Tour Stop/Giveaway: The Chimera Snare by S&E Black

 

Witness the vile acts of a monstrous heart.

Feel the vicious clash of duality in conflict.

Know the light of protection through valiant courage. 

The Chimera Snare: Reflections

The Chimera Snare Book 2

by S & E Black

Genre: Dark Epic Fantasy

-Winner: 2026 Literary Titan Gold Book Awards: Fiction
-2nd Place: 2026 BookFest Awards - Fiction- Dark Fantasy
-Book Nerdection "Must Read"
-Readers' Favorite: 5 Stars

 

Von is cast into the pages of Ananael, the Order's tome of secret knowledge. However, his venture into the past takes an unexpected turn as he awakens within a cosmic void in the presence of the eternal being, who grants him perspective through others woven through his existence. Yet before he may commence his time-altering quest, a trial of discovery, revelation, and horror surrounding his origin awaits him.

Benson's monstrous heart sews the seeds of a vile past brimming with betrayal and hate. Through unimaginable deceptions and buried secrets, familial bonds once forged from love, honor, and acceptance are upended and broken forever. The souls of integral births, sprouting from pillaged and neglected foundations, unfurl a path towards disarray.

Distorted memory fragments challenge Von's grip on reality, and the reveal of a horrid truth ignites a vicious fury of vengeance. Though his quest for answers falters along the way, he finds help from an unexpected ally. Meanwhile, a mysterious power awakens within Navaryn, putting her at odds with both her friends and herself. And as the motivations of Celestine's leader become questionable, her suspicions involving her role within the Halryn continue to grow.

As the disparate worlds of Celestine and Daeva teeter on the brink of war, Von and Navaryn are drawn together by unseen forces. Two destinies, once parallel, now collide. But where bloodshed beckons, a valiant act of courage challenges the course of their fates.

 

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At last, an uneasy silence fell upon the sopping wet grounds, though the shambled arena creaked eerily. Von quickly Paralleled to the ground and proceeded to walk toward Navaryn’s limp body lying in a muddy crater several meters away. As he gradually brought his power down, his claws began to retract, and his horns receded into his skull. Clutching his side as he trotted along, he heard clamoring voices in the distance and a distinctive pair of boots running through the mud towards him.

“Von!” shouted a sober Claymar. “Wow, you’re alright.” He ran to his side and acted as a crutch to hold him upright. “That was, uh, really something back there. Care to explain what all that was?”

“Later,” said Von exhaustedly. “Where’s your uncle?”

“On his way, most likely. He nabbed Illiya and had her scout for other Celestines while you were off playing with the shimmery blue one. Why do you ask?”

“I need to know how much time I have,” Von replied.

“Time? For what?” he asked, peering ahead at Navaryn. His eyes widened as she slowly began to stir.

“Hold it, Clay,” ordered Von, pressing his hand against his chest to break his stride.

“What are you worried about? You got her!”

“It’s not that.”

Claymar scrunched his face and asked suspiciously, “Then what is it?”

“She’s strong,” said Von. “Immensely strong. She very well could have killed me.”

“Uh, but you’re the one still standing, are you not? Can’t be that strong,” he teased.

“Something happened, though. She lost control. Her power spiked with mine, but didn’t stay with her.”

“Ha! You almost sound like you feel sorry for her.”

Von ignored Claymar’s remarks and walked towards Navaryn, who was slowly rising to her knees with her back to him. Claymar followed behind, but Von turned to him with a furious eye.

Claymar folded his arms and asked, “W-what are you doing?”

The rain calmed, and the moon peeked through the parting clouds, casting a peaceful light onto the glistening, moist ground. Von drew closer, catching silver scintillations atop the bloodied and scorched wounds on her back.

Navaryn winced in pain as she struggled to rise to her feet, chattering her teeth as the cold, wet mud chilled her bruised skin. As squelching footsteps neared, she spun around. “W-who’s there?” she uttered, shielding the moonlight from her eyes with her forearm.

Navaryn’s inquisition made Von stop in his tracks. As her eyes adjusted to the razor-sharp rays of light over his silhouette, she quickly recognized the warm glow of his crimson eyes.

“Stop! Don’t hurt him!” Navaryn cried out.

Her strange and sudden outburst jolted Von. He looked around to find who she was pleading to, but saw no one.

“Wh-what happened to me?” Navaryn asked herself as she gazed down at her hands.

The confusion in her voice affirmed Von’s earlier assessment. “You’re fine now,” he assured. “You’re back.”

Navaryn’s eyes widened as she looked back up at Von. With the simplest of words, uttered with a palpable coldness, he gave her comfort and validation. In him, she found the first person able to convey an understanding of what she was going through when all others couldn’t begin to. An essence dwelt within her. One that seized control of her body once triggered into play, and left her only with the ability to spectate. A similar plight rang true for Von regarding his notorious beastly transformation. Yet, as his second encounter with Navaryn unfolded, his energy had learned to work in tandem with the essence that would otherwise overcome him. Von and Navaryn became locked in a stare just as before, only this time without the presence of aggression. They saw themselves in each other, in a reflection no longer distorted.

“Hey, Von!” Claymar called out. “Um, not sure what you’re doing over there, but you should know the cavalry is incoming.”

Sidwell approached with his entourage of soldiers and a vexed group of eastern Daeva in tow. As the last of his squadron funneled out of the arena, many of the ceremony attendees emerged from hiding within the surrounding brush and trees. Mixed in among the crowd were the rest of Daeva’s leaders, Killian, Morgan, Adair, and Godric, with Merisek alongside them. Weaving through the approaching crowd was Joro, whose surreptitious footsteps evaded the spotlight. Although the chattering among the crowd was indistinct, even for Von’s hearing, he could feel the tension steadily rising.

Sidwell stroked his gray, scraggly goatee, suspicious of the pair’s peculiar exchange. Marching with mighty strides, flaunting his prowess, Illiya approached him from the side.

“Have you done what I asked?”

“Yes, sir,” Illiya replied. “I’ve scouted thoroughly, and there’s no sign of any Celestine formations in the surrounding area. She seems to be the only one.”

“A spy. Just as I suspected. And a dumb one at that. She tipped a bartender with Celestine coin,” he replied with a chuckle as he dismissed his lieutenant.

Sidwell and his entourage moved in to surround Navaryn.

“Well, it took you long enough. But you managed to take down the Celestine without incident to life. That’s as much of a ‘thank you’ that you’ll get out of me,” Sidwell uttered to Von before addressing the chattering crowd. “People of Daeva! You’ve now witnessed our realm’s very threat with your own eyes…”

The Chimera Snare: Fragments

The Chimera Snare Book 1

Husband & Wife author duo Shannon Vierra & Edward Ayllon write under the pen name S & E Black. Together, they craft the award-winning series, The Chimera Snare. They share a deep appreciation for music and credit a great number of bands and artists for inspiring their writing journey. Currently, they live in the greater Chicago area amidst a rich and diverse culture with their clowder of rescue cats.

Shannon is an urban gardener and an avid seed collector. In the makeup community, she goes by the moniker zoomzoommacaron and hosts an international, zombie-themed makeup collab called the #zombabescollab. She also enjoys anime, horror movies, craft beer & kombucha, cooking (and eating), sunbathing, photography, and singing badly. Music fuels Shannon's many passions, especially writing and creating art. She credits music with saving her life on multiple occasions in her teenage and young adult years.

Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, Edward first discovered the joys of creative writing through his early high school studies, and has spent many years exploring and developing a deep appreciation for the arts. Since first collaborating with his wife, Shannon, he has sprouted a passion and true affinity for storytelling and crafting literature. In addition to refining his skill in creating written works, his other interests include playing bass guitar, listening to music, and dabbling in photography.

 

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Tour Stop & Giveaway: The Carnelion Throne

 

Estri was a daughter of light;

Chayin, a son of darkness;

Sereth, the son of all flesh.

Are they the three foretold who will make the truth of prophecy?

Guest Post with Janet Morris

Sadly, Janet Morris died in August 2024.  Perseid Press was her lifelong dream to be able to publish special editions of her own work as well as foster the efforts of new writers struggling to see their first works in print.  Perseid’s Heroes in Hell series is just that ‘proving ground’ for new storytellers and we hope they have found their way to larger audiences and fulfilling writing careers.  Although she’s gone, she left thousands of pages of exploration of people and places that could exist only in her spirited approach to storytelling.  That said, we at Perseid will continue to be the wellspring of all things Janet and want you to read the answers she wrote to the following questions before she departed: 

What is something unique/quirky about you? I breed Morgan horses. I consult with Morgan breeders to help them choose breeding combinations to achieve a desired result.

I am also a song writer; I play bass guitar with my husband Chris who sings and plays guitar. We have an album on MCA records. Look for Christopher Crosby Morris on Soundcloud or N1M.com 

Can you, for those who don't know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author? I wrote my first novel, High Couch of Silistra in 1975; a friend sent it to an agent who chose to represent me; I had already written the second book in the Silistra Quartet and my agent told me not to disclose that until they finalized the contract for the first one. When the publisher learned of the others, Bantam Books bought the succeeding three. When the fourth book was published, the series already had four million copies in print. Suddenly I was a novelist specializing in environmental, gender, historical and political subjects. In the process, Chris became my editor and ultimately a co-writer. Since then, we have co-authored many books. 

Who is your hero and why? Heraclitus of Ephesus, a pre-socratic philosopher, whose Cosmic Fragments foreshadow our knowledge of reality and how to perceive it. Among his precepts is the statement that change alone is unchanging. I’ve worked Heraclitus’ fragments in here and there throughout our books. 

Which of your novels can you imagine being made into a movie? All of them. I write cinematically, our books are vivid adventures I undertake without knowing the destination.  I, the Sun, The Sacred Band, and Outpassage are particularly suited to film. The Threshold Series is a feast of opportunities for today’s special effects creators.

What inspired you, to write The Carnelian Throne? The Silistra series was a unique departure for me and it included issues of women’s rights in the 70’s before Handmaid’s Tale. 

Convince us why you feel The Carnelian Throne is a must read.The Carnelian Throne is the final book in the Silistra series. It gave Janet a chance to talk about her intense interest in environmental issues. True to her nature, Janet tackled this by taking us to a place where environmental concerns had gone off the deep end, where civilization was trying to uncivilized itself and become more animal-like at the expense of rational governance. Although extreme at times, The Carnelian Throne chips away at popular notions on both sides of the issue. 

Who designed your book covers? Most of my covers, including The Carnelian Throne, are realized by Roy Mauritsen, a gifted graphic artist. 

Advice to writers? Janet’s advice to writers:

“As for advice to writers, here is all I know: write the story you want to read. Start at the beginning, go to the end, and stop. Seriously. From start to finish you must inhabit the construct in a manner that makes the reader choose to continue; if I, as the writer, can’t feel what it’s like being there, my readers can’t either. So close your eyes, look at your feet where they are standing on the story’s ground; tell me what you see. Tell me what you hear. Ask at the end of each paragraph ‘what happens next?’. If you lose touch with it, wait until you’re back inside it. Tell the story that comes to you, and from you, to me.”

The Carnelian Throne

The Silistra Quartet Book 4

by Janet Morris

Genre: Dystopian Epic SciFi Fantasy Romance

***** "Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure." -- C. Brown, Locus Magazine

***** "The amazing and exotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow's universe." -- Frederik Pohl

***** "The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is in Janet Morris' Silistra series: High Couch of Silistra (originally entitled Returning Creation), The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss, and The Carnelian Throne." -- Anne K. Kaler, "The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine."

"[...] today I thought I'd look at one of the most successful fantasy debuts of all time, a series that became a huge international hit with its first release, launching the career of one of the most prolific fantasy writers of the late 20th Century: Janet Morris' The Silistra Quartet.

"The Silistra Quartet began with Janet's first novel, High Couch of Silistra [...] from Bantam Books in 1977 [, ] the far-future tale of the colony planet of Silistra, still recovering from an ancient war that left the planet scarred and much of the population infertile. With a dangerously low birth-rate, it's not long before the human colonists of Silistra develop a new social order, with a hierarchy based on fertility and sexual prowess.
-- John O'Neill in Black Gate Adventures in Fantasy Literature

 

Estri was a god, and the daughter of light.
Chayin was a god, and the son of darkness.
Sereth was hase-enor, the son of all flesh.
Lovers and friends, could they be the prophesied three
who would wield the Sword of Severance, Se’Keroth,
and bring light out of dark?

“One from the east, born of ease and destined,
“One from north of south, divine, exempt of question;
the third from out the west,
Astride a tide of death,” quoted Chayin. He was not
smiling. It is a long epic. All has been foreseen. We
all know that tale’s end.”
— Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, in “Wind from the Abyss.”

 

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“Gate!” he bellowed over the storm, his dripping lips at my ear. The deluge had made us sparing of words. Under leathers soaked to thrice their weight, I shivered in spasms. Arms clutched to my sides, I stared into the rain. The driven sheets slashed me for my audacity. Lightning flared, illuminating the riverbank white. A moment later, the bright noise cracked through my head. The hillock trembled.

Over the gate danced the lightning. Its crackling fingers quested down thick-crossed slabs of iron, seared flesh. Emblazoned as they tumbled were those six-legged amphibians, their streamered tails lashing, scaled, fangful heads thrown back in dismay. I saw their afterimage: beryl and cinnabar, aglow upon the storm. Then their charred remains splashed into oblivion, spun away on the fast current.

“Down!” One man shouted, the other shoved me, and as I staggered to kneel in the sedges, the god that washed this land shook it, grumbling. I crouched on my hands and knees on the bucking sod, between them. Little protection could they offer up against shaking earth and searing sky, not even for themselves, without divorcing themselves from the reality they had come here to explore. And that they would not do.

Wind From the Abyss

The Silistra Quartet Book 3

Dystopia. Fantasy. Science fiction. Allegory. Political.

 

Wind from the Abyss is the third volume in Janet Morris' classic Silistra Quartet, continuing one woman's quest for self-realization in a distant tomorrow.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler .... She is descended from the masters of the universe. To hold her he challenges the gods themselves.

 

Praise for Janet Morris' Silistra Quartet:

"The amazing and erotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow's universe." -- Fred Pohl

"Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure." -- Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine.

"The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is Janet Morris' Silistra series." -- Anne K. Kahler, The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine.

 

This Perseid Press Author's Cut Edition is revised and expanded by the author and presented in a format designed to enhance your reading experience with larger, easy-to-read print, more generous margins, and covers designed for these premium editions.

 

Wind from the Abyss starts with this . . .

 

"Since, at the beginning of this tale, I did not recollect myself nor retain even the slightest glimmer of such understanding as would have led me to an awareness of the significance of the various occurrences that transpired at the Lake of Horns, I am adding this preface, though it was no part of my initial conception, that the meaningfulness of the events described by "Khys' Estri" (as I have come to think of the shadow-self I was while the dharen held my skills and memory in abeyance) not be withheld from you as they were from me. I knew myself not: I was Estri because the girl Carth supposedly found wandering in the forest stripped of comprehension and identity chose that name. There, perhaps, lies the greatest irony of all, that I named myself anew after Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, who in reality I had once been. And perhaps it is not irony at all, but an expression of Khys' humor, an implicit dissertation by him who structured my experiences, my very thoughts, for nearly two years, until his audacity drove him to bring together once more Sereth crill Tyris, past-Slayer, then the outlawed Ebvrasea, then arrar to the dharen himself; Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of Nemar, co-cahndor of the Taken Lands, chosen son of Tar-Kesa, and at that time Khys' puppet-vassal; and myself, former Well-Keepress, tiask of Nemar, and lastly becoming the chaldless outlaw who had come to judgment and endured ongoing retribution at the dharen's hands. To test his hesting, his power over owkahen, the time-coming-to-be, did Khys put us together, all three, in his Day-Keeper's city -- and from that moment onward, the Weathers of Life became fixed: siphoned into a singular future; sealed tight as a dead god in his mausoleum, whose every move brought him closer to the sum total, obliteration. So did the dharen Khys bespeak it, himself. . ."

  

“Morris, so good at giving us characters we can identify with, characters we can love and hate, strikes at the very heart of the human condition and the duality of humanity — both good and evil. Her prose is lean and spot-on, every word carefully chosen to enhance the milieu of her imaginary world and advance the plot, giving us access to the thoughts, emotions and machinations of the people whose stories she is presenting to us. Once again, she gives us a “thinking man’s” science fiction/fantasy that explores the nature of power and sexuality, and how they can be used, misused and abused. This is a brilliant, mature and very adult novel that will not only leave you thinking about your own place in the universe, but questioning the very nature of existence.” – Goodreads reviewer

 

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The Golden Sword

The Silistra Quartet Book 2

Dystopia. Biology shapes reality. The further adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in the galaxies of tomorrow.

She had the power to create planets. The sixty carved bones of the Yris-tera foretold her ancient fate. Her heritage of power took her beyond time and space and stole from her the one man she loved.

Enslaved on the planet Silistra, tomorrow's most beautiful courtesan unleashes the powers of the gods.

 

What readers are saying:

 

“Pure excellence…. A heroic quest of the highest calibre.” - Goodreads

 

“This is a book which makes one’s blood sing and one’s mind ponder. I loved the first in the series and enjoyed this as much, perhaps more. The ending leaves the reader desperate to know what happens to Estri next – courtesan, slave, warrior, lover, rebel. What is next for our heroine?” – Goodreads

 

“Call it what you like: science fiction, space opera, sword and planet or erotic fantasy . . . The Golden Sword is all these things, and so much more. A highly intelligent and sensual novel filled with ideas and revelations, this is a gripping story that explores human sexuality and the role it plays in politics. Although the memorable characters are bisexual, toss away all your preconceived notions, for there is a humanity, a strength of will and determination, a realism and depth of emotion to these characters that will have you thinking twice about all you know and all you think you know. This is a book for mature and discerning readers who like some meat on the bones of the books they read. Janet Morris led the way for all the science fiction authors, both male and female, who came after. “ – Joe Bonadonna, Goodreads

 

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High Couch of Silistra

The Silistra Quartet Book 1

Biology shapes reality...

One woman's mythic search for self-realization in a distant tomorrow...

Her sensuality was at the core of her world, her quest beyond the civilized stars.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler.

"Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure." - Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine

"The amazing and erotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow's universe" - Frederik Pohl

"The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is Janet Morris' Silistra series... Estri's character is most like that of Ishtar who describes herself as "'a prostitute compassionate am I'" because she "symbolizes the creative submission to the demands of instinct, to the chaos of nature ...the free woman, as opposed to the domesticated woman". Linking Estri with these lunar and water symbols is not difficult because of the moon's eternal virginity (the strength of integrity) links with her changeability (the prostitute's switching of lovers). [...]

Morris strengthens the moon imagery by having Estri as a well-keepress because wells, fountains, and the moon as the orb which controls water have long been associated with fertility, [...] In a sense, she is like the moon because she is apparently eternal, never waxing or waning except in her pursuit of the quest; she is the prototypical wanderer like the moon and Ishtar. She is the eternal night symbol of the moon in opposition to the Day-Keepers [...]

 At her majority (her three hundredth birthday), she is given a silver-cubed hologram letter from her mother, containing a videotape of her conception by the savage bronzed barbarian god from another world. [...] If Estri's mother then acts as a bawd, willing her lineage as Well-Keepress to her daughter, then Estri's great-grandmother Astria as foundress of the Well becomes a further mother-bawd figure when she offers her prophetic advice in her letter: "Guard Astria for you may lose it, and more. Beware of one who is not as he seems. Stray not in the port city of Baniev ...look well about you, for your father's daughter's brother seeks you". Having no brother that she knows of does not stay Estri from undertaking the heroic quest of finding her father."

 - Anne K. Kaler, The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine

 

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Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and published more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. She contributed short fiction to the shared universe fantasy series Thieves World, in which she created the Sacred Band of Stepsons, a mythical unit of ancient fighters modeled on the Sacred Band of Thebes. She created, orchestrated, and edited the Bangsian fantasy series Heroes in Hell, writing stories for the series as well as co-writing the related novel, The Little Helliad, with Chris Morris. She wrote the bestselling Silistra Quartet in the 1970s, including High Couch of Silistra, The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss, and The Carnelian Throne. This quartet had more than four million copies in Bantam print alone, and was translated into German, French, Italian, Russian and other languages. In the 1980s, Baen Books released a second edition of this landmark series. The third edition is the Author's Cut edition, newly revised by the author for Perseid Press. Most of her fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense and national security topics.

Janet said: 'People often ask what book to read first. I recommend "I, the Sun" if you like ancient history; "The Sacred Band," a novel, if you like heroic fantasy; "Lawyers in Hell" if you like historical fantasy set in hell; "Outpassage" if you like hard science fiction; "High Couch of Silistra" if you like far-future dystopian or philosophical novels. I am most enthusiastic about the definitive Perseid Press Author's Cut editions, which I revised and expanded.'

 

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Discover Standard Tuning by Andi Tozier

Title: Standard Tuning

Author: Andi Tozier

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 05/12/2026

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 280

Genre: Historical, Genre/lit, historical, family-drama, bisexual, musician, supergroup, drug addiction, BDSM play, slow burn

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Description

It’s 1988 and solo act Bill Kason is invited to take part in a supergroup. Three generations of talent band together over three long weekends to record an album; talking shop, tweaking tunes, and touring their memories. Behind the music and the rumors that he saw Jesus in a Connecticut bathroom, Bill is barely holding himself together, but he is willing to make the effort for the sake of Martin Henry, one of the best-loved men in the music business and beyond. With Bill always somewhere between suicide and spiritual awakening, Martin is the only one who can make him take a good, hard look at himself, and not be completely repulsed. The question now: is Martin’s friendship and admiration enough to make the difference?

Excerpt

Standard Tuning
Andi Tozier © 2026
All Rights Reserved

May 1988

For the record, he said yes. Wasn’t a maybe; wasn’t a let me think about it. Martin asked, and Bill said yes. Ever since he’d been stamped with the Return to Sender labels of difficult, uncooperative, uncollaborative, and downright creative hell, not too many creative colleagues were calling. Not that he gave out his number all that often.

But when Martin asked if Bill was willing to lay down tunes with him and his closest friends, a bit of fun, nothing serious, Bill shoved a toothbrush in his back pocket, packed the rear of his Volkswagen van with some clothes and every relevant and a few irrelevant instruments atop that. And he drove through the Cali valley, where the business-class whores told fortunes and the palm-reading gypsies turned tricks.

Martin didn’t have a studio rented out and he didn’t own a house around town; he’d done the sensible British thing out of a P.G. Wodehouse plot and simply swapped enormous mansions across the pond.

Cutting up the canyon crawl in the impending lurch of traffic, sliding around horse rail fences that kept the cliffside at bay, circling, encircling Dante’s fury. Dust pressed into the tires, rocks rattling. Maybe manual transmission wasn’t the best choice.

Bill idled at the ostiaries of the monetary and materially inclined. Call systems and gates cordoned off the rest of the way, next to bushes and vines that clung to life strangled by temperature and technology.

He cranked the window down and waved his arm toward the buzzer box, but he realized a little later than he’d have liked to that he was going to have to unbuckle his seatbelt and lean halfway out the window just to make contact.

The prolonged dial tone could hold a note better than he could.

“Name and secret password please,” the mechanical mouth spoke in the tones of Martin.

“Aw heck, I made it this far,” Bill moaned at the callbox’s gap-toothed speaker.

The machine cackled through crackling static. “Come on in, Bill.”

The new electronic hum of the gates was too high to catch, and the hinges creaked like screws breaking loose as they juddered open. Bill’s slow push on the gas pedal wasn’t just van versus incline; he wanted a second look at the wrought iron artistry.

Bill had a thing for gates. Their construction, their intention, their being. This one had sweeping calligraphy strokes of iron, hidden flowers in the folds, a little barbed wire edge to it. Made you kind of blue and he didn’t know why.

Halfway up the private road and he was already feeling regret like the blazing desert sun. He had to segment it out into a million little intolerable pieces, starting with the anxiety of figuring out where to park.

With cars already in designated parking areas, he didn’t want to be the one to box anyone in, but he also wanted to have the easiest escape plan, in case the whole thing was strange, or just not his version of strange.

The ever-helpful parking attendant was James, who wasn’t a parking attendant at all, but a rock star in his own right. Piano-heavy starship stuff, trills and electronic tones that normally couldn’t exist outside a studio, but James had a mimic’s knack for making those sounds appear on his glitzy, celestial tours.

He guided Bill’s van in like a flight crewmember partway through an Aldous Huxley trip. Once he was safely between a Jaguar and a Porsche, Bill left the comfortable cave of his van and, with a hesitant breath in, entered back into reality.

James leaned on the side of the van, near the driver’s side door. Considering the shape the vehicle was in, he probably assumed Bill was okay with that kind of contact when really any play for personal space had Bill on the offensive.

James was the cast-off of a Bob Ross hairstylist with the bright disposition of the first breath of spring. But somehow the two of them just could never find the right key to play in together, and it always felt a little off. Uncomfortable pleasantries. But maybe James never caught that.

“Bill, I’m so glad you could make it.” He peered down, aiming for eye contact which Bill was reluctant to match.

James had a voice like a steel drum, whose Englishness was accentuated by his grammatical substitutions of me for my. “You can leave your stuff. We’ll send someone round to nick it.”

“Thanks,” Bill mumbled.

So he wasn’t completely armorless, he stuffed a Marine Band harmonica into his front pocket without a glance as to the key and slung his acoustic over his shoulder, holding it by the neck in a fireman carry.

The front entrance was hidden under an archway, rounded at the top like a hoop skirt, the same wrought iron designs in the glass. There was an old cemetery grounds feel to it. Just as he was about to study it, really tap in and find out what it was all about, what it meant to him, the doors opened and Martin was on the other side.

Bill exhaled sharply, like a broadhead arrow sliced through the air and wedged in his lungs. Martin was radiant; he was made of pure stardust. He operated on different levels but felt so completely you.

Anyone who met him felt without question they’d known him forever and surprised themselves even further when he seemed to seamlessly fit in as a family member. Or…or something else.

“Bill, yes, excellent, wonderful.” Martin clapped him on the shoulder and Bill watched the contact happen more than felt it. “James get you to the right spot? Had to send him out there after Fisher made it to the neighbors by accident. They wouldn’t let him go without three tunes for a singsong.”

This was the face teenyboppers fainted over, that drove them wild—well, this and a few of his other bandmates. Talent that changed the landscape, that made everyone else work to outdo them and fail. An unstoppable force that paused itself, then a few over-publicized tragedies led to the remaining crew seeking solo work.

Martin’s hair was like the mane on a stallion, his eyes bright and true. To Bill, who was once described by a journalist as having the face of a bitter eagle and the personality of unwashed gym socks, it was borderline unfair to have such good-looking, kind friends.

“Come in, come in, come in.” Martin ushered Bill inside. He’d already missed his cue to follow when James had entered, and Martin had probably sensed correctly that Bill was fine with staying detached from the happenings forever.

Martin’s English dialect came straight out of the muck and grime, lifted out just as he was through a fog of disorder. Bill felt the need to say something to block the staccato steps of his boots and Martin’s sneakers across the tile floor.

“Nice curtains,” he tried without a glance for them or making the effort to check that they existed.

“Yeah, I got them in India from this little old lady that weren’t any taller than my knee. Hand dyed and washed in big rocky pits. Thought they’d be a great welcome home gift to Edmund once we trade our houses back. But you don’t want to hear about all that. Now.” Martin stepped out in front of Bill and stretched his hands out on Bill’s face. “Now. Roger’s here, Fisher’s here, you’re here, James is here. Who are we missing? Me? I am here; I am everywhere. Bits of me scuttling about. Do make yourself at home. I’ll come grab you if you’re missing anything. I trust you’ll do the same for me. And if you need anyone to harmonize with…” He sang a brief scale on, “I’m your man.” Then he said, “Cheers,” and took off in some impossible direction in the house.

Bill ran his hand over where Martin had held his face. If he wasn’t careful, acts of simple human affection were liable to disintegrate him.

He took stock of the place. It was hard to see the old-world charm of the estate when masked by all the recording equipment. A drum set stuffed into an alcove. Microphones cabled over stands; creeping vines up walls. Card towers of separately sized speakers.

Bill bit down a smirk as he thought about his own studio, wired to the max where the recorded sound captured all over the damn place and how those he invited over always did that single take recoil, where they reviewed what they had said and what they were going to say. Not that he reviewed their remarks, not that he reviewed them every night.

He zeroed in on a collection of guitars; electric and acoustics on stands with a few spare stands beside them.

Abandoning his armor for want of completing the set, Bill dropped his guitar next to a Rickenbacker and had a bit of insight as to whose guitars were whose. It was like examining sneakers in a closet; you knew the style and the wear. He caught a glimpse of the roadies known as household help carrying his belongings up a set of stairs ending surely in whatever was to be his room. So long as it had a bed, Bill could manage. And even then, he’d done without when he had to.

He wandered into the kitchen where Ty Fisher was cracking a bottle of beer open with the help of the edge of the countertop.

Fisher had a Dick Cavett sort of smallness to him. He was still sporting some Sissy Spacek hairstyle, hair that confused men in public when they caught Fisher at his most feminine angles. The times Fisher sported a beard a few shades darker from his hair only served to further confuse people. He would have been some sideshow Venus on the half shell.

Bill liked him. There wasn’t a person in the house he didn’t like—hell, you couldn’t not like James—but Fisher had a gentle ‘ribbons in a schoolgirl’s hair’ sorta kindness with a rocker’s edge. Sweet, funny, with strong opinions on art, music, life’s poetry, as all of them did.

Still young, still striving. Aiming for the purest rock and roll he and his redneck crew could create. While devilishly handsome under stadium lights, up close a casual observer might catch that he had a history of hitting some substance or some man of no substance hitting him.

“Hey, Bill.” Fisher gave him a wide beacon of a smile. “I saw you last…last year August.”

Bill screwed up his face in thought. “What for?”

“We were on tour together.”

“Oh right.” Bill considered it a bit longer. “How’d we do?”

Fisher took a long sip. “Good, very good, some just okay, and then one shit show which I won’t rehash for both our sakes. I mean, really, I couldn’t even tell you what went wrong, but I know they were happiest when we left.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Andi Tozier grew up in Florida and found their way to the Midwest. They hold an MFA in Fiction Writing from Columbia College Chicago and have credits in anthologies and small publications. Their love of music and writing is vast and varied, and they’re happy to share this work with NineStar Press

 and all their readers. 

Book Tour Stop: Claimed by Ashlynn Monroe

Title: Claimed

Author: Ashlynn Monroe

Publisher: Changeling Press

Cover Art: Marteeka Karland

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, Futuristic, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Romance, Sci-Fi , Urban Fantasy

Themes: Alien Encounters, Dark Romance, LGBTQ+ Bisexual /Nonbinary /Transgender, Multiple Partners, Second Edition

Series: Claimed (#3)

Book Length: Box Set

Page Count: 114

Synopsis

Lexa never really knew what it meant to live until she was condemned to die.

Framed for a crime she’d never even contemplated, Lexa Mercer’s doing thirty days or death on the Intergalactic Broadcasting Channel’s hit reality show Nariasma. She owes her life to one of the show’s hottest contestants -- and a ghost of a man no one is supposed to know exists.

Roan of the Northlands is a man made famous by enduring his sentence on the space station Nariasma. Lexa has seen the rugged hunk on television, but she never imagined he’d be rescuing her from hunters who’ve paid to kill criminals.

Roan’s strange companion Jenner is convinced Lexa is the key to their freedom. Surviving and keeping her alive is just part of the challenge. Now Roan has more to lose than his future. He’s made the mistake of falling in love with Lexa, and that makes him the one thing he’s never been on Nariasma -- vulnerable.

Roan and Jenner will give all they’ve got to protect Lexa. Jenner’s convinced she’s the only one who can save them. But does she have the strength to change their reality?

Excerpt

Claimed
Second Edition
Ashlynn Monroe
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2026 Ashlynn Monroe
Excerpt from Claimed

Lexa's mouth felt dry. She tasted a bitter metallic tang on her tongue. For a few seconds she lay, hurting, with her eyes closed. Her head ached as she sat up. She didn't remember much at first, but then the horror of Dom's death and her sham of a trial came rushing back in a torrent.

She groaned and opened her eyes. The room was small. Bright light shone down from a single fixture in the ceiling. She was dressed in a dark brown leather corset and matching -- too tight -- leather pants. She ran her hands over her backside. The horrible pants weren't ass-less, and she was glad of that, at least. There was a black nylon utility vest over her shoulders. A row of silver and gold sequins sparkled on the hem of the vest. The combination of style and material was strange. Glam survivalist?

She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose in an attempt to clear her foggy mind. Her stomach rolled. Someone had seen her naked when she'd been at her most vulnerable. Shivering, she forced herself to stop thinking about how dirty having been stripped made her feel. Pushing herself up, using the wall, she managed to get to her feet.

The door slid open with a whoosh. Whoever designed the room had hidden the door so well she'd never even noticed it until it opened. A tall woman watched her mutely.

Lexa flinched under the scrutiny. "Why are you here? What's happening to me?" Lexa screamed the questions at the woman as her hysteria rose.

"You'll have a ten second head start. Go right to avoid the desert. Get to the trees, and you'll have a better chance. Here is your pack. It's all any of the contestants start out with. Inside you'll find a utility knife, canteen and matches. Millions of fans will be watching you. Take solace in knowing you won't die alone." The woman spoke without any hint of emotion or remorse.

"I don't plan to die at all," Lexa said. She hated how this woman had written her off. She wasn't doomed. She wasn't going to give up. Just because wealthy men had paid for a license to hunt her didn't mean she was automatically condemned. "I'm going to serve my time and return home."

Sympathy flickered across the woman's features, but she quickly covered the expression with a scowl. "Few have lived long enough to serve their time. No woman has left this place alive. Many find it easier just to walk out and wait for the end."

"I've never been good at taking the easy way out. I'll take my chances with the woods. Why are you giving me advice?"

"It's been a long time since we've had a woman as young as you on the show. I'd like to make the most of your time." The tall stranger's words held the ring of truth.

Lexa shrugged. "I'll do my best to outlast my sentence. I'd hate it if Interplanetary Broadcasting lost ratings due to my untimely demise. How bad can a month be?" Lexa spoke as sarcastically as possible. She didn't know if the cameras were already watching her, but she had a feeling they might be. Hatred for the mindless people watching her injustice boiled in her core. Until now, she'd been just like them.

The reality of how meaningless human life was hit her with shocking force.

The woman's eyes darkened. "May the enlightenment of justice guide your path."

Her sentence had begun. The cameras were watching. The woman's use of words made that clear. "Um, thanks, I'll make my own light. I've had a taste of justice, and it wasn't for me." Her new reality was a terrifying example of how deep a lie could burrow to masquerade as truth. She glared at the woman. No matter how afraid she felt she refused to let her fear show.

The emotionless expression taking over the woman's face made her shiver. "What happens now?" Lexa asked.

"Now you survive, or not. Either way, it'll be good TV."

Lexa's eyes widened as the woman shoved her out the door.

She ended up on an elevator and not in a hallway as she'd expected. As her brain kicked in, she realized it was now or never. With shaking hands, she took the items from the pack and shoved them in the few pockets her thin vest offered. She'd seen this show a few times -- enough to know the bright orange backpack was a good way to die.

Now she wished she'd watched more often. Her mother hated the show and always said it was low class and not what her daughter should watch.

Just as she put the last item into a secure place and dropped the bright bag, the elevator stopped. Her heart raced. Her heavy breathing was the only sound she could hear.

The doors opened and bright sunlight flooded the dark space to blind her. She took a shaky step and saw trees in the distance. She took the woman's advice and ran toward them.

In her mind, she started to count. One... two... three... The ten seconds would be over long before she reached the trees. She didn't look back, afraid of what she'd see. They'd be waiting. Men had paid for the privilege of killing her for the entertainment of bored television viewers back home.

A breeze ruffled her hair. Everything felt so real here, but it wasn't a planet. It was a space station. Terror hit her in the stomach so hard she stumbled. Horrified, she watched the ground coming at her face as she fell forward. She was giving her life to those bastards too easily. Her eager executioners would be upon her in seconds.

Eight... nine... ouch. She landed as her ten seconds ended. Rolling to her back, she sat up only to see three well-armed men wearing body armor aiming old-fashioned high-powered automatic rifles at her.

Death. She wasn't ready. Hands grabbed her roughly. The brutality of their grip caused her shock to turn into terror. She didn't scream or struggle. The raw panic kept her still. She was standing because those large hands hand pulled her to her feet.

"Run!"

She spun around and her breath hitched in her throat. He was glorious.

Roan of the Northlands, one of the sexiest men on TV, was rescuing her. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward just as the first shot rang out. Dirt erupted next to her foot. "Go!"

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Ashlynn Monroe is a busy working mom. She loves her kids and family. Her greatest joy is creating stories to entertain others, and she hopes they bring a little more romance into the world. She's been writing since her teens for her own enjoyment but decided in her thirties to share her imagination with readers. Ashlynn enjoys biking, camping, reading, video games, and filling her home and life with love. If she's not working or chasing children, you can find her daydreaming up her next tale of romance.

Website | Facebook | X | Goodreads

   

Tour Stop & Giveaway: A Hundred Black Sunrises by Tamela Miles

 

Keeping secrets keeps you alive.

Sienna would know.

A Hundred Black Sunrises

A Friday the 13th Story

by Tamela Miles

Genre: Dark Paranormal Romance

A hundred different ways to break your heart, a hundred different ways to take your last breath. Sienna and Finn are exploring their strange attraction to each other until strange becomes something sinister. The clock is ticking as they fight to unravel the mystery of what draws them together on fateful Friday, the 13th.

 

What readers are saying:

A Hundred Black Sunrises is a haunting and emotionally charged horror short that blends reincarnation, cursed love, and inevitable tragedy. The story follows Sienna and Finn, two souls drawn together across lifetimes, only to face the same dark fate again and again. What begins as an intriguing connection quickly spirals into something far more sinister, as the truth behind their bond unravels. Though short, the narrative delivers a powerful mix of supernatural horror and tragic romance.

 – Alicia Dean, Goodreads Reviewer

 

Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

A loud cracking sounded across the room and a huge, sil- ver gilded mirror fractured in half, splitting apart their reflec- tions. Elijah grabbed her hand and spoke softly. "Let me get you away from here, Poppy."

As they moved toward the dining room entrance, one of the kit- chen servants appeared. Her brown eyes widened and then narrowed at the scene laid out before her. She hastily wiped her hands on her white apron and latched onto Poppy's other hand.

"Run far, far away from this cursed place. Take nothing with you. His evil was contained while he was alive, but his death means..." she trailed off and shrugged her shoulders.

"What...what did he mean by "a hundred black sunrises?" Poppy asked in a tremulous voice.

 The servant smiled sadly. "Nothing good, you can believe that." She gestured towards the hallway leading to the front door as a dozen other servants from the kitchen suddenly crowded around them. "Now, go! Take her and go!"

Elijah needed no further encouragement and pulled a dazed Poppy down the hallway, already filled with black smoke. As he opened the heavy door, she looked back one last time to say goodbye to every- thing she had ever known, and her gaze lit on Christianpaul's smiling portrait of himself as a much younger man. She shivered as Elijah led her out the front door and she clutched his arm fearfully. Poppy knew every brushstroke of that painting and never in her life had the bastard worn a smile in it.

Tamela Miles is a California State University San Bernardino graduate student with a Bachelor of Science degree in Child Development and a former flight attendant. She grew up in Altadena, California in that tumultuous time known as the 1980s. She now resides with her family in the Inland Empire, CA. She’s a horror/paranormal romance writer mainly because it feels so good having her characters do bad things and, later, pondering what makes them so bad and why they can never seem to change their wicked ways.

She enjoys emails from people who like her work. In fact, she loves emails. She can be contacted at tamelamiles@yahoo.com or her Facebook page, Tamela Miles Books. She also welcomes reader reviews and enjoys the feedback from people who love to read as much as she does.

 

Website * Facebook * Instagram * Bluesky * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

 

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

Enter the A Hundred Black Sunrises Giveaway Here