Guest Promo (II)- Shawn's Latest Release

My blog hosts today the promo for a special lady author, Shawn Rost-Howen, whose latest release is called "Life Flight".

Blurb:

It's 1985. Malachi Blackfeather has spent twenty years in the Army. Two of those years as a Vietnam POW. Now that he's out, all he wants is some peace and quiet to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. Between the flashbacks, and an over interest in sex that is now being called sex addiction, finding his path isn't easy.

Kat is trying to escape an abusive marriage. Her soon to be ex is a master at manipulating the system, and her family thinks she should stay with him, "because no other man will want her." She's looking for escape in any form she can get it.

When they meet, sparks fly. Trapped by a blizzard, can two damaged people, who think there is no chance of love in the world for them, find each other, and survive an unforeseen circumstance that puts both of them in danger?

Mystery, romance, and danger, fill this novel, with a story that will draw you in and not let go.

Excerpt:

A woman’s voice broke my moment of bliss.

She walked past me as if she didn’t see me. Set a backpack on the floor near the curved end of the bar, leaned forward and grabbed a bar rag--used it to mop the surface of the bar in front of her.

My first impression of her--short. Then, too skinny, and her dark hair on top of her head in an almost bank-teller type twist--not very attractive. She wore a black and white button up poet’s shirt, belted around her narrow waist over a mid-thigh length black denim skirt. The front of the shirt gaped open over breasts that belonged on a woman twice her weight. She either didn’t know that too many buttons were open, or she wore it that way on purpose--the top half of the lacy black bra she wore an open invitation.

Davin set a Bloody Mary on the bar in front of her. “On me,” Davin told her.

She took a sip and watched herself in the mirror. “Wicked,” she said, still watching herself in the mirror.

Davin went to the other end of the bar, and she let out a laugh. Not the sort of laugh I expected. It was deep, throaty, a flash of sexual heat went through me--that voice was Indian--one any man would have done things for to hear her scream his name. “Davin, come on, you’re so stingy with the olives.”

“Get ’em yourself,” he said.

She leaned over the bar so far that her skirt pulled up in the back almost to her ass. She wore a garter belt to hold her line-up-the-back, black stockings in place. The shoes she wore--black stilettos, with metal heels so thin I wondered how she’d walked across the floor so quickly and quietly in them.

As many olives as ice cubes went into her glass, all the while she kept watching herself in the mirror. When she picked up an olive with a drink pick and took a long time playing with it on her lips, before it vanished into her mouth, I realized she wasn’t watching herself in the mirror. She was observing the reaction of every man in the room to what she did--watching my reaction. Her gaze met mine in the reflection. Dark eyes. Rimmed in black, with long black lashes. She licked her crimson-tinted lips. Tilted her head a bit. Reached up and pulled a clip out of her hair.

Hair the same raven color as my own tumbled down her back all the way to her waist. She shook her head.

“So much better,” she said.

I turned away from the mirror. Went to the pool tables. Pro or cock tease? My bet was pro. Too calculated. Playful innocence in clothes that had every man in the place watching her. Skinny women got hurt too easy, made me feel like I would break them with a touch. And a pro, no thanks. I didn’t want to pay for what I needed--paid for wasn’t real.

The cue ball cracked into the triangle formation of colored balls. Some satisfaction in that. Drew my attention away from the whore at the bar, whose laugh washed over me again. She obviously knew Davin well.

“You and the jerk official now?” Davin asked her.

Number three ball in a corner pocket. A glance at the bar. She saw me look at her in the mirrors.

“Jackass didn’t show for court, came all the way down here, and the shit bag doesn’t show. Even his lawyer looked embarrassed.”

Another ball spun across the table, vanished into a pocket. Solid or striped didn’t matter when you played alone.

“Never knew why you married him,” Davin said before he refilled a beer glass. So, maybe not pro, recent almost divorcee--celebrating freedom.

The door banged open, the brass bell on the hook above it jingled, and Jake came in followed by a group of college kids. All preppy and lost in their own world.

“Hey, man,” he said and moved straight to the pool table. Opened his stick case and put his cue together. “Sorry I was late, buddy had an issue today, had to meet up with him, help him out with a problem.”

I put quarters on the edge of the table. So Jake’s promise of a woman was bogus. I should blow the place and head out of town before...

“Hey, Jake, didn’t think you’d keep your promise.”

About the author:

Shaunna Wolf is the erotic pen name of S.R. Howen. For more than seven years, S.R. Howen has been an editor at Wild Child Publishing. She also runs workshops on how to craft a winning

synopsis and query letter. S.R. Howen has written for both Freya's Bower and Wild Child Publishing. Her most recent work, Life Flight, is an erotic romantic suspense. She also has an erotic science fiction novella, The Forge, under Shaunna Wolf, was released in July 2006. A former military brat, then military spouse, and a traditional naturalist, S.R. Howen currently lives in Texas, with eleven cats (three of them the non-domestic sort) three rabbits, and four fish, one husband and her daughter. She is working on a sequel to The Forge and on several more traditional fantasy novels. For more info on her and her works please visit her web site.

www.srhowen.com

Buy Links: Print and ebook

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H83JQ8E

Freya's Bower:

http://www.freyasbower.com/mystery-c-13/life-flight-p-294.html

Medicine Man I: The Chief of All Time

TALES OF THE ZINGARI: BOOK 1: THE WIZARD'S HEART - Tour Blog

TALES OF THE ZINGARI: BOOK 1: THE WIZARD'S HEART

Tour Stops

August 19: Emraz:The Spark

August 20: From Me to You ... Video, Photography, & Book Reviews

August 21: Book Bling Blog

August 22: Journey of a Bookseller

August 23: Must Read Faster

"The old one will come. When he comes, his one true wife must carry within her a child of the old one who would be king. Only then can the heart be found and the evil of the world kept in its bounds." –The Prophecy of the Land

Sorann is the queen's daughter and training to be an empathic healer. Javert is a member of the wandering tribe called the Zingari and their future king. When Sorann's failed healer's magic test brings them together, they discover the prophecy governing the land is false. In order to prevent magic, and the Zingari, from being wiped from the land, Sorann must become Javert's wife and leave everything behind that she once held dear.

Tricked by demons, and followed by the queen's soldiers, they must find the fabled Wizard's Heart in the frozen Winter Valley.

What sacrifices will they have to make along the way, and will Javert ever discover the true meaning of the Wizard's Heart before his people and the love of his life are lost?

TALES OF THE ZINGARI: BOOK 1: THE WIZARD'S HEART

Standing in the makeshift shower, peace descended in a comfortable blanket. Nighttime birds sang and whistled to each other, a frog croaked bass, and the crickets formed the string section. Conceivably, Cryant lived far enough away from the city for the emotions of those in the city not to carry into his compound, to reduce the overflow from battering at her shell.

Sorann let down her guard, expecting a deluge of energies to cause her to feel dirty again. A dog barked and went silent. The pig grunted in its pen, perhaps upset at having its mud rearranged. But no feelings invaded her. In her palace rooms, a shield stayed in place to protect her from the invasion. Could the same be true of Cryant’s canvas?

Dim moonlight spilled in when she pushed the flap aside. She stepped outside marveling at the emotional vacuum she found herself in. Silly to think Cryant could afford the spell needed to empower a canvas to keep out the extended aura of others.

The sky above her wore a sprinkling of bright stars on an inky background. The cool night air caressed her skin. Goose flesh rose over her entire body. The hard ground under her feet felt warm with leftover heat from the day. The stones she stood on glowed in the faint luminosity of the yard light, wet here and there, the water from the shower ran in twin streams on each side of the stone path.

The clarity of her mind extended beyond her in the absence of others emotions and feelings. The world came to her in clear brightness--a veil of gauze lifted. She ran her hands over her stomach, her own skin felt different. The bumps caused by the cold felt alien and as she ran her hands over them, she could feel the tiny hairs on her skin, a chill shook her. She hadn’t even realized a barrier existed between her own hands and her flesh before.

Animal smells came to her, the scent of the soap was even stronger. Why did everything feel magnified? Perhaps subdued?

A result of the shell she kept in place? She’d lowered the shell before, and it wasn’t like this--not even in her rooms with their encasing spell. She spun around holding her arms out in the moonlight. She caressed her own arms, enjoying the feel of the gooseflesh on them. She laughed at the feel of the mud between her toes. She stepped off the path and took slow steps with her toes spread, so the mud curled as it squished between her toes. More laughter escaped her. Her hands traveled to her breasts, her nipples went hard in the cool breeze--had that ever happened to her before? Perhaps she hadn’t felt it?

“Sorann, you dressed?”

With a gasp, Sorann scrambled into Cryant’s robe. It stuck to her wet shoulders; luckily, it was over large for her. With quick movements, she wrapped her hair in the towel.

“Yes,” she called back. “I just need to re-rinse my feet. I . . . I accidently stepped off the path.”

“I’ve got soup on.” Cryant stood holding up the door flap. “Stay on the path.”

She quickly rinsed her feet in a clear puddle that remained on the platform under the barrel--the water mixed with mud creating patterns as it ran off her feet. Still puzzled, but prepared for the onslaught of Cryant’s life,

she moved to the slice of light coming from Cryant’s doorway.

Cryant moved back so she could enter without touching him. Sorann almost tripped over the threshold. Nothing came from Cryant, no feelings, no buzz singing along her nerves in a stinging assault.

The upper wall revealed how the home stayed warm. Inside, plaster coated it, and, going through the door, she saw the wall consisted of two parts with what looked like straw stuffed in between.

The inside of his home held the aroma of potato soup and fresh bread. A slightly musty smell road on the tail of the soup. She rubbed her nose. Things in the room, a small wooden table with two chairs, a handmade broom leaning in the corner, two glow lamps, and a braided rug jumped into clarity. Things in her life were always fuzzy, smells, sizes, shapes, colors--all made so, she assumed, because of her constant battle to keep out the everyday life of others.

Perhaps the hog knocked her unconscious and this was the result? A dream? She pulled Cryant’s robe up around her neck, aware of how low the neckline rested over her breasts. The fabric carried a slight scent--a slight male scent. Cryant’s robe hadn’t been laundered since the last time he wore it.

“Here, sit by the fire,” Cryant told her. He stood near a makeshift clothesline stretched across the room. Using wooden clothes pins he hung her now clean clothes so they would dry.

Sorann carefully sat on the chair nearest the fire. Cryant finished hanging the clothes before he retrieved two wooden bowls from a homemade shelf hanging over a tin washtub. He spooned soup into both of them and set them on the table.

“Thank you,” Sorann managed. Questions tumbled through her mind. Why could she let her guard down in Cryant’s house? Why had she been so overwhelmed at first, but now--now since Cryant touched her in the pig pen--skin to skin, she didn’t need to be on her guard? Was it possible Cryant’s left over aura on his clothes allowed her a measure of control? Maybe Cryant himself?

Cryant picked up a small crate from near the fireplace and brought it to the table. He set the box on the floor in front of Sorann and set the thin towel covering the top aside. Small bird voices started up in a demand for food. Sorann pushed the chair back ready to spring away from the birds. She stopped.

“You saved the birds?”

“Some of them,” Cryant answered.

She peered back into the box. Birds.Young birds. The way they looked--one with a bandaged wing, another laying with its neck outstretched and its sides heaving as it tried to breathe.

“I can’t heal them,” Cryant said. His voice carried a note of sadness.

Slowly, Sorann reached into the box. She touched the gasping bird and almost shrieked when she felt its young body hit the pavement. Instantly, she knew about the bird’s broken bones, its injured ribs--the bird struggled in her grasp. She set him back in the box where he strutted around the other injured birds squawking and chattering at her.

“You healed him,” Cryant blurted. “But . . .”

Sorann reached into the box and one at a time she picked up the hurt birds. When she set them down they strutted about whole and healed. Cryant leapt to his feet and brought out a small cat from behind a curtain hanging around his bed.

He held the tiny black cat out to her. Sorann took the kitten in her hands and saw from the cat’s point of view the cart coming towards it and felt a flash of pain as the cart ran over the kitten’s leg and hip--her body didn’t feel as though she’d been run over. The cat’s feelings didn’t overcome her. She used her hands to completely surround the cat and in moments it struggled to be free. She let him go, and he ran to the box of birds and began batting at them. Cryant picked the kitten up.

“Out you go, but not in the street this time,” he said. He shut the crooked door over the curtain after he scooted the cat outside. “What they say about you, it isn’t true.”

Sorann looked up into his blue eyes. Lines creased his forehead, his thin face betrayed his puzzlement. She’d never noticed the shadow of stubble on his face before, or the tiny scratches, perhaps inflicted by an injured animal, like the kitten.

“It is true. I can’t heal. I get caught up in the emotions and can’t even diagnose what’s wrong because I feel as if all the things are happening to me. I don’t understand this at all. With animals, you aren’t supposed to receive the clarity to diagnose and heal the way you attain it with a person, but I didn’t expect to simply hold them and poof they are back to normal.” Her stomach rumbled, and she felt as if she’d eaten her last meal weeks ago.

“Eat, eat,” Cryant said and shoved both bowls of soup toward her.

She picked up the slightly bent spoon and touched a small bite to her tongue. Flavors exploded across her mouth, rich deep flavors of spices and onions she’d never experienced before. Spoonful after spoonful, each one a new adventure in taste and satisfaction until she cleaned both bowls of soup without a thought.

“Do you think the stories, you know from the Lost Lands, the ones about The Dark Towers are true?” He spooned more soup into the bowls.

Sorann glanced up at him and continued to shove food into her mouth. Her stomach kept begging for more with rumbles and demands she couldn’t ignore.

“I mean, the orange cat, outside, the one with three legs, sometimes, it almost feels like she is trying to talk to me.”

“The stories about those dark wizards turning their enemies into animals?”

Cryant nodded.

Sorann chewed more food. She let out a small laugh. “I don’t think there is enough magic left in the world, dark or otherwise to turn people or animals into something else.”

“But isn’t that what we do with our gift?” He sat back and spread his hands on the table in front of him. He snapped his fingers shut. “Isn’t what we do magic of a sort? We take broken bones and turn them into whole bones, something other than what they were.”

Sorann stared at him a moment before she spooned more soup into her mouth. Around the food, she said, “Broken bone that was once whole bone, not something entirely different. Take the cat, where would all the difference in mass go?”

“Still, I think I would like a cat who could talk to me and could understand what I say.”

“I had a cat once, when I was small, I used to think she understood what I said. I think they do on many levels, if I can feel what they have eaten and their enjoyment, then . . .” Sorann shrugged. She looked up at Cryant after her spoon scraped the bottom of the wooden bowl.

“I’m sorry. You lied when you said you weren’t a good cook. I’ve never tasted anything, well, anything so full of flavors. I didn’t mean to eat all of it,” she added with a glance at the empty pot.

“Never mind. I have more friends in need, will you . . .?”

Sorann laughed, energy jumped along her nerves--she could heal. A miracle had happened this night--the speck of dust that sparkled with light--a wish fairy, if any still lived with the bounty on most things magic? Sorann laughed again, whatever had happened, she could heal. “Yes, yes, I will.”

Buy now at Wild Child Publishing

Amazon

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A big bouquet

Yesterday was the big day. My novel is now released.

A big bouquet of thanks is due to my wonderful editor Shawn Rost-Howen for all her advice, insight and guiding she offered me for my Shadows of the Past paranormal novel.