The Resistance

    May the Leprechauns smile upon you


Leprechauns, castles, good luck and laughter. Lullabies, dreams, and love ever after. Poems and songs with pipes drums. A thousand welcomes when anyone comes... That's the Irish for you!

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Until Ray

Posted on August 21, 2017 at 9:35 PM Comments comments (0)

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About the Book


Title: Until Ray


Author: Cheryl Robinson


Genre: Women’s Fiction


Two people in the same city but worlds apart.


Until Ray is an unconventional love story of how two young people transitioning into adulthood find each other and develop a bond that will be tested through three decades.




Ray lives in northwest Detroit in a four-family flat with his mother. When he’s not at home, Ray’s either at the mall selling women’s shoes or in the club. In both places, he's focused on one thing—picking up women. Dissatisfied, dysfunctional, and leagues behind his peers, Ray's ready for a change but isn’t sure how to make it happen.




At twenty-four, Sarita has an MBA, is a CPA, and works in upper-level management at GM. But all that success comes at a cost: she’s lonely and craves the one thing she’s never had—attention from men. Until now. Dr. Graham Emerson wants to marry Sarita, and her parents expect her to, but Sarita isn’t convinced he’s the one for her. On a blind date, she meets Ray Saint and is immediately drawn in by his good looks and sense of humor. But his reputation for being a ladies’ man raises several red flags. Ray swears he’s changed. Is giving up a sure thing for a maybe worth the risk?


Set in the mid-eighties, Until Ray explores life and love through the lenses of colorism, classism, and family dysfunction.


Author Bio


Cheryl Robinson was born in Detroit, Michigan, the youngest in a family of five. She grew up in Palmer Woods, a residential historic district that is now one of the settings in her forthcoming novel, Until Ray. For the past fifteen years, she has been busy writing contemporary women’s fiction. For Penguin/NAL, Cheryl wrote six novels: If It Ain’t One Thing, It’s Like That, Sweet Georgia Brown, In Love with a Younger Man, When I Get Where I’m Going, and Remember Me. Cheryl is now an independent author and the owner of Rose Colored Books. With her company, she has published The One, Like Mom, and the forthcoming Until Ray Trilogy.


Cheryl currently resides in Florida.


To learn more about Cheryl and the Until Ray trilogy, please visit






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Book Excerpts






“If it isn’t Raymond Saint. What’s up, man?” I hear a familiar voice coming from behind me as I pose in front of a floor-length mirror in the women’s shoe department at Hudson’s admiring the suit I just got out of the layaway at Man-oh-Man. I have two more to get out next payday.


Joseph Morris steps into my view, and I turn to face him. “Joe, man, what’s up? I haven’t seen you since we graduated.” We share a brotherly handshake. “How’ve you been?”


“Couldn’t be better, honestly. Life is real good. I’ve been in town for about a week, visiting family. I’m actually flying back tomorrow. I was just picking up a few things before I go.”


“You moved out of state?”


“Yeah, after I graduated from U of M. I’m starting my second year of law school at Stanford.”


I’m pretty sure Joe’s father is either an attorney or a doctor.


“Man, good to hear that.” Joe was part of the crowd I hung with at Cass Tech. I’ve been out of high school since 1980. Six years now. Damn, that’s a long time to still be doing nothing.


“I see you’re still staying sharp.” Joe brushes my lapel.


“Trying to.”


“So, man, what are you doing these days?”


“You know, the usual. Right now I’m just waiting for my girl.”


He nods. “Where did you end up going to school? It’s hard to keep up with everybody. Cass is so big, and we knew everybody, didn’t we?”


I place one finger up to signal for Joe to wait, and then I unclip my pager. “This is my girl paging me right now actually. I need to find her.” I’ve got to get rid of him before he finds out the truth and every Cass Tech alumni knows that the guy voted most likely to succeed is now selling shoes. Why am I in denial? I’m sure most of them already know.


“Really, that’s cool. I was on my way out. I got what I came for.” Joe raises a Hudson’s shopping bag.


“Ray.” I hear the forceful voice of a female. I turn to see Cynthia Meyers. This has the potential to get real ugly, real fast.


On Saturday, my off day, I open the side door and notice a white Ford Escort parked out front. Cynthia Meyers is sitting in the driver’s seat. She’s at my mom’s house. I never brought her here or told her I live here. Is this girl stalking me? I’ve never had a stalker before. I’ve had women come over here after I stopped calling, which usually happens after we have sex. A few got on their knees, grabbed my ankles, and begged me to stay with them. But none of them have ever stalked me. It took my mom to get those women straight, and I never heard from them again. My mom has to do the same with Cynthia Meyers because I never want to see or hear from that girl again.


I rush into the kitchen in a panic. My mom is at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other reading obituaries in the Free Press, her favorite pastime. “Miss King, listen, there’s a crazy woman outside. I need you to talk some sense into her.”


My mom sets her cup down and takes a long drag of her cigarette. “The only reason there’s a crazy woman outside is because you just like your daddy. Y’all drives them womens to be that way. They ain’t born like that. But once they get to messin’ with a Saint—your last name should be Sinner—they get to losin’ they mind.” She shakes her head and puckers her lips. “What you do to the girl? And don’t lie.”


“I ain’t do nothin’ to her. She too loose.”


“Loose? She loose ’cause you mens made her that way. You mens kill me, callin’ a woman loose. You the one laid down with her, what that make you?”


“But she’s too young to be that loose.”


“Young? How young? You best not be messin’ with no teenager. You almost twenty-four years old. You need to grow up and start actin’ your age. Get your own place. When you movin’ out?”


“She’s not that young. She’s twenty-one. Just talk to her, please.”


“Where she at?”


“In her car, sitting outside our house.”


“Stakin’ your ass out. Ain’t it sad the lows some womens go to behind mens. Let her ass sit there. I don’t care. It’s a free world, and last I check I don’t own any of these city streets, includin’ Santa Clara.”






Celery. Baby carrots. Yogurt. Alfalfa sprouts. Whole wheat bread. Lots of cheese. Raisins (I do love those). Leftover salmon. Milk—now I have an idea. I plan to drive to the Boston-Edison area to Mr. Fo-Fo’s and get one of those huge slices of chocolate cake that’s large enough to feed three, even when one of them is Boone. That’ll go great with a tall glass of milk.


I take a deep sigh. When the highlight of my Saturday afternoon is eating chocolate cake, something’s gone terribly wrong. I’m not that old.


The doorbell rings.


“Sarita,” my mother says through our intercom system.


I walk over to the unit and press down the button to talk. “Yes, Mother.”


“Please answer the door. That’s the new landscaper who’s coming to take a tour of our grounds. If you don’t mind starting it off, I’ll take it over in just a bit. I’m on the phone with Mrs. Emerson, and we’re discussing you.”




“Yes, you. I’ll tell you later.”




It’s a good thing this isn’t one of my lazy Saturdays when I sleep in until noon and then dwell on the fact that I still don’t have the life I want. This is one of those Saturdays where I got up and got fully dressed, opting for one of my Norma Kamali dresses, which has huge shoulder pads and two oversized pockets that flare at my hip in a way I really like. It’s the same color as my mood usually is—gray, which is the color of independence and self-reliance as well as evasion, noncommitment, and loneliness. Half of my wardrobe is that color.


“Oh, and don’t get any thoughts. From what I hear, if it’s the son, he’s a good-looking man. Just remember he’s here about our lawn. He’s not a doctor making house calls.”




I stroll to the door, and as soon as I open it, I see stars. Good looking is an understatement. He’s not as beautiful as Presley Okafor at Georgetown, but close enough for me.


“Hi, I’m Raphael Adams—the landscaper. Are you Dr. Sarah Deering?”


“No, that’s my mother. I’m Sarita, her daughter. But I guess I didn’t need to say that part. If she’s my mother, then I’m obviously her daughter, right?” I clear my throat when he doesn’t respond and instead stares at me as if I have two heads and I’m talking out the side of both of them.


My mother strides out toward him. His eyes bulge, and I wouldn’t be surprised if something else didn’t, too.


“Dr. Deering. I’m Raphael. My dad sent me in his place. I hope you don’t mind.”


“Why would I? I’m sure your father has taught you his business well, and you’ll provide an adequate assessment. But, if you don’t mind, I need to run over to one of the neighbor’s for a quick chat.” She smiles at me, and then turns back toward Raphael. “I’ll be back shortly. My daughter can answer any questions you have. She’s brilliant and knows about this home and the history of the neighborhood better than I do. She gets that from her father.”


“That’s fine. I’ll keep walking the grounds with her, and I’ll wait for you to return so that we can go over the assessment.”


“You can go over that with my daughter as well.”


“I’ll wait.”


My mother waves and floats away, and Raphael’s eyes follow her. She’s fifty-four years old and gets more attention from men than I do.


“Did you have any questions for me?” I ask, trying to snap his attention away from my mother and back to me.


“Your mother is—for lack of a better word—beautiful. Damn. But I guess you hear that a lot, don’t you?”


“All the time.”


“And is that all her hair?”




“Damn. At least now I have a vision of exactly how I want my wife to look.” His eyes assess me as if I’m one of the hedges in the backyard that needs shaping. “You must look like your father.”


“Just like him. My sister looks exactly like my mother.”


“Where is she?”


“In Boston. Married.”


“Of course she is.”


“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish showing you this lot and quickly go around to the other. I have plans, and I can’t be out here all day.” I’m ready for my chocolate cake and milk. I’m used to men falling out over my mother. I’ve always been in the shadow of her and my sister.


Well, maybe not always. I had that kind of attention, once, when I was a child. My hair was once almost as long as my mother’s. The length of a woman’s hair can be a great source of power, and it’s not my fault that I lost mine. But I’ve managed to compensate for it in other ways. Just not physically.


When I finish meditating, I set my Bible on my nightstand and rest my rosary on top of it. My gray Norma Kamali cotton shirt dress—a different one than the one I wore when the landscaper was over yesterday—is laid across the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. The heels of my sling-back pumps kiss on the hardwood floor in front of the entrance to my bathroom.


Would it be rude if I never made my way downstairs? My mother wouldn’t allow that. This is her dream for me. I climb through the curtains, slip on my dress, and then step inside the closet and stare at my three favorite Coach purses: the Dinky, the Slim Satchel, and the Stewardess. I can’t decide which one to take.


I love each for different reasons. And I can’t narrow it down by color because all three are black. Coach doesn’t have a bunch of colors to choose from to begin with, and if I’m spending that much on a purse, I want to make sure I use it often. I’m not like my mother. Coach isn’t high end enough for her. She prefers Gucci and Louis Vuitton. But I’ll take black glove-tanned cowhide leather over some initials on canvas any day. Besides, black goes with everything.


“Sarita, Dr. Emerson is waiting for you downstairs,” my mother says as she enters my room.


“I know, Mother.” My hand inches in the direction of my Dinky, which is inside its own little white square of the built-in purse display.


“Well, if you know, what’s taking you so long? Not that we don’t enjoy talking to him because, of course, we do. He’s such an intelligent young man, and his parents are dear friends of ours, as you know. He likes you, Sarita, and he’s not the play type. He’s serious. He’s looking for a wife.”


“I understand, Mother.”


“What do you understand? Do you understand I’d like for you to smile at Dr. Emerson, show those great teeth, stay engaged in his conversation? He’s a very rational man.”


“Mother, I’m not stupid. I went to college. I have two degrees.” I start transferring the contents of my Stewardess into the Dinky. It can’t fit nearly as much, but all I really need are some bobby pins and a small comb in case my updo comes undone; my Fashion Fair Lip Moisturizer, my slim wallet, and my keys.


“I never implied you were stupid, Sarita. I know you’re very intelligent. I just understand how you are, and I know that you feel that once you leave work, it’s over, but everyone doesn’t feel that way. Dr. Emerson is passionate about his work, so please act as if you’re interested. Do you remember everything that I taught you about dealing with men of his stature?”


I nod. “Yes, Mother.” I’ve been around men of his stature my entire life. My daddy is a man of his stature.


“Good, because if you do exactly what I’ve taught you over the years, you will be married to Dr. Emerson by next spring.”

To Dodge a Duke

Posted on August 20, 2017 at 9:20 AM Comments comments (0)

About the Book

Title: To Dodge a Duke

Author: Naomi Boom

Genre: Historical Romance / Regency

When a duke gets a chance to pursue a lady as someone else, he would be a fool not to take it.

Logan Eastworth, the Tenth Duke of Waking, returns to England to find a woman to marry. When Miss Eleanor Ashford assumes he holds the title of baronet, he does not correct her error. Instead, he plays on her misconception and arranges a house party where he can make her fall for him and not his title.

Miss Ashford desires a marriage of convenience to an earl or higher. Not to some low-life baronet with an estate in the far reaches of England. She has no time for love, even if the green-eyed baronet with a charming smile tries to convince her otherwise.

Miss Ashford has a choice to make. To wed a duke or the baronet setting her heart aflame. Her choice might not be as simple as she believes.

Author Bio

Naomi Boom is an author who never expected to love writing. Her inspiration struck when she searched for the perfect historical romance novel to read. Nothing sounded appealing, so she decided to write her own. That one novel has morphed into a series, and hopefully many, many more.

She resides in her home state of South Dakota with her husband and toddler. Her dream is to someday find an acreage where she can raise chickens, and continue her writing.





Book Excerpt


Logan smirked and stood to tower over her. “I think you welcomed my advances very much. I would prove it if you ask.”


Eleanor glared at him and took a step back. “That is unnecessary. I already know I did not appreciate the first example.” Besides, even if she had enjoyed it, it would be inadvisable for her to allow another kiss to transpire. His smirk remained glued to his handsome face, and she said, “Oh, stop it. You think much too highly of yourself.”


He chuckled in response and took a step closer. Eleanor, naturally, took another step back until he reached out and pulled her to him in a rough embrace. Incensed, Eleanor asked, “Who do you think you are? There is never an acceptable time for you to behave so impudently toward me!”


His arm imprisoned her as he smiled down on her. “Isn’t there? Would it have been preferable to fall into the ravine?”


She swung her head around to find they stood mere steps from the rushing waters. She gulped and turned to face him. Obviously, it was best to stay away from the ravine, but she would not concede his point. “Yes. It would have been much more desirable.”



Scent of the past

Posted on August 13, 2017 at 5:45 PM Comments comments (0)

About the Book

Title: Scent of the Past

Author: Erin Marie Bernardo

Genre: Historical Fiction

Scent of the Past by Erin Marie Bernardo



A secret diary. A forgotten past. Another time.


When people think of time travel, they think of the clichéd manufactured kind. Of giant electronic machines with flashing lights and buttons calibrated to shoot you into the past with one press. But it doesn’t work that way. You need a reason, a connection, and—most important—a link. But you can’t choose when and why you go. That would be too easy, and we’d all be snapping our fingers in hopes of seeing lost treasures of yesteryear. It must choose you.



Close cousins Addison and Elissa live in present day New York City and lead somewhat ordinary lives. When uncertain circumstances surrounding a set of antique perfume bottles sends them back to eighteenth-century France, they must uncover the truth behind their travel.


Disaster strikes when Addison finds herself in a nearly identical situation to a mishap she experienced in the present—the witnessing of a murder and release of a secret. Only this time the truth could destroy the entire French monarchy. With Addison’s head on the line, the young women search for answers before Addison suffers her unlucky fate twice. It is only when they discover the haunting connections to life in the present, that they understand why they both were sent, and why a repeating past...may not always be such a bad thing.




Author Bio

Erin Marie Bernardo is an American writer of historical fiction. She has a degree in Communication Studies from the University of Minnesota, and is the author of the time-travel novel, Scent of the Past. A lover of historic places, Erin's novels connect the past with the present.


Erin is currently at work on her second novel, Blackbird's Bounty, set in the bayou of Louisiana – and is actively seeking a home for her children’s collection, Beautiful and Extraordinary Barnyard Stories, based on true events from on her farm.


Erin lives in Tennessee, but has roots in both Minnesota and Washington State. She is married with two young children.








Book Excerpts

Excerpt from CHAPTER 4


Finding it hard to concentrate, she worked slowly, cleaning up the damage. Her body felt sluggish. Maybe the stress of Addison’s vanishing was finally taking its toll. Eyelids weighted with heaviness, she noticed fuzzy images pushing at her temples. They were blurry and indistinguishable from one to the next, but they moved like silent pictures on an old movie screen. Something wasn’t right. She felt different. Distant. Detached. Confused. She stopped cleaning to massage her forehead and ease the pressure.

The images moved faster, rotating in circles, dancing along the boundaries of her mind and just out of reach. She was getting dizzy from their movement, yet they held her in place. Every once in a while a vision seemed recognizable. A familiar glimpse of two girls laughing, a majestic fountain spraying drops of crystal water, people dancing, yards of fabric twirling as they turned. Her senses were clouded, but the fabrics, brilliant green and velvet blue, pink lace, ribbon, and white taffeta seemed so real, spinning quickly like a child’s kaleidoscope.

Through the clouded fog she reached out. Just to try and touch. Everything around her was beautiful. So vivid in color and texture. Grasping at a piece of fluttering silk, she lifted her hand and instantly felt the pulling. It immediately consumed her body, leaving her numb to its force. She tried to resist the heavy pull, yet with every move she made, it yanked her harder. Tugging, bit by bit, until Elissa had absolutely no control over her limbs. Her arms were as heavy as rocks. Her legs as solid as lead. She was helpless to the potency of this unknown power. What was happening? What was this energy that pushed her forward yet held her in place? She tried to speak, to cry out for help, but nothing came out of her mouth. Just silent breath. Her own, frightened and scared.

The internal tug pulled harder at her chest, accelerating at a rapid and dangerous speed—yet all she could do was stand there, motionless. Pinned like the forceful pressure of a fast rollercoaster, pushing her back into her seat. She was trapped. Panic darted through her blood, overtaking her cells as the intensity of the images pushing against her mind, grew. Spinning, spinning, spinning, they turned in unison, filling the four corners of the little store room. A pair of ladies riding gloves, a powdered wig, marble floors. The draw to the images was magnetic, leaving her helpless to stop as the pictures zipped and collided in front of her as she stood frozen. A garden, a trimmed hedge, a vase of fresh roses. The dizziness was making her nauseous.

“No more!” she cried, although it was a soundless plea. She closed her eyes and prayed.

And then just as quickly as it had come, the turmoil stopped. Just after Elissa blacked out.


Excerpt from CHAPTER 5


Elissa opened one eye. Slowly. Someone was talking to her. Her head hurt, and the room was blurry, so she shut it. The talking didn’t stop. It was annoying, like a pesky mosquito buzzing around your ear right before you fall asleep. She pulled the covers over her head and groaned. She felt horrible.

The woman’s voice was persistent. She spoke quickly: “Bon matin, mademoiselle. Temps de se réveiller.”

Elissa rolled over, hoping to block out the noise and instantly realized she was naked. Oh, my gosh, I’m naked! she thought in fright. Instantly in tune with her surroundings she peeked out from underneath her blanket and surveyed the situation.

First observation. She was in a bed.

Second observation. Already noted, she was naked.

Third observation. This was not her room, and the woman standing at the foot of her bed was clearly not speaking English. Nor was she familiar in any way.

Elissa’s panic meter raised a few notches, and she grasped frantically at her neck. She relaxed. The ruby key was still there. Naked or not, the necklace never came off.

But where am I? she wondered. Whose bed is this? And why can’t I remember anything?

She noted the headache that was descending lower over her forehead. Her eyes made a quick sweep past the bed and around the room. Wherever she was, it certainly was magnificent. Shrouded in a curtain-lined canopy bed, she felt small among the grandness of the space. Although the walls were white, they were heavily decorated in crown molding panels, with intricate cut-out designs cresting the length of each wall. A large stone fireplace faced the bed, and an unlit crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, which was at least ten feet high or more. A mirror, larger than any table, reflected her baffled face as it sat in triumph above the mantel. Noticing an open door leading to another bedroom, she realized the place only got larger.

Elissa groaned. This must have cost me a fortune. Why didn’t I pick a Holiday Inn?—thinking she might have checked into a hotel. The thought quickly passed before she had a chance to wonder further.

The woman, who had awakened her earlier, stood scowling at Elissa. She wore some sort of period-style dress and looked like an old-fashioned chambermaid, with a cap and oversized smock. Elissa listened again. It was French. The woman was speaking French! Quite pleased with herself, Elissa smiled at the short lady who was frowning and waving her finger with a tsk, tsk. She hurried around the room picking up this, rearranging that.

“Vous avez dormi. Levez-vous avant qu'ils ne commencent à répandre des rumeurs à votre sujet.”

Elissa listened. Ahh, French. What a beautiful language, she thought, smiling to herself. She lay there in a sleepy lull, listening on and off while dozing—still feeling a bit drugged. But it didn’t take her too long to think a little deeper. She paused. Wait, why is this woman speaking French?

“My lady, you’ve overslept. Get up before they start spreading rumors about you.”

She gasped. And why do I understand it?


Excerpt from CHAPTER 2


Addison had met Brad Carlisle by chance at the opening of a new modern art exhibit in Lower Manhattan. It was an honest mistake, but it wasn’t until someone tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, “Ma’am, I believe you are wearing my wife’s coat,” did she realize that she had grabbed the wrong fur. Thankfully Mrs. Carlisle was using the restroom and missed the witty exchange of comments that followed. Addison left on the arm of her date, but no one could mistake the way Brad Carlisle’s eyes followed her out the door.

They ran into each other a few months later at the annual firemen’s charity ball. Addison had on a low-cut scarlet cocktail dress that clung to every one of her perfect curves. She had purposely pinned up her midnight hair to showcase her swanlike neck, making a statement when she turned, looking coy over her shoulder.

She danced in circles with every available bachelor, dizzy from cologne and high off too many glasses of merlot. After a break in the music, she slithered up to the bar and ordered another—burgundy red to match her dress. Addison always color coordinated.

“I’ll have what the lady is having,” a voice murmured low beside her. She turned and stared at the distinguished sandy-haired gentleman. He was grinning. The bartender passed him a drink across the bar.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he said. She looked down at his hands encircling the wineglass. They were clean and neatly manicured. This man took great care of his appearance. She also noticed the gold band on his left hand. He was married. Addison reflected for an instant, then shook her head, intrigued by his presumed sophistication.

He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Brad Carlisle. We had a run-in with furry coats one evening back in February. I’m a little disappointed you’ve forgotten because I think I became enchanted with you then.”

He pulled her in at that point, teasing her with sexual innuendos and flirting with possibilities. They finished their wine and had another. He should have been at the head table, promising donations and discussing public policy with executives and the New York elite. Not to mention filling the empty chair next to his wife. Addison had never met anyone quite like him. He was handsome and powerful, bold and polished. All of her past flings seemed mere boys compared to this one man, whose smoky voice hypnotized her into fantasizing what loving a man of power would be like. This was her big catch, a challenge in the making. So much potential! She remembered he was married, but with someone of his stature, why did it matter? That was merely a hiccup in the game. Addison saw Brad Carlisle as an opportunity and didn’t care much that others would criticize her for playing with fire.


Excerpt from CHAPTER 28

Just before seven, as the invitation requested, Léopold knocked on Addison’s door. She answered, showing little enthusiasm. For all she knew this could possibly be her death march. Elissa had told her not to show fear. She must act like her same exuberant self, otherwise she would give herself away even before dinner. She promised herself she would escalate her energy level once she met with the king. Léopold didn’t know her well enough to notice the difference in her attitude.

They walked across the grounds and through the palace. Léopold said nothing. He was simply her escort. Addison looked up at his face. He didn’t look cruel. In fact, he had a very kind-looking face. But she understood that it was his job to obey the king of France, and all guards took their oath seriously. Léopold was only following orders.

“We are here,” he said, opening a door for her. “Enjoy your evening with His Majesty.” He bowed and slowly closed her in. She was in the dining room. It was an expansive chamber normally set up with a long table to host dozens of people. Tonight, however, the space looked relatively empty. The arrangement for her meal was more private. A small circular table and two chairs. It would be a very intimate dinner.

Addison thought back on the choices she had made in life. Since coming to Versailles, she had wanted nothing more than time alone with the king. Now she had it and didn’t want it. She felt sick to her stomach. Why had she been so stupid? Why did it matter whether or not she could say she had been with the elite? Kings, company executives, men of high society. None of those relationships had ever brought her happiness. Madame Zarina was right about so many things, and what she wouldn’t give for a little more of that protection the old gypsy had wished on her.

If she was to die tonight, at least she had learned her lesson. The thought of dying made her sad. She wasn’t ready to die. She wanted to go back to New York, to follow her heart this time around and pursue fashion design, find a nice young man, and start over fresh. She wasn’t going to carry anymore past baggage into her new life. All she needed was a second chance.




The Sanguinarian Id

Posted on August 1, 2017 at 10:05 PM Comments comments (0)

Title: The Sanguinarian Id


Author: L.M. Labat


Artist: L.M. Labat


Genre: Horror, Historical Fiction, Paranormal, Occult, Gothic Horror


Publisher: Night to Dawn Magazine & Books


She’s been beaten, stabbed, poisoned, and shot, but Hael refuses to die. In her pursuit for vengeance and her origin, the Dhampir Hael hunts down the madman responsible for her fateful transformation. As this half-vampire juggernauts her way through a world at war, Hael battles hordes of Nazi soldiers as she struggles to maintain her sanity. However, while Hael gathers knowledge on how to trap and kill her target, her adversary’s network is expanding at an exponential rate, as his sick obsession with Hael grows deeper. Will she have her revenge? Will she find her origin? Or, will she crumble beneath her own insidious bloodlust?


Author Bio




Born in 1993, L. M. Labat stems from New Orleans, Louisiana. From the struggles of a broken family and surviving life-threatening events, Labat found refuge within the arts while delving into the fields of medicine, psychology, and the occult. While combining illustration and literature, L. M. Labat was able to cope with endless nightmares as well as hone in on artistic techniques. From confronting the past to facing new shadows, this author gladly invites audiences into the horror of The Sanguinarian Id.




The Sanguinarian Id Website


Website Creator: L. M. Labat


Night to Dawn Magazine & Books Website:


Night to Dawn Magazine & Books Webiste


The Sanguinarian Id on Amazon


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