Book Spotlight/Giveaway: Holiday Fatigue

Title: Holiday Fatigue

Author: Emily Carrington

Publisher: Changeling Press

Cover Art: Angela Knight

Genres: Action Adventure, BDSM, Contemporary, Mystery & Suspense, New Releases, Romance

Themes: 2nd Chance Romance, Christmas, LGBTQ+ /Gay, Medical Romance, Multicultural & Interracial

Series: Marisburg Chronicles (#7)

Multiverse: Sticks & Stones (#3)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 74

Synopsis

For husbands Peter and Abe, Christmas is a time for miracles -- and unexpected party crashers.

Peter is all set to make this Christmas season the best for his husband. That is, until a cat is all but thrown into his lap and an unexpected and unwanted man crashes at their house for the holidays. Worse than the lack of privacy is the curtailing of their light BDSM play.

Abe can’t say no when an old flame begs for a place to stay. Temporarily. This man has fallen on hard times and needs a little kindness. However, there’s something more he wants than a roof over his head. As Abe struggles against seasonal depression, a couple of cats come to enliven the home he shares with Peter.

Between grief, jealousy, and a prying houseguest, can Abe and Peter kindle their spirits toward lovemaking and the holidays?

WARNING: Holiday Fatigue includes references to cutting behavior and thoughts of suicide that may be triggers for some readers, as well as mention of animal cruelty.

Excerpt

Holiday Fatigue (Marisburg Chronicles 7)
Emily Carrington
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Emily Carrington

Peter didn’t love the end of the semester, no matter that it meant a day off from teaching. He would much rather be filling his students’ heads with math facts than plugging in grades. Of course, if he hadn’t left so many assignments till the last minute, having graded them but not bothered to put them in the computer… He threw up his hands in exasperation and then signed, to no one in particular, “Why do I always do this to myself?”

He glanced around, seeing he was still alone in the classroom he shared with another co-teacher. He would normally not worry about others seeing him sign. Most people were hearing folks and didn’t know more than the alphabet, if they even knew that much, in ASL. He worked, though, at a school for the deaf, and the chances of someone knowing he was frustrated were high.

Probably some of the other teachers were in the same boat, having pushed off putting grades in the computer until this, the last day of the quarter before winter break. That was of no comfort when his co-teacher, Laura, was done with her grades and was hanging out somewhere in the building until three o’clock.

He darted a glance at his watch, saw he only had an hour and a half to finish inputting grades, and signed a little F-bomb.

An hour later found him sweating and swearing in his head, trying to work so fast that his fingers kept tripping over each other.

Someone touched his shoulder. He jumped a foot. Turning in his chair, he saw Laura gazing at him with a look of concern on her face. Then that expression passed and she wrinkled her nose at him before signing, “Are you still working?”

He nodded, wanting to return to his work but not wanting to put his back to her. That was rude.

“Give me your login and the list of remaining grades. We’ll divide and conquer.”

He hesitated, but only for an instant. Laura wasn’t the type to make offers like this every day. “Thank you,” he signed. “Why are you --”

“Consider it the gift from your Secret Santa.” She smirked. “You forgot we were exchanging gifts in the teacher’s lounge at 2:30, didn’t you?”

“Guilty,” he responded.

“Give me your login and I’ll help. Then you need to give your gift before your person leaves.”

“Too late,” Peter signed back before handing her a stack of graded papers. Hands free again, he signed, “Brent’s already left for the day. His kid got an ear infection on the last day of school.”

“Sucks,” she signed, her face sympathetic.

He jotted down his computer info and walked it over to her as she booted up her machine. “Thank you, Laura. Really.”

“I forgot to get you a gift,” she admitted.

“This is better than some ten-dollar token,” he assured her.

At exactly 2:58, he shut down his computer. Laura, who was a faster typist than he was, had finished her stack about five minutes earlier.

“Go home,” she signed. “Just don’t count on me saving your ass in the spring.”

He got out as soon as he could, his thoughts turning from gratitude to dreams of his husband. Abe, named for the poet and playwright Kobo Abe, wasn’t a fan of this particular holiday. Peter had been slowly changing that for his lover over the years, but each year it was a struggle to find out what would help Abe forget his pain.

He waved at another teacher as he headed for the main doors. This was a relatively new guy and for a moment, Peter couldn’t remember his name.

“Hi, Peter,” the unnamed man signed. “Have a good break.”

Peter frowned, realized he probably looked like the proverbial grouch, and held up a hand for the new teacher to stop. “What’s your name?” he signed.

“Estaban.” He grinned. “Spanish as the day is long and a gift from my immigrant parents that I don’t always appreciate.”

Yes, Peter remembered now. He hadn’t interacted with the new Spanish teacher since he’d arrived here two months ago because he was on another floor and that might as well be in another kingdom. “Sorry,” he apologized. “My brain is…” He shrugged.

“Already on break?” Estaban suggested.

Well, in a way, Peter thought as he excused himself and went outside. He walked to the sidewalk that paralleled the street. He could order a shared ride from the front of the school, but he felt restless. It was two hours before Abe would even be thinking about coming home. All day, Peter had been thinking, not of the grades or his lackadaisical way of letting them pile up, but of his husband and Christmas. Now, as he turned down Forrest Street in Colton, which was the college town closest to their home in Marisburg, he considered his unusual agitation. Abe had been acting steady as the day was long for a while now. There was no reason to expect he’d sink into depression. Even if he did, it wasn’t as if depression was his choice.

Peter looked up when he saw a flash of color out of the corner of his eye and had to smile. Every single tree had lights in their branches. Most of the lights were the beautiful, if common, white ones. The tree he was currently looking at had been decorated in tiny, colorful orbs. He smiled up at the tree that stood out. He touched the bark of the tree and grinned in appreciation. He would bring Abe down to see this tree. They’d call it the “Christmas Pride” tree.

Having a plan for this Thursday night at last, even if it was only to view a tree that stood out among its fellows, Peter took out his phone to order his shared ride. Before he could drop his gaze to the screen, he was caught off guard by another swash of color, this time moving fast. Self-preservation made him look up as a car, slowing abruptly, seemed to coast in front of him. With the colorfully decorated tree in the way, he couldn’t see everything clearly, but something was hurled out of the passenger window before the car sped off again.

People were such slobs. He wasn’t a trash collector by nature, but something about the white and black thing thrown out of the car’s window caught his attention. It was the right size to be any number of things, but the way it had twisted in midair… He went to the snowdrift where the careless people had aimed… and when he peered into the hole made by the object, he saw yellowish eyes looking back at him.

He gaped even as he tore off his winter coat and stooped to scoop up the little animal. It was a kitten, he realized, or a very small cat if it was full-grown. Mostly white with black splotches, it hissed at him as he bundled it into his coat.

The little critter wriggled hard and managed to get a paw free. The cat lashed out with razor-sharp claws and if not for Peter’s gloves, he would have taken quite the injury. As it was, one tiny cat nail caught in the leather of his right glove and the cat opened its mouth wide, surely making quite a fuss.

Peter carefully freed the little demon’s claw and reworked the bundling so the cat wouldn’t hurt him. If he’d been tossed out of a moving car, he’d be pissed too.

As he trekked back to the school, thinking of having the nurse check out the little feline monster before he took them home, the cat’s name flashed in his mind, and he grinned even as he cautioned himself that surely he and Abe couldn’t keep this little fighter. He’d try to impress upon whoever ended up with the cat that his or her name was Catankerous.

As he walked, goose bumps popped out on his arms, which were covered only by a short-sleeved polo because the school tended to run hot. He thought about nuzzling Catankerous, but the wicked gleam in their eyes made him reconsider. He wished he could speak to them, let them know help was coming.

Maybe two dozen steps from the front doors of the school, the cat settled down and quit struggling. Then, through the coat where he’d pressed it against his chest, Peter felt the attack cat begin to purr.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Shapeshifter Central

   

Guest Author Day with Kelli A. Wilkins: Ready for Some Holiday Havoc?

 

Ready for Some Holiday Havoc?

By Kelli A. Wilkins

www.kelliwilkins.com

 

Hi everyone!

Quick question: What do you get when you drop a Halloween-loving retail worker in the middle of a battle between Sam Hain and Santa?

Holiday Havoc!

That’s the premise of my short story, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg.

Kira is having a typical, horrible day at her dead-end retail job… When all of a sudden she becomes embroiled in a seasonal battle of epic (and amusing) proportions. Decorations from both sides of the holiday war come to life and fight for store supremacy—until they realize who the REAL enemy is.

I wrote “Holiday Havoc” in response to the ever-encroaching Christmas merchandise that hits store shelves earlier and earlier each year. One October day I was in a store admiring the cute black cats and other Halloween décor…. Then I went around the corner and found myself lost in a forest of artificial Christmas trees.

I have nothing against Christmas, and I know retailers are putting merch out earlier every year to get sales, but really? Can’t they wait til November 1 at least? Give us our Halloween at least through Halloween! 

“Holiday Havoc” is a bit unusual (okay, the story is as strange as hell), and blends a bit of horror with my wacky, off-beat humor to make a point (okay, several points). It’s also one of seven speculative/spooky stories that appears in my short story collection, Surreal Escapes.

In this anthology, ordinary people start off having an average, normal day… until they encounter the world of the surreal. They’ve entered another realm where anything can—and does—happen.

Authors are always asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” so I included a brief note at the end of each story (as I did in my sci-fi anthology, Extraterrestrial Encounters), explaining what inspired me to write it, where I got the idea, or general comments about the plot or the characters.

Some of these stories are humorous, some will make you think, and others might unnerve you a bit, but they will all take you on a journey into the surreal for a little while.

Here’s the book summary and links:

Surreal Escapes - 7 Speculative Stories

Are you ready to take a journey into the unexpected?

In these 7 speculative stories, ordinary people start off having an average, normal day… until they encounter the world of the surreal. They quickly realize they’re in another realm where anything can—and does—happen.

Some of these tales include:

“Holiday Havoc” – The night shift in a retail store hosts the ultimate Halloween vs. Christmas showdown

“Little Boy Lost” – After several strange incidents, Beverly suspects her son’s imaginary friend isn’t so imaginary

“The Man in Apt. 3-A” – What do you do when you discover your neighbor is a vampire?

“Whispers from the Past” – Not all ghosts are scary… or strangers

This collection of short fiction will unnerve you, spark your imagination, and make you wonder what else is possible in the world of the surreal.

Order your copy here:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DBWRLCB3

Other Platforms: https://books2read.com/u/b5ge7O

If you’re looking for a few quick, unusual reads this holiday season, why not give these short stories a try? They’re perfect for a lunchtime break or a short escape from the holiday hustle.

And if you love mysteries and/or spooky stories, visit the Horror, Mystery & More page on my site: https://www.kelliwilkins.com/horror

Or visit my Amazon Author page for a full title list, book links, and more: www.amazon.com/author/kelliwilkins

I welcome questions and comments from readers. If you’ve read one of my books, let me know which one you loved best and why.

Enjoy the rest of the year!

Kelli A. Wilkins

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kelli A. Wilkins is an award-winning author who has published more than 100 short stories, 24 romance novels, and 8 mystery/horror ebooks. Her romances span many genres and settings, and she likes to scare readers with her horror and mystery stories.

Her twenty-fourth romance, For Love’s Sake, an epic historical/fantasy romantic adventure, was published in January 2025.

In 2024, she released Surreal Escapes, a collection of 7 speculative/spooky stories. Anything can—and does—happen in this anthology.

Kelli also released her fourth gay romance, A Thousand Summer Secrets, in 2024. This tender contemporary romance takes place over a summer weekend, where two friends reconnect while seeking love and acceptance.

She published The Route 9 Killer, a mystery/thriller set in Central NJ, in 2023. Look for a follow-up story coming in 2026!

Follow Kelli on her Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKelliWilkins and visit her website www.KelliWilkins.com for a full title list and social media links.

Book Tour Stop/Giveaway: True Target by Austin Camacho

 

Check out the latest book by Austin Camacho today, True Target and make sure to check out the tour wide giveaway as the author is awarding $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Also make sure to check out all the tour stops as the more you comment the more chances you get for the giveaway. The tour is sponsored by Goddess Fish Promotions and you can find all the tour stops HERE.

Author Interview with Austin Camacho

Tell us about your latest book, who are the main characters and what we can expect when we pick it up.

True Target stars Skye Maddox, a Black female professional assassin with one rule—her targets have to deserve it. Hired to avenge a murdered child, she uncovers a chain of corruption linking street killers to powerful elites. Now she’s in the crosshairs of both the law and the underworld. Police detective Orson Rissik wants to stop her, but their fates are tied to the same deadly secret. Expect a lot of action as you follow this complex protagonist on her mission. One reviewer called it relentlessly gripping and said, “Keep an oxygen tank handy!”

Taking the story from a concept to a published book is a long and involved process. How does that usually work for you?

Once I have the seed idea for a novel I start with a detailed outline. I write pretty much every day, from beginning to the end without looking back. Then I start over, doing a complete rewrite to tighten pacing, plot and characterization. A second rewrite focuses on spelling, grammar and such. It goes through my critique group before more rewriting. After an editor and proofreader work it over it’s ready for the publisher.

Which of your books would you recommend for readers to choose first if they’re new to you and your books?

I’m a series writers. I’ve written 8 Hannibal Jones detective novels and 5 Stark & O’Brien thrillers. Since True Target is the first in a planned series starring Skye the urban assassin, this book is a great place to start.

We are very curious about your writing process.  What is a typical writing day like for you?

My day starts early, even though I’m retired from my day job. I make coffee, get my wife up and off to work, feed the cats and watch the morning news. Then I settle in to the keyboard. I write best in the morning and will usually drive through to lunch. Then I handle correspondence, social media posts and all the other details that are required of a writer these days.

What trope have you not written yet but want to?

In my work I’ve employed most of the common mystery and thriller tropes: the ticking clock, the innocent on the run, red herrings, unassuming villains and so forth. I have in fact used all of them that I want to. The one thing I haven’t done in my books that I have seen in many others, is incompetent law enforcement personnel. I try to avoid showing bumbling or corrupt police. I know they exist but believe them to be a minority and I don’t want to promote that view of them.

How do you approach character development in your stories? Do you have any specific techniques or methods that you find particularly effective?

Most characters originally grow from the plot: Someone’s going to do THIS. Now, what kind of person would do that? From there I figure out the person’s backstory, where they’re from, how they grew up, what experiences have shaped them. These bits and pieces I can take from people I’ve known. Then for important characters I will sometimes write a scene with them doing something unrelated to the story. You can learn a lot about someone watching them go grocery shopping, or getting on a commercial flight, or having their hair done.

What do you believe sets your writing apart from others in your genre, and why should readers choose to read your books?

I am told I write particularly good action scenes. You should be able to see what’s happening just as if you’re watching a movie. I also think that I do a better job than most in revealing character motivations. I dig deeply into why a character does what he or she does. I think it’s the combination of these two things that sets my books apart from other thrillers.

Can you discuss any upcoming projects or books that you're currently working on? What can readers expect from your future works?

My next two or three novels will feature Skye. In addition to ever more exciting action, the series will represent her growth. These books are about the rising and advancing of a young woman’s spirit and I’m excited to follow that trail and see where it leads. 

TRUE TARGET

by Austin S. Camacho

GENRE:  Thriller

Skye Maddox is a contract assassin driven by both personal demons and professional discipline. Hired by grieving father Milo Williams to hunt down the chain of men responsible for his son’s death, Skye takes on a mission that escalates into a war with Washington, D.C.’s most dangerous underworld figures led by a man known only as Hetman. As she climbs Milo’s ladder of revenge, Skye uncovers a web of corruption that links drug dealers, judges, mobsters, and even international crime syndicates.

 

The story escalates through brutal shootouts, betrayals, and psychological games, as Skye pushes deeper into Hetman’s empire. Each success makes her a bigger target. In the end, she must weigh the cost of finishing Milo’s revenge against the danger of becoming just another expendable weapon in someone else’s war.

Buy Links:

Amazon

B & N

 

Excerpt Two: 

Sometimes events in dreams are more vivid than they were in real life. In the dream Skye could feel how close the walls were in that little apartment she grew up in. She could feel the linoleum under her knees and smell last night’s fried chicken dinner. Her little brother’s hands were so soft between her own. Tyrone was no gangster. He just lived there. Until he didn’t.

 

In her dream she could feel the life draining out of Tyrone’s body, chased out by the heroin in his veins like the drugs thought they needed the space. They wouldn’t share his body with his soul. Drugs were here, so the soul had to go.

With Daddy gone and Mama permanently drunk, it was up to the twelve-year-old girl to find the rusty piece Tyrone carried to feel grown. Then she had to find the boy who sold that poison to her big brother and got him to commit slow suicide by injection. The gun felt cold and smooth in her hand, just like Tyrone’s hand had by the time she let it go.

 

Then, without warning, her mind crossed over into this reality. Deep brown eyes scanned the room for a second before she moved. Once she knew she was secure, she threw off the comforter, a deeper blue than the walls, and bounded out of bed. Her bedside clock read 10:47. She scurried naked into the bathroom. She had a full day ahead and she needed to get it going. 

Enter to win a $25 Amazon/BN gift card

AUTHOR Bio and Links: 

Austin S. Camacho is the author of eight novels about Washington DC-based private eye Hannibal Jones, five in the Stark and O’Brien international adventure-thriller series, and the detective novel Beyond Blue. His short stories have been featured in several anthologies and he is featured in the Edgar nominated African American Mystery Writers: A Historical and Thematic Study by Frankie Y. Bailey. He is a past president of the Maryland Writers Association, past Vice President of the Virginia Writers Club, and one of the creators of the Creatures, Crimes & Creativity literary conference.

 

Website:          https://ascamacho.com/

Facebook:       https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61572508767550

Instagram:       ascamacho135

LinkedIn:         https://www.linkedin.com/in/austin-camacho-1a5a622/

Tour Stop/Giveaway: The Champagne Crush by Caroline O'Connell

The Champagne Crush
Caroline O’ Connell
(Les Femmes Series)
Publication date: September 16th 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

For fans of Emily In Paris (on Netflix). “Pop the cork on this sparkling romance where champagne dreams and career schemes collide in the vineyards of Napa and the glamour of New York. Catherine Reynolds is ready to reinvent herself, but a flirty CEO, fizzing ambition, and a splash of betrayal shake up her plans. From vineyard drama to high-stakes PR, love and bubbles rise to the top. Perfect for fans of witty banter, slow-burn tension, and second chances with a twist.” —Los Angeles Book Review

Catherine Reynolds has enjoyed a life of luxury, but her diplomat parents have cut her off financially, leaving her flat broke. She is determined to turn things around and gain her independence—so, when an old family friend offers her a lifeline as a PR consultant for his sparkling wine company, she jumps at the chance. But working with Chris McDermott, the company’s sexy, stubborn president, is anything but easy.

A purist at heart, Chris clashes with Catherine’s glitzy marketing flair; still, the chemistry between them is undeniable. As they travel from New York to Napa, Paris, and the Champagne region of France, their partnership blossoms amid high-stakes industry rivalries and a launch that could make or break them.

When sabotage threatens to shatter their dreams, Catherine must dig deep to prove her worth. With the dazzling unveiling of their new sparkling wine in Bordeaux in jeopardy, will she and Chris overcome the challenges of the past and present to secure their future—and find love in the process?

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

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EXCERPT:

Scene in the Champagne Region of France.

Catherine rode up front with Frédéric. The short drive from Trianon to Hautvillers, a picturesque “high village,” took them up a narrow, winding road barely changed for centuries. Along the route, they passed well-preserved ancient buildings, some displaying forged-iron signs from a different era. Frédéric pulled up to the Abbey of Hautvillers. The small historic church overlooked fields of vineyards in the valley below.

“For Champenois,” Frédéric said, “this is considered the birthplace of champagne. Other regions were experimenting with sparkling wine, but this was the place in France, in Champagne.”

He led them to a patio where an ice bucket and three flutes sat on a small table. “Let’s take a moment to savor a good French champagne, while I tell the story.” He pulled a bottle of Moët’s Dom Pérignon out of the ice bucket and opened it. “It’s appropriate to drink this champagne, since Moët & Chandon named their prestige blend after Dom Pérignon.” He filled the flutes. “Let’s toast.”

Frédéric began. In 1668, a young Benedictine monk, Pierre Pérignon, became cellarmaster of the Abbey at Hautvillers. Dom was a title given to certain Benedictine monks, so he was called Dom Pérignon. At the time, the abbey was making still wine.

Hautvillers, in the Falaises de Champagne, has a cool northern climate. Pérignon noticed when the weather turned warm in spring some bottles of wine became effervescent. By accident, they had gone through a second fermentation, creating bubbly wine. Through trial and error, Pérignon determined that wine yeast went dormant in cold temperatures. In spring, the remaining leftover yeast initiated another fermentation, creating the bubbles.

“We’re talking about a lot of bubbles,” Frédéric said. He explained the bottles couldn’t withstand the additional pressure. Many bottles shattered or the wood plugs popped out, causing spillage. Eventually, Dom Pérignon came up with a cork plug to hermetically seal the bottles, trapping the bubbles in.

“There were still many broken bottles,” Frédéric laughed, “until they devised a way to make stronger bottles.” Future champagne producers learned how to create the millions of bubbles in each bottle by adding yeast to the blended still wine for the second fermentation.

“A sip to celebrate this monk and his gift to the world.” Frédéric lifted his flute. Chris thoroughly enjoyed Frédéric’s description. Catherine seemed mesmerized and made a few notes.

“Pérignon devoted his life to the abbey until he died in 1715,” Frédéric said. “And now, let’s pay our respects.” He led them into the small church to view Dom Pérignon’s tombstone.

They walked back to the car in contemplative silence. Frédéric checked his phone. “We have time to drive by the church in Reims, if you’d like to see it.”

“I’d love to,” Catherine said. “My parents were married at Notre-Dame de Paris, a similar Gothic cathedral.”

Traffic was light. They arrived in Reims, the capital of Champagne, thirty minutes later. Frédéric pulled up to the plaza in front of the cathedral. He gestured to the edifice. “This church has an important historical significance in France. Starting in the thirteenth century, it was chosen for the coronation of French kings”—he paused—“for six hundred years.”

“That’s a long time,” Chris said.

“One of the most famous coronations was the crowning of Charles the Seventh in 1429, attended by Joan of Arc. Jeanne d’Arc, in French,” he added. “Unfortunately, not long after, she was captured by the English and put to death for helping French fighters during the Hundred Years’ War.”

“Sad story,” Catherine said. She stepped out of the car and took a few photos of the facade.

When she got back in, Frédéric drove a few miles to their destination. It was clear the main business of Reims was champagne. Markers indicating numerous champagne houses, including Taittinger and Veuve Clicquot, popped up along the route. Right before the approach to Les Crayères, they passed a sign for Pommery Champagne.

Frédéric pulled into a parking spot. “We’re here.” He got out of the car to see them off.

“Thank you, Frédéric, for making us feel so welcome,” Chris said. “You’ve been a great host and guide.” Chris shook his hand, and Catherine and Frédéric shared air kisses on both cheeks.

“You’ll have to visit us in New York sometime,” Catherine said.

“It’s my dream to go to the US,” Frédéric said. “En tout cas, I will see you in Bordeaux in June.”

“Yes, in two months,” Chris said.

As they walked up to the entrance, Chris stifled the urge to hold Catherine’s hand. She gave him his tie and pulled out a multicolored scarf that she wrapped around her neck.

Chris admired the breathtaking classic French château set in the midst of lush parkland. Yves texted he was running late, so they opted to wait in the bar. After perusing the carte of champagnes by the glass, Chris chose Pommery. Appropriate, since the château was built by that family. A brochure on the table relayed the history.

Les Crayères was built for Louise Pommery, the Duchess of Polignac, in 1904. Decades later, it became a twenty-room château for guests, boasting a gourmet restaurant and luxurious rooms overlooking manicured gardens. One reviewer called it “a Versailles in miniature . . . the stuff of honeymoons and weekend-away liaisons.”

Their flutes were served cold, the way he liked it. They tapped glasses before taking their first sips, very much in sync, like a couple. Chris was starting to sag after a busy day preceded by an early run, but Catherine seemed like the Energizer bunny; that is, if said rabbit wore a short slim dress showcasing killer legs, which he now knew could run like the wind.

Catherine set her glass down. “This is good champagne. Smart choice for the setting. The Pommerys built a lovely château.”

“This place is pretty spectacular,” he agreed, then couldn’t resist adding, “I know who I want to bring here for the two-night stay I won in the auction.”

—

Excerpt from The Champagne Crush by Caroline O’Connell,
courtesy of SparkPress, an imprint of The Stable Book Group.

Author Bio:

CAROLINE O’CONNELL has written five travel guides and numerous travel articles for magazines, newspapers, and websites. Her Romance In Paris guide has won widespread praise: “There is no better person to guide you through Paris than Caroline” — Peter Greenberg, the Travel Detective, radio host, and Travel Editor on CBS-TV. And Library Journal raved — “Reading this breezy but informative guide to Paris is like having a series of conversations with a well-traveled friend…”

Her debut novel, THE CHAMPAGNE CRUSH: A Romance Novel (Spark Press), is due out on September 16, 2025.

Website / Goodreads / X

GIVEAWAY!

Champagne for the Holidays Blitz

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Book Tour Stop: Dawn of the Firebird

 

 

Dawn of the Firebird (Deluxe Limited Edition) : A Novel

Sarah Mughal Rana

On Sale Date: December 2, 2025

9780778387664

Hardcover

$30.00 USD

 

ABOUT THE BOOK:

For fans of The Poppy War, She Who Became the Sun, and The Will of the Many, a breathtaking fantasy novel about the daughter of an overthrown emperor from an exciting new voice 

Khamilla Zahr-zad’s life has been built on a foundation of violence and vengeance. Every home she’s known has been destroyed by war. As the daughter of an emperor’s clan, she spent her childhood training to maintain his throne. But when her clansmen are assassinated by another rival empire, plans change. With her heavenly magic of nur, Khamilla is a weapon even enemies would wield—especially those in the magical, scholarly city of Za’skar. Hiding her identity, Khamilla joins the enemy’s army school full of jinn, magic, and martial arts, risking it all to topple her adversaries, avenge her clan, and reclaim their throne. 

To survive, she studies under cutthroat mystic monks and battles in a series of contests to outmaneuver her fellow soldiers. She must win at all costs, even if it means embracing the darkness lurking inside her. But the more she excels, the more she is faced with history that contradicts her father’s teachings. With a war brewing amongst the kingdoms and a new twisted magic overtaking the land, Khamilla is torn between two impossible choices: vengeance or salvation.

Buy Links:

Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/dawn-of-the-firebird-a-novel-sarah-mughal-rana/7a9c7e2bf615b04f

B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dawn-of-the-firebird-sarah-mughal-rana/1146028164;jsessionid=DBD0F2565333F47AC18C30BB015A817F.prodny_store01-atgap13?ean=9780778387664

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Excerpted from Dawn of the Firebird by Sarah Mughal Rana, Copyright © 2025 by Sarah Mughal rana. Published by Hanover Square Press.

Before…

Year 495 after Nuh’s great flood,

Era of the heavenly birds

Tezmi’a Mountains, Azadniabad Empire

 

I would inherit the power of the Heavens, Uma had said so.

But my power was a curse, this she did not have to say. Like any great legend, my tale began with tragedy.

In the stories later recounted from my maternal uncle, my uma had a glad-tiding the night of my birth, as all mothers of gifted children did. It was near the winter solstice in the year 495, she dreamt of light emanating from my infant body, bathing her in a cool glow. She knew the Divine had shown the power I would come to inherit: nūr, cold Heavenly light, the same spiritual power that flows through the firebird.

But that night when I sprang free of Uma’s womb, our chieftains dreamt of a world of darkness. War and destruction. She is an omen, the tribe murmured, despite my uncle the khan reprimanding their frivolous superstitions. Her mother refuses to name her, nor does her father, the Great Emperor, accept her. With his many wives and heirs, this child is but one of many. But Uma knew in her heart that blessings came with a little suffering, that was the Divine’s way. My child is neither cursed nor omen. She has the affinity of light. Uma liked her secrets. This one she tucked close to her chest.

In the spring pastures of our valley Tezmi’a, that year brought a drought that starved the lands, killing portions of herd. Other peculiar happenings sowed fear in the tribe: more raids, more deaths. When Uma suckled me, wild birds would encircle the yurt before flapping into the felt tents, spilling dried meat, spoiling the yak milk and provoking our hunting birds.

‘The girl is cursed,’ my clansmen argued.

‘The girl is simply a girl. And we are God-fearing men,’ my uncle would reprimand. ‘We blame misfortune on no one but our own sins.’

‘But the birds,’ the tribe would insist, ‘they surround the babe. She is unnatural!’ It was true – wherever I was carried there was the sweep of wings above, and birdsong from the trees.

Swaddling me close, the khan’s most favoured wife spoke. Babshah Khatun. To her, not one dared argue. ‘Enough, you superstitious fools. She is a blessing who has brought forth more birds for hunting. She is unusual; but, unusual children bear the greatest gifts. However I hear your fear. The chief folkteller has the hearts of their kinsmen, for they carry the histories of our sorrows. As your folkteller, Divine as my witness, I will make this babe my apprentice. She will carry with her the tales of your greatest joys and fears until the end of her days.’

The stern lady, though young, never broke her oaths. In irony, her oath became my curse.

In the winter quarters, the best pastures were south of the alpine lake. That year, the khan’s tribe erected their yurts and herded thousands of yaks, wild mares and lambs at the base of the harsh snow-capped mountains, amongst the rolling green alpine meadows, thin grass growing above cold dirt. From the lake, icy streams broke through the rocky grasslands of Tezmi’a.

It was my seventh Flood Festival, commemorating the day Nuh left the ark after the Great Flood. That morning, the children competed, to see whose prized hunting bird would find the keenest prey. Before long, the khan’s favoured wife interrupted and led the children up the pastures until they reached the end of the settlement of tents, toward the thick woodland.

Some of the tribe’s warriors, who’d escorted goods and cattle across the mountain pass for the emperor’s merchants, rested against the boundary of trees, waxing their compound bows. Others sipped apricot tea to fling back the wet chill, nodding to us in greeting. The khan sat with them, my uma – his sister – beside him. When she spotted our group, Uma scowled and stalked toward us.

‘O, Babshah, what senseless idea do you have now?’

Babshah Khatun merely smiled in silence. Uma placed a hand against my back, staring at the hunting birds cowing upon my shoulder. She warned, ‘Do not go too south of the mountain pass. There are patrols from the enemy clans who snatch away children like her.’

Still Babshah Khatun continued deep into the womb of the valley, past protruding boulders, and clumps of elm, into the tall deep grasses that fattened the wild onagers. Trails where humans rarely ventured, and the jinn-folk still reigned. The wind whispered into the children’s hair. The entombed roots of wizened trees sprawled through the woodlands, and whizzing sprites, those mischievous little apprentices to the long-passed fae of these lands, showered seeds to pollinate the flora. A deceivingly drowsy day for the violence that it promised. A place where the old ways still mattered and the Divine-made boundary between jinn-folk and human blurred.

Determined, I tripped along next to Babshah, resisting the urge to clasp the long end of her yak leather tunic, lest she think me not brave. Even my hunting buzzards on my shoulders canted their heads, curious.

Babshah sat squat and brushed her pale hand across the dirt. Her black hair swung with the wind, a dozen thin braids clasped in silver beads and an array of hawk feathers, not dissimilar to my own. The only difference was a camel-skin cord around her temple with a blue wooden block indicating her status as a wife of the khan.

‘Today, we will do a new type of hunt,’ Babshah declared. ‘Hunting by folktelling.’

The children murmured amongst themselves, but Babshah did not elaborate. Instead, she latched on to my hand – ‘Prepare yourself, my apprentice’ – before continuing along the fir path.

When we stopped, and it came time for our hunting pairings, my milk-sibling Haj refused to take me as a partner. He was ten years old, only three years my senior, but the gap was large enough to fuel his arrogance. He took his complaints to Babshah.

‘My uma says to stay away from her, else she will curse my bird’s game! I train with a spotted sparrowhawk. The girl trains with a pair of sooty buzzards. Smaller and useless, just like her. With all the birds that follow her, she will scare away the prey.’

‘I may be Ayşenor’s only child, but I am not useless,’ I muttered, keeping my lip from trembling.

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

SARAH MUGHAL RANA is a Muslim author and student who completed her bachelors with honours at the University of Toronto and is now at Oxford University, studying at the intersection of economics and policy. She is a BookTok personality and the co-host of On The Write Track Podcast where she enjoys spilling tea with her favourite authors about the book world. Her debut YA novel, Hope Ablaze, published in February 2024. Outside of school, she falls down history rabbit holes and trains in traditional martial arts. 

Social Links:

Author Website: https://www.sarahmughalrana.net/

Tik Tok: https://www.tiktok.com/@sarahmughal769

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Book Tour Stop: No One Aboard by Emy McGuire

 

No One Aboard 

Emy McGuire

On Sale Date: December 2, 2025

9781525831621

Trade Paperback

Graydon House

$18.99 USD

 

ABOUT THE BOOK:

The White Lotus meets Laura Dave’s The Last Thing He Told Me in this debut domestic mystery about a luxury sailboat found floating adrift in the ocean and the secrets of the missing family who set sail aboard it weeks before. 

"No One Aboard is a riveting, astonishing debut, and Emy McGuire is an important new voice in fiction. I will read anything she writes!"

—Sarah Pekkanen, #1 New York Times bestselling author 

At the start of summer, billionaire couple Francis and Lila Cameron set off on their private luxury sailboat to celebrate the high school graduation of their two beloved children.

 Three weeks later, the Camerons have not been heard from, the captain hasn’t responded to radio calls, and the sailboat is found floating off the coast of Florida. 

Empty.

 Where are the Camerons? What happened on their trip? And what secrets does the beautiful boat hold? 

Set over the course of their vacation and in the aftermath of the sailboat’s discovery, No One Aboard asks who is more dangerous to a family: a stormy ocean or each other?

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 Excerpted from No One Aboard by Emy McGuire, Copyright © 2025 by Emy McGuire. Published by Graydon House.

Chapter 1

Jerry Baugh

Jerry Baugh didn’t see the ship. He didn’t notice the red warning on the screen. He was, in fact, cozied up in the cockpit of his Dyer 29 lobster boat, feet propped between the rungs of the helm and hands stacked on his belly.

 

Jerry’s day of deep-sea fishing had been successful—a sailfish bill, broken at the hilt, currently stuck out of his bomber jacket pocket—and he was thinking about whether the meat

should be marinated in lemon juice or just plain old butter.

 

He was too distracted to detect the boat in his path—white and gleaming, suspended between the black water of the Atlantic and the starless, moonless sky with the same sinister beauty of an iceberg.

 

Or a ghost.

 

When the boat alarm went off, Jerry jolted in his seat, sending his Bass Pro Shops cap tumbling down his chest. A single drop of sailfish blood had, at some point, fallen onto the face of his watch, which read nine minutes after midnight.

 

He detangled his feet from the helm and peered at the radar. He was heading two hundred and fifty-eight degrees toward Hallandale Marina. The strange white sailboat blocked

his way.

 

Jerry switched off the autopilot and eased the throttle to slow down, his heart thumping soundly in his chest. If the alarm hadn’t sounded, he might have shipwrecked them both.

 

This sent a surge of anger through him. Why hadn’t the captain of the sailboat moved out of his way? Sheila 2.0 wasn’t subtle, her engine making an ugly chewing noise not unlike a trash compactor. They should have heard her coming.

 

Jerry allowed his boat to chug closer before he killed the engine and processed what on the devil’s blue sea he was looking at.

 

It was a sailboat, yes, but not like the rust-laced ones that docked near Sheila 2.0 in the Hallandale Marina.

 

This boat was mesmerizing.

 

It had twin aluminum masts, a wood-finished deck, and sunbathing mattresses laid out on the chart house. The body of the boat was a blinding white, smooth, curvaceous. The cap

rails were teak and coated with a glittering crust of sea salt. No one had cleaned them in some time. Cursive lettering on the side spelled out the boat’s name.

The Old Eileen

Jerry stared, a bit starstruck. Boats like Sheila 2.0 were made to choke marine diesel oil and seawater until they finally died twitching in a harbor like a waterlogged beetle on its back.

 

Boats like The Old Eileen were made to be beautiful.

 

Jerry found his radio, hooked to his waistband, and cleared

his throat before speaking into it.

 

“Eileen, Eileen, Eileen, this is Sheila, Sheila, Sheila, over.”

He waited.

 

There was a time when Jerry was younger (and a good bit stupider) that he wanted to buy a sailboat instead of a motorboat. It was romantic, the idea of harnessing the wind to travel

the world. But in the end, it was those same winds that terrified him. Wind could overpower him, seize control of the boat and bend its course. Jerry would have had to accept that possibility. He would have had to bare his throat to the mercy of the sea.

 

A mercy, he had come to understand, that did not exist.

“Eileen, Eileen, Eileen!” Jerry repeated into the radio.

They must be asleep. Jerry leaned forward and sounded his horn—five short blasts to signal danger. He waited for the radio to crackle to life, for a silver-spooned captain to sputter

apologies, or maybe for an underpaid deckhand to rush up top and get the boat moving once more.

 

There was only the sound of the luffing, useless sails, and the ever-shifting sea.

 

Jerry frowned and fiddled with the fish bill in his pocket.

He should leave.

He fumbled in the dark to switch the engine back on. He would report what he’d seen to the coast guard, get the captain in trouble for being so reckless. He’d be back in Florida by dawn.

But Steve . . .

 

Jerry glanced at his dash where he had taped up a photograph of himself with his younger brother. It was the last picture taken of Steve before he died. Jerry closed his eyes for a moment. He would have traded his boat, his bait, and everything he owned if someone had stopped that night to help Steve.

 

“Well, shit.” Jerry rubbed at his clavicle and swallowed hard. He would be in and out. Just to make sure all was well.

 

Jerry moved across the deck, aware of every sound his shuffling feet made. He rummaged through his fishing equipment, eyes never leaving The Old Eileen. His calloused, practiced

hands fit right around the harpoon gun, and he felt a measure of reassurance with a weapon in his grasp. He wasn’t scared, he was too old for that, but there was nothing quite like a creaking, old ship on the ocean at night to make a man into a boy again.

 

He tucked the harpoon gun under one arm and set to work

lowering his tiny dinghy. He’d take one moment to wake

whoever was on board, then get right back on his boat. Good

deed done for the day. Maybe the decade.

Jerry grunted as he climbed up the Eileen’s porthole and over the rail. The deck was empty save for an orange life preserver tied to the stern, the boat’s name written in black on the top and a slogan in italics around the bottom.

 

Unwind Yachting Co.

Safe to sail in any gale!

 

With no one in sight, Jerry located the companionway stairs that led down beneath the cockpit and gave one last scan of the deck before going below.

 

Downstairs, the chart house was neat and captainless, but the ship’s manifest was sitting in the center of the table, open to the first page.

 

SHIP’S MANIFEST—THE OLD EILEEN

SKIPPER—Captain Francis Ryan Cameron (55)

MATE—MJ Tuckett (67)

CREW—Alejandro Matamoros (54), Nicolás de la Vega (22)

PASSENGERS—Lila Logan Cameron (54), Francis Rylan Cameron (17), Taliea Indigo Cameron (17)

 

Seven souls. Seven souls aboard The Old Eileen, and not a single one had answered the radio, which lay next to the manifest like an amputated limb. Jerry picked it up and felt an ice-cold trickle of sweat on the back of his neck.

The cord had been cut.

Jerry’s knuckles went white against the harpoon gun. Bad things happen at sea. Storms kill and brothers drown.

But the radio cord hadn’t been severed by the ocean.

Jerry crept through the luxurious salon and to a door that must lead to a cabin. He let his trigger hand slip down for a moment so he could turn his radio to 16—the international maritime emergency channel.

Just in case.

He opened the door to the cabin.

The master bedroom. King-size bed with an indigo comforter and cream sheets. Velvet couch molded to fit the tight corner. A woman’s lipstick lay open on one bedside table, rolling back and forth as the boat rocked.

There was no one there. No sleeping captain, no apologetic deckhands, no life whatsoever. Had they just . . . left?

Jerry checked the next room. This one held two twin beds with identical navy bedspreads. One bed was unmade, with a variety of books scattered at its foot. The bedclothes on the other were tucked in, military-style.

A sketchbook was half hidden by the pillowcase, open to an illustration of some kind of monster.

Jerry mopped his brow with a rag he kept in his shirt pocket, not caring that it had dried sailfish blood caking the edges. He should have motored on by and called the damn guard.

He forced himself to concentrate. He was doing the right thing. The captain could be out cold and in need of help.

There were only a few more rooms.

But the last cabin was just as quiet.

Jerry peeked into the galley and the bilges, running out of places to check.

The heads. Each of the three cabins must have its own personal bathroom, and he hadn’t yet tried any of them. Hands slick with sweat around the harpoon gun, Jerry retraced his steps, checking first in the crew members’ head, then the master suite’s, then back to the room with the twin beds and the drawing of the monster.

He nudged open the last bathroom door and looked inside.

In the mirror, his own ref lection stared back at him, interrupted only by a string of crimson words that had been written on the glass.

A weight dropped anchor inside his stomach, flooding Jerry with a kind of dread he had avoided for thirty years. The harpoon gun slipped from his hands, and he reached for his radio, unable to peel his gaze from the message on the mirror.

Save yOur Self

 

The Convey

OPINION: The Ocean Is Our Great Equalizer (why the newest Atlantic disaster seems to

spell K-A-R-M-A for the one percent)

MIKE GRADY

The Camerons—a family of four headed by television darling Lila Logan and business tycoon Francis Cameron—have been reported missing after their multimillion-dollar sailing yacht turned up eighty miles offshore without a single person onboard early in the morning of June 9. Authorities and reporters have leaped into extensive action. The Atlantic has already been tempestuous at the beginning of this year’s hurricane season. Potential upcoming storms have given the search a dangerous time component in an investigation reminiscent of the Titan, the infamous submersible that imploded with five passengers aboard on its way to see the Titanic wreck. The world had plenty to say about the Titan and its affluent victims, and this latest oceanic mystery has the potential to play out the same. Francis and Lila Cameron both had modest childhoods, but thanks to the entertainment industry, the business world, and the good old American dream, they have skyrocketed into the fraction of Americans who own multiple homes (Palm Beach villa, LA bungalow, and a sleek Aspen chalet, if anyone’s wondering), not to mention the multimillion-dollar sailing yacht that came up empty in the early hours of yesterday morning. While I’m not necessarily here to say that the Atlantic Ocean is doing a better job than God or taxes to rid us of the elite, I do want to pose a big-picture question while authorities are sussing out the how did this happen? and where did they go? Of it all. My question instead to you, dear reader, is this: Why the Camerons?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

EMY MCGUIRE holds a bachelor’s degree in theatre/creative writing from New College of Florida. She has toured nationally in the Edgar Allan Poe Show, sailed from Rome to Antigua, and written everything from ocean thrillers to pirate musicals. She lives in Colorado. 

Social Links:

Author website: https://www.emymcguire.com/

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