#BookTour & #Giveaway: Blythe of the Gates by @Leah_Erickson7 Leah Erickson #SilverDaggerBookTours

Blythe of the Gates
by Leah Erickson
Genre: Historical Fiction

Can the gates of perception be bypassed?

A rash love affair with a member of the Irish Mafia catapults Luna Mulkerrins into scandal, murder, scorn and decadent friendships in Ragtime Manhattan. Escaping from the blaze of publicity, a new Luna emerges: Blythe of the Seven Gates. Her meteoric rise as a magician leads to fame, vaudeville, silent movies and the notoriety of a damaging court case. Can Luna reclaim her reputation and reinvent herself as an independent woman of the time?

From Leah Erickson, author of The Brambles, winner of the Crime Fiction award from the IPA.

Up the stairs she hurried, a rustling paper bag in one arm; her eyes strained to
adjust to darkness again. Lit by a single bulb that hung from the ceiling, the air
in the stairwell to their apartment felt close with the smell of cooking odors.
Pausing to catch her breath and steady herself, she opened the door.
“I'm back,” she called and pulled off her gloves on her way to the small
The Magician said, “Humph,” from the front parlor.
In the paper bag were potatoes, a half dozen rosy blushing apples, and a
bundle of carrots, vibrant with the dirt and grit still on them, and frothy green
tops that stuck up out of the bag like plumage. She unpacked onto the
countertop, and touched gently everything with her fingers as she listened, still,
gauging the mood in their small rooms.
“I-I got some lovely apples. I could make a pie or … or a tart? I saw nothing
good at the fishmonger's, but I—”
“Luna, will you come in here, please?”
Her heart stilled, and then suddenly started up again with a loud, irregular
gallop, like that of a crippled horse.
But when she went into the parlor, he did not even look at her. He held a large
piece of paper, unfurled from a large cardboard tube, now propped in the corner.
“Come here, girl, and tell me what you think of this.”
He turned the key of the rose-colored globe lamp and then knelt at the edge of
the coffee table, smoothing it with his hands.
“Oh!” It was, she saw, the new poster for the act: COSMO, THE
INCOMPARABLE, in large yellow letters at a dramatic slant across the top.
She stared at the picture below, at the illustration of the Magician wearing
white tie and tails, hair center-parted and combed back, gleaming, his hands held
out, god-like. Levitating before him in a silvery dress, filmy and insubstantial as
smoke, was Luna, eyes closed, dark hair loose and swirling as though she floated
in water.
“I, um …”
“I-I like the design in the background.” The background was an inky midnight
blue, with silver stars and a silver half-moon with a beautiful woman's profile on
it, smiling a mysterious close-lipped smile.
“But look at me.” The Magician flicked the paper with his finger. “It looks
nothing like me.”
“Oh, but I think it does …”
“The mouth is too soft, and the brows are too faint.”
In truth, the illustration did soften him. In real life, he had heavier brows,
more thunderous. His nose and chin sharper and more thrusting. His mouth,
though small and full-lipped, had a hardness about it, even when in a good
mood. And his hair never stayed down neatly. It was thick and unruly and spilled
forward from his deep widow's peak.
“I think it is quite nice.” Her eyes lingered, uncomfortably, on her face in the
poster. The illustration made her look beautiful but dead. It was eerie, as if she
were watching herself asleep. Something she was not supposed to see …
“Come to, girl. Speak sensibly. Finish your sentences.”
“B-b-but it's only our first poster. There will be others—”
“Our first, yes. But our most important, that's the problem. I've worked hard
on this act, harder than I've worked on anything, and every detail has to be
perfect. If we are going to take the act on tour one day, first I have to conquer
New York! I will not fail. I will not be laughed at.”
“But darling, we are at the Beaumont Theatre, three matinees and three
evening shows a week, surely you can say—”
“Surely, nothing! Even though we are the best there is, if we don't have proper
billing, then it's all for naught. I want to strangle that printmaker. Shoddy work
and he ripped me off, charging me not what he quoted.” His eyes darkened, and
he pursed his reddish lips grimly. “Someday he'll get what's coming to him.”
A compressed stillness overtook the Magician at times like this: an inert force
that felt as though it sucked the air from the room.
“Oh, now, darling,” she fluttered, voice high, chest tight, eager to distract.
“The new stage dress I am making for myself is coming out so nicely.”
White?” His eyes darted back quickly from the void and trained intently on
her face.
“Y-yes. White.” This came out in a whisper. It threw her off when his whole
attention focused on her and she tended to lose her train of thought.
“Like the one in the poster?”
“Yes. Sort of.”
“Well, I would like to see it on you.”
“It will be ready, I think, tomorrow.”
“Well, it had better be. We open Saturday. And I don't think we've rehearsed
nearly enough.”
The rehearsals. They had felt endless, and just thinking of them drained the
life right out of Luna. I just won't think about it.
He rolled up the poster, a pensive look on his face.

“Well, anyway,” he murmured after a while, “best get to that pie.”

Leah Erickson is the author of the novel "The Brambles" (2017) and "Blythe of the Gates." She is the recipient of the 2018 Independent Press Award and the Independent Book Award. Her short fiction has appeared in many magazines and journals in print and online, including The Fabulist, Pantheon Magazine, The Saint Ann's Review, Eclectica, The Coachella Review, and many more. She lives near Newport, Rhode Island with her husband and daughter.

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#BookTour & #Giveaway: Live on TV 3 @billevansauthor #SilverDaggerBookTours

Live on TV3: Palm Springs
The Broadcast Murder Series Book 2
by Bill Evans
Genre: Thriller, Mystery

California’s Palm Springs was a hotbed for movie stars, big money and high crime, making it a great town to be a TV news reporter and police detective in the '80s and '90s. 
There, we see the explosive Sonny Bono rise to mayor before he becomes a US Congressman, we meet Frank Sinatra and his wife at exclusive dinner parties, and journey with a hard-nosed cast of police and newsroom personalities mingling among the stars while trying to solve a pyramid scheme and murders. Evans provides a candid insider's view of newsroom operations and scheming TV personalities who will do anything to get ahead.
Palm Springs is the prequel to Evan's first novel, Murder at Broadcast Park. Learn how Stewart, Lisa, and the ever unsuspecting Dugan built a broadcasting empire.

TOM PRESTON HEARD Jennie Neeley introduce him from the news anchor desk.
Three . . . two . . . one . . .
“Tom Preston is on assignment outside the Hyatt Hotel in downtown Palm Springs. TV3 has uncovered a major Ponzi scheme involving some very highprofile business people and educational leaders from our desert communities.”
“Jennie, that’s right. I’ve been working on this story for the past three weeks—”
The television monitor suddenly went blank.
Jennie and the TV viewers couldn’t see the pandemonium and chaos erupting on Palm Canyon, the street in front of the Hyatt Hotel. The TV3 live truck had exploded, spewing metal, shrapnel, and bodies everywhere.
“Shit, what happened to our live shot? Our truck is dead.” The TV3 production control room scrambled to figure out what went wrong. “Get Tom onthe phone.”
“Somebody find out what’s going on out there!” Johnny Johnson shouted.
JJ, as he was called, was the news producer and commanded the troops. He reported to the news director, the head person in the newsroom. He was like a sergeant in a foxhole, taking orders from his lieutenant and keeping his control room calm as everyone scrambled around trying to find out what had happened. JJ cued Neeley and told her to get them into a commercial break.
Losing a live shot was not all that uncommon for a small-market television station in 1987. However, TV3 had fixed most of their technical problems over the years, and people in the know thought they were a technically sound station.
Their problem tonight was beyond any technical issues they could have imagined.
Outside the Hyatt, the scene looked like something from a Third World country. First responders—police, fire, ambulances—poured onto the scene. TV3’s main anchor, Tom Preston, had been doing a rare standup, anchoring his investigative story on location. He was found on the ground unconscious, his shirt splattered with blood and cuts on his head. There was a second body facedown about a hundred feet away. It was Terry Lynch, the photographer responsible for running the live truck and camera for Tom Preston’s story.
Glen Barnes was the first detective on the scene from the Palm Springs Police Department. Sandi DiSanto, his partner, arrived moments later. The police were quick to cordon off a half-block radius for their crime team. Tom drifted out of his unconscious state just in time to watch the EMTs perform CPR on his photographer. Tom tried to get on his feet and over to where Lynch was dying.
He wasn’t able to stand, collapsing only to have his fall stopped by one of the attending EMTs. Tom slipped back into unconsciousness.
Neeley sat on the anchor desk inside the studio trying not to be pissed. She took it personally whenever something like this happened. The main anchor was the face of the station. It was easy to be mad at her engineers and the loss of the live shot. The station had been promoting the story for two days, and it was disappointing to everyone involved in tonight’s newscast. The live shot was the whole story.
Jack Router, TV3’s news director, rushed into the news production control room. “What happened to our live shot?” he screamed.
Jack was a serious newsman; he pushed his newsroom kids to take their game to a considerably higher level than what a television station in market 163 should be performing at.
He called to an assistant. “I’m going out to the Hyatt. Keep Jennie in the anchor chair. Roll the other live truck and let’s get some more reporters down there. We need to figure this out on the run until we know what’s going on. Call everyone in and see if we have someone close to the scene.”

Jack ran out of the control room, out the station door and to his station vehicle in the parking lot.

Bill Evans is a 45 year broadcast veteran who has turned writer. His first novel, Murder at Broadcast Park, was released in October, 2017 by Koehler Books. His second book in the Broadcast Murder series will be released in the summer of 2018. Both books are being considered for TV Movies. Bill writes with a lot of dialogue and in the words of his publisher, "doesn't use a lot of word calories."

With his experience and insight of what goes on behind the scenes in the broadcast world, Bill's novel is able to paint a vivid picture of what really happens when the cameras are off. Leaving you on the edge of your seat, you will not want to put "Murder at Broadcast Park" down. The story is fiction with so much non-fiction thrown in you might not know the difference by the time you finish.

Currently Bill resides on California's beautiful Central Coast. He continues to have a passion in the broadcast world and working in local media. Bill has developed a love of writing and is excited about the launching of his writing career.

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#BookTour & #Giveaway: Thetis by @Greg_Boose Greg Boose #SilverDaggerBookTours

The Deep Sky Saga Book 2
by Greg Boose
Genre: YA Sci-fi Fantasy
Pub Date: 10/8/18

Lost meets The 100 in this action-packed YA science fiction series.
Blind and broken, orphaned teenager Jonah Lincoln reluctantly boards a rescue ship bound for the planet Thetis, but not before it picks up a few more surprising and dangerous survivors from the massacre on the moon Achilles. After regaining his sight, Jonah sees the gated colony on Thetis is just as he feared–cloaked in mystery and under an oppressive rule with no one to trust–and that outside the walls, it’s even worse. Surrounded by terrifying new landscapes and creatures, Jonah and his friends fight to save the colony and restore order to the planet.


The gray grass under Jonah’s boots pops and shatters with every step. He follows the adults into the trees, stepping where they step, bracing his hands where theirs just were. It’s hot and sticky, and his gray jumpsuit clings to his skin like wet tissues.
“We found the yellow jacket right over there,” the woman says, pointing to the bottom of a large, twisted tree. “Showed up in our headlights while we’re headed back to camp.”

Jonah stares at the tree and the blood on its trunk, wondering why they didn’t leave the jacket where it was for evidence, or immediately investigate once they found it. He also wonders whose blood it is. Did Paul wake up and attack Dr. Z, ripping her jacket off and then chasing her into the forest? Or did Dr. Z carve up Paul’s skin with some new message to warn the others?
He stumbles past everyone, making his own path, and soon finds himself standing on the edge of a cliff. Half a mile below, thousands of geysers erupt in the valley, creating an enormous cloud of green mist that hovers overhead, blocking out the sun. The cliff Jonah stands on goes on for miles and miles, almost completely circling the valley. Way off on his right, a series of waterfalls descend the cliff into a giant pool that narrows and funnels into a twisting stream, cutting right through the geysers on the valley floor.
“You see those little black dots in all those waterfalls?” the woman asks as she comes up behind him.
Jonah thinks he might see some black specks in the water when he squints but can’t be sure.
The woman holds her sheaf out in front of Jonah’s face and turns on the camera. She raises her chin, triggering the zoom function, and suddenly it’s as if they’re hovering right above a waterfall halfway up the cliff. On her screen, small horned animals with squashed, pig-like faces bob up and down in the water above one of the falls. There are hundreds of them, maybe thousands. And they go over the falls seemingly without worry, plummeting with their short arms held above their heads. The woman zooms in even closer on a couple of the animals, following them all the way down the cliff, down waterfall after waterfall, and when they finally reach the giant pool at the bottom, they go underwater and never resurface, disappearing without a trace. Her sheaf scans the pool’s surface and then follows the stream cutting through the valley. Not one of the animals floats through. Thousands keep coming down the falls, and then they’re gone.
“Are they…Dying? Are they killing themselves?” Jonah asks.
“Maybe,” the woman answers. “But we don’t know for sure because we can’t find any bodies. They just,” she snaps her fingers, “go away. Even with our drones, we can’t figure it out. Yet.”
Jonah watches for a few more seconds before his eyes are drawn to a splattering of blood near his feet. There’s more to his left, and he quickly starts to follow it down a ridge that hugs the cliff’s edge.
“Yo, Firstie,” Vespa says behind him. “Wait up.”
The man with the ponytail suddenly pushes past Vespa and then Jonah, descending the ridge in a jog with series of loud, hacking coughs, his head still nodding, his rifle bouncing on his back.
“He lives for this kind of stuff,” the woman says as she drops in line behind Vespa. The bald man takes up the rear, whistling and clicking his tongue as if this is just a walk in the park.
“Does he keep nodding because of the…What’s wrong?” Vespa asks.
“It’s from the wormhole,” the woman says. “He hasn’t been able to stop moving his head ever since we went through two years ago. Even does it in his sleep, from what I’ve heard.”
The ridge continues to descend and curve left, ending at a large, circular space dotted with cave entrances. As Jonah comes down the final steps of the ridge, he doesn’t know where to look: at the half-circle of black doorways punched into the stone, or at the small sculptures all around him; rocks of all sizes and shapes are stacked on top of each other, balancing and wobbling in the swirling wind that sweeps through the area.
“Who the hell made those?” Vespa asks.
A low groan comes from one of the caves. The man with the ponytail whips his gun off his back and looks through his scope, nodding and bobbing the barrel of the rifle from cave to cave until pointing at one on the left. “He’s in there.”

The Deep Sky Saga Book 1

Young colonists find themselves stranded on an unpopulated moon—and not as alone as they thought—in a series debut from the author of The Red Bishop.

The year is 2221, and humans have colonized a planet called Thetis in the Silver Foot Galaxy. After a tragic accident kills dozens of teenage colonists, Thetis’s leaders are desperate to repopulate. So Earth sends the Mayflower 2a state-of-the-art spaceship—across the universe to bring new homesteaders to the colony.
For orphaned teen Jonah Lincoln, the move to Thetis is a chance to reinvent himself, to be strong and independent and brave, the way he could never be on Earth. But his dreams go up in smoke when their ship crash-lands, killing half the passengers and leaving the rest stranded—not on Thetis, but on its cruel and unpopulated moon, Achilles.
Between its bloodthirsty alien life forms and its distance from their intended location, Achilles is a harrowing landing place. When all of the adult survivors suddenly disappear, leaving the teenage passengers to fend for themselves, Jonah doubts they’ll survive at all, much less reach Thetis—especially when it appears Achilles isn’t as uninhabited as they were led to believe.


The fourth of six kids, Greg Boose grew up on a large produce farm in northeast Ohio. He received his undergraduate degree from Miami University, and then later received his M.F.A. at Minnesota State University Moorhead where he focused on screenwriting and fiction. He lives in Santa Monica with his two young daughters.

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