#BookTour “Eastside Hedge Witch: A Paranormal Women’s Fiction (Midlife Supernaturals, Book One)” by T.J. Deschamps


A Paranormal Women’s Fiction

Midlife Supernaturals, Book One

Paranormal Women’s Fiction


Release Date: October 31, 2021

Twenty years ago, I stole something that could win the war between Heaven and Hell. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no do-gooder. I wanted to rule everything with the King of Hell. However, I have serious qualms with killing 8 billion people in order to get what I want. He didn’t. Irreconcilable differences, right?

So, I did what any witch would do. I faked my death and hid out in the Seattle suburbs, living as a mundane. Stay at home moms are practically invisible here!

I had a good thing going until a hellhound showed up on my morning run. Guess you can’t thwart the devil’s machinations and get away with it forever. Time to come out of the supernatural closet and save the world. Again.




Chapter 1

No one expects to run into a hellhound on their pre-dawn run in the Seattle suburbs, not even me, and I’ve had a long history with the stinky mutts and their master. I stop dead in my tracks, my heart thudding faster than the beat in my earbuds. After pressing the bud in my right ear, the music ceases. Ambient noise filters in.

Luck is on my side, sort of, as I am downwind of the monster, not the other way around. The reek of sulfur was what had given away the hellhound circling my neighbor’s begonias long before I spot the glowing red headlights where eyeballs should be. Besides the glowing red eyes, there’s no mistaking the hellhound for a lost pooch or a coyote on the prowl. The arch of its back reaches about as high as my chest, and I’m about 5’6″, not tall but not short either. It’s three times as wide as my hips, and I’m, as my daughter’s generation puts it, “thicc.” Under a sleek coat of slate-gray fur, sinewy muscles ripple. Even without looking inside its muzzle, I know viscous slobber covers several rows of razor-sharp teeth. But what really gives away the doggo is not a helpful Lassie are the shadows, darker than dark, swirling about the killer canine.

Those shadows will suck you into a whole new world. Somewhere you don’t want to take a magic carpet ride, Aladdin, not one little bit.

Too busy sniffing at my neighbor’s hedges, likely distracted by a bunny, the hellhound doesn’t even realize I’m there. I don’t mind if the demonic beast eats Peter Rabbit, the circle of life and all that, but I sure as hell mind if the hound tries to devour me, or worse catch me up in those swirling darker-than-dark shadows forming around him.

My stomach knots with unease and I bite my bottom lip to keep from crying. I’d grown complacent over the years since I left Hell. I want to stomp my foot and cry out that this isn’t fair. I’d gotten away from His Creepiness and all his bullshit evil machinations a long time ago. I have a nice, albeit bland, life in the suburbs. I’m on the freaking Parent Teacher Student Association!

I give up my pity party. I am a middle-aged mom, not sixteen. I’ve known for a long time that life was never going to be fair, as life never is when someone has way more power than you have.

I’d grown complacent, but like all middle-aged mothers, I still came prepared. I’d thought I was safe from Hell, but the world is filled with a lot more things that go bump in the night than hellhounds. I ease off my backpack.

My kid likely thinks I carry around weights, tasteless nutrition bars, and a water bottle like a normal person. The water bottle is the only true part. What I do have in my bag stops all kinds of monsters from devouring me while I get my heart rate up to “cardio” on my smartwatch. I push aside ash and rowan wood stakes, a silver dagger in its sheathe, a jar of cream to distract fae—not that the high fae courts are even allowed on Earth after the angels kicked them out, but the tiny low fae love the stuff and keeps them on your side.

Among these contents, I retrieve a container of Morton salt, tear off the sticker, and flick the spout with my thumb. My stomach dips when the friction causes the metal of the spout to squeak against the cardboard of the container.

My gaze still on the hellhound, who is still tearing up my neighbor’s garden, I exhale in relief.

With great care, I pour the salt in a circle, whispering the words I’d learn by rote. I’d learned them in another tongue but say the spell in English—a focus, the actual words don’t matter. The intention does. The power comes from within me, as it does all witches. I contain a metaphorical light inside that can blaze with the brilliance of a thousand suns, or so my mother said.

Mom was more poetic than I could ever be. She read Ralph Ellison, Alice Walker, and other greats of the twentieth century. I read comics and listened to Biggie and Wu-Tang Clan. She belongs to a coven. I am a lone witch, living a continent away from the women who raised me. Generational disconnect happens to the supernatural, too. Especially when your mother gave you to a fallen angel as a tithe when you were only a teenager.

When I’m done with the setup, I return the salt to my backpack and steel myself for what’s to come next.

I whistle. The first comes out dry and soundless. I moisten my teeth and try again. A shrill sound, loud enough to wake the dead let alone the neighborhood, departs from my lips.

The hound pauses the search for the rabbit, lifting its head. Alert. The beast’s nostrils flare as it sniffs the air. Red glowing eyes lock onto me.

Yeah. That’s right. I’m much better prey.

A low growl emits from the beast’s throat. Claws the length of my fingers click on the sidewalk as the hound stalks forward toward me.

Inside, I’m quaking with fear. I have not done this spell in a long time. If something happens to me, my daughter will have no one. I push that out of my head and plant my hands on my hips.

“Go tell your master take the hint and leave me alone.” I point as I speak, not intending a literal destination but a general begone direction.

The idiot looks where I pointed.

I roll my eyes. Hellhounds are not like Earth dogs. They have no instinct to protect, but they have the same instinct to hunt and follow signals. When the evil pooch realizes his master isn’t there, the predatory red gaze narrows on me, but it doesn’t move.

Doubt and confusion sets in. I’m not sure why he’s not pouncing and dragging me back with him to Hell nor ripping me to shreds. Am I not its target?

I curse under my breath.

I clear my throat. “Also, tell him stalking is a little gross and so creepy that he’s still got a thing for a me. I made it pretty clear I didn’t want to be with him anymore.” I throw up a hand and shake my head. “Wait. Why am I telling you? You’re too stupid to deliver a message.”

I spin on my heel like I’m going to walk away. Part of me wants to run. Wants to lure this beast away from my home, my kid.

The movement triggers instincts. In my peripheral, the monster snarls and lunges.

My heart leaps into my throat. The creature is doing exactly what I want it to do, however, a massive hellhound is launching in my direction. That and swirling magic that promises to rip me from everything I love to carry me to my least favorite ex scares the bejesus out of me.

After a moment of frozen terror, my brain revs into gear. I find my voice, murmuring the final words of the spell. A silly little rhyme stammered more than said—but stammered with intention!

The ground shakes beneath my feet, rumbling like a thunder cloud. Within the salt circle I’ve created, a swirling vortex appears. Fire erupts from the center, but I don’t feel the heat. It’s all contained by the salt I bought in a three-pack from Costco. The beast snarls and whines but cannot escape the flames toasting its flesh.

Oopsy. I’ve opened a portal to a less hospitable part of Hell. Guess this hellhound won’t be delivering my message.

I murmur another spell, voice still shaking. The swirling vortex sucks the hellfire and burning beast down like a flaming turd down a flushed toilet.

As I’ve said, I’m no poet.

The portal between worlds vanishes, leaving behind my salt art.

Sweat cooling on my body and adrenaline waning, all I want to do is go home and shower, but I need to clean up the salt first. If I left it, Seattle’s infamous constant drizzle would wash the salt into the neighbor’s yard and kill all the plants.

Television and movies with demon slayers never mention that salt will kill plants if absorbed into the ground. The ostensible heroes walk away from their salt circles, leaving a destructive mess, not caring whose yard they’ve destroyed, but I do.

As I sweep up the salt circle with a pocket-sized dustpan and broom, dumping the contents into a Ziploc bag, a sadness envelops me. I’d found safety and community on the Eastside—albeit while pretending I was something I was not. I don’t want to move again, but I have to.

The thing is, you don’t just leave my ex and get to live happily ever after, not after he’s shared his ambitions. Not after he’s named you his Harbinger of the Apocalypse. I’d only deluded myself that I could.

His Creepiness had once said that he’d tear the heart out of anyone whom I loved more than him, so they’d know how he felt. I used to think of the declaration as terribly romantic, instead of simply terrible. I certainly loved my daughter more than I ever loved him. Would he kill her or try to use her for the purpose he wanted to use me? New fears arise.

With the salt all swept and bagged up, I head to my house with a heavy heart. The life I’ve built here on the Eastside is over, and I have to break that, and so much more, to my daughter.


About the Author

T.J. Deschamps lives in the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. with her three teens, two cats, and a tortoise. She loves to read, write, dance, and lift weights–not at the same time, although that’d be cool to see.

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RABT Book Tours & PR


#BookTour “It Calls from the Doors” by Various Authors

ItcallsfromtheDoors copy

Letting the scares continue with It Calls from the Doors, another scary collection of short stories from a group of talented authors! Read on for more details and a chance to win a $25 Amazon e-Gift Card!

Doors Ebook

It Calls From the Doors (Foreword by Dave Jeffery, author of “A Quiet Apocalypse”)

Publication Date: October 15th, 2021

Genre: Horror/ Anthology

Open the door to your nightmares.

They are the silent guardians of our inner spaces. We throw them open to welcome friends and family. We shut them tight against the darkness and trust them to keep us safe. But they also hide our true natures, ward off intruders, and seal away what can never be allowed to escape.

But, what happens when the thing that we rely on the most, welcomes the bad things in? What happens when our protector becomes the thing we fear?

Turn the key, pull back the bolt, unfasten the latch and let the darkness through. Discover 19 tales of terror and despair that lurk on the other side of the Doors in the fourth instalment of Eerie River Publishing’s horror series.

Eerie River Publishing

Available on Amazon!

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Book Tour Schedule

November 1st

Reads & Reels (Guest Post) http://readsandreels.com

I Smell Sheep (Spotlight) http://www.ismellsheep.com/

@dreaminginpages (Review) https://www.instagram.com/dreaminginpages/

Rambling Mads (Review) http://ramblingmads.com

November 2nd

Horror Tree (Guest Post) https://www.horrortree.com/

Breakeven Books (Spotlight) https://breakevenbooks.com/

Nesie’s Place (Spotlight) https://nesiesplace.wordpress.com

Cats Luv Coffee (Review) https://catsluvcoffeez.blogspot.com

November 3rd

Bibliolater, Jennifer Mitchell (Review) https://www.jennifermitchellbooks.com

Bunny’s Book Reviews (Review) https://bookwormbunnyreviews.blogspot.com/

Stine Writing (Review) https://christinebialczak.com/

November 4th

The Faerie Review (Review) http://www.thefaeriereview.com

@authormalmccartney (Review) https://www.instagram.com/authormalmccartney/

Jessica Belmont (Review) https://jessicabelmont.com/

November 5th

B is for Book Review (Spotlight) https://bforbookreview.wordpress.com/

Books + Coffee = Happiness (Review) https://bookscoffeehappiness.com/

On the Shelf Reviews (Review) https://ontheshelfreviews.wordpress.com

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#PromoTour “Takedown: An accidental marriage romance” by Evelyn Sola

Takedown cover





I was not a gambler. No way. I’ve built an existence free of risk and adventure. From my career to a small life with my closest family. I was not going to do anything to jeopardize my heart. But when my neighbor and number one menace to my safe plans showed up in Vegas, I did what every adventurous (not!) woman would do. I got drunk and married the man.


What happens in Vegas is supposed to stay in Vegas. Then, I went and married Mellie Dupree. That woman I’ve been chasing for two years is now my wife. She claims she doesn’t remember our wedding, but I was there, and I know she’s not telling the truth. Then again, neither am I.






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The down pillow contours my head, shielding me from the cool air coming from above. The temperature in the room is not only due to the ceiling fan, but to the extremely efficient central air. I sigh happily and cover myself with the white, down comforter, basking between sleep and reality. I don’t remember ever being in a bed so comfortable.

I smile and reach for another pillow to hug, but my hand hits something else. Skin. I think I’m touching a stomach. A very hard and toned stomach, which I think belongs to a man. I touch it again, and whoever the stomach belongs to moans softly. I quickly pull my hand away and wait for things to come into focus.

I might not know where I am, but I know where I’m not. I don’t have a ceiling fan in my room, and the air conditioning in my bedroom at home works well, but not as efficiently as this one. Besides, I live in Boston, and if there’s one thing I don’t need in Boston in January, it’s air conditioning. I’m not in my bedroom at my brother’s two family house, in the first floor apartment where we live. The one I share with him and his family.

I’m in Sin City celebrating my friend’s wedding.

One of my best friends got married yesterday. It was a big group, full of her family and friends. It wasn’t the typical Vegas wedding with Elvis officiating the vows. It was a beautiful formal affair held in the ballroom of the Bellagio hotel. I cried when I watched her father walk her down the aisle, the epitome of happiness with her wide smile and inner glow. I’d wiped my wet cheeks with a tissue I had in my purse, and when I had looked up, it was to find familiar, piercing blue eyes watching me from across the aisle. I normally look away from his stares, but that time, I held it, and even in the big room, the electricity between us sizzled.

My phone buzzes from across the room. Despite not having a headache, I know I must have had some drinks if the dryness in my mouth is any indication. It’s so bad it feels like something died in there days ago. My bedmate moans again, turns over in the bed, and wraps an arm around me, forcing a loud gasp out of me by his sudden movement. He takes it a step further and puts a heavy leg across my thighs, keeping me securely in place. He nuzzles the back of my neck and sighs in contentment.

I stop breathing and my body goes completely still. I close my eyes and squeeze, hoping that when I open them again, I’ll be at home in my bed, and this will have been nothing but a dream.

But that doesn’t happen, and a dooming feeling hits. My stomach drops, and I feel my heart start to accelerate. I don’t want to do this, but I take a deep breath, and I turn my head, refusing to look at him, hoping and praying that it’s not who I think it is. But his scent is a dead giveaway. No one else smells like that, and in this instant, I know I did something I can’t take back. Images of last night start to surface, but I push them back down, refusing to acknowledge the reality of this situation.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been intimate with a man, and I squeeze between my legs. When I feel no soreness, I expel a breath of relief. I know whatever happened in this room does not extend beyond sleeping. Unless whoever that is has a small package. I shouldn’t have doubted it. He never would have done something like that. Besides, he’s wanted me for such a long time that I know he’d want me to remember.

Or maybe it’s not him. The altitude is not the same in Vegas as it is in Boston, and I’m sure more than one man uses this cologne. Maybe I went out and decided to let loose. Leaving behind the January northeastern weather will do that to any girl. I remember telling my sister-in-law about my plans to find a man for a night.

“Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” I had winked at her and nudged her shoulder with mine. She laughed and told me to have fun.

My bedmate lets out a snore, and I push his leg off. Making as little noise as possible, I take a deep breath and turn to face him. The cover is now askew, leaving exposed a long, muscular leg filled with dark hair. I close my eyes and say a short prayer.

Yeah, now you pray, Mellie, you heathen. God ain’t about to listen to you now. 

He’s in black boxer briefs, and his morning wood is saluting the ceiling. I swallow involuntarily and do everything in my power to stop myself from wrapping my hand around the steel pipe of a dick that’s just inches away, but I chase the thought out of my dirty mind. Yeah, no way was that thing inside me. It would have ripped me in half. It’s not this particular dick that’s got my mouth watering. It’s the lack of dick in my life that’s making me yearn for this one.

His ribbed white t-shirt has ridden up, and a perfect six pack is on full display just inches away from my greedy hand. I let out a whimper, knowing for sure that the Lord did not in fact hear my prayers. Or maybe he did and decided to ignore me. It would serve my heathen ass right.

I exhale and continue to look past the broad chest. I see the familiar gold chain around his neck with the signature cross, and I know that God has indeed forsaken me. Again.

My hand itches to touch the chiseled chin with about three days worth of stubble. Just like it does every time I see him, but I can’t confirm my worst nightmare. He has a pillow covering his face. I’ve come too far to stop now though. I gently pull the pillow and close my eyes in resignation. I count to ten, and like I’m pulling off a band aid, I open my eyes and learn my fate.

The bottom falls out from under me. It’s my worst nightmare. It’s him.

Adam Flynn. Lying in bed next to me in nothing but a t-shirt and boxer briefs with his eyes closed, looking like a Greek God.

But he’s Irish, Mellie, not Greek. 

He’s gorgeous. Always has been. There is no denying it. Perfect skin with just a tinge of pink. He has full lips, and I yearn to run my tongue along them. His thick, dark hair is a mess and sticking out from all sides, and that only makes him look sexier.

I jump off the bed as if I’m on fire and look down at my bare legs. I’m in nothing but my underwear and a white tank top. The one I had on underneath my sheer kimono top. I look around the room like a cornered animal, relieved only when I see my clothes perfectly folded next to the big screen TV. I quickly put on my jeans. Adam moans again, and when I look at him, he shivers and goosebumps spread over his body. I tiptoe to the bed, careful enough not to wake him, gently lift the comforter, and cover that perfect body of his.

This room is much more extravagant than mine. A suite with a couch and minibar. There are two bottles of champagne on the table, one of them still sitting in an ice bucket. I walk over there and pick one up. Some French name I can’t pronounce. I find my phone and do a quick search of that champagne. The price ranges from three to five hundred dollars, and I can only imagine the up charge the Bellagio adds. And he got two. What an idiot. I know he can’t afford this on a middle school vice principal’s salary.

I refuse to give in to my guilt since I didn’t make him buy it. I’m pretty sure I tried to talk him out of it. I don’t even remember any of it.


Needing to make my escape before he wakes up, I look around the room for my shoes. I see the black peep-toe wedges underneath the bed, and I get on my knees to reach for them. When I do, something catches the light, a sliver of sun coming through the blinds. I follow the flash, and I blink twice to erase what I’m seeing.

I hold up my hand, and right there, on my left ring finger is a fat, round, and crystal-clear diamond ring. It’s so clear that it must be fake. It’s bigger than the one my brother gave his wife. I could be mistaken, but I think it’s even bigger than the pink diamond ring one of my friends have. And right next to it is a platinum wedding band with small diamonds all around it.

“It can’t be real,” I whisper. I pull the ring off my finger and examine it, unsure of what to look for. A memory from last night hits. Drinks at a bar. Grabbing him and pulling him out of that bar and away from a tall, skinny bitch. There was a dare, but I chase the memory away. He would do this. He would put a wedding ring on my finger as a joke. I put both rings on the nightstand, but there’s an official looking form already there.

Curious, I pick it up. My stomach drops to the floor and the food I ate last night threatens to come up.

Party 1 – Flynn, Adam Finnegan

Party 2 – Dupree, Melanie Elyse

Another memory hits, but I refuse to dwell on it. I do something much worse instead. I look back at the document in my hand. My mouth has gotten drier, and my heart is beating so fast, I’m afraid it’s going to wake my sleeping—I can’t even think of the word to describe him.

My eyes finally land at the top of the form, but I close them before they can focus on the words. I inhale, say another prayer, convinced this time that I will be delivered. And once again, I’m forsaken. Right there in bold, black letters.

Clark County, Nevada. Certificate of Marriage.

A hand flies to my mouth and a sound of despair escapes. The piece of paper slips from my hand, floating in the air conditioned breeze until it lands on the floor. Without a second thought, I grab my shoes and purse and run out of the room, not even sure where I am, but when I step outside the door, I know I’m still in my same hotel, so I sprint to the elevator in my bare feet.

When I get to my room on the twelfth floor, I run to the bathroom, drop to my knees and empty the contents of my stomach. My eyes water and my throat burns. There’s no bitter taste of rancid alcohol or the putrid smell of last night’s dinner. Hardly anything comes up, and I end up gagging for what seems like forever. My body is like a ragdoll’s, hunched over the toilet as if I have no spine to support me. A loud sound escapes, and I realize I’m crying. I don’t remember the last time I cried, but in my Vegas hotel room, with no one there to witness it, I give in and weep.

What the hell have you done now, Melanie?


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A Boston native, wife, mother, and wine enthusiast. If she’s not writing, thinking about writing, you will find her with a book in her hands. While a new publisher, she’s been writing for years, and she will continue to write for many years to come.

Evelyn is obsessed with assertive and confident men who will stop at nothing to get their woman. Her stories are filled with love, passion and humor.

She currently lives in Chicago, IL with her husband and two daughters.




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