Top Five Under Five Friday! {Mystery & Thriller}

Happy Friday! Check out the Top Five Under Five bestselling Mystery & Thriller eBooks from the Kindle Store!

 

#1 ~ The Abbey, Chris Culver ~ $0.99 {4.5 Stars, 246 Reviews}

#2Chasing Amanda, Melissa Foster ~ $0.99 {4.5 Stars, 94 Reviews}

#3 ~ WIRED, Douglas E. Richards ~ $0.79 {4.5 Stars, 86 Reviews}

#4 A Killing Tide (Columbia River Thriller), P.J. Alderman ~ $0.99 {4.5 Stars, 48 Reviews}

#5The Black Ice (Harry Bosch), Michael Connelly ~ $1.99 {4 Stars, 122 Reviews}

Click on the above covers or links to read more about and purchase The Top Five Under Five eBooks from Amazon

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Deep Blue, David Niall Wilson {$2.99}

Sponsored Post

David Niall Wilsons Frugal Find Under Nine:

Deep Blue {$2.99}


Description:

Brandt is a down-and-out guitarist and vocalist who believes his life has hit rock bottom. He can barely make the rent on his apartment, he drinks so much he can barely make it to the crappy gig that keeps his band afloat, let alone play when he gets there. When he leaves the bar one dark night with a bottle of Jose Cuervo in one hand and his guitar case in the other, he finds he’s locked out of his apartment with no where to go. As he stands alone in the dark and feeling sorry for himself, he hears a lone harmonica being played in the distance. The sound is deep and powerful, and something in the music draws him away from his doorway and into an old alley where the homeless gather around garbage-can fires. In that alley, Brandt meets the harmonica player, Wally, an old black man who can play the music that Brandt dreams of – the blues. Not the blues as you hear them on the modern radio, but they way they were once played – filled with an extra “something” that can’t be taught. Despite Wally’s warning, Brandt begs the old man to teach him the songs he is playing, and in the ensuing encounter, Brandt is gifted – or cursed – with new abilities. He feels the pain building up around him and inside him. Not his own pain, but the pain of others, the pain of those who have passed away, the pain of those who died with no one to hear their stories. Wally explains it. The music will release the pain, and it is the only thing that will release the pain. Brandt must play, or the pain will build up inside until he destroys his own mind from the weight of it. He becomes a conduit for the pain of the world, and then he is left alone. Brandt plays one last concert with his band, and his performance draws them all, audience and musicians alike, into another world. They witness a panoram of pain and horror, and Brandt plays it up and out of himself, then walks away from the bar and the band, leaving them to wonder what just happened.

What follows are a series of revelations, one for each member of the band, and one for a young girl named Liz, drawing them together, and ultimately reuniting them with Brandt. Together, Brandt, Sinthia, Shaver, Dexter and Liz take off to the mountain town of Friendly California for a date with pain, destiny, and a silver haired Reverend who would like to see them dead.

In the final showdown, they must meet the challenge of the music, the pain, and their mingled histories and stand, or fall, with the pain of the world in the balance.

 

Accolade:

Publisher’s Weekly:

“In this engrossing, poetic novel of spiritual evil and the possibility of salvation from Wilson (This Is My Blood), a burned-out musician, Brandt, is playing in an obscure band when he hears a homeless black man, Wally, play the purest blues on the harmonica he has ever heard, music that encapsulates all the pain of the world. Brandt begs Wally to teach him how to play the same way. He disregards Wally’s warning that he would have to take the pain into himself, and then play to purge it lest it consume him. Brandt’s performance that evening changes the lives of his fellow band members. Together they discover that they can play not to wake the dead but to settle restlessly roaming spirits. Opposing them is a sinister figure masquerading as a man of God, who wishes the pain to go on and on. As Brandt and the other band members slowly and convincingly come to realize that a larger world surrounds them, Wilson demonstrates that a horror novel doesn’t need gallons of blood to succeed, that spiritual terror can be even more effective. FYI: Wilson is a past president of the Horror Writers Association and an ordained minister.”

Amazon Reader Reviews:

Deep Blue currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 5 stars. Read the reviews here!


An excerpt from Deep Blue:

From Chapter Two:

Synthia didn’t talk to angels, but she saw them.  She never mentioned them.  She didn’t watch them directly, only out of the corner of her eye, and only because they were always there.  It wasn’t like she had a choice.  They haunted the periphery of her vision, watched her world from the shadows, but they never watched her.  Synthia saw the angels, but they didn’t know she was alive.

When Syn had been ten, she’d tried to tell her mother.  She’d sat down at the kitchen table and asked to share the oddly-scented herb tea that filled her mother’s afternoons. She could still recall the heat of the cup as she wrapped her small hands around it, and the way the mint and herbs had sifted up through the mist to tickle her nose.

She’d felt very grown up that day, as if a page in her life had turned, or a cycle had shifted to the next ring.  Her mother had had very deep, brown eyes, and long hair teasing down over her shoulders.  Syn remembered the way the morning sunlight had filtered through the blinds, striping the refrigerator like a surreal, oblong zebra.  She remembered her mother’s odd little smile, the one that caused the shift.  The one that made them friends, in that moment, and not mother and daughter.  Deceptions were realities on all levels.  That smile had drawn her in, and Syn had spoken her heart.

She had told her mother then, about the old woman on the landing of the stairs, white hair wisping about her face and eyes wide in pain, or fear.  She told her mother about the two boys who mirrored her steps as she walked to school, books clutched tightly to her chest and eyes to the ground so that they would not catch her attention.  She told her mother about the girl in the shower at school, the one who was there, always, naked and cringing in the corner, and the shadowy, half-seen figure who hovered over her.  She even told her mother, for the first time, why it was that when they went to visit Grandmother’s grave, Syn had clutched so tightly to her leg.

Throughout that dialogue, Syn’s mother had not said a word.  She’d nodded, sipped her tea, and listened.  Silence is golden.  Right.  The liquid that had slid into the syringe had been golden.  The doctor’s eyes had been a deep, golden brown.  Her mother’s smile had been as sweet as golden honey.  Nothing.  Syn’s mother had believed nothing. She’d called a doctor, and Syn had told her story again.  The drugs had followed.  One drug, another, and another still, in quick succession, each chemical attack trying to drive out the demons.  Trying to drive out something that was just there, not illusion but frightening reality, made more frightening as the drugs robbed Synthia’s control.  There was no way to make them understand; only silence had helped.  The silence had stopped the drugs, but by then two years had passed.  Cynthia had passed to Synthia irrevocably, awakening as a junior in high school with barely passing marks and no friends with a future.  Through it all the angels had watched the world in silence, and she had watched them in turn, never speaking.

Now they were multiplying.  No matter where Syn turned, she saw them.  When she closed her eyes, she felt them.  When she slept, she dreamed dreams populated with their shadowy forms and empty eyes.  She didn’t even know why she called them angels.  They looked more like ghosts, but that wasn’t a place she felt comfortable.  Angels would never hurt her . . . ghosts might not care.  Ghosts might have laughed when Momma and the doctor brought the drugs.  The angels had paid no more attention to the drugs than anything else.

Since the night Brandt had left the band, the ghosts had slowly overrun her reality.  She knew it was foolish to dwell in the past.  She hadn’t spent enough time with Brandt when he was with them.  She had teased him, promised him, but she’d never let him get close.  Now he was gone, and that music—that last night.  How could she reconcile herself to the reality that was the band and the memory that was Brandt and feel anything but loss and regret?  How could she live her life walking through a mist of angels? Brandt had noticed her.  Without that notice, the weight of his eyes and the soft sound of his voice, the nothingness of the angels’ presence weighed on her like a shroud.

Syn rose, pulling the sheets up around her, automatically shielding herself from the prying eyes of those who didn’t even watch.  She blinked and shook her head to clear the cobwebs.  She needed to hurry and shower.  Shaver would call soon.  He called her like clockwork, every afternoon at four.  It gave her a minimum amount of minutes to shower, paint herself to perfection, and gather her wits.  It gave her a chance to push aside the visions and focus on herself, and her life.  Angels didn’t pay the bills, and though the band wasn’t breaking any records, since Brandt’s drunken ass had carried itself so dramatically down the road, they had been doing well enough to get by.  They might even break out of the bar circuit and cut a CD soon.  If Syn could keep it together.  If Shaver didn’t lose his heart.  If the new guy, the pseudo-Brandt they’d hired, Calvin, with his long, long hair and his long, long eyes, and his constant sniffing; no way to ignore the chemical base of that subconscious habit.  Calvin could play.  Calvin could sing.  Calvin was barely aware that he could do either.  He was helping the band in ways that Brandt never could have, but . . . he was no Brandt.

Synthia felt Brandt’s loss in ways she’d not been willing to admit possible.  He had always just been . . . there. Now there was the band, and her life, and the angels.  Nothing else.  Nothing that touched her on a deeper level than a mild sunburn.  Not that Brandt had ever seemed so important.  Synthia had spent more time cursing him than talking to him, and though she’d felt very comfortable in his presence, she’d not spent as much time there as she might have.  No reason to.  No reason to believe the opportunity would not present itself in its own time.

Now he had marched off down the road, right through the gathered ranks of angels who had actually watched him go, not ignoring him, as they did Synthia, as they had alwaysignored her.  Brandt had left her to watch his receding back, looking somehow more appealing in the tight, faded jeans than she’d remembered him.  And he’d left the memory of the music.  Brandt had always been good.  He’d always been just able to pull it off, no matter how drunk or out of it he might have been.

The music had meant more then, though it had taken the vacuum of Calvin and the “new” sound to drive that reality home.  Even through the thick white makeup, dead-clown pretty-boy attitude, and sneering lips that sugar-coated a frustrated heart, Syn had sensed Brandt’s talent.  Each time Syn had been ready to kick his ass out on the street and demand he be replaced by someone who would at least show up for practice, he’d pulled something out of his ass and tugged at her heart strings with it.

Synthia remembered the night she’d convinced him to take her out, to the carnival.  That night Syn had nearly told him about the angels.  Then the old witch lady had turned over that card, and Brandt had flipped out.  The moment, and the courage to speak, had slipped away.

Everything had been so right that night.  Syn had felt so close to him, so special to be with him, though she’d have never said so.  None of the others ever seemed to get it, but Brandt did.  During his rare lucid moments, he was the only voice she trusted to answer her in the same language she asked a question.  That night might have been the beginning of something special, but she’d seen that damned tent, and the past had intruded once more.  There had been a single old angel, kneeling by the door in prayer, or sorrow.  Brandt, of course, had seen nothing.  The old angel’s hands had scratched what seemed at first to be random lines in the dirt.  The random lines had formed a word.

“Remember.”

Synthia had read the word, turned from the angel, and her vision, and the only straight path had led through the doorway of the tent, toward the cards and destiny.  Synthia’s words, the whispered confidence she’d meant to share with Brandt, had slipped a notch back down her throat, and the night had done the rest.  Stolen moments were often taken back.  Rules of the road in the game of Life.  Brandt had staggered out of the tent, drunk, tripping, and he’d fallen.  Syn had followed, but the chemicals had robbed her of her strength, her ability to help him.  She had tried, God she had tried, but the act of trying had pumped her blood more swiftly and the drugs more powerfully, and they had nearly both ended up lying together in the dirt, staring at the huge Ferris wheel instead of just Brandt.  At what?  She’d never asked him what he’d seen.

They never watched her.  They never saw her.  She saw the angels, but they ignored her.  That was her pain.  Her mother had seen her, but never really seen anything.  Her father hadn’t seen her at all.  Boys, men, all had seen her body, her heat.  None had seen beyond it.  She had her own silent chorus of angels, mocking/accompanying her dirge-like song of life.

That was why Syn played the bass.  The deep, droning tones.  The vibration straight through to her soul and back again.  Even the angels wavered when she played.  When the deep intonations of rhythm and resonant power rippled through the air, it took on a deeper acuity.  The angels did not listen to her bass, but they felt it.  The universe was one giant chord, one universal vibration.  Syn longed to find her niche in that unity.  Her heart was a rebel . . . fighting her desire.  Her playing was dissonant, deep, wild and passionate, but it seldom blended.  Instead it forced the blend to her . . . forced her to become the eye of the storm, and every eye to seek her form.  The only time she could forget that the angels ignored her was when no one else did.

She’d never asked Brandt why he staggered out of that tent, or what he’d seen, stumbling into the midway.  She had stared into his eyes as he stared up at the Ferris wheel, far above them, and she’d seen . . . something, reflected in his eyes.  She couldn’t remember what, or who.

The phone’s ring ripped through the silence.  Syn gripped the blanket around herself more tightly, willing the world to silence.  Failing.

She rose, the blanket trailing away behind her, gripping the phone’s receiver tightly and drawing it to her ear, concentrating.

“Yeah?”

“Rise and shine, Princess.”  Shaver’s voice was edged with caffeine and fueled by that bright, inner fire that set him apart from every other being on the planet.  Lead notes rippled through the tones of his voice if you knew him.  The taut, corded muscles of his arms spoke of an inner fury, a driving need that only the guitar could sate, and then, apparently, poorly.  Shaver had been, if possible, even more intense since Brandt’s revelation and departure.  His leads were faster.  His eyes wider and more incomplete in the perfection of his motion.  A technical marvel with etched tears tattooed on cheeks of granite . . . muscles drawn so tight they could turn bullets aside.  The angels didn’t watch Shaver either.

“I’m up,” she said.  “I’ll be there.”

“Coffee is on me,” he said, and then the click/buzz/tone of the phone and silence again.  Somehow it was less perfect, less intimate.

 

Deep Blue is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $2.99

 

Connect with David Niall Wilson:

Website:  http://www.davidniallwilson.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/david.niall.wilson
Crossroad Press : http://www.crossroadpress.com

Night Walker (The Night Series), Lisa Kessler {$6.99}

He gave up his soul for a second chance to love her…

Two and a half centuries ago, Calisto Terana lost everything when a zealous priest murdered the woman he loved. Now, desperate for another chance to love her, he wants redemption for the mistake that cost her life.

She’s haunted by dreams of her own death…

After catching her fiance with another woman, Kate Bradley returns to San Diego to clear her head. The last thing she needs is romance, but after meeting Calisto she’s drawn to him in ways she doesn’t understand.

They’ve waited in the shadows for centuries…

Calisto has no doubt Kate is the reincarnation of his lost love, but the Fraternidad Del Fuego Santo has a new watcher with dark ambitions of his own. As old enemies reemerge and a new threat arises, the betrayal that enslaved Calisto to the night might destroy the only woman he’s ever loved again.

What readers are saying:

“If I could, I would give this story 6 out of 5 stars!”

“If you loved Edward, you’ll love Calisto!”

“A sexy, devoted hero…”

The average Amazon reader review is currently 4.5 stars {19 reviews}.

Sometimes, There Really Are Monsters Under the Bed, Will Graham {$2.99}

An investigator and his heiress partner find not all monsters are make believe on that most special of days, Christmas Morning.

In 1996, SSA Michael O’Leary of the FBI’s Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit (CASKU) investigated the abduction of Amelia Reardon, the five year old daughter of textile heiress Annabelle Sinclair Reardon.  Annabelle was attacked by the kidnapper, brutalized, and left for dead. Michael found Amelia, but what happened after that horrific discovery sent him into a spiraling depression, resulting in his resignation.

Annabelle Reardon survives her attack, coming out of it to learn she possesses a very slight psychic ability, a talent causing more awkwardness and embarrassment than any concrete benefit.  Using her considerable personal resources, she founds the National Center Victims Advocacy Group (NCVAG), an organization dedicated to assisting and supporting the victims of violent crimes.  One of her first actions is persuading Michael to come into the fold and use his training and skills.

December 23, 1999. When a member of a local boys’ choir performing at a shopping mall brushes against her, Annabelle has a vision of an actual vampire; swirling cloak, bloody fangs, emanating an aura of menace that staggers her.  The ‘vision’ induces such terror in her Annabelle is compelled to look into the matter, dragging a reluctant Michael with her.

Using the resources available to them through the NCVAG, Michael and Annabelle begin an investigation on Christmas Eve that takes them from Washington, D.C. to the beauty of the Virginia countryside, a compassionate doctor, a private institute, and a confrontation with genuine evil on the most special of days, Christmas Morning.

What readers are saying:

“MONSTERS clips along at an electrifying pace, but through it all, Graham remains true to his characters. And yes, there really are monsters who live and work beside us every day. This chilling fact is at the heart of this amazing thriller, and Graham does not flinch in the telling, nor does he go overboard with gory details. A riveting read!” – J. Carson Black, author of THE SHOP, and the bestselling Laura Cardinal series

“Will Graham is a fresh new voice in the mystery genre!” – Cheri Jetton, author of CRIMSON SNOW

The average Amazon reader review is currently 5 stars {3 reviews}.

Come Back to Me, J.S. Nichols {$6.50}

Sailing around the Caribbean to the picturesque island of Ballena Azul sounded like the perfect vacation to Erin Brady.  Until her ex showed up.

Ryan McKinnon boarded the cruise with one thought in mind, win back his former fiancée. Then news of a missing woman lands them in the middle of a mystery of disappearances.

Can they overcome their past mistakes and work together to unmask the kidnapper? Or will Erin be the next victim of a human trafficker?

What readers are saying:

“The author has a really deft touch with the suspenseful elements in the story and I was completely drawn into this gripping and entertaining book.” Night Owl Romance

Author J.S. Nichols’ first novel has all the twists and turns that readers of romantic suspense will love.” Romance Junkies

This story has it all from a great (very believable) plot line, to lots of mystery, action, and suspense.Nocturne Romance Reads

The average Amazon reader review is currently 4.5 stars {4 reviews}.

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: The Halo Effect (The Butterfield Institute), MJ Rose {$0.99}

Sponsored Post

MJ Roses Frugal Find Under Nine:

The Halo Effect (The Butterfield Institute) {$0.99}

 

Description:

The first book in the Butterfield Institute series featuring sex therapist, Dr. Morgan Snow. In each book she struggles with the conflict of preserving her patient’s privacy and the dangerous and sometimes criminal things she hears. She sees everything from the abused to the depraved, from the couples grappling with sexual boredom to twisted sociopaths with dark, erotic fetishes and the Butterfield institute is the sanctuary where she helps soothe and heal these battered souls.

 

Accolade:

Roberta O’Hara, Bookreporter.com:

Reading M.J. Rose’s novels is like having great sex with a familiar partner. Even before you begin, you know it’s going to be good. During, it’s a host of things: hot and comfortable, intense and soothing, reliable and fun. Afterwards, well, afterwards you are left with seemingly opposing feelings of pure satisfaction and intense want for more — that is, in this case, more from M.J. Rose.

And so it should be no surprise that sex and seduction almost always play at least a strong supporting role in Rose’s work. In her latest novel, THE HALO EFFECT, human sexuality, in all its permutations, persuasions and perversions, takes center stage. Dr. Morgan Snow, recently divorced, is a New York City sex therapist at the Butterfield Institute, where (I break no confidences in telling you) her clients range from fiends who fancy odd fetishisms to couples whose love lives have reached new levels of lackluster. Additionally, she closely works with imprisoned street hookers, trying to reform them and encourage them to do more with their lives.

But it’s a high-class call girl who has most of Dr. Snow’s attention and concern. Her patient, Cleo Thane — beautiful, refined and intelligent — has written a tell-all book about her chosen profession and the thinly disguised clientele who have kept her in expensive clothes and jewelry over the years. In their interactions (their appointments in Dr. Snow’s office mostly), Rose once again shows us her strong grasp of human nature and human sexuality. As Cleo describes her “dates” you can’t help but feel that Cleo, and M.J. Rose, have clearer insight into the workings of the male and female mind than most of us possess.

When Cleo fails to make one session, then another and then another, Dr. Snow treads dangerously into the working girl’s world to try to find her — and rediscovers her own feminine prowess and attraction to the opposite sex. Not to mention how much she and Cleo share in common in their different lines of work.

At the same time, the handsome Detective Noah Jordain seeks Dr. Snow’s help with the Magdalene Murders — the serial murders of prostitutes. Working parallel investigations, Dr. Snow, an unlikely hero, and Detective Jordain find more than just the murderer; they find each other.

These murders solved, Dr. Snow will be back. M.J. Rose promises a series of stories from the Butterfield Institute. No doubt, all will be equally thrilling and provocative — just like great sex with a familiar partner.

Amazon Reader Reviews:

The Halo Effect (The Butterfield Institute) currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4.5 stars. Read the reviews here!


An excerpt from The Halo Effect (The Butterfield Institute):

Chapter One

The first thing she saw were the woman’s feet, so white they looked like the marble feet on the statue of the Virgin Mary who wears the gold halo and stands in the Catholic church where she attends mass every morning before coming to work at the high-rise hotel on Sixth Avenue. The church where she attended Sunday mass only four hours before. Except these feet oozed black-red blood.

Celia Rodriguez stared, not yet comprehending.
The Virgin’s feet do not bleed, though. Christ’s feet do. Holes through to the soles, spilling blood.

For the love of God.

No. No love here. Blood. Nighttime pools of congealed blood.

These are still only fragments of thought as her mind raced to keep up with her eyes. She could not make sense of this scene. Not yet.

The mosaic of horror seemed to take forever to fall into place, but in reality, from the time the maid walked into the room to the time she finally opened her mouth to attempt—and fail—at a scream, only one minute passed.

Holy Mother of God.

In random order Celia Rodriguez registered that there were fifty-dollar bills, no longer green but soaked dark brown, dozens of them, surrounding the woman’s head. Like a halo. And what she had first thought was a blanket was a voluminous black dress pushed up to show shapely naked legs. No, revealing more. Pushed up farther to reveal a chestnut patch of hair between the legs. Too bare. More naked than naked.

The fifty-year-old housekeeper and mother of three stared, sure that what she saw was a vision of some kind.

The woman’s pubis had been shaved in a particular shape. She knew this shape. But before she could focus on that, she saw that there was blood oozing from there, too. Celia’s eyes shifted from right to left, taking in that the woman’s hands were outstretched in a T position and lying in yet more viscous blood.

Celia could not believe what she saw. None of it. Especially not the shape the hair had been shaved into. She knew this shape. It was engraved on her own heart. It hung around her own neck in gold.

It was a cross.

With that, everything finally slipped into place: the plentiful and flowing dress was a nun’s habit.

The Spanish woman who opened the door only seconds before fell to her knees and touched the corner of the robe. Her hand came away, stained with bright crimson. She was mesmerized by this horror that made her think of a shrine in the back of her church. Our Lady of Sorrows.

Her eyes returned to the shape carved out of the wiry hair. Why did she have to keep looking there? At that cross. At that blasphemy.

And then she saw more. There was more?

Dripping from the woman’s nether mouth was not just blood, but something that was alive, moving, almost crawling. No, it was a rosary that was dripping blood, drop by drop from bead to bead. The blood had washed over the oval medal of the Virgin and had painted the Christ figure. What had flowed off of him had soaked into the carpet. And still it came. And still it came. Christ’s blood. This poor woman’s blood.

The housekeeper opened her mouth and tried to scream but no sound came. She called for her God, and even if he heard her, no one else did.

It would be nearly half an hour before she could make any noise. Then hotel security came, followed ten minutes later by three uniformed policemen. But it would take an hour for Detective Noah Jordain of the Special Victims Unit to get the phone call while he was sitting in a steamy and crowded restaurant in Chinatown, finishing up a spicy bowl of hot and sour soup and about to start in on a platter of crabs in black bean sauce.

Twenty-four hours later, Jordain learned that the woman who had been brutally murdered was not a woman of God at all, not married to Jesus Christ or pledged to charity or good works, but rather a call girl who had one prior and had just finished up her last stint in prison four months before.

“At least she had a head start at getting into heaven in that outfit,” Jordain said after leaving the autopsy room, while he and his partner, Mark Perez, examined the nun’s habit the woman was wearing.

“Noah, if you say prayers, you’d better start praying,” Perez suggested.

“To help her get in?”

“No, that this isn’t the beginning of something.”

Jordain nodded. He’d already been there, thought that. A murder like this, ritualistic and designed, was not just an act of passion. It was, in all likelihood, the calling card of a sociopath on a mission.

Statistically, things would get far worse before they got any better.

 

The Halo Effect (The Butterfield Institute) is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99

 

Connect with MJ Rose:

Website: MJRose.com

Twitter: @MJROSE

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/MJ-Rose/168238353223960?ref=ts

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/wwwgoodreadscomprofilemj

Frugal Freebie Wednesday! {9/28/11}

What could help push us through the middle of the week better than Frugal Freebies??

Check out these five bestselling Frugal Freebies from the Kindle Store {And grab them quick, they won’t be FREE for long}!

 

Kissing Kelli (A Texas Legacy Romantic Comedy #1), Kathy Carmichael ~ Free! {3.5 Stars, 22 Reviews}

A Touch of Night, Sarah A. Hoyt, Sofie Skapski ~ Free! {5 Stars, 5 Reviews}

Pencils Make Good Darts, Dan Balman ~ Free! {4.5 Stars, 6 Reviews}

Cage Life, Karin Cox, Michele Perry ~ Free! {4.5 Stars, 10 Reviews}

Left Behind, Dave Freer ~ Free! {4 Stars, 5 Reviews}

Click on the above covers or links to read more about and purchase these  five bestselling Frugal Freebies from Amazon

Have you heard? The new Kindles are here!

Today, Amazon announced the new Kindle Family!!

 

They start at $79!!

Introducing the All-New Kindle Family: Four New Kindles, Four Amazing Price Points

New latest generation Kindle – world’s bestselling e-reader now lighter, faster, and more affordable than ever – only $79
New “Kindle Touch” with easy-to-use touch screen – only $99
New “Kindle Touch 3G” with free 3G – the top of the line Kindle e-reader – only $149
New “Kindle Fire” – the Kindle for movies, TV shows, music, books, magazines, apps, games, and web browsing with all the content, free storage in the Amazon Cloud, Whispersync, Amazon’s new revolutionary cloud-accelerated web browser, vibrant color touch screen, and powerful dual-core processor – all for only $199

Click here to read all about them!

 

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Along Came a Demon, Linda Welch {$0.99}

Sponsored Post

Linda Welchs Frugal Find Under Nine:

Along Came a Demon

 

Description:

I’m told the dead are all around us. I wouldn’t know about that, I see only the violently slain. They can be victims of hit-and-run, innocents caught in a cross-fire, the murdered. They whisper to me and they never, ever, forget the face of their killer. I’ve learned to live with my uncanny ability; in fact I’ve made a career out of it.

The departed aren’t the only supernaturals I see. No, they’re not vampires or werewolves or fae – those things don’t exist. We live side by side with what some call the Otherworldy. That’s too much of a mouthful for me, I call them demons. If you saw them as I do, you’d know why.

Right now I’m trying to track down a missing six year-old boy whose mother was murdered. Or maybe she wasn’t. To further complicate the case, Clarion PD gave me a partner I’d rather shoot than work with.

I can’t tell them he’s a demon.

They’d think I’m crazy.

I’m Tiff Banks. Welcome to my world.

Whisperings: Paranormal mystery with a splash of humor and dash of romance.

 

Accolade:

5 Stars, from BigAl

In the last year or two I’ve probably read more books with some kind of paranormal twist than I had all the remaining years of my life combined. I’ve been amazed to discover the number of ways authors have to give a novel a paranormal twist. “Along Came a Demon is among my favorites.” I was happy discovering they aren’t all glittery vampires.

As I evaluate the reasons “Along Came a Demon” was an enjoyable read for me several things come to mind. Part of it is the mystery portion. Ignore the paranormal part and this book is like a police procedural or private investigator mystery, which are genres I’ve read and enjoyed for years. Unlike the typical paranormal book, Tiff’s skills and the existence of paranormal creatures aren’t treated as if they are normal. Tiff assumes most people wouldn’t acknowledge or accept her talents or paranormal beings exist, so she hides the true nature of her abilities and the existence of the paranormal. This adds a different twist to the story. Hiding certain things like that, most notably two “dead” people who reside in Tiff’s house, adds plenty of humor to the book.

**Originally written for “Books and Pals” book blog.**


Amazon Reader Reviews:

Along Came a Demon currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4.5 stars. Read the reviews here!


An excerpt from Along Came a Demon:

The sheer size and barrenness of the surroundings intimidated me, but not as much as my helplessness in the hands of my enemies.

When I say empty, I don’t mean empty of people. Caesar had a few friends with him, about thirty demons who stood in a semi-circle behind him. Demons of all heights and widths and hair coloring, demons with flashing eyes and pointed teeth, and I saw nothing friendly in their smiles. Their clothing was archaic: long, wide-sleeved shirts, embroidered tunics, tight hose, all a riot of metallic colors. Their narrow feet were bare.

“Where is Lawrence Marchant?” Caesar drawled.

I opened my mouth to rant at him, then pressed my lips together. I refused to give him anything.

He leaned over the table. “You were speaking on your telephone. You said you thought you knew Lawrence’s location. You would do well to tell me.”

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I yelled, “You bastard! You murdering bastard! What makes you think you’ll get away with coming to my world and killing children?”

My voice created an echo in the cavernous place: children, children, it called back to me. The demons nearest us smiled, the white enamel of their teeth standing out in faces of pale metallic colors.

Caesar waved his hand back at his pals. “Oh, I had a little help.”

I silently vowed to hold my tongue and Caesar said nothing more. Minutes ticked by. The demons were uncannily motionless now. I wished they would shuffle, or whisper, or move their heads, or anything rather than watch me with hungry, chaotic eyes. Was I still on Earth, or in Royal’s world, his reality? How long had I been here? Panic fluttered in my chest.

I heard movement behind me and a hand fell on my shoulder. I flinched as I looked up. “Hello, Tiff,” Royal said.

Relief so intense, so wonderful, settled over me, making me lightheaded. Thank you, God. I will never take your name in vain again! Royal was here. He had tracked me down. “Royal,” I croaked.

“Hush now,” he crooned. “It’ll be okay.”

He went behind me. Both hands on my shoulders now, fingers digging in my flesh, hurting. I felt his mouth on my hair, nuzzling, and he inhaled deeply. I couldn’t see him where he stood behind the high back of the chair, but . . . it felt wrong.

It’s Royal, I told myself. I looked at the demons. He won’t let them hurt meHe has a plan.

He came from behind the chair, fingers trailing down my arm to the wrist, diagonally across my belly to my left thigh. His hand dipped to brush my pale pubic hair, making me gasp and clench my muscles. “Patience, my Tiffany. It will soon be over,” he said in that same eerie croon. “All over.”

My gut cramped. I looked ahead with blurring eyes, chilled by numbing disappointment as I realized how completely I let him dupe me. The man I thought I knew would howl with rage and tear my bonds to pieces with his bare hands. He would not stand next to me, his mouth on my hair, while ropes held me and a horde of demons watched. He would not touch me like that in front of an audience.

Royal had not come to save me. He was one of them.

He patted my shoulder and left me, and ambled around the table to Caesar. His arm shot out, his hand fastened on a thick hank of sun-gold hair and he hauled Caesar to his feet and to one side. “Get out of my chair.”

Caesar staggered but kept his feet. His expression was murderous, yet he stepped back and made a bow from the waist down. “Forgive me, Lord.”

Royal lounged in the chair, twirling a lock of hair in the fingers of his right hand. He wore a silken, billowing white shirt open to his navel, the long sleeves fastened at his wrists with sparkling studs. Gold and jewels sparkled in his ears and on his fingers and glinted in the copper-gold of his hair. Yesterday, I would have admired the smooth, hairless chest framed by rippling silk, the narrow hips and solid thighs beneath skintight gray hose. Now I saw only the curl to his lip, the disdain in his glowing brown eyes.

He smiled at me, revealing his pointed teeth.

So that was a lie, too.

As I watched his beautiful face, my fear melted away. There is no place for fear in a heart which seethes with rage. Rage at him for fooling me, at allowing myself to be duped. For being sucked in by his seductive ways. For being his victim. This was the man . . . I let him touch me and make me want more. I felt dirty.

I turned my face from him. I couldn’t look at him anymore.

“Tiff, look at me,” Royal said.

My voice was heavy with revulsion. “Tried it. Don’t like what I see.”

A hand snaked from behind the chair. An unseen demon’s blunt-nailed fingers dug in the skin of my mouth and chin, and forced my head around. I closed my eyes.

“Don’t make him open your eyes for you,” Royal said.

I opened them, blinking, to see his pointed smile again. The hand of the unseen demon let me go. “How are you with torture?” Royal asked in a pleasant, even voice.

I felt my face blanch as his words sank in. The water on my body had nearly dried, but perspiration replaced it now. How was I with torture? I had no idea. I imagined I would scream my head off. But did he mean torture or torment, because to my mind the demon way of persuasion, the sexual desire they could arouse with just a touch would be as bad as physical pain when done by his hands. To be used so by Royal would be the ultimate humiliation. I would rather he stuck me with a knife.

I got my answer when he casually nodded to one of the demons near the table. This one’s hair shimmered like brushed stainless-steel and pale eyes like gray ice glinted from pale pewter skin. He walked to me, pulled back his hand and cracked the side of my face hard and fast with his palm, a blow which took my breath and knocked my head to one side. My other cheek hit the wing of the chair and I yelped.

Oh, that kind of torture.

 

Along Came a Demon is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99

Amazon UK

 

Connect with Linda Welch:

Website: http://lindadwelch.com

Facebook Fan Page: http://www.facebook.com/Whisperings.Fans?ref=ts

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2969634.Linda_Welch

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/welch6331

 

{CLOSED: Updated with Winners} The Tuesday Giveaway: 10 Kindle Copies of The Lives of Skeletons!

Happy Tuesday!

It’s time for a Frugal eReader Giveaway!

See below for how to win one of ten gifted Kindle copies of The Lives of Skeletons, sponsored by the author, S.A. Nicola… but first, a little about the novel:

 

 

Homeless for more than 25 years in rural Iowa, Marty Freeman is familiar with bad days. Today he is clinging to the hood of a moving Chrysler. This is much more than a bad day.

Inspired by actual events, The Lives of Skeletons chronicles a bizarre hit and run accident. Trapped in a garage with strength and sanity slipping, Marty struggles to free himself. His captor, a young sales clerk named Angela, becomes increasingly desperate to cover up all evidence of the accident – including Marty.

The Lives of Skeletons is available for $2.99 at the Kindle Store

Now, for the giveaway:

Simply leave a comment on this post to be entered to win one of ten gifted Kindle copies of S.A. Nicola‘s The Lives of Skeletons.

Want more opportunities to win? Share this giveaway via the buttons at the top of this post, and leave a separate comment stating that you’ve done so! {Every share/comment counts as an extra entry!}

Entries will be closed after midnight {PST} on Thursday ~ and ten random winners will be chosen and notified on Friday!

Good Luck!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Congratulations to the ten winners!

Cynthia

Ivy Sim

Carmee Ross

Lynell Carter

peggy

Marla King

Ruth

Karen

Josie

Brooke

Your Kindle copies will be gifted shortly!

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