Pages

Wednesday, April 6, 2022

Blog Tour: Review & Excerpt of At Any Cost by Andrea Kane

At Any Cost by Andrea Kane Banner

At Any Cost by Andrea Kane

Genre: Suspense Thriller
Published by: Bonnie Meadow Publishing LLC
Publication Date: March 22nd 2022
Number of Pages: 384
ISBN: 168232043X (ISBN13: 9781682320433)
Series: Forensic Instincts #9 | Each Can Be Read as a Stand Alone Novel
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Aimee Bregman had the perfect life. She had an enviable job as head of marketing for an up-and-coming CBD-infused beer that was taking the tri-state area by storm. She had cultivated a massive social media following that showcased the beer at college campus parties and alumni events―and had fun doing it. She had an attentive, steady boyfriend and friends who believed in her. Everything was going right.

But when her long-time mentor, Rita, sets up a business meeting with an important influencer―her life crashes all around her. The casual meeting over drinks suddenly devolves into a shouting match between all parties, and any chance of a new business relationship is over before it begins. Hours later, when the NYPD shows up at Aimee's apartment, questioning her about Rita's abrupt disappearance―foul play suspected―Aimee realizes she's in way over her head.

Fearing that Rita has been murdered, and that she may be next, Aimee hires Forensic Instincts to keep her safe and figure out what's really going on.

Forensic Instincts, a brilliant investigative firm who walks the fine line between legal and illegal, solves challenging and high-profile cases when the bureaucratic restrictions imposed on law enforcement get in the way of achieving results. But neither Aimee nor Forensic Instincts realize how ruthless, how connected, their adversaries are. As dangerous and powerful people are threatened with exposure, anyone is fair game for elimination. And when multiple victims die at the hands of a sociopathic serial killer, it gets harder and harder to tell where the battle lines are drawn… and who might die next.


My thoughts:

At Any Cost is the 9th book in the Forensic Instincts.  This time around, the team is tasked with investigating the disappearance of Aimee's mentor.  The answer might tie back to one of the team and involve a serial killer. These can be read as stand alones for the mystery aspect.  However, by book 9, there are a couple of relationships that have progressed throughout the series.  It has been nice watching them grow over the series. Some might think that by jumping into the series at this point it would spoil things.

I really enjoyed this installment.  The mystery was solid with a couple of twists that kept me guessing.  I have been a fan of this series overall because I love the team as a whole.  I think Casey will always be my favorite.  I have loved watching them grow as a team and friends.   I won't spoil anything, but I do recommend this one.  I also recommend the entire series.  




Read an excerpt:

1

Brightington University
Birchmont, Westchester County, New York
Eight years ago

A kill for a kill.

Weeks of watching and waiting. Plans devised. Soon to be meticulously executed. Mid-November. Football season nearing its peak. Thursday night. Nine p.m. Campus in early-weekend party mode. Undergrads drinking. Smoking up at the frat houses. Athletic building deserted.

Nearly deserted.

His target was there. Alone. Thursday night was his late night during football season. That’s when he reviewed his game strategy and player weaknesses. That’s when he targeted the next eager kid to torture until he broke.

The bastard wouldn’t be breaking anyone ever again. Not the way he’d broken Hank.

As the star quarterback in high school, Hank had gotten a full-ride Division 1 scholarship. Since he’d come from a dirt-poor family, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. A first-rate college education with a shot at the NFL. It was supposed to be a life-changing event.

Instead it turned out to be a death sentence.

His executioner had been Pete Rice. Football coach? Bullshit. Rice hadn’t coached Hank; he’d tortured him, driven him—until he’d blown out his knee on a rain-soaked football field junior year, ending his college career, his dreams. And in the end, his life.

It was first down and goal.

Rice was about to find out the true meaning of payback.

The campus grounds were soggy, leftover patches of wet leaves and an endless span of slick grass, made worse by the cold, steady rainfall. The bare trees swayed as rain pounded their branches. A wet mess. Treacherous, like a wet football field.

Slugging through the debris, he approached the athletic building, pausing yards away to don the black ski mask. He then tugged his hood back into place. No point in taking chances. Security cameras were everywhere. He didn’t need his face to be captured. Other than the mask, he could be any college student. A waterproof parka that swallowed up his body. Jeans and combat boots. Standard college garb.

He reached the building and slid Hank’s ID card into the entry slot. The card still worked. Too soon for it to be deactivated.

He was in. He wriggled into his latex gloves.

The office door was unlocked. Rice was at his desk, files spread across it. He was scribbling something on one of them, brows knit in concentration, totally focused on his work.

Clueless that he was about to die.

In one fluid motion, he was inside the office, the door closed behind him. Rice leapt to his feet, snatching the heavy football trophy on his desk as he rounded the front of it to defend himself against the intruder.

Without a word, the killer whipped out a pistol and fired two bullets, one into each of Rice’s kneecaps. Rice howled, collapsing to the floor in pain. The trophy hit the floor beside him with a thud.

The assailant moved quickly—four long strides until he was behind Rice, dragging him back to his chair and heaving him into it. He shoved a rag in the coach’s mouth to stifle his screams, then moved behind him, wrapping a strong arm in a choke hold around Rice’s throat. He pocketed his pistol, pulled out a zip tie, and leaned down to cinch the writhing man’s ankles together. That done, he slapped a digital voice recorder on the desk, with the record feature on. He yanked the rag out of Rice’s mouth, tossed it aside, and anchored his forearm against the left side of the coach’s neck, using his free hand to pull as tight against the carotid artery as he chose to—for now.

A rush of power surged through him. He could taste victory.

But there was work to be done before the final play.

“You killed Hank Bishop,” he growled. “I want details.”

When he got no answer, only a violent trembling of Rice’s body, he tightened the pressure around his neck. “Talk.”

“Car crash…” the coach gasped. “I didn’t…”

“Wrong answer.” His grip tightened still more, enough so Rice was on the verge of losing consciousness. The coach struggled in vain, his struggles weak and fading.

His soon-to-be executioner eased the pressure the tiniest fraction. He knew just what it would take. And he wasn’t ready. Not until he got what he wanted.

“Wanna die?” he asked in a flat tone that was chillingly devoid of emotion.

Terrified, blood oozing down his legs, Rice gave a feeble shake of his head.

“Good. Because this is what it will feel like.”

He increased the pressure until Rice passed out. Slowly, he eased the choke hold until the scumbag came to.

“Now I’ll ask my question again,” he said calmly. “Why is Hank dead? Why was he in that car crash? This is your last chance. I want to hear it all—what you did, how you did it, what you drove him to.”

Rice was drenched in sweat, his entire body shuddering, choking sounds coming from his throat.

No further coercion was necessary.

Between gasps for air, the coach spilled his guts, revealing everything he’d done, everything that had happened—plus a whole lot more that was happening still.

Interesting stuff. Some of which he knew about. Still more of which he didn’t. It was even bigger than what he’d come here to learn. But frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He’d originally planned to take the voice recorder with him to relive Rice’s agonized confession whenever he chose to. But it really didn’t matter. He’d committed the bastard’s words to memory. So instead, he’d leave the recorder here, let the cops hear the entire confession, including the big-picture part that had nothing to do with Hank but that would send their investigation in the entirely wrong direction—a direction his employer wouldn’t appreciate, but that was his problem.

His adrenaline pumping, he tightened his choke hold into a death grip, pressing against the carotid artery, closing it off and squeezing the life out of his victim.

A minute later, Rice was dead.

***

Excerpt from At Any Cost by Andrea Kane. Copyright 2022 by Andrea Kane. Reproduced with permission from Andrea Kane. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Andrea Kane

Andrea Kane is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty-one novels, including seventeen psychological thrillers and fourteen historical romantic suspense titles. With her signature style, Kane creates unforgettable characters and confronts them with life-threatening danger. As a master of suspense, she weaves them into exciting, carefully-researched stories, pushing them to the edge—and keeping her readers up all night.
Kane’s first contemporary suspense thriller, Run for Your Life, became an instant New York Times bestseller.

She followed with a string of bestselling psychological thrillers including No Way Out, Twisted and Drawn in Blood.

Her latest in the highly successful Forensic Instincts series, At Any Cost, showcases the dynamic, eclectic team of investigators as they square off against a criminal organization with a serial killer as a hit man. The first showcase of Forensic Instincts’ talents came with the New York Times bestseller, The Girl Who Disappeared Twice, followed by The Line Between Here and Gone, The Stranger You Know, The Silence That Speaks, The Murder That Never Was, A Face To Die For, Dead In A Week, No Stone Unturned and At Any Cost.

Kane’s beloved historical romantic suspense novels include My Heart’s Desire, Samantha, Echoes in the Mist, and Wishes in the Wind.

With a worldwide following of passionate readers, her books have been published in more than twenty languages.

Kane lives in New Jersey with her family. She’s an avid crossword puzzle solver and a diehard Yankees fan.

Catch Up With Andrea Kane:
AndreaKane.com
Goodreads
BookBub
Instagram - @authorandreakane
Twitter - @andrea_kane
Facebook - @AuthorAndreaKane

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

 

 

 

ENTER THE GIVEAWAY:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Andrea Kane. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

Tuesday, April 5, 2022

Release Day Blitz: Savage Temptation by Lark Anderson

Title: Savage Temptation
Series: Savage in Love
Author: Lark Anderson
Genre: Contemporary Romance, Brother's Best Friend, Adult
Release Date: April 5, 2022







Forbidden fruit never tasted so good…

Tessa
I did a bad, bad thing.
Epically bad.
The kind of bad that can land you in prison.
Instead, it landed me in the bed of Atticus Savage, my brother’s best friend.
And boy does he not seem happy about it.
Cast out of his world and into his icy gaze, I have to find a way to move on with my life without him in it. I try not to let it bother me, but Atticus played the leading role in all my girlhood fantasies.
Now, he’s my real life villain.

Atticus
Tessa Campbell will always be the one woman I can never have. The proverbial forbidden fruit. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting her, and when I find her sneaking around my penthouse, things get physical.
It felt too good to be a mistake, but when she dashes the next morning, I realize that my delight was her regret.
But when a strange twist of fate reunites us, hidden feelings are confessed. Tessa makes a bold proposition: become friends with benefits—but only for thirty days.
There’s no way I can say no, but as the clock ticks down, I quickly realize that a lifetime with Tessa would never be enough.
Now all I have to do that convince her that I’ll be her happily-ever-after.











Lark Anderson is a USA Today bestselling author and a self-proclaimed nit-picking nerd. She has over a dozen hilarious contemporary romance novels out and is excited to explore writing shifter romances.

In her free time, she enjoys hanging out with her family, playing Magic: The Gathering, reading, and binge-watching television.




HOSTED BY:

Monday, April 4, 2022

Review: The Night Shift by Alex Finlay

Author: Alex Finlay
Publisher: Minatour Books
Publication date: March 2022

It’s New Year’s Eve 1999. Y2K is expected to end in chaos: planes falling from the sky, elevators plunging to earth, world markets collapsing. A digital apocalypse. None of that happens. But at a Blockbuster Video in Linden, New Jersey, four teenage girls working the night shift are attacked. Only one survives. Police quickly identify a suspect who flees and is never seen again.

Fifteen years later, in the same town, four teenage employees working late at an ice cream store are attacked, and again only one makes it out alive.

Both surviving victims recall the killer speaking only a few final words... “Goodnight, pretty girl.”

In the aftermath, three lives intersect: the survivor of the Blockbuster massacre who’s forced to relive her tragedy; the brother of the original suspect, who’s convinced the police have it wrong; and the FBI agent, who’s determined to solve both cases. On a collision course toward the truth, all three lives will forever be changed, and not everyone will make it out alive.

The Night Shift is a mystery that follows a therapist who, 15 years before, was the sole survivor of a fatal attack in a video rental shop.  Now, there has been another attack in an ice cream shop and there is another final girl left alive.  The story is told in multiple perspectives and in two timelines.  

I really enjoyed this one.  I didn't call most of the twists or the killer.  The alternating timelines and multiple perspectives kept the pace of the story moving quickly.  It wasn't hard to keep everyone straight.  I felt like the author did a good job of making each voice distinct enough.  It was refreshing because that can be hard to pull off.  My favorite character was the FBI agent.  She is a character I would love to read more about. Her husband was so stinking sweet.  This is the first book I have read by this author and it won't be my last.  I highly recommend it.


Sunday, April 3, 2022

Book DNF's of March



Freaks:  I got about 2 chapters in and I knew I wasn't going to like this one.  I felt like I had seen this plot in a movie.  The bullying portion in the beginning was way over the top. The conversations were cheesy. I started to roll my eyes when the kids were leaping in the air really high after they got their "powers".  Maybe I would have liked this more in middle school. So it's probably a "it's me, not you" thing.


Smile and Look Pretty
:  I wanted to love this one, but I got about 20% in and knew I was going to lose interest.  The premise is interesting, but one I started getting to know the women, I lost respect for them.  I know it's probably controversial, but no career is worth being treated like they were being treated.  I couldn't get behind the revenge plots.


Truth or Beard
:  This will be an unpopular opinion, but I really did not like this book.  The opening scene where the heroine is basically accosted by one twin thinking it was the other twin was gross.  I was really put off by it.  I didn't find anything funny about it.  I tried  to listen to a bit more of the audiobook, but it got worse.  I don't recommend this one.


Reprieve
:  Bored.  I was so bored listening to this book.  I'm not sure what the appeal was for others.  It may have been the set up of the story.  We get back story on all of the characters before they even get to the escape house.  I would have liked it more if we had started in the escape room house  and got flash backs.  I was so bored I didn't care to see what happened to them in the house.



Saturday, April 2, 2022

Spotlight: Excerpt from A Forgery of Roses by Jessica S. Olson

 


by Jessica S. Olson
On sale: March 29, 2022
ISBN: 9781335418661 
Inkyard Press
Teen & Young Adult; Fantasy; Romance
$19.99 / $24.99 CAN
384 Pages
 
From the author of Sing Me Forgotten comes a lush new fantasy novel with an art-based magic system, romance, and murder…

Myra has a gift many would kidnap, blackmail, and worse to control: she’s a portrait artist whose paintings alter people’s bodies. Guarding that secret is the only way to keep her younger sister safe now that their parents are gone. But one frigid night, the governor’s wife discovers the truth and threatens to expose Myra if she does not complete a special portrait that would resurrect the governor's dead son.
Once she arrives at the legendary stone mansion, however, it becomes clear the boy’s death was no accident. A killer stalks these halls--one disturbingly obsessed with portrait magic. Desperate to get out of the manor as quickly as possible, Myra turns to the governor’s older son for help completing the painting before the secret she spent her life concealing makes her the killer’s next victim.


Enjoy this excerpt:


When ladyroses burn, they bleed. 

“A symbol of life,” Mother used to say when we would bend over the smoke together. 

But now, as I hold f lame to stem, as I watch hungry, glowing embers devour leaves and thorns, as f loral perfume curdles to ribbons of soot in my nose, I know she was wrong. For when the fire reaches the petals, they shrivel, curling as though in pain. And then they melt. Great fat rubies dribbling over my fingers and smattering into my bowl like gore. 

Mother called it beautiful. But now that she and Father have gone, all I see is death. 

Gritting my teeth, I tear my gaze from the slow trickle of red and try to steady the quake of my movements as I drop the scorched ladyrose stems into the trash bin and blow out my candle. Crossing to a pot of water I’ve got heating over the fire in the corner, I tip the bowl of ladyrose drippings in. 

As soon as it hits the water, the rose blood fans out, a spiderweb of shimmering scarlet veins crawling through the pot until the whole thing clouds like it’s full of sparkling garnet dust. I dip a spoon into the mixture and stir. It bubbles, smokes, and blackens.

Closing my eyes, I breathe in the sharp, cloying scent. Mother used to come home every day smelling like this—her clothes, her hair, her skin. With my head thick in a fog of exhaustion, it’s easy to allow myself to imagine she’s here next to me, chatting happily about how mixing burnt umber with ultramarine blue makes a far superior black than the tube of flat paint many artists purchase at the store. “It creates a more eye-catching hue,” I can almost hear her say. “Make the shadows breathe, Myra.”

From across the studio, the piercing laugh of my employer, portrait artist Elsie Moore, breaks through my thoughts, and I sigh as the echo of Mother’s voice fades from my mind.

How long will it be before I forget what that sounded like?

Forcing away thoughts of Mother, I continue stirring the contents of my pot. Another few minutes, and it should be ready to remove from the heat, cover, and set in a cool place to coagulate. Three days hence, the bubbling charcoal syrup will thicken into a clear jellylike substance that I’ll then transfer into tubes to stock alongside Elsie’s paints, solvents, and brushes. Ladyrose gel. A painting medium I both revere and fear.

I toss the spoon into the sink and wrap a towel around the pot. Then I hoist it to the counter beneath the window to cool and drape a cloth over its top. Satisfied, I turn to my next task of the morning: a bouquet of dirty brushes waiting to be cleaned. As I unscrew the cap from a bottle of turpentine, I let my gaze wander to where Elsie’s putting the finishing touches on a portrait of Mrs. Ramos across the room. Cadmium bright paints, eye-catching phthalo hues, and quinacridone details swirl together like smoke on Elsie’s canvas. She holds her brushes with a steady hand, chattering animatedly to Mrs. Ramos without a care in the world.

What would it be like to paint so freely? To wield a brush without the threat of magic commandeering the portrait? To give in to the high of pure creation?

Painting used to be like that for me, back before my powers sparked to life a few years ago. In those days, there was no greater ecstasy than the promise of a blank canvas and a palette full of colors. Before magic, painting was magic.

The memory of it is enough to make me weep.

I press the bristles of a filbert brush against the coil at the bottom of the jar of turpentine to loosen the oils, but when Elsie gasps, I glance back up.

“No!” She presses a dramatic hand to her heart. “Wilburt Jr.? What does he have?”

Mrs. Ramos, sitting daintily on a settee in a pale pink dress, nods, her mouth twisted in a frown. “The papers don’t say. I think it could be pneumonia, though. It’s been going around this year. Mrs. Potsworth down the street passed away from a nasty case of it not last week!”

I frown. The only Wilburt Jr. they can possibly be talking about is the governor’s son. A tall, strikingly handsome boy around my age whom I’ve only ever glimpsed at Lalverton city events.

Pursing my lips, I set aside the turpentine and dunk the brushes into the sink. Soap bubbles in my palm as I work it through the bristles, and I stare absently out the window at the snow swirling in the street and the passersby kicking through muddy slush on the sidewalk. I fall into a rhythm, imagining I’m back at the flat my family used to live in downtown. Mother is at my side in front of the kitchen sink, scrubbing burnt sienna out from underneath her fingernails. Father bustles in through the door, arms laden with bowls of leftover soups from his restaurant. My little sister, Lucy, rushes at him, asking if her pet frog can have the lobster bisque. You know it’s his favorite, Pa!

“Myra?” Elsie says behind me, and I jump, dropping the brushes, which hit the bottom of the basin with a faint series of plinks.

“Ms. Moore!” I say, looking back to where she was chatting with Mrs. Ramos earlier. I catch sight of the curly haired woman tugging a coat over her dress as she heads out the door. “You scared me.”

Elsie chuckles, thunking down another cupful of dirty brushes. “An ox could sneak up on you, dear. You spend too much time in your head.” She turns her back to me and gestures at the buttons down her spine. “Help me off with my smock, please.”

I obey. Sweat glistens on the back of her neck, dampening the gray curls that have escaped her tight bun.

“I know it’s not my place to ask questions,” the old woman continues, patting at her hair, “but…are you sleeping? How’s Lucy?”

I paste on a neutral expression and slide the smock from Elsie’s shoulders. “The same.”

She sighs. “I do wish I could help.”

The words are like a backhanded blow. I wonder what Mother would think if she heard them. Whether Father would scoff in that indignant way of his at the blatant lie.

I stare at my feet to keep from glancing at the fat amethysts drooping from Elsie’s soft white earlobes, the glitter of half a dozen gold chains around her neck, or the bulbous gems on her gnarled fingers. Any one of those sold to a jeweler would fetch the money Lucy and I need, but three months ago when I came begging Elsie for the help she claims she wishes she could give me, she balked at the idea. Said it would do me no favors to hand me a reward I didn’t earn.

I knew before I even asked her that she would say no. If there’s anything life has taught me, it’s that I can’t count on anyone but my sister. We’re all each other has. And, in the past, that would have been enough. But with Lucy’s illness having taken a turn for the worse and our funds being too meager to afford the medical care she needs, Elsie’s patronizing words about “wishing she could help” make me want to scream.

“How was Mrs. Ramos?” I ask a bit too brightly as I fold the smock into a tidy little square and set it on a pile of linens I plan to wash tomorrow.

Elsie draws the back of her hand across her brow. “She’s doing well, I think. Her son is visiting this week.”

“The senator?”

“Yes. He took her to see Governor Harris’s public address yesterday.” Her expression sours.

“And?” I ask, not sure if I want to hear any more.

“She said the governor went on for at least five minutes berating Lalverton citizens for buying paintings and thus making light of the Holy Artist’s divinity.” She huffs. “That man is never going to let it go, is he?”

I groan. “When is he going to remember he’s not a priest and that people’s worship is not actually his concern?”

“He also said allowing secular art to become such a thriving business is the reason so many painters have gone missing. He apparently thinks it’s a sign that the Artist is displeased.”

I hiss through my teeth.

Painters have been disappearing one by one over the past year, starting with my mother, and yet the governor—the man whose duty it is to protect Lalverton—has done nothing. No major investigations, no questions asked.

Because we are the scum of the earth to him. Worse, even.

It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I used to be forced to stand by as pompous worshippers spit on my mother, accusing her of desecrating the Artist by painting for profit. I watched others cross the street when they passed Elsie’s studio, as though merely being in the presence of such heresy could taint their souls.

As the years have trickled by, though, the disdain seems to have eased up a bit. Only the most devout hold painters like Elsie and Mother in such contempt. The majority of people don’t seem to mind what we do, and in recent months, portraiture has become quite popular in Lalverton.

But anytime Governor Harris goes on one of his burn-all-the-studios-to-the-ground rampages, my heart sinks.

I want to be a painter, just like Mother was—is—but it seems that particular life will always come with a healthy measure of judgment and disgust.

Elsie drops her voice to a whisper. “My bet—and don’t you dare repeat this to a soul, dear—is that the governor is exterminating us one by one himself. Wiping us out like stink bugs under his boot.”

A jolt zaps through my body.

Elsie registers my expression. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I should not have—”

“It’s fine,” I say, my voice a pitch too high as the image of my parents under Governor Harris’s boot, twitching like a pair of dead insects, makes my stomach churn.

“Besides—” Elsie flounders for words “—the fact that your father is among the missing is a testament to the fact that it’s not only painters, right?” She gives a nervous chuckle, as if such a statement should comfort me.

I stare at her.

The bell on the front door tinkles.

“Mr. Markleton!” Elsie almost shouts, diving across the room toward the short, balding merchant in the doorway in her hurry to get away from me. “Right on time, as usual!” Her voice fills the air with exaggerated cheeriness. “Come, come!” She weaves among easels stacked with paintings in varying stages of completion and directs Mr. Markleton to a cushy settee in front of one of the backdrops that line the far wall.

“Brought along this—I know how you love to keep up on the Lalverton gossip,” he says with a smile, offering Elsie a rolled-up newspaper.

“Oh, yes! I heard about Governor Harris’s son.” She nods at me to take the paper. “But I did want to read the story myself. Thank you for bringing it along.”

Mr. Markleton gives me a friendly wink as I carry the newspaper to the back table. Elsie’s careless words about the missing people, about my parents, echo ceaselessly in my head, and I try to catch my breath as a wave of nausea rolls through me.

Elsie means well, I know that. She’s always had a knack for speaking before she thinks.

And it’s not like I could ever forget my parents are missing anyway. My whole world unraveled when they vanished, and it’s only gotten harder the past few months as our bank accounts have emptied. We can scarcely afford food and rent, let alone the medical care Lucy needs now that her illness has worsened.

We had our whole lives planned out. I was to attend the Lalverton Conservatory for Music and the Arts when I turned eighteen next spring, just like Mother. I would graduate with highest marks, just like Mother. Then I would open my own studio, just like Mother did here with Elsie.

Lucy, who was only twelve when our parents disappeared, was already on track to be accepted into some of the most prestigious biology programs in the country. She planned to change the world with her discoveries. Improve the environment and save endangered animals.

But now, those plans are nothing more than dreams from another life. A memory of wishes that will never come true. I’ve spent the past several months painting portraits until dawn to build up a portfolio in hopes of securing one of the full-ride scholarships the conservatory offers, but…well. Thanks to my magic’s interference, my portfolio is meager at best. I have a better chance at winning a scholarship to the moon.

Maybe my dreams were foolish anyway. Keeping my power from being discovered in a place like the conservatory would have been difficult. I don’t know how Mother managed it.

Rubbing a fist over my aching eyes, I glance down at the newspaper in my hands. A black-and-white photograph of a square-jawed man smiles kindly back at me from the front page. Why do I recognize him?

I unfurl the paper and read the article.

The body of Frederick Bennett, who was reported missing eight years ago, was discovered in the cellar of Roderick Lowell’s home last week.

My fists tighten on the paper, crinkling it. Of course I know his face. Frederick Bennett's somber eyes have stared out from missing-person posters all over the city since I was nine years old. Mother told me she knew him from the conservatory and always wondered if he was a Prodigy like her. When he disappeared, she said she hoped he hadn’t been kidnapped and coerced into using his magic for someone cruel and desperate.

With unease stinging in my gut, I read on.

Autopsy reports reveal that the cause of death was starvation, though many lacerations, bruises, and broken bones were observed. Extensive scarring on his back and arms was noted, as well.

Lowell, a prominent stockholder in Lalverton, has declined to respond to inquiries and is being held for questioning at the Lalverton Police Station.

A roaring fills my ears, and I stumble back several steps before sinking into Elsie’s chair.

The report doesn’t say the word “Prodigy,” but it doesn’t have to.

Prodigy magic, which flows through my body just as it did through Mother’s, gives an artist the ability to alter human and animal bodies with their paintings, and it is considered by the Church to be even more of an abomination than normal portrait work. According to scripture, my very existence is a defilement of the power of our god, the Great Artist. Prodigies like us have been persecuted by the pious and captured by the greedy since the dawn of time. My head is full of the stories Mother told from her history books, the ones in which entire nations banded together to force a Prodigy to do their bidding. Where the holy priests burned them at the stake to cleanse the world of what they believed to be sinful imitation of the Artist.

As centuries have passed, the number of Prodigies in the world has dwindled—though whether it’s because their genetic lines have been killed off or because the ones who have survived have kept their powers hidden like Mother, it’s hard to say. With men like Governor Harris in charge of regions across the world, men willing to falsify charges in order to get Prodigies locked up in the name of “purifying” their streets, there’s no telling how many of us are out there, hiding.

All I know is that someone found out what Mother was, and then she and Father vanished.

Just like Frederick Bennett.

A flicker of orange flashes in the corner of my eye from the front window, and I glance up from the paper. A small red-haired woman stands outside the studio entrance with a tiny white dog in a sparkling collar tucked under one arm. She nudges the door open, sending the bell above it tinkling once again. A swirl of snow twists into the room as she slips inside, and I stifle a gasp when I catch sight of her face.

Mrs. Adelia Harris, wife to the merciless governor set on destroying every art studio in town, meets my gaze with a cold, hard stare. I tighten my grip on the newspaper.

With her husband’s reelection campaign in full swing, her son in a sickbed, and her belief that portrait art is a sin of the vilest degree, what could she possibly want with us?

Elsie catches sight of her and leaps to her feet with a gasp, knocking over her stool, which clangs against the tile.

“Hello.” Mrs. Harris’s voice is quiet. Lethal. “I’d like to get a portrait done.”


Excerpted from A Forgery of Roses by Jessica S. Olson © 2022 by Jessica S. Olson, used with permission by Inkyard Press/HarperCollins. 




ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Photo Credit:
Breanna Olson

Jessica S. Olson claims New Hampshire as her home but has somehow found herself in Texas, where she spends most of her time singing praises to the inventor of the air conditioner. When she's not hiding from the heat, she's corralling her four wild—but adorable—children, dreaming up stories about kissing and murder and magic, and eating peanut butter by the spoonful straight from the jar. She earned a bachelor’s in English with minors in editing and French, which essentially means she spent all of her university time reading and eating French pastries. She is the author of Sing Me Forgotten (2021) and A Forgery of Roses (2022).

Friday, April 1, 2022

March Mini Musings




Right Next Door
:  This is a very quick novella that packs in a lot of steam and angst.  I liked both of the characters.  I was rooting for them to find a HEA.  Bonus, the kids were cute and not annoying. Definitely worth picking up.

The Bachelor Bargain: This is one of the most enjoyable historical romances that I have read in a long time.  I just had so much fun reading this one.  The hero and heroine were great characters and I loved them together.  Their banter was wonderful.  I definitely recommend this one


Hot Secrets:  I enjoyed this romantic suspense.  Royce was a little too alpha for me at times, but I got used to it.  I especially loved when Lauren put him in his place.   They had great chemistry.  I also really liked the secondary characters, especially Royce's brothers.  I didn't call the twist at the end.  This looks to be a great series.  I can't wait to read the next one.
A Very Mountain Man Valentine's Day:  This is a very quick romance.  I thought it was cute and loved that the couple had corresponded for months before actually meeting. Taking a leap of faith, Rory surprises  Rhodes and the sparks fly. I wanted to shake Rhodes often for his stubbornness. I was rooting for them the entire story. Give this one a try.