#BookTour “Intergalactic Exterminators Inc” by Ash Bishop

Intergalactic Exterminators Inc by Ash Bishop BannerSeptember 1-30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour



Finding work is easy. Staying alive is a little bit harder.

Intergalactic Exterminators Inc by Ash Bishop
When Russ Wesley finds an unusual artifact in his grandfather’s collection of rare antiquities, the last thing he expects is for it to draw the attention of a ferocious alien from a distant planet. Equally surprising is the adventurous team of intergalactic exterminators dispatched to deal with the alien threat. They’re a little wild, and a little reckless. Worse yet, they’re so impressed with Russ’s marksmanship that they insist he join their squad . . . whether he wants to or not.

Praise for Intergalactic Exterminators, Inc:

“This book is so much fun it ought to be illegal in all known galaxies. Ash Bishop has written a wildly imagined, deeply felt, swashbuckling page turner. I loved it.”

Jesse Kellerman, New York Times bestselling author of The Burning

Book Details

Genre: Science Fiction

Published by: Camcat Books

Publication Date: September 6th 2022

Number of Pages: 416

ISBN: 0744305616 (ISBN13: 9780744305616)

Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | IndieBound.Org | CamCat Books


Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1


Russ woke up lying flat on the ground, his mind foggy as hell. He could smell blood. When he reached forward as gingerly as possible, his muscles screamed at the movement.

He was on his back. The forest trees waved down at him, blocking out the faint moonlight. He took a couple of deep breaths and reached forward again, groping around in the darkness. His hand came back slick with blood and fur and leaves.

And then he heard voices.

“. . . do you want to do this, then?”

“I just wouldn’t call this tracking, is all. The blood trail’s three feet across. A tiny baby could follow this trail.”

“Show me that baby.”

“Shhh. Both of you, quiet. Something’s registering on the heat index.”

The confusion and pain made it hard to think. Are these locals . . .? he thought. He fumbled in his pocket, looking for his flashlight but also testing for further damage. His hand found the light. It illuminated the small clearing.

The deer’s corpse was just a few feet away, right where he’d shot it, but it wasn’t whole. Something had torn off its back legs, shearing straight through the muscle and bone.

Russ took a deep breath but didn’t let his body or mind react to the sight of the carnage.

Seconds later, the strangers’ flashlights found him.

“He’s over here. To our left.”

Russ heard three or four people hurrying through the brush. A woman in all black stepped into the clearing. Her brown hair was tied back in a bun, and she had a long steel shotgun in her hands. An odd earring twinkled in her ear.

“You okay, son?” she asked, crouching down to place her hands on his chest. She stared into his eyes, examining him. “Looks like you’re going into shock. Just stay on your back and concentrate on breathing.”

A man followed shortly after her. He glanced around, holding up a funny-looking flashlight to cast out the darkness. “He’s alone,” the man confirmed. “Are you from around here?” he asked Russ.

“I’m from California,” Russ groaned.

“I don’t know what that means,” the man said.

“Just hold still,” the woman said. She pulled a gadget from her pack. The end telescoped out like an antenna.

Russ watched as an aqua blue light shone down from the device, running across his entire body. He flinched as it reached his face, and even that small movement caused his lungs to burst with pain.

“He’s got four broken ribs, a hairline fracture in the left wrist and a torn hamstring. Did you see what hit you?” the woman asked him.

Russ tried to think. “No.” The word was as much a groan as anything else.

“Tell us what you remember.”

Russ rolled over onto his side. It hurt badly. Now that she’d pointed out the injuries, everything was localized. His ribs throbbed. His wrist felt hollow. His left leg was pierced with pain. “I was driving down Route Eighty-Nine, and a deer . . .” Russ pointed to the half deer corpse beside him. “. . . this deer dashed in front of my car. I knew I’d injured it by the sound it made when it hit the bumper, but I didn’t think I’d have to chase it this far into the woods to put it out of its misery.”

Russ took a moment to swallow. “After I shot it, I—I was kneeling, jacking out the leftover rifle shells. But then . . . I was flipping through the air. I think I hit that tree right behind me.”

The woman looked back at the tree. “It’s pretty splintered up.”

“I was flying upside down. Backwards.”

“Can you walk?” the man asked.

Two more women, dressed in the same black combat gear, entered the clearing. They both had long rifles slung over their backs.

Russ glanced at the newcomers, his eyes lingering on the guns. They weren’t locals. He could tell that much. “Who are you guys?”

“Just local hunters,” one of the newcomers said.

“Sure,” Russ said.

“Tell me what hit you,” the first woman said firmly.

“’I don’t know. A meteor? A buffalo? Maybe . . . a . . . rig?”

The woman pulled a roll of pills from a MOLLE strap on her backpack. “Swallow two of these. They’re going to kill the pain.”

Russ chewed the pills. Their chalky taste filled his mouth and crept up his nose.

“They won’t cure any of the damage. You’re going to feel fine, but you’re not fine. Move carefully until you can get proper medical treatment. The road is two miles north. Can you reach it without help?”

Russ nodded. Whatever she gave him was blazing through his bloodstream, kicking the fog and ache off every organ that it passed.

“What’d I just eat?”

“Two miles north. Don’t stop for any reason.”

One of the newcomers, a well-muscled young woman with close-cropped brown hair, glanced at the half deer corpse lying next to Russ. Its blood had sprayed a pattern across the splintered tree. “Look at the animal, Kendren,” she said.

The guy, Kendren, shone his flashlight over the deer corpse. “Whoa,” he said. “We definitely found what we’re looking for.”

“You really chummed the water with this stag,” the short-haired woman told Russ.

“Kendren, Starland, mouths shut,” the first woman said, making a slashing gesture. She pulled Russ to his feet. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but it was gone.

Kendren and Starland stayed huddled around the deer, crouched low, inspecting where the hindquarters had been sheared off the bone. Kendren looked at the deer’s head and saw where Russ had shot it.

“You make this shot?” he asked Russ. “In the dark?”


“Was the deer already dead? Were you a foot away? Point blank?”

“No. I was up on a ledge over by the river. Forty feet in that direction.” Russ pointed up the gradual incline.

Kendren was still looking at the dead deer. “You shot it between the eyes, from forty feet, in the dark?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Head on back to the highway,” the woman said firmly. “You should start now. It might be dangerous to stay here.”

The way she was looking at him, Russ kind of figured she meant that she was what was dangerous. If he didn’t do what she said.

“I just need to find my grandpa’s rifle first,” Russ told her.

She grabbed him by the arm. Her grip was incredibly strong. In the light from her flashlight her eyes seemed almost purple. “Start walking toward—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the third woman, who’d melted back into the darkness, stepped forward again. “Cut the light,” she hissed. “It’s here.”

Something came crashing through the brush, making a howling sound. It wasn’t a sound Russ had ever heard before. It was a deep rumbling growl, followed by a pitched screech that made the hair on his arms stand up. Branches were snapping, and he could hear claws scraping on rock. It was still thirty feet south, but it scared the hell out of him.

“‘El Toreador.’ You’re up,” the woman hissed.

The girl they called El Toreador had been on lookout. She was far enough into the darkness that Russ could barely see her, just a wisp of thick brown hair bobbing in the darkness—that is, until she pounded her chest with her fist. The vest lit up red, casting shadows across the trees. “My real name’s Atara,” she told Russ quickly. Then: “Don’t look so worried. We’re professionals.”

“Starland, hit her with the hormone.”

“The vest is enough,” Atara growled.

Starland slipped back into the light. She was carrying some kind of tube that looked like a pool toy. She pushed hard against the end, blasting thick goo all over the other woman.

“Hurry up. It’s almost here.”

Russ was scrambling around in the brush, looking everywhere for his rifle when the creature burst through the perimeter glow of his tiny flashlight. Atara’s vest reflected off its face, bathing it in red light. It was all fangs and claws, huge, twice the size of a grizzly bear and full of rippling muscles stretched out in terrifying feline grace. It leaped at Atara, but midflight it caught the scent of the goo and reoriented to the left, bumping her off her feet but not harming her.

The huge cat-thing landed softly, immediately turning toward the fallen woman, sniffing the air, growling, and bobbing its head.

“It’s got the scent. The big kitty’s feeling amorous,” Kendren yelled. He, Starland, and the other woman all had their rifles raised. They were tracking the cat, ready to fire. Atara looked pissed, sprawled on the ground with her legs splayed.

“Knock it down. We’re authorized for lethal. What are you waiting for?” she shouted.

The creature was fully in the light now. It looked a lot like a tiger, but it was at least six times the size, with wavy, shaggy hair.

“What the hell is it?” Russ shouted.

The feline was practically straddling Atara. “I don’t like how it’s looking at me. Come on, shoot!” she demanded.

The creature batted a paw, claws extended, and tore the glowing vest off her chest. It drew the vest up to its nose, sniffed, and started to growl again.

Then the huge beast paused, slowly turning away from Atara. It sniffed the air, shoulders hunched, fur on the scruff of its neck rising. As it turned, its deep onyx eyes looked squarely at Russ.

It growled and took a step toward him.

Russ thought his heart had been beating hard before, but as the huge cat glided toward him, the thudding in his chest was so loud it drowned out every other sound. He didn’t even hear the discharge of Starland’s shotgun, two feet away from the monster. The wad of pellets sprayed against the creature’s flank and it howled, tearing away into the darkness so fast Russ didn’t even see it move.

Atara scrambled to her feet and dropped her rifle. “Did you see that? A direct hit and no penetration. I told you Earth tech was garbage. What is this? The thirteenth century? I’m powering up.”

The first woman—the one with the purple eyes—glanced at Russ. She was short, wiry, with the powerful shoulders of a linebacker. Russ realized she was the leader of . . . whoever these people were.

“When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?” she barked at Atara.

“You already used the CRC wand on him.”

“Two hours of mandatory training videos. The second this is over.”

“I’d rather be cat food than watch those again,” Atara said.

“You skip the videos and I’ll send you back through CERT training.”

Atara wasn’t really listening. She crashed off through the brush in the direction of the big cat.

Nodding toward Russ, the woman shouted, “Kendren, you’ve got containment.” Then she disappeared into the darkness. Starland drew a pistol from her belt and followed.

“Containment? More like babysitting,” Kendren grumbled. “I should be the one doing the good stuff.” He glanced in the direction they’d gone. Russ kind of agreed. Kendren was huge, at least six-five, and covered from head to toe with what Russ’s cousin had always called beach muscles. He had thick, wavy hair down to his shoulders.

Out in the darkness, Russ could see the others’ flashlights bobbing up and down. They were headed up an incline, probably straight toward the bank of the river.

“Was it my imagination, or was the cat more interested in you than the vest covered in mating hormone?” Kendren asked.

At first, Russ didn’t answer. Finally, he said, “What would make it do that?”

“No idea. It’s supposed to follow the hormone. What’s better than sex?” Kendren shook his head, seemingly unable to answer his own question. He frowned slightly. “The only thing I’ve seen them more interested in is an Obinz stone. You ever seen an Obinz stone? They’re about this big”—Kendren held his hands six inches apart—“usually green, with yellow veins running all along the edges? I don’t think they’re native to . . . this area.” Kendren looked around in distaste. “But I’ve seen these cats jump planets just to get near one if it’s in an unrefined state. An Obinz stone is basically intergalactic catnip.”

“I’ve never seen one,” Russ told him. His voice wavered slightly, but Kendren didn’t seem to notice.

“Then we better shut this vest down,” Kendren said. He stepped up onto a boulder and reached high into a tree, grabbing the vest from where the cat had tossed it. He folded the vest up and tucked it under his arm. “I’m not even sure how to turn it off,” he said.

“That was a saber-toothed tiger, right? You guys cloning stuff? Is this Jurassic World or something?” Russ rubbed his temple. His questions were coming so fast, they were jumbled in his mouth. Kendren had just said intergalactic, and something about jumping planets, but here in the dark Wyoming forest, six miles from his grandmother’s house, he wasn’t yet ready to face those pieces of information.

Kendren threw the vest on the ground and raised his rifle, pumping a slug into it. It kept glowing. “Damn. It’s pretty important I get this thing turned off.”

Starland’s discarded rifle was just a few feet away. While Kendren kicked at the vest with his boot heel, Russ inched toward it.

“Touch the weapon and I’ll shoot you in the face,” Kendren said. He stomped on the vest again.

The flashlights were way north now, probably on the other side of the river. Russ could hear the distant voices arguing about which way the big cat went.

The voices were so loud, neither Kendren nor Russ heard the cat until it was right in front of them, growling, hissing, and spitting. It stalked into the circumference of the faint red light from the vest.

Kendren was still standing on the vest, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Beside him, the cat was enormous, twice as tall as a man. It crouched down, looking him straight in the eye.

“I’m dead,” he said quietly.

The creature coiled back on its powerful flanks and threw itself forward like a bullet. Its wicked claws stretched out, razored edges slashing at Kendren’s neck and chest.

Russ kicked Starland’s gun off the ground, caught it, leveled it, and fired. The bullet split the cat’s eye socket, ripping through its optic nerve and straight into its brain.

Momentum carried the dead body forward on its trajectory, smashing into Kendren and pinning him to the earth.

A few moments later, the rest of the team returned, clambering through the thick brush. The leader approached the enormous beast and nudged it with her boot.

“Is it dead, Bah’ren?” Atara asked, her gun still pointed at the fallen creature.

“Sure is,” the leader, Bah’ren, responded.

The wind was starting to pick up, blowing the branches of the trees, shaking off a few dead leaves.

“How about Kendren?”

“Negative,” Bah’ren said.

“Get it off me,” Kendren demanded. “It’s gotta weigh nine hundred pounds.”

“How many intergalactic laws do you think we’ve broken here?” Atara asked. She moved next to Bah’ren, looking down at Kendren with an expression that was half pity and half amusement.

He had managed to sit up, but his legs were still wedged under the huge carcass.

“Including the law about referencing intergalactic law on a tier-nine planet?” Bah’ren asked.

“You guys are being a little careless,” Starland said.

“Not our fault this thing was a hundred miles off course. The MUPmap promised there wouldn’t be any tier-nine bios in the vicinity.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” Atara said, nodding toward Russ.

“Oh, we’re conscripting him, for sure.” Bah’ren said.

“Really?” Atara said. “We’re getting another human?”

“Who? Who do you mean?” Russ asked. He glanced back in the direction of the highway. His eyes were starting to adjust to the dark again, and he could make out a thick copse of trees just a dozen or so yards away.

“Get the huge beast off me,” Kendren insisted.

Bah’ren moved to one side of the big cat and dug her powerful shoulders into it. Starland ran over to join her, wedging one arm against the creature’s flank, but putting her other arm around the waist of the woman giving the orders. “Atara, come on. You, new guy, we could use your help too. It’s heavy as hell.”

Russ half ran over to them and dug his side into the creature. Its hairy skin sloshed around against the pressure, but the four of them eventually got it moving.

“Roll it the other way!” Kendren demanded. “Its penis is right next to my face.”

They kept rolling, and Kendren kept protesting, as the great shaggy cat slowly grinded over his shoulders and face. Gravity finally caught hold of its weight and the corpse flopped to the ground. The three in black all chuckled as Kendren spit out the taste of cat testicle.

“Oh, that’s what you meant. Sorry about that,” Starland said, laughing.

Kendren crawled onto his knees, still hacking and spitting. He stopped for a minute and looked at the cat’s face, poking a finger in the thing’s empty eye socket and wiggling it around. “Another hell of a shot.”

“The debriefing wasn’t just wrong about location,” Atara said. “The creature’s fur is like steel mesh. Our bullets were doing jackshit.”

Kendren rolled up onto his knees, both hands propped on his thighs. “You saved my life,” he told Russ.

“No problem,” Russ said.

It was the last thing Russ said before he dropped the rifle and sprinted full speed back toward the safety of the trees. He was running as fast as he could, pumping his arms, banging his shins on rocks, bumping past pines, carelessly plunging through the dark.

He’d only gotten about twenty yards, running full speed, when something metal slapped around his ankle. It tipped him off balance and, for the second time that night, he could feel himself careening head over heels.

He hit a tree, again, then slowly slipped out of consciousness.

Excerpt from Intergalactic Exterminators Inc by Ash Bishop. Copyright © 2022 by Ash Bishop. Reproduced with permission from Ash Bishop. All rights reserved.


Author Bio:

Ash BishopAsh Bishop is a lifetime reader and a lifetime nerd, loving all things science fiction and fantasy. He has been a high school English teacher, and worked in the video game industry, as well as in educational app development. He even used to fetch coffee for Quentin Tarantino during the production of the film Jackie Brown. Bishop currently produces script coverage for a major Hollywood studio, but he spends his best days at home in Southern California with his wonderful wife and two wonderful children. He earned an MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State University. This is his debut novel.

Find Our Ash Bishop Online:

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Twitter – @AshLBishop
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#Excerpt “Nightmasters Book 2: Change of Engagement” by Loran Holt


Nightmasters, Book 2



Date Published: June 4 (Hardcover Release August 11)

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

Kelgan Defthand and his rather motley crew continue on their quest to defeat an unknown and terrible malevolence. They are expecting the same places, faces, and traces of evil, but an enormous surprise awaits them. A mysterious ship takes them to an even more mysterious destination, and “Others” seem to have intruded.

Who are they? What do they want? Can they be trusted?



Neroma di Nerrill! Her name was like an aria—he could have written an opera with music soaring and soaring until . . . .


A sharp pain in his hand brought him up short. Raising his head in bewilderment he found himself lying, face down, fully clothed, on barren earth while clutching a sharp rock. The little rill which had run so merrily by, was a channel of cracked mud alongside a forlorn stand of lifeless, barren tree trunks with fallen branches.

Finding his feet, he ran in horror back to the campsite. Nothing! There was no sign of a camp—no people, no wagon, just a scraggly bush or two and a rutted dirt road stretching both directions into the no-longer-seen distance.

Like a madman he ran—back and forth, back and forth—until, exhausted, his chest heaving with painful unhs, he gave way to sobbing despair.

No! It’s not real! That’s what they want! I’ve got to laugh—laugh!

Calming his breath, he ventured a short attempt at laughter. No discernable alteration of his surroundings.

Again, and again, he forced out laughs of every type—shrill giggles, amused chortles, booming guffaws—the barren empty landscape was unchanging.

The desperate nature of his predicament was rapidly dawning on him.

Noting that his hand hurt and was bleeding, from where the rock had actually pierced the skin, he almost soundlessly mouthed a small healing spell. The bleeding continued, unabated.

Thoroughly terrified now, he strove for a semblance, at least outwardly, of rationality. Making what he knew was a pathetic try at steeling himself, he poured, or hoped, additional strength into his wards.

That was probably it, he told himself, I got carried away and just forgot . . . .

He repeated the healing spell in a low voice, enunciating the words with careful attention to the way they rolled off his tongue, and with just the right cadence—not too fast, not too slow, a measured beat.

The bleeding continued. It was drying up a bit, but that was only the result of the moistureless air and the passage of time.

For the first time he noticed he was without either sword or even the small dagger he concealed in his boot. One doesn’t wear piercing instruments of that sort to a rendezvous, was his sourly sardonic thought.

He sat on a fallen branch and tried to think like a man without power or armament. A measure of sanity had returned but was of little comfort. He kept his thoughts carefully away from Neroma—that way lay madness. He knew that for a certainty.

There is a road with ruts—that means someone comes by on occasion. So, there must be a town somewhere down the road. I just have to find it, and hope they don’t immediately execute every stranger who comes their way.

He sat a little longer, practicing his meditation exercises, until he felt he could behave like any traveler who had gotten a little lost. Then he rose, brushed off his tunic, and tried to look as though the dishevel­ment came from the result of walking rather than hysteria.

He walked until he was footsore and the sun was low the sky. Just about to give up and try for a hollow in the dirt he could roll up in; coming over a low rise, he at last saw signs of a town.

Well, at least there seems to be inhabitants of this Phosphene deserted place.

Although it didn’t appear to be a prosperous community, there was some hope for a bed—even in a stable—and possibly a crust of bread, if they could spare any. He had some doubts on that score. From the vantage point of the rise, he surveyed the village, which by all rights could not rise even to that description. Most of the scantly scattered cottages—Cow sheds more like—were already dark. The villagers undoubtedly too impoverished to waste candles on relieving the darkness, and the meager wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys spoke of frugality to the point of privation. Nonetheless, he kept on walking for want of a better solution.

Arriving at the outskirts, and suddenly conscious of a blister on his right heel, he caught sight of a Blacksmith establishment which still showed signs of life.

Hobbling in that direction, he was hailed by a burly, bearded man who looked as though he was chosen by a Mummer’s troupe to play a Blacksmith. The man held a glowing rod of iron, which passed very well for a weapon.

Answering the hail, and showing both hands, Kelgan asserted, “I have lost my way, it seems, and have walked for hours in what must be a wrong direction.”

“And where was that you was headed, pray.”

“The house of my cousin, who lives alone outside of a town—I hope this is the one. I have come from Asquita (Kelgan hoped there might have been such a place), do you know it?”

“Heard the name somehow. Don’t know it more than that.”

Kelgan blew out a breath of relief.

“My cousin was never much for people, and lives off the road, so I must have walked right past, or gone the opposite direction from the one needed. Do you have an inn, or anything of that sort? If I could shelter for the night, I could retrace my steps.”

A scornful snort followed his inquiry. “An inn? You are a stranger.”

“I’m not too proud to sleep in a stable. I’m good with mules.”

“Them, we got. I have a shed out back for my mule, if you want to share.” The Blacksmith sniggered.

“More than kind. Anyplace off the road, and under a roof.”

The Smith looked him over with something like a sneer. “Looks like you’ve already been sleepin’ rough.”

Kelgan nodded, hoping he looked sincere, “Yes, it was farther than I was aware, and the towns were farther apart. I’m afraid I’m a bit travel-worn,” he added, with a touch of rue thrown in.

“If you’ve got any money, I’ll warm you some water to splash in. Won’t be a real bath, but it’ll be somethin’.”

Kelgan’s heart sank. Money! He felt at his belt, and was over­joyed to find that his small purse was still attached to his belt.

“Well, I’ve got a little. I think I could pay you for the water and maybe a bit of bread.”

The Smith appraised him again, shrewdly. Kelgan’s gangly frame and lack of armament must have reassured him. “Said you were good with mules?”

“Uh, yes, I am. A goodly bit of experience, actually.” He wondered what unpleasant task the Smith had in mind.

“My old jenny’s been limpin.’ Maybe you could see what’s wrong. She’s not in a mood to let me close.”

Kelgan gulped, “I’ll see what I can do.”

The Smith pointed the way to the shed. “I’d take you back there, but I gotta warm this rod up again.” “It’s fine, my thanks.”

Feeling his way in the rapidly darkening evening, Kelgan nearly ran right into the shed.

Not much room for the jenny and me. He gave a short chuckle, then rubbed his eyes.

Guess I misestimated in the dark. The shed was larger than he had first thought.

Sliding the barn door to one side, he peered into the gloom. The mule, startled at his appearance, brayed nervously and shuffled side­ways.

Not even a stall. Oh well, if she doesn’t object to strange fellows sharing her bed. A little titter escaped him.

He eased in, keeping to the wall. Uttering noises meant to be soothing, he inched a little closer, keeping both hands out in front of him.

“Good evening, Madame, what seems to be the problem?”

The mule, puzzled, backed away, but without signs of hostility.

He inched just a tad closer. “I hear you’ve been having a little trouble with your hoof? Or is it the shin? A touch of rheumatics in the hip?” He kept his voice even and cheerful.

“What if I just give you a little grooming session before I look at your limbs?”

He cast around for a brush. The only thing he could see was a broom that was styled so that it could be pushed.

“Uh, hold on just a moment, Madame. This calls for a little improvisation.”

Looking the push-broom over, he determined that it probably wouldn’t scrape the hide off Her Majesty if he brushed carefully. The handle presented a larger problem. He couldn’t see a way to separate it from the brush outside of brute force, which would scare the already skittish animal half to death.

Maybe if I just hold the Dark-frakking thing over my shoulder I can brush without breaking any of her ribs. He gave another little chuckle at the image in his mind, then frowned. Did the handle seem looser than he had thought? He wiggled it experimentally. Yes! He pulled it free and sidled up to the mule.

Has anyone told you Madame, that you are a splendid example of muleocity? Indeed, I believe you are the most mulish mule of my acquaintance.”



About the Author

Recently retired from a job as a University Professor, and looking for diversion in sunny Southern California, Loran Holt did what any Southern Californian does – took up writing, of course. Feeling that sword-and-sorcery suited her personality admirably, she set her sights on that genre. Nightmasters is the result and her first published work of fiction, but she is already the published author of two books on silent film costume design under the Author name Lora Ann Sigler.

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#BookTour “All the Broken Girls” by Linda Hurtado Bond

August 22 – September 16, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

book cover




When one falls

Crime reporter Mari Alvarez was never able to solve her mother’s murder ten years ago. But when a woman is gunned down on the doorstep of her West Tampa neighborhood, Mari can’t shake the eerie sense of connection.

The others will break

Now there have been two murders in two days. Each crime scene awash with arcane clues―and without a trace of DNA from the killer. And for each victim, a doll. The first is missing an eye. The second is missing a heart. But are these clues leading to the killer…or messages for Mari?

Unless she plays the game…

Caught up in a maelstrom of Old-World superstition, secrets, and ties to her own past, Mari has only one option. Put the puzzle together before someone else dies―even if it destroys her career. But there’s no escaping the hungry spider’s web when it’s been made just for you…

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller

Published by: Entangled Publishing, LLC

Publication Date: August 23rd 2022

Number of Pages: 368

ISBN: 1649372140 (ISBN13: 9781649372147)

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads


Read an excerpt:

I’m running fifteen minutes late after driving my Abuela Bonita to her doctor’s appointment. But that’s not bad, actually, for Cuban time. Of course my statement high heels click on the uncarpeted floor like my abuela’s disapproving tongue and all I can think of is that silly commercial with the tagline “Wanna get away?” Except I can’t escape. It’s my first day back at the TV station after two weeks at home with no work and no pay. I’m still on probation, and I need this job like I need water and air.

Speaking of which, the thought makes me notice how parched my throat is and I’m afraid my voice will crack when I talk. My lungs are so empty I’m not sure I can deliver any story pitches, even if my job depends on it.

Which, it does.

Reporting is in my blood.

But my paycheck—also a necessity.

I rub my right wrist. The red rope bracelet is there. The pea-sized, black gemstone dangles from it. I roll the azabache charm between my fingers, silently going through my routine: twist the stone three times to the right, three to the left. Six times in all. My lucky number. I swear I’ll never go to a crime scene again without the charm. I’ve learned my lesson. Asi es. Truth. That’s how it is.

I pull out the chair across from Mr. Payton and accidentally scrape the floor. It’s loud. Que escandalo!

More stares cut my way. The air conditioning kicks up a notch, but that means nothing to the sweat rolling down my back, sliding into the most inconvenient places. I ignore the wet tickle and stand even taller before taking a seat.

My boss drills me with that intense stare that says everything he’s not allowed to vocalize for fear Human Resources will reprimand him. “Thanks for joining us, Ms. Alvarez.”

“Had to drop off my grandmother at her doctor’s office. She doesn’t drive.” I sit and twist the water bottle on the table until the label faces me. I look at El Jefe and force the corners of my mouth up. Abuela Bonita always told me, no matter what’s going on inside, you can win over the world with a warm smile.

“Let’s continue.” Mr. Payton looks at Paul Johnson, our political reporter.

Paul clears his throat. “As I was saying, the governor is going to hold a press conference on the opioid crisis at a local…”

I cross my ankles to keep my leg from bouncing. It’s clear my boss doesn’t trust me anymore. Not since my serial killer story got the station sued.

I catch the ambitious, crime reporter wannabe eyeing me from the right corner of the room. Bet she’s dying to know what happened to warrant my suspension. She probably already knows. Secrets don’t stay secrets for long in a newsroom.

What the hell had gone wrong?

Abuela Bonita calls it mala suerte. She insisted I wear the azabache bracelet today to ward off the bad
luck following me. I find the charm again and twist.

I will fix this. Don’t know how. But I will repair my damaged reputation.


I flinch in my seat.

“You have anything to add to the meeting?” El Jefe taps his engraved pen on the table in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

“Well, Mr. Payton.” He likes it when we use his last name. “I thought I’d do a feature on a young girl in New Tampa Hospital who needs a kidney transplant.”

“That from the crime beat reporter?” I hear the words he isn’t speaking.

“I know.” I answer in my head. “Eleven Emmys, and I still messed up that last crime story, didn’t I?” Out loud I say, “She’s an artist—truly amazing gift— and she’s willing to auction off her paintings to raise money so people can get tested to see if they’re a match. We could save her life by sharing her story.”

My boss nods but says, “Busch Gardens is showing off a new baby sloth this evening.”

My cheeks burn. I sit back. The heat floods down into my chest. “A baby sloth?” I’m pretty sure this is what a public castration feels like.

“We have enough crime, corruption, death, and destruction today. We need something positive after Weather. Sloth baby it is. Can’t go wrong with baby animals,” he says.

Can’t get the station sued again, you mean.

“You’re on that, Alvarez.”

“Gracias.” I close my eyes and visualize a sloth picking at El Jefe’s bushy, needs-to-be-cut eyebrows
with those two big claw-like toes. In slow motion, of course. “If our viewers see what I’m envisioning, they’re going to love it.” I smile. Warmly.

Whatever. It will keep me employed for at least one more day. My sister Izzy and Abuela are counting on me.

My phone goes off. I look down, fumbling it as I try to flip off the ringer. “Sorry. Sorry.” It’s not someone calling. It’s my home RING security camera alerting me. My pulse takes off like an F-16. Someone is at our front door. My heart stalls. And falls.

“An important source?” El Jefe asks.

A scoff from the right corner of the room. “Baby sloth police calling?” Crime reporter wannabe gets the room laughing.

Wannabe must have missed her café con leche this morning. I join the laughter and wink at her, despite the slow scalding heat I’m feeling. Abuela Bonita also taught me you get more with honey than vinegar. “No. No. Sorry.” Just my sister’s boyfriend of the week, who is not supposed to be at our house. I shake my head.


My spine straightens. “Yes?”

“You can take the new photographer, Chris Jensen.”

That pulls me back to the moment. “But I always work with Orlando.” A big eyeball fills the RING camera at the front door, but it isn’t Izzy’s new boyfriend. His eyes are as blue as the Florida sky. Isabella’s are dark brown, so dark you can’t tell where the pupil ends, and the iris begins. Izzy pulls back and yells at the RING camera, “Stop spying on me! De conseguir una vida!

My younger sister is telling me to get a life of my own.

Snickers flicker across the room.

Every hair on the back of my neck rises. The audio on my iPhone is still on. Wanna get away?

I glance at my friend Kiara. She smiles and shakes her head. I appreciate her support. Time to turn the sound off my iPhone.

“Everything okay?” El Jefe’s features remain constant. He doesn’t chastise me for my sister’s outburst, even though she interrupted his busy news meeting.

“Yes sir, I’m fine.” Wait till I get home, Isabella Alvarez! “I’m fine.”

He nods, but his eyes narrow.

I sit through one of his nerve-wracking, wish-I-knew-what-he’s thinking pauses.

He says, “You can take Orlando.”

I exhale.

El Jefe is throwing me a peace offering, I think. Or maybe he believes I can’t even handle an animal story with the newbie photog, so giving me Orlando is like tossing out a safety vest.


Two weeks ago, I would have rolled my eyes at the insult of such an easy, nonrelevant assignment. I would have been deeply offended by the shade of making sure I had a veteran babysitter with me.

Tonight, I’m grateful for it.

Even though I know I can’t possibly screw up a baby sloth story, right?


Excerpt from All the Broken Girls by Linda Bond. Copyright 2022 by Linda Bond. Reproduced with permission from Entangled Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved.


Author Bio:

Linda Bond

By day, Linda Hurtado Bond is an Emmy and Edward R. Murrow award-winning journalist. By night, she’s an author of James Bond like adventures and heart-stopping thrillers. Linda met her husband Jorge on assignment in Cuba, twenty-some years later they’ve raised a doctor, a nurse, a pilot, a paramedic firefighter, and an aspiring psychologist. A breast cancer survivor, she’s active in the Tampa community raising money and awareness. When not working she finds time for her passions, her husband Jorge, world travel, classic movies, and solving a good mystery. Visit Linda at lindabond.com.

Catch Up With Linda Bond:
BookBub – @lindahbond
Instagram – @authorlindahurtadobond
Twitter – @AuthorLindaBond
Facebook – @authorlindabond


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#BookBlitz “Duty Bound (Shades of Gray Serial Trilogy, Volume 1)” by Jessica James


Shades of Gray Serial Trilogy, Volume 1

Historical Fiction

Date Published: 06-08-2021


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Award-winning Enemies-to-Lovers Civil War novel.

 Can two adversaries reach beyond the battle lines to unite in the midst war?

Honor and conviction clash with loyalty and love in this sweeping Civil War tale that pits brother against brother. Duty Bound is Volume I in the Shades of Gray Civil War Serial Trilogy.

Colonel Alexander Hunter would rather die than see the Union set foot on his beloved Virginia soil. And while he holds the line against Northern aggression with legendary skill, a treacherous boy on horseback always thwarts his offensives.

His allegiance is tested when the traitor he unmasks is the woman he once swore to his brother he would protect.

Andrea Monroe would do anything to make her country whole again. A Southern-born Union spy, she’s dedicated to undermining the arrogant Confederate officer. When she’s taken captive and badly injured, Andrea is shocked to wake up in the legendary home of her nemesis, rather than prison.

As prisoner and captor spend time together, their mutual loyalty grows into unexpected devotion. But as fresh conflicts arise, they again, cross swords.

There’s a fine line between friends and enemies. Can these two headstrong foes overcome their differences?

 “It is a book I think could have the impact of a ‘Gone With the
Wind.” – J. Noyalas, Assistant Professor of History


“The best Civil War fiction book since Cold Mountain.” –
J. Bibb, SCV, Trimble Camp 1836


“Andrea and Alex will surely take the place in my heart of Rhett and
Scarlett as the perfect Civil War fictional love story!” – A.


About the Author

Jessica James is an award-winning author of historical fiction, suspense/thrillers and heartwarming Southern small town fiction, who has a special place in her heart for old trees, old houses and old books.

She writes inspirational novels with emotional plots, fascinating characters, unforeseen twists, and touches of heart-warming romance.

James’ novels have been used in schools and are available in hundreds of libraries including Harvard and the U.S. Naval Academy.

She shares her passions for travel and history on her blog Past Lane Travels, where you can read about off-the-beaten-path historical sites she visits.

To sign up for her newsletter and receive a free book, go to http://www.subscribepage.com/jessicajamesnews

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#BlogTour “Meet Me on Platform 3” by Zara Stoneley

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Two people. One journey…

Millie loves her city life, her city friends and writing her true(ish) confessions column – but she’s starting to wonder if the grass really is greener on the other side, or if her heart really belongs back in Northumberland, with her mum who is struggling after the death of Millie’s dad.

Joe is happy doing what he does, writing games. He could do it anywhere, but since leaving home he’s lived believing that looking back means you’ve failed, and life is about taking chances and seeing the world.

So, when the two meet up surely it can never work, their lives are moving in opposite directions. On different tracks…

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Zara StoneleyAuthor Bio

USA Today bestselling author Zara Stoneley was born in a small village in the UK. She wanted to be a female James Herriot, a spy, or an author when she grew up.

After many (many) years, and many different jobs, her dream of writing a bestseller came true, and more than half a million copies of her books have now been sold worldwide.

She writes about friendship, dreams, love, and happy ever afters, and hopes that her tales make you laugh a lot, cry a little, and occasionally say ‘ahhh’.

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#BookTour “At the Gate” by Trey Stone

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The perfect book to get you in the fall mood! Check out At the Gate by Trey Stone and pre-order a copy today!

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At the Gate

Expected Publication Date: September 6th, 2022

Genre: Psychological Thriller/ Paranormal/ Novella

Publisher: Inked in Gray

Length: 170 Pages

Checking out isn’t an option

Joseph can’t live with the fact that he’s responsible for his daughter’s death. He checks into The Gate as his final destination, but after the disappearance of a guest everything begins to unravel. Days go missing, people are acting strange, and nothing is what it should be. At every turn, he’s reminded of this most painful mistake.

Joseph disappears down a rabbit hole of mysterious events, all the while keeping up the battle against his own inner demons. Now he is trapped inside a haunted hotel trying to find a guest that may not even exist.

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“Checking In”

Joseph rang the bell for the fifth time. The loud, dreadful chime echoed throughout the sparsely decorated lobby. The room had a reception desk on one side, a doorway to a dining lounge directly opposite, and a big old stairwell at the end.

“Hello?” he called into the dark room behind the desk. It was eerily quiet in the hotel, but he thought he heard people moving around in that back room: shuffling around, feet dragging across the moldy carpet, as if they’d heard him come in but couldn’t be bothered to get up.

Turning in a half-circle, Joseph wondered if he was even at the right place. It didn’t look like there was anyone in the lobby. It was so quiet, so empty. But when Joseph had mentioned The Gate, the driver who brought him there hadn’t even questioned him. This had to be it.

This is the place where I’ll end it all. It’s perfect.

“Hello, is there anyone—?”

“Yes?” a hard voice asked from behind him.

Joseph startled and smashed his hip into the side of the reception desk with a painful groan. “Holy hell, you scared me. Do you work here?”

“Of course I do.”

The man—or boy, rather—looked too young to work there. His clothes were too big for his arms, his shirt too long at the sleeves, his jacket too wide across the shoulders. He had thin, black hair that fell into his eyes.

“Hi, I’ve booked a room. Joseph P—”

“Of course, Mr. Podwall. We’ve been expecting you.”

When the boy spoke his name, Joseph’s stomach sank. The way Bryan said it, with familiar melancholy—or was it disdain?—made Joseph uneasy.

“Good, you got my booking then, I wasn’t sure if—” “Frank told us. Like I said, we’ve been expecting you.”

“Frank? The driver?” hasn’t that what the cab driver had said his name was? Joseph couldn’t quite remember, and he didn’t recall giving the driver his own.

“Sure, why not,” the boy behind the desk said. He turned a few pages in a large book, making an entry here and there.

Joseph heard movement behind the boy again, in the office

—or whatever the hell it was—and leaned over to see a figure glide past on the dirty, red carpet. Must have been who the boy was referring to when he said ‘us.’

“There you go, Mr. Podwall. Welcome to The Gate.” The boy handed him a metal key. It was large and cold, ornate like the rest of the hotel. It felt heavy in Joseph’s hand.

“You’re in room 704. Top floor. The elevator isn’t in working order I’m afraid.” The boy smiled a far too toothy smile, giggling as he did so.

Joseph didn’t get the joke and wasn’t about to ask what was so funny.

“Leave your luggage here. I’ll have someone bring it up to your room.”

“It’s not that heavy. I can grab it myself,” Joseph said as he reached for his suitcase, but with a sharp movement, the boy cut his hand in front of him as if to say Stop!

“Leave it, Joe!”

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About the Author


Trey Stone has studied archaeology in England, lived on an Arctic island for two years, and has more guitars than he has room for (the real problem is that his home is too small). He grew up on a farm in rural, western Norway, and has a bunch of siblings, half-siblings, and in-laws, and is uncle to–oh, I don’t know–twenty or so kids. They’re all pretty awesome, he thinks. It’s difficult to remember who’s who anymore.

Trey has been telling stories for as long as he can remember. He used to create “books” when he was little by folding and stapling a bunch of paper together to write and draw scenes on the pages. He wrote a bunch of short stories when he was younger and tried his hand at a fantasy novel as a teen (but hardly any of that got anywhere). Then he finally wrote his first thriller five years ago and just never stopped. Trey Stone is the author of A State of Despair and The Consequences of Loyalty.

Trey Stone | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads

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@itsabookthing2021 (Review) https://www.instagram.com/itsabookthing2021/

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

August 30th

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

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

August 31st

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

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September 1st

@saddlestitches.n.foldedcorners (Review) https://www.instagram.com/saddlestitches.n.foldedcorners/

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

September 2nd

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Misty’s Book Space (Review) http://mistysbookspace.wordpress.com

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#ReleaseBlitz “The Glass Tree” by Michael J. Manz


Historical/Suspense ; Suspense/Thriller ; Adult Literary

Date Published: 09-01-2022

Publisher: Endicott Street Press


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Paris, 1954. Eli Cole, American attaché, wants only one thing: to avenge his wife’s murder. But the trail has gone cold. After two years, drinking to his beloved Liana’s memory is all he has left — until the secrets she took to the grave come back to shatter them all. A hidden photo, a Gestapo file, an unsent letter: these are some of the clues Eli must piece together if he is to understand Liana’s secret life, and her mysterious mission. But the clock is ticking. Powerful new enemies are out to give Eli a one-way ticket back to the United States — in a pinewood box.

With the help of Liana’s father and sister, an old war buddy come abroad, and a cunning teenage girl, Eli unravels the events that led to his wife’s death. But getting justice won’t be easy. The more Eli reveals of Liana’s secret past, the more his devotion to her is tested by her deceit. Can Eli allow himself to recognize the entirety of the woman he married? Will Liana’s last art piece, a spectacular glass tree, give Eli the assurance he needs to continue believing in the sanctity of love?

The Glass Tree is a fast-paced, unpredictable mystery, and it is also the story of one man’s attempt to untangle the complexities of betrayal, love and forgiveness.


About the Author

Michael J. Manz lives in Massachusetts’ Pioneer Valley and is a rare bookseller by trade. Except for a few years spent in Chicago, he is a
lifelong New Englander. The only place he’d rather be, at least some of the time, is Paris, where he has been known to wander the streets in search of old bookshops, great cafes and forgotten bars.

He is the past organizer of the Protagonists and Procrastinators writers’ group and has from childhood been scratching away at some kind of story or another.

Michael holds a BA in English from Keene State College. The Glass Tree is his first novel.

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#CoverReveal “The Canadian Beaver Lodge Assassins Association” by Jerry Cripe


Date Published: November 30, 2022

Publisher: Acorn Publishing


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On a routine delivery, courier Jaxy Thrie must ferry a priceless item—a Fabergé guardian angel once worn by the Empress Maria Feodorovna—to a Russian heiress in British Columbia. Things get out of hand when Jaxy loses the valuable medallion. He finds himself in fast trouble with the Romanov Guild, who accuses him of theft. It falls on Jaxy
to restore the national treasure to the Royal Museum while dodging bullets from a greedy band of robbers, the Mounties, and the Canadian Beaver Lodge Assassins Association.


About the Author

A lifetime resident of California, Jerry moved to Santa Barbara after graduating from USC to work in the aerospace industry. Today, he designs night-vision cameras for everyday use.

In his free time, Jerry likes to write and use his musical talent to compose original scores for piano and guitar. After his first loves—song and storytelling—Jerry enjoys hiking, spending time in the garden, and baking sourdough bread.


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