The Resistance

 

About the Book

 

Title: Cry Wolf

 

Author: Greta Stone

 

Genre: M/M Urban fantasy

 

 

 

Everything you know is a lie.

 

Peter is a kitsune. Chaos follows him wherever he goes. Good intentions, bad intentions---it doesn’t matter. Even mimicking the howl of a friend he hasn’t seen in over a decade turns out to have disastrous consequences.

 

The wolf doesn’t have a name. For now, he goes by Luca. He has no past, and as an escaped slave, if he can’t stay hidden in the shadows, he’ll have no future. When someone steals his howl, he’s drawn to investigate, and ends up saddled with a mouthy fox who insists they used to be friends once upon a time.

 

Petty problems and a dubious reunion are pushed aside the longer they're stranded together. The Underwood is a dangerous place.

 

They have two choices: work together or die.

 

Join Greta Stone in a dark paranormal MM romance retelling of Aesop’s fable, The Boy Who Cried Wolf, and David P. Mannix's classic novel, The Fox and the Hound.

 

Author Bio

 

Greta is the unruly offspring of a tiger and a dragon. She spends most of her time reading, stalking Goodreads, and harassing other authors with pranks. She loves to hear from readers. (Hi, Mom.) Leave a message after the scream! (Seriously, Mom. You can just call me.)

 

Links

 

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100005652079391

 

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4561635.Greta_Stone (Author Profile)

 

https://www.facebook.com/GothamGremlins/ (World Fan Page)

 

https://www.pinterest.com/gothamgremlins/

 

https://twitter.com/gothamgremlins

 

Website link for Greta - http://www.gretastone.net/

 

Book Excerpts

 

Excerpt One

 

Peter wheezed. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

 

Luca rolled onto the square yard’s swept stone. His hipbone and elbow were bruised, but he imagined it didn’t even compare to what Peter was feeling right now.

 

“I told you it was a bad idea.”

 

Peter rolled onto his back, a constant drizzle of steady rain mixed with the blood pouring from his nostrils in dark greenish tracks. He touched the back of his hand to the gore, nose scrunching in a wince. And then he yawned like the pain was gone.

 

“Well don’t rush to ask if I’m okay, Luca.”

 

“You just had to try it. You just couldn’t let it go. I told you that flying takes skill. I told you that you can’t just pretend your way through some things. We’re lucky we didn’t drop clear out of the sky the second you took off.”

 

“You know, I hear that you’re mad, and all I have to say is that no one told you to go along with my idea. If you felt that strongly about it, you should’ve said something.”

 

Luca almost punched him. “You told me to go along with your idea.”

 

“So admit that you had a little bit of fun and I’ll take you for another spin.”

 

“I didn’t have fun.” Luca rubbed the bleeding cut on his chin. “Actually, right around now is when I start to hold you responsible.”

 

Peter writhed in feigned agony. “Oh, the burden.”

 

Luca told himself he found nothing intriguing about this impishness. “I hate you.”

 

Excerpt Two

 

“What do you want to do to me?”

 

The question seemed to shock Luca somehow, the top of his sharp cheeks taking on the barest hint of cherry red. He seemed to give it some thought in the darkness of the dripping tunnel, “This time, when we do whatever we’re going to do, can you pretend…to love me.”

 

Peter halted. “What?”

 

“Don’t make it weird.”

 

Peter latched on to Luca’s arm and halted his purposeful march through the main chamber. “I’m not trying to make it weird. What did you say?”

 

“Pretend to love me this time. Despite being a shitty liar, you’re good at pretending. It shouldn’t be that hard for you to make me believe it.”

 

Peter squeezed his shoulder and turned him around so he could see his face, his stark features illuminated by the glowing blue pool of liquid. “You want to believe that I love you?”

 

“I want to know what it feels like…” His eyebrows knitted. “I keep thinking about Avaline. How much she must’ve loved him to turn her afterlife into this forest. A tree for every tear. I want to know what she was crying over.” Something about Peter’s expression triggered Luca’s defenses, and he spun around. “Forget it.”

 

“Stop,” Peter snapped with a vehemence that left his voice echoing in surrounding caverns.

 

Luca halted, but didn’t face him, head tilted to the side. “What?”

 

“Didn’t Lydia love you? Didn’t Chief love you?”

 

“I don’t think that’s the right kind of love.”

 

“What you asked for…” I don’t have to pretend. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“To get rope.”

 

 

 

About the Books

The Girl Who Talks to Ghosts

 

Would you risk everything to save a stranger?

Off the coast of Venice lurks Poveglia, the world’s most haunted isle, steeped in centuries of innocent blood. A deranged doctor who took great joy in torturing his patients in life continues to rule his abandoned asylum after death.

Few go to Poveglia willingly, but medium Kate Carlsson has no choice. It’s her job.

While struggling to retrieve a young girl’s soul, Kate uncovers some shocking truths about the evil on the island that challenges her own convictions and morals—and even her life.

Is saving Lily worth making a deal with the infamous Doctor of Death, or is the price too high to pay?

 

 

 

 

 

Author Bio

 

 

 

J.H. Moncrieff’s work has been described as early Gillian Flynn with a little Ray Bradbury and Stephen King thrown in for good measure.

 

She won Harlequin’s search for the next Gillian Flynn in 2016.

 

Her first published novella, The Bear Who Wouldn’t Leave, was featured in Samhain’s Childhood Fears collection and stayed on its horror bestsellers list for over a year.

 

When not writing, she loves exploring the world’s most haunted places, advocating for animal rights, and summoning her inner ninja in muay thai class.

 

To get free eBooks and a new spooky story every week, go to http://bit.ly/MoncrieffLibrary .

 

Connect with J.H.: Website | Twitter | Facebook

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Book Excerpt

It was easier than I thought.

All I had to do was bide my time in one of the less popular temples, crouching behind a weird-ass statue while the guides checked for stragglers. Thankfully, they didn’t do a thorough search, just popped their bobbed heads in and glanced around before returning to their cozy cruise ships.

Guess I couldn’t blame them. It seemed like it was always pissing down rain in this part of the country—at least, it had been since we’d been here—and even though it was mid-September, it was freaking cold.

As I stepped over the temple’s sacred threshold and hurried to the place I’d chosen to camp for the night, I grinned, unable to resist pumping my fist in the air. I’d done it. What would the group say when they realized I wasn’t on the ship?

Only the terminally stupid got left behind on a tour, so they’d probably figure I was hung over again, and in that, they’d be partially right. It takes skill to get a decent buzz on the watery crap they call beer in China, which is why I switched to the rice wine. Doesn’t take much to feel it, but you pay for it the following day.

It was only six o’clock, but the sun was already setting. Flipping up the hood of my jacket against the drizzling rain, I whistled to keep myself company, careful not to slip on the wet path. The place where I’d decided to spend the night was perfect. Even though it had fallen into ruin, this particular temple still had a bit of roof left, so I’d be able to get dry. Since it was open to the air, I wouldn’t have to worry about my campfire burning it down. There was enough junk in there to keep a decent fire going—not that I was worried.

It wasn’t like I believed in ghosts.

 

 

 

About the Books

City of Ghosts

 

On the day the villagers were forced to flee Hensu, not everyone got out alive.

Jackson Stone is touring the abandoned Chinese city when he slips away from the group to spend the night, determined to publish an account of his ghostly experiences there.

Then he meets Yuèhai, a strange, soft-spoken woman who can tell him the city’s secrets—secrets the Chinese government would kill to keep hidden.

As Jackson uncovers the truth about Yuèhai and the ghost city, he’s drawn into a web of conspiracy, betrayal, and murder. He must risk everything to save himself and bring honor back to Yuèhai and her family.

Author Bio

J.H. Moncrieff’s work has been described as early Gillian Flynn with a little Ray Bradbury and Stephen King thrown in for good measure.

She won Harlequin’s search for the next Gillian Flynn in 2016.

Her first published novella, The Bear Who Wouldn’t Leave, was featured in Samhain’s Childhood Fears collection and stayed on its horror bestsellers list for over a year.

When not writing, she loves exploring the world’s most haunted places, advocating for animal rights, and summoning her inner ninja in muay thai class.

To get free eBooks and a new spooky story every week, go to http://bit.ly/MoncrieffLibrary .

Connect with J.H.: Website | Twitter | Facebook

Book Excerpt

The woman was hysterical, sobbing so much I couldn’t understand her. As I pressed my cell harder against my ear, the wind sprouted claws and slashed at my meager sweater until I shivered. Phone calls used to be rare, but I’d been getting more and more since Jackson and I had gone public with what had happened to us in China. Now everyone in Vermont seemed to know my name, and they all needed help.

“Hello? This is Kate, please talk to me.”

The crying increased in volume, blistering my ears. I would have hung up if not for the wind. Its power intensified, churning the dead leaves and other debris from the sidewalk around my feet. There was something strange about its sudden force, which drove me against the brick facing of Hildy’s Fine China & Sundries. (Hildy’d had an ampersand before it was trendy.)

“Hello?” The single word contained the edge of my fear. Both my voice and hands were shaking. Something did not want me to talk to this woman. Something did not want me to help her. I’d taken hundreds of similar calls over the past few years, but had never felt anything like this. “Please say something. I’m afraid we’re going to lose our connection.”

Clutching at my sweater to keep it from being blown away, I ducked my head, shielding my face as my hair whipped around in a furious tangle. I huddled against Hildy’s shop, wondering if I should go in, but the older woman wouldn’t be impressed to see me on my phone. Her establishment was a temple, a library. The loyal customers who kept her in business spoke in whispers and walked on tiptoes. By bursting in like this and continuing my shouted, one-sided conversation, I’d have become the proverbial bull. Not good.

“Miss Carlsson? Kate Carlsson?” The woman had regained her composure enough to gasp my name. The grip around my heart tightened, even though I’d known all along the call was meant for me.

“Yes, speaking. What’s wrong?” There was no point wasting time with idle chitchat. Obviously something was wrong—very wrong. Another gust of wind knocked my skull against the side of the building and pain jolted through my brain.

The caller was silent for so long I ordinarily would have assumed she’d hung up, lost her nerve. It happened. It wasn’t easy for people to admit they needed my help. It was a leap of faith, a willingness to open their minds to the possibility that something they’d spent their entire lives denying could be real after all.

But the wind told me otherwise. I waited for her to speak again, raising one arm between my face and the building to protect my head. The chill had seeped into my bones, and what I wanted more than anything was to run home and immerse myself in a steaming hot bath while I drank a cup of the pumpkin spice tea I’d just purchased. I didn’t want to talk to this woman. I didn’t want to hear about what terrible things were happening at her home, for surely terrible things were happening. But I’d learned long ago that my gift was bigger than me, and if this woman needed it, I wasn’t going to turn away from her.

Finally she spoke. I could barely hear her over the gale, which shrieked like a tortured soul. “My mother is attacking my child.” Her voice trembled with fresh tears. “I can’t believe it, haven’t wanted to believe it, but it’s true. I’ve seen it.”

“Is your mother dead, Mrs…”

“Walkins. My name is Walkins. Yes, she died last year. But she was such a good woman. She loved Lily. I can’t believe she would do these things. Why would she do these things?”

I could feel curious eyes burning into me, watching me struggle to stay on my feet. Pushing my hair away from my face, I risked a glimpse and was immediately sorry I had. The leaves around my feet had arranged themselves in the form of a girl, a girl not much shorter than me. As I stared, my pulse throbbing behind my temples, the terrifying apparition raised a rustling arm toward me before collapsing onto the sidewalk.

“Whatever is hurting Lily isn’t your mother, Mrs. Walkins. What’s your address? I’ll be right there.”

 

 

I PRE-ORDERED THIS ONE!

About the Book

 

Title: Stealing Liberty

 

Author: Jennifer Froelich

 

Genre: Young Adult

 

A heist so monumental, it may cost them everything… When Reed Paine is sent to a secret detention school for teens whose parents are branded enemies of the state, he doesn’t expect to find friendship – especially after coming face to face with Riley Paca, a girl who has every reason to hate him.

 

But when Reed, Riley and a few others start reading the old books they find in tunnels under the school, they begin to question what they are taught about the last days of America and the government that has risen in its place. Then the government decides to sell the Liberty Bell and Reed and his friends risk everything to steal it – to take back their history and the liberty that has been stolen from them (Stealing Liberty/ Clean Reads).

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Jennifer Froelich published her debut novel, Dream of Me, in late 2011, which reviewers praised as “well-orchestrated with outstanding imagery.” Her second novel, A Place Between Breaths, published in 2014, was called “a roller-coaster ride with enough twists and turns to keep everyone interested” and won an Honorable Mention in Writer’s Digest’s 23rd Annual Self Published Book competition. Jennifer is a frequent contributing author to Chicken Soup for the Soul. A graduate of the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism at Arizona State University, Jennifer worked for many years as a freelance editor and writer before publishing her own work. She lives in beautiful Idaho with her husband, two teenage kids, and a rescue cat named Katniss.

 

Book Excerpts

 

Excerpt One:

 

My escort pushes me. “Pick up the pace, kid.” I stumble on a sharp rock and cut my toe. It hurts more than it should and I pull up to face him, fists curled at my side. I’ve grown about a foot since my sixteenth birthday, which means I can stare him down, eye to eye. He just smirks. How about I smash your nose? For a minute the urge is so powerful, my pulse pounds against my throat and red spots blur my vision.

 

Don’t do anything stupid, Reed. Pick your battles. The voice in my head is my dad’s, so I listen. We climb aboard a rusty hybrid bus parked in front of the bombed-out terminal. “Welcome,” says the autopilot. It’s one of the retro models, formed like a human, with LED eyes and everything. When magnetic tracks were first installed, citizens didn’t trust computers to maneuver vehicles safely along roadways. At least that’s what my grandmother told me. Humanoid pilots were designed to make them feel safer. Pretty soon, people had more important things to worry about. My escort takes a seat behind the pilot, but I keep going. Only one other passenger is on the bus — a girl with long blond hair who sits in the fifth row, pressed against the window. Bruises swell on her left cheekbone and along her jaw. Her lip is crusted with blood and her right eyelid is swollen shut. Nausea washes over me, along with fresh anger. “Sit!” our escort barks. The girl flinches. I take a seat across from her and shift toward the window. The door squeaks closed and the bus lurches forward. We travel on an old freeway so desolate, we don’t encounter a single other transport. I wish I was calm enough to sleep — so numb to the government’s strong-arm tactics, they no longer get to me. Instead I stare past the landscape and try not to shake. Try not to relive my nightmare or think about how it felt to wake up with a gun to my head. I imagine a different outcome. Fighting back — or breaking out of the state home before they showed up. If only.

 

Excerpt Two:

 

I’m fascinated by stories of immigrants who came to America from all corners of the world, giving up everything just to step foot on these shores. Just like my grandparents. I read about what they sought. Freedom, opportunity, safety, peace. “Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” It’s from a poem once displayed at the Statue of Liberty, meant to welcome people to the land of the free, the home of the brave. It makes me sad, thinking how different everything is now. I glance at Adam. He’s studying a vinyl album cover, reading lyrics, I suspect. We’re changing, every one of us, by what we read. It’s as if we have only existed in darkness before, with one light guiding us down a fixed path. Now we’re flooded with light, and it’s a prism, shining from a thousand angles, giving us perspectives in colors we never imagined.

 

History texts call Grandma’s generation the Lost Ones, but just in passing. Teachers talk about them quickly, always ready to move on. But Grandma was a great storyteller, which made sense when she finally told me about Floodlight . Grandma said people spent a lot of time imagining the future when she was a kid. In movies, books and music, they thought up utopias, dystopias. They wrote about technology taking over or disappearing altogether. Most of all they imagined change. It’s not surprising. She was born during the dawn of cell phones and cyberspace, after analog gave way to digital. When plasma fought with LCD, then disappeared for LED, 3D and pixel paint. Satellites crowded the atmosphere. Electronic books were born, everyone began storing data on the cloud. Transportation engineers built the first bullet train and laid the first mag tracks. Gaming systems mimicked movement. Robots performed surgery and medicine got smart. Retinal grafts got to be as popular as tattoos. The first nanochips were installed, then the first tragus implants, allowing us to sync our data with any device we hold. Everyone looked to the future and wondered what next?

 

Grandma said people rush to extremes, but never settle on the truth. No one knew the great technological advances characterizing the past two centuries would stagnate, too gradually to be noticed. And the change? People celebrated it. Then they fought over what it meant, who had the right to make it happen and who should just shut up. But they didn’t understand. It was happening with or without their permission, and never how they envisioned it. Like a pebble you nudge with your foot, only to watch it roll down a hill and start an avalanche. You could have stopped the pebble, but why would you? How could you know it would destroy a town, a city, a nation? “We were rich and spoiled,” Grandma said, “throwing away more food than we ate, living from one form of entertainment to the next. Offended by everything, we grew weaker still, building bubbles around our opinions, enraged by anyone who shared ideas not matching the most popular narrative. War and disease caught us unprepared, which is why most of us didn’t survive.”

 

Excerpt Three:

 

History texts call Grandma’s generation the Lost Ones, but just in passing. Teachers talk about them quickly, always ready to move on. But Grandma was a great storyteller, which made sense when she finally told me about Floodlight . Grandma said people spent a lot of time imagining the future when she was a kid. In movies, books and music, they thought up utopias, dystopias. They wrote about technology taking over or disappearing altogether. Most of all they imagined change. It’s not surprising. She was born during the dawn of cell phones and cyberspace, after analog gave way to digital. When plasma fought with LCD, then disappeared for LED, 3D and pixel paint. Satellites crowded the atmosphere. Electronic books were born, everyone began storing data on the cloud. Transportation engineers built the first bullet train and laid the first mag tracks. Gaming systems mimicked movement. Robots performed surgery and medicine got smart. Retinal grafts got to be as popular as tattoos. The first nanochips were installed, then the first tragus implants, allowing us to sync our data with any device we hold. Everyone looked to the future and wondered what next?

 

Grandma said people rush to extremes, but never settle on the truth. No one knew the great technological advances characterizing the past two centuries would stagnate, too gradually to be noticed. And the change? People celebrated it. Then they fought over what it meant, who had the right to make it happen and who should just shut up. But they didn’t understand. It was happening with or without their permission, and never how they envisioned it. Like a pebble you nudge with your foot, only to watch it roll down a hill and start an avalanche. You could have stopped the pebble, but why would you? How could you know it would destroy a town, a city, a nation? “We were rich and spoiled,” Grandma said, “throwing away more food than we ate, living from one form of entertainment to the next. Offended by everything, we grew weaker still, building bubbles around our opinions, enraged by anyone who shared ideas not matching the most popular narrative. War and disease caught us unprepared, which is why most of us didn’t survive.”

 

Excerpt Four:

 

Reed is frowning. Something brews behind his eyes. “You said the Bell will travel by freight train?” Sam nods. “From Old Philly to the Western Sand? Any chance it will pass on these tracks?” Sam shrugs and bends over his tablet, tapping and swiping with sure fingers. Finally he raises his eyes. “It’s possible. There are a couple routes from Philadelphia to San Francisco still passable since the Yellowstone landslide, and this one hasn’t been bombed by rebels. Yet.” Reed starts pacing. “Is there a way to hack the transportation system? To make sure it will pass the school?” “Probably,” Sam says. “Even if we do, the Bell will be crated and traveling by pretty fast,” Paisley says. “Not much to see.” Reed stops pacing and his eyes lock with mine. My heart turns over. I somehow know what he’s thinking and, for the first time, the hole left by Zak’s death feels like it might heal. “I don’t want to see it,” he says. “I want to steal it.”

 

 

 

 

 

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