upfront: Blackquest 40 is chock-full of twists and turns so I’ve decided telling the story of one of the biggies here — without getting specific — shouldn’t affect anyone’s reading pleasure. If you’re terrified of spoilers and prefer not to hear even the merest nugget, by all means, bookmark and return after you finish the story. 

Thrillers need plot twists like a home needs its kitchen. Writers of thrillers have to flip their readers’ expectations—often, substantially, and convincingly. My latest book, Blackquest 40, has several twists that I humbly believe deliver on this requirement. But one of them almost whiffed.

First, let me back up and describe my experience crafting “the twist” in my debut novel, The Winner Maker. There’s a large reversal smack in the middle, where you generally want one. Early beta readers of the manuscript really took the twist on the chin. Some found it jarring and unbelievable. Others felt the character involved had behaved far outside her/his established pattern.

I heard enough of this reaction that I decided to rework the twist. I sprinkled foreshadowing throughout the first half, added a few contrary notes to the offending character, then sanitized all the downstream impacts of these changes—which sometimes ends up being the thorniest part.

The next round of beta readers had no problem with the twist, and I sent the book out into the wild. Winner launched in December and, as I write this, has a 4.3 star rating on Amazon. (Sorry, shameless plug.) None of the reviewers who did have issues with the book mentioned that element at all.

Fast forward to Blackquest 40, my follow-up. I had prepared my big twist (vagueness here is intentional) with Winner in mind, planting hints liberally. I felt confident the twist wouldn’t seem to come out of left field. I emailed the manuscript around to a first group of beta readers. I got plenty of positive feedback about the manuscript in general, but the twist landed like a soggy towel.

“Yeah, sorta saw it coming, but still enjoyed it.”

“I was pretty sure something was going on there…”

A few readers said the twist had come off just right, but not enough for me to think I’d struck the right balance.

I went back to the drawing board. I didn’t remove any passage that gave the reader new, salient information about the subject in question, but there were several superficial clues I felt I could fairly zap without cheating my readers.

The next step was, again, further testing with betas. My second round of readers loved the new version — I’d tweaked other things besides the twist, of course — and I was feeling great about the book. I did a third round of betas just to be positive. Again, reaction was solid. I lined up my final proofread, shipped the manuscript off for a spiffy format, then uploaded my files to Netgalley so advance reviewers could start doing their worst. I moved on to my next project. (For more info there, see https://www.thirdchancestories.com/ — sorry, shameless plug #2.)

The early reviews were outstanding, 5 stars right down the line. People loved my protagonist Deb. Some bristled at the tech talk—unavoidably given the setting—but even these readers were enjoying the book.

Meanwhile, I was eagerly awaiting two professional reviews: one from Kirkus and another from IndieReader. These take a month or two to come in, and you never know quite when they’ll show up. Often it’s about a week before the delivery date they quote.

I was in the middle of vacation with my family, a long weekend in Toronto, when my phone dinged: Kirkus.

The review was in! I hurried with my phone to the hotel bathroom so I could read the news, which I expected to be good. Ignoring the niggling worry that my non-international Verizon plan might be racking up exorbitant roaming charges, I downloaded the file and read…

The review was, overall, positive. Definitely positive. But the reviewer had made one passing comment that stopped me from yanking the hotel hair dryer out of its wall charging unit and screaming Queen lyrics into it. A line toward the end: “Readers will likely guess one (plot twist) well before it happens, but others are less predictable.”


But I’d had dozens of readers! I’d calibrated my twist, I’d weighed one word choice against another, I’d plotted how many pages separated each mention of the element.

How could this have happened? Had I blown it?

As I sit here typing today, I still don’t know whether I just got a real smartypants of a Kirkus reviewer, or whether the twist truly was obvious as written. (A week later, the IndieReader review of the same version came in over the moon—“This book is a delight, and one readers should download right away.”) As my eyes read and reread that comment, though, I was convinced I had committed a mortal sin.

As soon as we got back from Toronto, I pulled up the Blackquest manuscript and searched for all mentions of elements pertaining to the twist. (Again, vagueness is intentional.) I considered their number, how “loud” they seemed next to whatever else surrounded them…and yeah, I thought I saw the reviewer’s point.

There were a handful of clues that weren’t integral to the characters or underlying twist, provided no tangible information to the reader. They sort of raised their hands and said, “Hey, look at me! Do you think I might be important…?” Probably I’d stuck them in during the drafting phase, remembering Winner and believing I shouldn’t shock the reader too badly.

Naturally, that very morning, my blog tour coordinator emailed to inquire — politely as ever (I cannot recommend Partners In Crime blog tours highly enough) — whether I’d mailed out review copies to bloggers who’d requested physical books.

Coming! I said. Very, very soon—I promise!

I scrambled to nix my superfluous hints. The changes ended up being minor—maybe a half dozen passages—but, still, I had to square them with everything happening downstream, make sure I wasn’t introducing some newly repetitive word, et cetera. I finished in about a day.

Next, I needed to flow these changes through to IngramSpark and Amazon, the twin behemoths I use to print my books, and get my advance copies out to those bloggers. The beauty of writing books in the Digital Age is that you’re able to pull this off — sling files around the web and implement tweaks like this on a dime.

Well, in theory.

Now is the moment in our tale when we meet The Formatter.

I have an amazing formatter. If you’re reading this, Kind Formatter, know this: you’re tremendous. You design gorgeous-looking interiors. You make no mistakes. You’re creative and clever and have impeccable style. I recently published a short story called The Cleaner (sorry, I believe that’s shameless plug #3), which is more literary in nature than the rest of the books I have out, and asked The Formatter if he could differentiate it as such through formatting. He did a fantastic job—small dignified graphics under the title and chapter heads, perfect fonts and drop caps, everything. I’ve never been anything but ga-ga over his work.

The catch? He can be a little flaky. Sometimes he’ll respond to email in seconds. Sometimes it’s a few days—and I didn’t feel like I had a few days.

I dashed off my changed manuscript file to him, explaining the urgency, asking him to charge whatever he needed for the rush-job. Advance readers were banging down my door…the local Barnes & Noble would be ordering copies from IngramSpark any day now…it was important that I get this reformatted file out as soon as possible.

That was Monday.

I checked my phone for messages throughout the day. I gave up around one a.m., having received nothing from The Formatter.

Tuesday came.

Tuesday went—with no message from The Formatter.

I sent him a poke in the morning along the lines of “I’m sure you’re swamped, sorry to be a nuisance, but would you mind…”

Twelve hours later — right as I was beginning to consider cracking open the PDF file myself and making the changes (if you’ve ever tried this yourself, you’ll understand it’s folly—deleting/changing more than a character or two annihilates your justification) — The Formatter did write back.

He explained his computer had been plagued by the Blue Screen of Death for the last few days so he’d been unable to respond. All good now. He was on it.

My heart-rate returned to normal levels. I won’t say it reassured me to learn my formatter’s laptop had suffered the blue screen of death—it seemed like BSOD peaked around Windows 95, right?—but I felt I was finally on my way to having the twist fixed.

His ETA to turn around the file was a couple days—at the very latest, he said—which by my math meant Friday night or earlier. No problem. My daughters were competing in their Michigan state gymnastics meet Saturday. It was a three hour drive, which meant we’d have to leave at 10:30 or 11:00 for my youngest to be on time for her 2:00 meet. As long as I had my new format file in to IngramSparks before the meet (we had to stay overnight; it might’ve been Monday before I could use a computer again), I would be able to pay for premium shipping and get the bloggers their books in an acceptable time-frame.

Naturally, The Formatter got me the files Saturday morning.

It was fairly early Saturday, though, and I figured I could make it. I moused through the file just to confirm everything was perfect…which it always is from The Formatter…except that this time, on the last change I’d submitted, there was an extra period.

You MUST be kidding.

I dashed off a note to The Formatter, explaining. I thought he might be able to zap the mistake and beam the file right back, but he wasn’t in reply-in-thirty-second mode.

I waited…and waited…and packed my daughters’ leotards and warm-ups and flip-flops for their meet…tracked down all the hair ties and arcane bun paraphernalia my wife uses to do their hair…(that’s very important, if you’re ever a gymnastics parent)…and waited…

It was 10:15. We had to hit the road or my daughter was going to miss her state meet.

Giving up on The Formatter, I decided I could probably delete a period without the whole PDF file collapsing to gobbledygook. I opened my freebie PDF editor, searched for that double period, backspaced over it, and saved.

The file looked fine.

Then I uploaded to IngramSparks, viewed the preview, accepted the preview, and ordered enough paperbacks for my antsy bloggers — on rush delivery, arriving as soon as possible. I’d be okay with advance readers. Barnes & Noble could order copies for my signing whenever they wanted—and receive the newer, less-obvious version.

Whew. I loaded up the car and off we went. I hadn’t forgotten the leotards, the bun supplies, or either of the girls’ special hair ribbons. Traffic was light. My daughter had a great meet.

I did forget the overnight bag, though. We had to buy toothpaste and pajamas at some Target off the interstate.


Deb Bollinger has no time for corporate training.BlackQuest 40 cover

Her company’s top engineer at just twenty-seven, Deb has blocked off her day for the one project she truly cares about: the launch of Carebnb, an app that finds spare beds for the homeless. When she’s told all employees must drop everything for some busywork exercise called Blackquest 40, it’s an easy no.

Trouble is, her bosses aren’t really asking.

Blackquest 40 is the mother of all corporate trainings. A near-impossible project to be completed in forty straight hours. No phones. No internet. Sleeping on cots. Nobody in, nobody out. Deb finds the whole setup creepy and authoritarian. When a Carebnb issue necessitates her leaving the office, she heads for the door. What’s the worst that could happen?

Armed commandos, HVAC-duct chases, a catastrophic master plan that gets darker by the hour — Blackquest 40 is a fresh take on the Die Hard formula, layering smart-drones and a modern heroine onto the classic action tale.


Jeff BondAbout Jeff Bond


Jeff Bond is a Kansas native and graduate of Yale University. He lives in Michigan with his wife and two daughters, and belongs to the International Thriller Writers association.

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#BookTour “BLACKQUEST 40” by Jeff Bond

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Blackquest 40 by Jeff Bond

Deb Bollinger has no time for corporate training.

Her company’s top engineer at just twenty-seven, Deb has blocked off her day for the one project she truly cares about: the launch of Carebnb, an app that finds spare beds for the homeless. When she’s told all employees must drop everything for some busywork exercise called Blackquest 40, it’s an easy no.

Trouble is, her bosses aren’t really asking.

Blackquest 40 is the mother of all corporate trainings. A near-impossible project to be completed in forty straight hours. No phones. No internet. Sleeping on cots. Nobody in, nobody out. Deb finds the whole setup creepy and authoritarian. When a Carebnb issue necessitates her leaving the office, she heads for the door. What’s the worst that could happen?

Armed commandos, HVAC-duct chases, a catastrophic master plan that gets darker by the hour – Blackquest 40 is a fresh take on the Die Hard formula, layering smart-drones and a modern heroine onto the classic action tale.

Praise for Blackquest 40:

“Deb’s first-person narrative is brisk, gleefully snarky, and filled with indelible metaphors… A clever, spirited tale with a brainy, nimble heroine at the helm.”
~ Kirkus Review

“Bond weaves an entertaining story filled with deceit, robots, Russians, and tech entrepreneurs that all combine to give the reader a reason to flip pages furiously to find out what might happen next… BLACKQUEST 40 sparkles with imagination. Code flies from keyboards, setting off ingenious flying devices, hatching plots and subplots and, ultimately, giving heroes the chance to help the good guys win. This book is a delight, and one readers should download right away.”
~ IndieReader’s 5 star review


Book Details:

Genre: Thriller

Published by: Jeff Bond books

Publication Date: May 15th, 2019

Number of Pages: 348


Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads


Read an excerpt:

I am in the middle of solving homelessness when my boss raps his knuckles on my cubicle border. I know it’s Paul – my eyes stay on the computer monitor, what with an intractable social ill hanging in the balance – by the timid tap… tap-tap pattern. Also the smell. Paul eats McDonald’s every morning for breakfast. He’s a Sausage McGriddle man.

“Deb, we’re heading up to the meeting – “

“Busy.” I squint around the San Francisco street map on-screen, mousing over a blinking dot labeled Wanda. She isn’t moving. None of them are moving.

Paul sighs. “We’re all busy. But it’s a Company-All, so if you – “

“Is it a Susan meeting?”

“No. It’s the kickoff for Blackquest 40.”

“Means nothing to me.” I click Wanda. Why aren’t they moving? Database problem?

Paul says the meeting invite should have explained everything. Blackquest 40 is a training exercise, mandatory for every employee in the company.

I look up and see that, indeed, he has the whole team in tow. Jared in his My Code Can’t Fix Your Stupid trucker hat. Minosh fingering his spiral-bound notebook, peeking at a clock. They are watching me – all 5’2″ if you count the platinum spikes, and a decade younger than them – like zoo visitors wondering if the glass is thick enough around this freak-colored poison frog.

“Susan hired me,” I say, invoking our rockstar CEO again. “Susan said I don’t have to participate in anything I don’t believe in.”

“Look, this project – “

“Is corporate training. High on my list of things to not believe in.”

With that, I pop over to the log file, which confirms my worst fear: the Carebnb database isn’t refreshing. The last GPS coordinates are from eight minutes ago, meaning Wanda and every other unhoused person on that map is misplaced.


The timing is brutal. Today is my launch, the day I am supposed to start demonstrating to all the venture capitalists not funding my side project that a little technology plus basic human decency can equal disruptive positive change.

Across the city, 137 unhoused San Franciscans are wearing 137 smart wristbands, produced at great expense by a local micro-manufacture co-op, in the hopes of connecting with a beta host. I signed up 344 hosts, but that number is dicey because many I bullied into joining. Some will have uninstalled the Carebnb app, not anticipating that I’ll soon be combing my list for chicken-outs and visiting their apartments to measure, then post on social media, just how many square feet of covered living space they waste nightly.

My brain races for solutions, but Paul’s voice and eau de McGriddle distract me. He’s explaining that Susan is out of pocket tying up loose ends in Davos, that Carter Kotanchek has the ball until –

“Okay Paul, honestly?” I click over to the T server, the probable source of my issue. “There is no combination of words or faux-words you can say that will get me off this workstation.”

“You’re the principal software architect, Deb,” he says. “We need you. I’m still in the dark myself, but I’m hearing Blackquest 40 is enormous.”

My mouth twists. “Getting colder.”

Paul hates managing me. I’m sure he goes home every night to Li Wei, his former-secretary-now-wife, and curses Susan for poaching me away from Google.

Now, as his eyes roam my workspace – hemp satchel, bin of droid Hot Wheels, Polarity of the Universe toggle currently set to Amoral, my toes in their sandals (he has a pervy thing for my feet) – his face drops another shade closer to dough.

He looks at my screen. “How much time are you spending on Carebnb?”

“Twenty-five percent, just like my contract says.” I manage to keep a straight face.

It’s a required Company-All. You don’t badge in, you lose network privileges. It would set you back.”

“You can void that.”

“I can.” Paul taps his ample jowls, thoughtfully paternal. “But I won’t.”

I’ve been working throughout our exchange, deciphering error messages, rebooting, tweaking this and that… nothing is helping.

I grit my teeth. Resetting my network privileges would be a big, sticky wad of red tape.

“Fine,” I say, “I’ll do the meeting. But I am still not participating in this Blockquest deal.”


“Whatever.” I can bring my laptop and troubleshoot from the conference room. “Our queue is about ten miles long – whose bright idea was some lame time-suck training?”

Paul grimaces. “Carter is driving it.”

Carter Kotanchek, our chief financial officer, is warring with Paul about the makeup of the Codewise Solutions workforce. Paul favors programmers in keeping with our reputation as the leading machine-learning and optimization company on the planet.

Carter wants more salespeople and has a knack for finding third-party vendors who sport the same Gatsby slickback he does. Inexplicably, Carter is winning.

The engineers behind Paul knock in place like pens in a mug, waiting.

I flop my wrist toward the elevators. “Go, go – I’ll catch up. Two minutes.”

They go. Paul lowers his gaze in a final I know you will choose wisely appeal.

I focus on my screen with a wonderfully McGriddle-free breath, then try refreshing the database.


I rejigger a script and try again.


Same error every time.

This is infuriating. Have I been found out? I never officially informed Paul about routing Carebnb’s unhoused-person GPS data through T, Codewise’s least busy server. Did he shut me down without telling me? Coincidentally on my most important day of the year?

No way. Paul would write a huffy email or file a ticket. He won’t refill our departmental stash of teabags without paperwork.


I stand and grab my laptop, then remember it doesn’t have the software to access the T server. I won’t be able to troubleshoot during the meeting after all. I’ll be forced to sit there and eat an hour’s worth of corporate mumbo-jumbo.

“Raven!” I call over my shoulder.

My trusty solar-powered quadcopter perks up. She hums around to my sightline, her underside dome blipping green to indicate her attention.

“Attend meeting in conference room 6-A. Badge in. Watch, back row. Record.”

Raven processes each command using natural language algorithms I wrote in grad school, then lowers her claw – repurposed off a junked arcade game – to accept my keycard.

As the drone whispers up the hall, I feel a twinge of unease. She’s attended meetings in my stead before but never on a different floor. She will need to push a button, read a floor indicator, possibly accommodate human riders… logic I have given her but not thoroughly stress-tested. It’s asking a lot.

I work another five minutes without success.

Air blasts through my nostrils.

I need eyes on a live wristband.

I grab the phone and dial Cecil, my go-to trial user. Cecil has known me since I was a baby, when Mom would push me around in her cart, snuggled in among dumpster scraps and Styrofoam peanuts. Cecil walked me through the roughest part of the city every day of second grade, and taught me the nutcracker choke after a kid pushed a shiv through my septum in fifth.

“Lil Deb, yo,” he answers in a deep baritone.

“Cec! Hey Cec, I’m seeing weirdness on my end and I need to know if you – “

“How’s your mom?”

“Oh, she’s cool, I talked to the orderlies and – “

“They’re keeping her meds straight?”

“No no, yeah, it’s all good,” I say – Cecil is so unfailingly polite you have to move him along sometimes – “listen, what are you seeing with Carebnb? Is your wristband working?”

“Think so.”

“Green light?”


“Map of available host beds showing up?”


“How many hosts in range? My database wonked and I gotta know if the problem is local or if peer-to-peer transfers are broken too.”

A guttural breath over the line. “English, Deb. Regular English please.”

I grip the keyboard tray, slow myself down. “Could we possibly meet? I think I have to see the wristband myself to diagnose this. Sorry, I hate to inconvenience you.”

“I’m homeless. Where else I gotta go.”

“Right. How about our usual spot, say twenty minutes?”

Before he can respond, the call drops. Bzzzzzzzzzz.

I clench my jaw and redial.


I stand and waggle my phone outside my cube, I walk to the window, I glare at the Verizon logo and telepathically threaten to hack their transceivers to mush if they don’t find me a signal.


I plunk back down. I’m contemplating flipping my Polarity of the Universe toggle to Evil when a tinny sound announces the presence of a new window on my monitor: Raven’s livestream.

She made it up to the Blackquest kickoff meeting. Atta girl. I resize the window to span my entire screen and watch as the big conference room comes into focus.

The Company-All is underway. Carter Kotanchek stands at the podium in a dapper summer-weight suit. Raven’s camera won’t win any TechCrunch awards, but Carter’s teeth still gleam from the middle of a plastic grin.

“Like y’t’meet Jim Dawson,” he says, introducing a stone-faced man in chunky glasses. “Jim here runs Elite Development, the company that will be facilitating Blackquest 40. Guys are doing phenomenal stuff in a new space called Extreme Readiness. Helping organizations build capability to complete projects of extreme complexity, requiring extreme teamwork, on extreme deadlines. So far they’ve been working with high-leverage government agencies, paramilitary, et cetera. We, ladies and gents, are fortunate enough to be corporate client number one.”

Dawson, in a bland accent – Ohio? Indiana? – thanks Carter and says he’s pleased to be here today. Excited for our shared journey.

Gag. So not participating.

As my focus returns to Carebnb, I groan at the ceiling. I need to test a wristband, but if I can’t meet Cecil… hmm. I have a few spares lying around, but none are initialized.

I’m figuring how long initialization would take – and how true a read I’d get from a wristband not in the field – when I hear something that stops me cold.

“… campus quarantine and data blockade will remain in place for the duration of Blackquest 40. If you absolutely require outside contact, in case of emergency or vital family obligation, a protocol exists… “

Wait, data blockade? I rewind Raven’s feed and replay the last fifteen seconds. Elite Development, in the name of “improved focus and personal efficiency,” is collecting every cellphone in the building and blocking all inbound-outbound internet traffic.

I feel slight queasiness at the authoritarianism of the whole setup, but mostly relief. Because now I get it. These jerks shut down T. They killed my call. Probably they’re using some military-grade antenna to zap cellular signals, and a simple software block on the servers.

And that won’t stop me.


Excerpt from Blackquest 40 by Jeff Bond. Copyright © 2019 by Bond. Reproduced with permission from Bond. All rights reserved.


Jeff BondAuthor Bio:

Jeff Bond is a Kansas native and graduate of Yale University. He lives in Michigan with his wife and two daughters, and belongs to the International Thriller Writers association.


Catch Up With Jeff Bond On:
jeffbondbooks.com | BookBub | Goodreads | Twitter | Facebook


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