Book Nerd Revealed

After much anticipation - on my part - Stellar Evolution is now available on Amazon!

Available on AMAZON

Celestine: The Hour on rue du Maine
F.J. Wilson
Genre: Historical Fiction, Historical Romance
Publisher: Chances Press, LLC
ISBN: 978-0988230217
ASIN: B0093U6Z48
Number of pages: 272
Word Count: 80,000

Cover Artist: Geronimo Quitoriano

Amazon

Book Description:

In 1795 New Orleans, the Spanish controlled city struggles to rebuild after two devastating fires, and a young teenage girl is just as determined to leave her past behind and start anew. Celestine, the daughter of a Mississippi River prostitute spends most of her time hating herself, her life and the dirty men who rut with her mama.

When she turns thirteen and her mama informs her she’ll be servicing the very men she hates and fears, she has no other option but to run to the good nuns of the Ursulines Convent where for the first time she encounters kindness and a different kind of life.

After meeting the dashing ship captain Maurice Dubois, a man with his own past demons to reckon with, Celestine allows herself to be truly loved for the first time.

But when a shocking turn of events leaves her once again with nothing more than her own wits to survive, Celestine begins to realize the power her intoxicating beauty gives her over men including the debonair and infamous pirate Jean Lafitte.

It’s this very power that Celestine learns to capitalize on to begin a new career...not as the common riverfront lady of the night her mother had been...but as the most sought after courtesan in all of New Orleans.

Preview Chapter One

1795

‘Tine waited outside for the stinking customer to get off her mama and button his breeches. When he was done she could go inside and get warm; clean her mama and make sure she wasn’t sick on the bed. If the man was generous, there’d be enough money for supper. If not, she’d go hungry again and count the noises in her stomach ’til she fell asleep.

She sat on the carriage block crying into her papa’s old neckcloth. She carried it everywhere hoping he’d come to rescue them. He’d bring nice things to eat and maybe a new dress for her and her mama; she prayed on it, wished on it and tried to count on it. He’d been gone the thirteen years of her young life, but he could still come back; he could.

‘Tine hated men. She hated how they smelled of rum and sour living. She hated their dirty smelly clothes and their big boots full of mud and horse crap on her mama’s worn out rugs. She hated when they grabbed her mama, demanded, grunted and hit her for not being the woman they thought they deserved. But mostly, she hated her mama for allowing the horrible men to destroy and age her far beyond her thirty years.

The man was coming down the little steps buttoning his last button and spitting a mouthful of slimy brown tobacco juice into the street. He stopped to look at her.

“What? You want some too? Your mama said you might be ready. I’m spent; next time, baby tits.” He was looking her all over making her sick.

He grabbed the neckcloth from her hand and wiped the tobacco juice off his mouth and stuffed it down the front of her dress. Feeling around inside her bodice, he chuckled as he took his hand out and turned to walk away.

“I promise.” He said and let out a breath from a nasty place under his breeches. His horrible laugh and foul breath filled her nose and ears as he swaggered down the street.

She knew this was coming. Her mama yelled at her for a week; she was thirteen and time for her to take customers and help pay her keep. ‘Tine grabbed the dirty neckcloth out of her dress and threw it in the gutter. No one was coming to save her; she’d have to do it herself. God didn’t answer prayers from the daughters of sinful women who lay with lust crazed men. She’d be damned if she was going to wait for the man to come back. She’d kill him first.

She walked back into the dirty little room and packed her few belongings while her mama slept off the effects of the man and the rum. She went to the side of the bed and looked at the single picayune the man left. She thought of taking it; but decided she wanted nothing from the man, especially the tiny bit of money paid for rutting with her mama.

She walked back out and looked down at the neckcloth soaking up rainwater and horse pee. She picked it up, wrung it out and stuffed it way down in her ragged apron pocket and walked toward the Ursulines Convent.

The city of New Orleans was once filled with joie de vivre but since the big fires and hurricanes, it held only stink and sadness. The smell of sour ashes and the defeat of burned out hopes filled the air with misery and fatigue. The city was a good wife to some and a dock whore to others, and ‘Tine was certainly its daughter and the streets were her schoolroom.

She watched it burn to the ground from her hiding perch on the roof of the Ursulines Convent. The screams of burning men and women running out of houses toward the river still haunted her dreams. Mostly, they fell like pieces of charred wood from a neglected fire place; falling and rolling out of the burning buildings; their clothes smoking after their voices were finally silenced.

She watched from the roof of the French Market as the winds and waters of two hurricanes swept the city into chaos and death. The water took people and livestock, alike; some, still alive tried to swim through the big water. Others, their dead faces peaceful floated in the filth that’d been their world. She’d saved herself by quick wits and cunning.

She fought as well as any boy her age and cut many men with the knife she kept in her stocking as they tried to grab her, but she’d never cheated and she’d never lied. She was proud of that.

‘Tine knew everything about everything and everyone and what she didn’t know, she found out. She knew which white Creole gentleman kept a Quadroon mistress; how often he visited and how many children he had by both his wife and mistress. She visited the Vou-dou ceremonies to make gris-gris bags of black magic to use on her enemies, but rarely used it as it could backfire on a little girl who used it unwisely. She danced with the slaves on Congo Square and knew their patois and how to interpret their chants and messages to each other. She followed the food vendor’s home and picked up cake and fruit that fell from a basket worn on a tired head. But it wasn’t enough, her world was too small and she wanted more.

Kaintucks, the big rough American men coming down the river from Kentucky, taught her how to ride horses and jump the vendors to scare them to death. This was a favorite of the dock workers, but not the vendors. All the knowledge; where’d it gotten her? A few misplaced spells with ill-advised gris gris, knowledge of a language she’d never use, the names of the big policemen that patrolled the levee and small rice cakes called ‘calas’ or piece of rotten fruit fished out of the mud and muck of the street. She wanted more.

Going to the Ursulines nuns and their orphanage was a fear her mama instilled and used to scare her when she didn’t behave. For as long as she could remember, she ran to the other side of the street when passing the big convent for fear they’d come out and snatch her.

The nasty man’s horrible promise changed her whole future. One sentence, one thought, of his coming back with his diseased pecker and sour breath and she was done with her mama and that life. Now she just wanted a hot bowl of something to eat and a safe place to sleep. She’d decide what to do once her stomach wasn’t so loud and she could think without crying.

The good nuns were on her mind lately. Watching them go about their daily lives had taken away much of her fear and hearing their prayers to Notre Dame de Bon Secours, from the morning of the big fire, until the morning after had given her much to think about. They prayed without stopping and the convent had been spared. ‘Tine saw this as some powerful gris-gris and she needed that kind of power in her life.

Friends in the big market told her they had their hands full with the orphanage, the school and the King’s Hospital. They could use help and she needed help. It could benefit both parties.

‘Tine couldn’t help with the hospital or teaching, but she knew she could keep children from running in the streets and make sure they ate their food.

Anybody could raise children. How hard could it be? Young women in her mama’s profession were always having babies; some even lived and they knew how to keep them from dying... sometimes.

She intended to pledge her services and see if she could receive decent schooling from the sisters in return. She wanted to read and write the French she spoke and also learn Spanish and English. She’d heard the little sisters were from good homes and well educated. They read and understood Latin, whatever that was and could chant and recite the prayers and help with the Mass. All ‘Tine knew was she wanted to be very-well-educated like the little sisters and get out of the sewage filled gutters that was her life.

She wanted to learn good manners; how to drink coffee from a saucer; how to tell a fork from a spoon and eat from a plate instead of a bowl. She wanted a real privy instead of the river side of the levee and a pair of shoes; she’d never owned a pair of shoes. She wanted to learn how to cook with the herbs and vegetables the little sisters grew in their famous gardens. Oh, to know what it was like to be clean, a wish of a lifetime. She wanted to learn how to sew and make herself a dress that fit; but mostly, unknowingly she wanted to feel safe and needed.

One thing for sure, she’d never lie under a filthy man and have him poke, grunt and knock her teeth out. She’d become a nun first. Neither option was to her liking, but being a nun won hands down over being a whore on the half burned docks of the Mississippi River.

She walked over to rue Sainte-Ursule and looked in the gate. It was clean, peaceful and beautiful; certainly a step up from the whore’s crib she called home. She rang the bell and waited for one of the little sisters to come and open it. She could hear her own heart beating and wondered if that was supposed to be.

Ste. Mary Theresa heard the bell and looked out to see her prayer’s realized. She’d prayed for years this little hungry girl running the streets outside the big convent in her filthy clothes would seek their refuge and get away from her horrid life. She ran to find Mother Superior and tell her the miracle at their front gate.

“Reverend Mother, look out at the gate, quickly.” She ran to the window.

“Quick my child, let her in before she changes her mind. God in his mercy and wisdom has answered our prayers.” She made the sign of the cross.

“Shouldn’t you go with me?”

“No, my child it’d frighten her. Go gently and welcome her. Quickly, before she changes her mind.”

The good sisters had no idea that once ‘Tine made up her mind nothing could stop her or change her mind. Celestine Haussey was stepping into her future and she wouldn’t turn back.

‘Tine had never seen such a clean world, from the shining floors to the beautiful curving cypress staircase; she was amazed at how these women lived. She’d been told they lived in poverty and said penance each day. If this was poverty, she wondered what she’d been living all of her life. She was ushered in to Mother Superior’s office and took a chair.

“What may we do for you my child?” The Reverend Mother was treading lightly; this miracle was too delicate. She must watch what she said to this little waif.

“I’m here to help with the children.” She set her jaw and didn’t care if she was coming across fresh and brazen. Just being behind these walls was robbing her bravery and treading on the determination felt only minutes before.

About the Author:

F. J. Wilson was raised on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi in the fishing village and artist community of Ocean Springs, ninety miles east New Orleans; the city far from her reach but close to her heart. Much of her time growing up was spent reading under her grandmother’s big camellia bushes hiding from housework and the inevitable call to come inside and help start ‘supper’. In a time when young girls dreamed of big weddings and picket fences, she dreamed of the dangerous but darkly handsome Heathcliff and the English moors of days long gone. With Hemingway’s Paris, Scott Fitzgerald’s language and Margaret Mitchell’s South keeping her company, why would she ever want to clean her room?

Raised with small town values but dreams of a bigger life, she was more than ready to leave home in 1965 and began her education in the Theatre Department of the University of Southern Mississippi. From there she finally reached New Orleans and began a film career that sent her to New York, where she co-wrote an episode of the Emmy award winning Kate & Allie. Eventually her work in TV and film would take her to Los Angeles and all over the United States, Canada and New Zealand.

Her passion for the South and New Orleans brought her back to Mississippi in 2000. In 2007, her love for writing and her love of films collided, and she wrote humorous articles for the Arts and Entertainment Section of the Hattiesburg American newspaper. She’s been writing short stories and novels about Southerners since her retirement in 2008.

F. J. Wilson has one son, Jason, who lives in Monroe, CT and she now lives in Hattiesburg with her two Springer Hound Spaniels and is at the time married to her computer and her love of writing.

You may email her at fjwilson@chancespress.com  

http://www.chancespress.com/FJWilson.html 

GIVEAWAY!

1 (one) ebook (in a format of the winner’s choice) and a small swag packages that include bookmarks and postcards for each stop on the tour
- Comment below to enter -

A Stiff Kiss
Avery Olive
Genre: Young Adult Paranormal Romance
Publisher: Crescent Moon Press
ISBN: 978-1-937254-33-9
ASIN: B0075M4KA2
Number of pages: 248
Word Count: Approx. 68,000
Cover Artist: Taria Reed

Book Description:

Who knew kissing a corpse would change everything?

Death always hits Xylia Morana too close to home, but she likes it that way. She hangs out with the terminally ill, attends random funerals, and every so often, when the weather is right, she sleeps in open graves.

But after Landon Phoenix, the high school hottie, dies in Xylia's arms, she sneaks into the morgue to say goodbye. How could she know stealing a kiss from his corpse would wake him up?

With Landon returned to the living and suddenly interested in Xylia, life has new meaning. But what Xylia doesn't realize is that by kissing Landon back to life, she's thrown Life and Death off balance. The underworld demands a body, and it might just have to be Xylia's this time.

Amazon                   Barnes & Noble       The Book Depository            KOBO

Short Excerpt:

No way should I be in the morgue. If I'm caught, I'll lose my job. My dad will probably get fired, too. He's been warned to keep me out of here.

The walls are lined with thick, square doors, clearly marked with numbers. I stop in front of the one I want. In the middle of that wall, at waist height, is number twelve. Beyond the door, lying on a sliding metal table, is the body of Landon Phoenix.

I've always had a crush on Landon, ever since freshman year when his family moved to Silver Springs. I've watched him grow into his looks, no longer a gangly boy with braces. And I've longed to hear my name roll off his tongue in that deep voice of his. To press my lips against his as he holds me in a tight embrace. To share the same air as him.

Though now, all those things are impossible. Except one. I can pull open the door, slide the table out, and at least for a moment I can share the same air, even though his lungs can no longer pull in that air.

I hesitate, my hand on the handle. Besides my mother, this will be the only other person who's died that I've really known. The others have just been people, random ones at that. The guy from the grocery store who jumped off Whibley Bridge into the icy waters below, the occasional patient of mine who'd succumbed to old age, and many, many others. But this is personal. This is someone I'd known. Or at least, someone I'd held secretly in my heart.

But I need to say goodbye.

Avery Olive is proudly Canadian. She is married, and when she’s not helping raise her very energetic and inquisitive son, she can be found working on her latest novel-where she devilishly adds U's into every word she can.

When she is looking for a break Avery enjoys cake decorating, losing herself in a good book, or heading out to the lake to go camping.

The release of Avery's first novel proves to her it won't be the last. As long as her family continues to be supportive, she can find the time, and people want to read, Avery will keep on writing.

Avery Olive’s Blog : www.averyolive.blogspot.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002656782468

A Stiff Kiss Facebook Fan Page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/A-Stiff-Kiss/255522414458899

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/averyolive

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13411964-a-stiff-kiss

Crescent Moon Press: http://crescentmoonpress.com/index.html  

Too Close for Comfort Release Blitz
Adriana Kraft ~ Too Close for Comfort
Series: Swinging Games, Book Nine

ABOUT SWINGING GAMES, THE SERIES: Are you curious about the swing lifestyle? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to participate in a threesome or more-some? How about a little voyeurism? In our Swinging Games series at Extasy Books you can experience the thrill of anticipation, the anxious moments of that first lifestyle encounter, the heat of three, four and more-way erotic adventures, house parties, swing clubs and more, through the eyes of our hero and heroine, Brett and Jennifer Andrews. Here’s how they got their start:

What’s a girl to do? Happily married with all her children grown, Jennifer Andrews has finally figured out she’s bi-sexual – but just turning on to hot f/f fiction and videos isn’t enough. She wants the real thing, and she want to share it with Brett. Addition sounds so much better than subtraction. Will the swing lifestyle be the answer they’re seeking? They’re determined to find out.

BLURB: Too Close for Comfort

It all seemed so simple: Sarah Creston would move in for the summer, Brett and Jen Andrews could revel in their new threesome, and everyone else would understand. But now Donna and Ryan – their best friends and lovers – won’t speak to them, and Jen seems so infatuated with Sarah that even Brett is worried about the consequences.

Battered from the double whammy of her husband’s death and caring for her aging parents, Sarah Creston thrills to Jen and Brett’s exquisite care and ravishing sex. Now that she’s had her first taste of a woman, will she be satisfied – or will she want more? Everything hinges on what Sarah wants.

AVAILABLE FROM:

http://www.extasybooks.com/too-close-for-comfort/

http://www.amazon.com/Close-Comfort-Swinging-Games-ebook/dp/B008IVMFVK

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Close-Comfort-Swinging-Games-ebook/dp/B008IVMFVK/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1342697016&sr=1-10

https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-toocloseforcomfort-910778-146.html

http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/b134448/Too-Close-for-Comfort/Adriana-Kraft/?si=0

REVIEW Read what author and reviewer Destiny Blaine had to say at Romance Reviews by Authors: http://romancereviewsbyauthors.blogspot.com/2012/08/book-review-too-close-for-comfort-by.html  

With a gift for writing remarkable dialogue, Adriana Kraft used her characters to show how swingers are able to manage the lifestyle, hold a marriage together, and pursue other relationship interests while remaining true to their lifelong commitments. The scenes between multiple lovers weren’t forced or unnatural. In fact they were beautifully relayed in a fashion which draws the reader into the heart of these characters' most intimate moments.

EXCERPT

“I don’t want you hurt, Jen.” Brett crossed his legs and uncrossed them. “Hell, I don’t like seeing our friends hurt, either.”

“I know. I know. But you’ll support me.”

“Of course, I will. But Sarah is her own person in all of this. She may not fit into our lives at all over time. We might just be a stepping stone on her journey.”

Jen tensed, certain Brett could see the blood draining from her cheeks.

“She may become too possessive.” Brett twisted his mouth in thought. “Or maybe she’ll be more like us than you realize.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe she’ll be as intrigued and fulfilled with swinging as we are.”

“Do you really think she’ll swing on her own?”

“She found us, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but...”

“Maybe she’ll swing with us. Maybe she’ll swing on her own. Maybe this taste of swinging with us will satisfy her curiosity by the end of summer and she’ll be ready to go find a guy and live happily ever after.”

“But you don’t believe that?”

“Who knows? Given how I saw her respond to her first taste of a woman, it’s hard to imagine she’ll give up women completely.

Jen wet her lips. “She was wonderful. I’m just so pleased I was her first.”

“I know you are. All I’m saying is I’ll be surprised if you’re Sarah’s only woman.”

Jen crossed her arms under her breasts. “I know that.” Her voice cracked. “No matter what you think or Donna or Ryan...” Jen felt her pulse quicken. “I’m not wanting to keep Sarah for myself. But she needs time.”

“Okay.” Brett exhaled softly. “Time is what you have. But I’m not sure Sarah’s timetable and Donna and Ryan’s timetable are going to necessarily match yours.”

ABOUT ADRIANA KRAFT

Adriana Kraft is the pen name under which my husband and I co-write erotic romance. I don’t know if that makes us hot, but it sure heats up our lives, and we love passing on the spice and the heat to our readers. Our tag line is Erotic Romance for Two, Three, or More, so you can probably guess ménage is our favorite genre to write. Romance Junkies says our work is “filled with warmth, blazing hot sex, well-developed characters…not for the faint of heart.” We hope you’ll stop by and check us out!

ADRIANA KRAFT ON THE WEB:

Website: http://www.adrianakraft.com

Blog: http://www.adrianakraft.com/blog  

FaceBook http://www.facebook.com/people/Adriana-Kraft/100001944980679  

FaceBook author page http://www.facebook.com/pages/Adriana-Kraft/182846025133440

Twitter http://twitter.com/AdrianaKraft  

GoodReads http://www.goodreads.com/author/list/1578571.Adriana_Kraft

Midnight Seductions http://midnightseductionsauthors.blogspot.com

Sapphic Planet: http://www.sapphicplanet.com  

Contagious
Book #1 in The Contagium Trilogy
Emily Goodwin

Comment Below for a Chance to WIN an eBook Copy of Contagious!

Genre: Occult horror/zombie
Number of pages: Approx 340
Word Count: Approx 120,000
Cover Artist: SweetDreams http://dream-sweetdreams.deviantart.com
Amazon B&N Smashwords

Book Description:

“I wasn’t afraid of death. If I died, it would be over. My worst fear wasn’t of dying, it was of living. Living, while everyone around me had their flesh savagely torn from their bodies to be shoved into the festering and ever-hungry mouths of zombies. It terrified me, right down to my very core, to be alive while the rest of the world was dead."

In the midst of the Second Great Depression, twenty-five year old Orissa Penwell doesn't think things can get any worse. She couldn't be more wrong. A virus breaks out across the country, leaving the infected crazed, aggressive and very hungry.

Orissa will do anything-no matter if it's right or wrong- to save the ones she loves. But when she discovers that most of the world is infected or dead, she must decide if those lives are worth saving at all.

Excerpt:

I grabbed a rifle, sticking my head through the strap. I slung the quiver of arrows and the bow over my shoulder, stuffed an extra clip in my pocket, and stood.

“What the hell are you doing?” Padraic asked, over Argos’ muffled growls.

“I’m going to bring the truck around. Get in the back as soon as you can.”

“No!” Raeya objected. “Rissy, you’ll die! You-you can’t go down there with them!”

“They’re still far enough away I can get to the car.”

“No, they’re not. Stay here and they will pass us,” she pleaded.

“They will find us. Our best chance is getting out of here. Then we can double back for the SUV.”

“Orissa, that is crazy!” Jason shouted. “What if you don’t make it?”

“I have to try.” I moved to the ladder.

“You could die,” Raeya cried, scrambling to her feet.

“You either die trying or you just die,” I told her, feeling like this wasn’t really happening. “I’m not giving up yet. I said I’d keep you alive, and, well, this is the only way.”

My feet hit the cold cement, shock stinging my ankles. I pulled an arrow, ready to shoot. My breath clouded around me as adrenaline coursed my veins. The zombies were closer than I anticipated. They surrounded the cars, passing them without a second look. Hungry, they followed our human scent. I released the arrow. It zipped through the air and passed through a mushy zombie skull, continuing its lethal voyage into another’s eye.

I couldn’t do that again if I tried. I ran around the barn, clambering onto the roof of some sort of out building. I fired the rest of my arrows. Two fast zombies raced in front of the rest, stretching their arms out when they caught sight of my movement. Firing the gun would give me away for sure. I dropped the bow, jumped down and held the rifle like a baseball bat. I whacked one in the head and kicked the other in the chest.

Its skin slimed off, making the bottom of my boot slippery. My foot skidded out from underneath me. The zombie I kicked grabbed my foot, bringing it to his mouth. He couldn’t bite through my boot. The M9 was wedged in my waistband, hurting like hell when I landed on my back. I madly thrashed around, retrieving it. I held it to the zombie’s head and pulled the trigger.

Spoiled bits of brain and thick blood splashed across my face. Thank God I remembered to close my eyes. Wiping zombie blood from my lips, I rolled over, shooting the other in the cheek. Dammit, I thought, cursing wasting a bullet. I fired again, this time hitting him right in between the eyes. Yellow brain matter oozed from the bullet hole. I scrambled back onto the roof of what had to be a chicken coup, based on the feathers. I emptied my clip, burying each round deep into the skull of a zombie.

Though they dropped like flies, it didn’t even dent the horrifying number that lumbered toward us. I switched to the rifle, shooting anything that moved. I needed to get off of the roof before I was completely surrounded. I dropped the rifle, shoved another clip into the M9 and jumped off. I sprinted to a silo. I climbed six feet up the ladder, twisting, and shooting.

A zombie moved through the crowd with sickening speed and grace. I had one bullet left. I aimed carefully, lining the scope up with his eye. I paused, thinking he was the best looking zombie I’d ever seen. His eyes met mine right as I pulled the trigger.

A zombie next to him fell to the ground. He put his finger to his lips and walked, unnoticed, through the flesh eating monsters that clawed at the broken side of the barn. When he was at the bottom of the ladder, he motioned for me to come down. I swallowed, not knowing why in the world I would trust this person or who the hell he was walking amongst the zombies. I shoved the empty M9 in my waistband and climbed down, hands trembling almost uncontrollably.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, he pressed himself up against me, pinning me between his body and the silo. Over a black, long sleeve shirt, he was wearing a hairy, moldy leather vest. It was wrinkled and rotten in parts. I wanted to shove him off me when I realized it was made out of zombie skin. Fingers, tied to strings like freaking decorations, hung from his neck. A hand was tied to his belt. I didn’t know what part of the zombie was stitched onto the baseball cap he was wearing.

It was disgusting, having zombie parts rubbing against me. It smelled revolting. So revolting, that the zombies wouldn’t be able to distinguish his human smell from the rotting flesh of one of their own. I closed my eyes and buried my face against his chest.

As if we didn’t exist, the zombies milled by, grabbing at the weak wood that kept my friends safe. I was grateful for this very odd stranger but I wanted to help my friends. A gun fired. My body tensed, thinking somehow one of my friends had gotten a hold of a weapon and shot the guy who was saving me, thinking he was really a zombie.

He put an arm around me, obviously thinking the echoing shot scared me. My fingers closed around the material of his shirt. A zombie stopped, eyeing us hungrily. I pulled the guy closer to me, holding my breath. He inched closer, every part of him pressing into me. Too scared to breathe, I held my breath until the zombie moved on.

Author Bio:

Emily Goodwin resides in Indiana, where she lives with her husband and many four legged children, including their much loved German Shepherd named Vader. Accused of being a day dreamer, Emily began writing at an early age, making use of her active imagination. She has a degree in psychology and is currently working on her second degree in nursing. Emily likes anything paranormal, 80's rock, going on crazy adventures with her friends, making (and wearing) costumes, Renaissance Fairs, and is an animal rights activist.

www.emily-goodwin.blogspot.com

www.facebook.com/thecontagiumtrilogy

www.facebook.com/theguardianlegacies

www.goodreads.com/goodreadscomEmilyKG

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