Science Fiction and Fantasy, Paranormal Romance
Date Published: April 9, 2018
Publisher: Tellwell Talent
There was only ever meant to be one Creator.
In 1972, German scientist Renner Scholz travels to Barbora Bay, Washington where he meets the love of his life, Milena Nowak. Only believing in things proven by science, he becomes obsessed with determining the underlying genetic basis of Milenaâs psychic gift.
Stumbling upon an occult ritual, Renner is connected to the spiritual realm where he discovers an unrivaled power that fuels supernatural abilities. But, the answers heâs been searching for come at a costâhis soul.
Driven by new darkness that resides within him, Renner has a breakthrough in his researchâable to genetically produce psychic abilities in humans. Milena helplessly watches as her husband becomes deceptive, volatile and both physically and mentally more powerful. Can Milena save Renner from this evil presence? Or will she become an unwilling participant in his next experimentâone of the darkest kinds?
Excerpt
Renner was wracked with an emotion he hadnât experienced in a whileâguilt. The sensation was pushing past a barrier, fighting for him to notice.
How could he have done that to Milena? He loved her. She was his wife. His beloved. He hadnât meant to explode, lose control of himself, and even now was having trouble remembering all that had happened, parts of his memory missing. But he knew he had hurt her. Her blood had stained his knuckles.
Of course, his day had already been going badly. There was that.
First, catching Paul rummaging through his lab files. Problem number one.
The second problemâthe catalyst to his furyâwas the interrogation by his boss and the policemen. Renner felt he handled himself well, shirking suspicion from his shoulders. But, the meeting rattled him.
Renner couldnât manage to calm down after that, unable to focus on his work, his mind completely distracted by Paulâs betrayal and the pending investigation. He ducked out early, wanting to go home and plan a way to get Paul off of his back. Just needing a drink to settle his nerves. A few minutes to himself. But, Milena just wouldnât leave him alone.
She provoked you. Itâs all her fault.
What the voice said was true. Stuck her nose in where it didnât belong. Pressing and pressing. Problem number three. And hadnât he asked her nicely to give him some space? If she had just listened, none of this would have happened. But, had she deserved what he had done to her?
Yes, she did deserve it. You did what you had to do. She was going to leave you.
But, he had reacted as his biological father would have. Where had that anger, that violence, come from? Never in a million years would he have thought he was capable of that depth of aggression. Milena was helpless against his fury.
I love her, he thought. I honestly do. How could I do that to her?
Would it have been better if you let her go? You need her, remember? She canât leave. Not now, not ever.
It was true. He could never live without her. And he also needed her for his research. She was essential to his plans, and even though up until now he had gained her compliance through his elaborate ruse to fake her illness, he would not have to trick her anymore. Everything was much easier this way.
Slowly, his guiltâassuaged by the voice in his mindâabated, and his focus on the prize returned. The timing was actually opportune; did Milenaâs last set of blood tests not tell him so? All of his preparations were leading to this point. She was finally ready.
It is time.
About the Author
Lanie Mores resides in Ontario with her family, although she enjoys traveling to alternate realities through reading, binge-watching Netflix or playing video games.
She has worn many hats throughout her life: cashier, medical records secretary, psychotherapist, hypnotherapist, personal trainer, mom and now author.
Inspired to write by Stephen King, Diana Gabaldon, Jean M. Auel, and Margaret Atwood, Lanie works diligently to complete her four-part FATHER OF CONTENTION series.
With her writing, Lanie hopes to inspire her readers to think and live outside the box, to be courageous in following their own passions, and live a life of purpose.
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The Good Girl’s Guide to Being Bad
Upside Down
-- EXCERPT: Context: Jordan is attending his first asexual support meeting, along with his best friend Merry, where Jordan finds the guy from his bus, whom he’s admired from afar and dubbed ‘Headphones Guy’ (Hennessy) is running the meetings. Jordan I didn’t even notice that the room had cleared out. Merry had pulled up a chair at my side, but Hennessy sat with his knees between mine, holding my hand while I cried. I fucking cried. Through my stupid, traitorous tears, I caught the end of a silent conversation between Merry and him, my Headphones Guy. Hennessy. And then Merry rubbed my back before she walked out, and Hennessy squeezed my hand. “She’s just gone to get you a drink of water,” he said gently. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I said, wiping my face with my free hand. “Because it can be overwhelming,” he said. His voice was calm and soft. “Because it can be life-affirming and scary as hell, all at the same time.” I nodded. “I don’t want another label, you know? Because I have enough. I have more than enough. Too many, probably, you know for a geeky book-nerd gay man with so many levels of social awkwardness Freud would need an elevator, but the labels fit. And I hate that they fit. Everything that was said here tonight was like it was said for me, like I was saying those things. I didn’t want this to happen,” I said, shaking my head, fighting more tears. “I wanted to come here and, well, that’s not exactly true. I didn’t want to come here at all; it was Merry’s idea. She suggested that I look into what being asexual meant. After my 683rd failed attempt at a relationship, she thought maybe I should see if I ticked any boxes on the ‘How To See If You Could Be Asexual’ questionnaire on Teen Vogue, and after I realised that I could almost tick all the boxes, I decided I didn’t want or need another label. So then I had to come here tonight to shut her up. I was going to prove her wrong and then I could go on living my best life being not asexual but just a gay man who didn’t actually want to have sex. A socially awkward, geeky book-nerd gay man,” I amended through more tears, “who doesn’t actually want to have sex. I’m sorry for crying. I wasn’t expecting the emotional dump, but I wasn’t expecting to feel so… lost and found. Like I once was lost but now I’m found, kind of like the song, which is cheesy as fuck and I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I just didn’t realise how hard I’d been trying to fit in with the real world, trying to be normal, when my normal was here all along. Because I really am asexual and it hit me like a metric fuckton of bricks that there’s actually nothing wrong with me.” And then there were more tears. “Because that’s my truth, even if I thought there was something wrong with me, and fuck knows I’ve been told there was, many times,” I said, wiping my face. “But there’s not. I’m asexual, and that’s my motherfucking truth whether I like it or not.” Hennessy smiled at me. With his perfect lips and perfect teeth, his pretty blue eyes, and three-day scruff. He looked so different without his headphones, like seeing someone who normally wears glasses without them. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said, still smiling, still holding my hand. “I’m sorry, were you not here for the geeky book-nerd gay man with so many levels of social awkwardness Freud would need an elevator conversation?” He laughed at that. “I believe I was, yeah.” “Sorry about that. I tend to babble a lot when I’m nervous. And swear. Well, I say fuck a lot even when I’m not nervous. I don’t have Tourette’s or anything, I just like the word fuck. The noun and adverb, even the adjective, not the verb obviously because I’m asexual. Apparently. So there is definitely no actioning of the word.” Hennessy chuckled. “No actioning of the word, got it.” He still had a hold of my hand, and I liked it. As in, really liked it. My Headphones Guy was holding my hand, and he was smiling at me, in what I think was not in a bad way. I mean, his smile was kind and his eyes were smiling too, if that was even possible. I mean, no it wasn’t possible—eyes could not physically smile, I got that—but damn, they sure looked happy. “How are you feeling now?” he asked. “A little weirded out,” I answered. “Not gonna lie. I didn’t want to admit the asexual thing to myself for a long time, and I’m thinking it will take some getting used to. Like breaking in a pair of Doc Martens, ya know? Like they’re uncomfortable and tight and basically kill your feet until they’re the most comfortable shoes you’ll ever wear. They become like a second skin, and I’m pretty sure this whole asexual thing will be like that.” He made a thoughtful face. “I like that analogy.” “And it’s even weirder, because you’re my Headphones Guy and I had no idea you’d be here, but here you are and now you’re holding my hand and I cried in front of you, which is not how I wanted our first meeting to go. Believe me. I had visions of it involving me not being so… well, so me. And doing all the talking, because I tend to talk a lot when I’m nervous, which I think I’ve said already—” “I’m your Headphones Guy?” Oh fucking fuckity motherfucker. “I said that out loud, didn’t I? To your perfect face, and what kind of perfect name is Hennessy, by the way? Because—” A loud peal of laughter broke through the door when a couple, a guy and girl, stumbled into the backroom, their arms around each other, obviously intoxicated and handsy and half kissing, half laughing, until they realised the room wasn’t empty. I shot to my feet and pulled my hand away from Hennessy’s. “Oh, sorry guys,” the girl said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” the guy said. He took his hand off her arse to wave it. “Keep doing what you’re doing. We don’t mind. We thought this room was empty.” “We weren’t doing anything,” I said quickly. “Excuse me,” Merry said, sliding in around the drunk couple. She held three bottles of water. “Sorry, it took forever to get served. They’re really busy.” I’d never been happier to see her. “Oh, thank God.” I grabbed her arm and turned her back toward the door. “We need to leave. I called him my Headphones Guy to his perfect fucking face.” Merry shot Hennessy a look and held out a bottle of water for him. He took it, still smiling, though somewhat confused. Then Merry looked up at me as I dragged her to the door. “To his face?” “What was I supposed to do? You left me unsupervised!” I stopped at the couple who were still standing in the doorway, and only just then I realised what the guy had meant when he said they thought the room was empty… “Oh praise baby motherfucking Jesus, I hope you have antibacterial wipes.” Now Merry was hauling me out through the crowded pub. I yelled back at the couple, hoping they’d hear, “At least wipe it down afterwards, we have meetings in there!” We burst through the crowd onto the street and Merry looked up at me and sighed. “What else did you say?” “What didn’t I say?” I answered. “I was a mess, crying all over him because of the whole asexual thing, thank you very much. Then I was nervous and we both know how well that ends. And I think I might have told him that he was my Headphones Guy, that he had a perfect face and a perfect name, because who the fuck calls their kid Hennessy, and now he thinks I’m a raving lunatic because you. Left. Me. Un. Supervised.” Merry cracked her bottle of water, took a long drink, sighed, then hooked her arm around my elbow. “He really is very good looking,” she said as we began the walk back to my flat. “I can see why you’ve been crushing on him forever.” I took a swig of my water. “Fucking hell, I wish this was wine. Where is Jesus when you need him?”
GIVEAWAY! Fool’s Errand
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play -- EXCERPT: “Sing with me,” I whispered as I began to move. I lifted my wet hands from his shoulders to his temples, raking my fingers through his damp curls and holding on, my grip forcing his head to tilt back. Rohan’s golden gaze fixed on my face, his eyelids fluttering slightly and his breath coming quicker as I fucked him. “Are you sure?” “Yes. I want to try . . . ” He gripped my hips with both hands and took a deep breath. His exhale became a long, plaintive note, his brows creasing with the tension of the first verse of a song to accompany our lovemaking. The music was the perfect mix of hungry and sweet, and I clung to him as the notes settled inside me. I ached to join in when the tension of the pleasure coiled so tight I needed an outlet before I came too fast, but my voice betrayed me once again. When I tried to sing, the sound just came out as a pitiful croak, so I clamped my mouth shut, focusing on the pleasure to hold back the tears. I buried my face in his neck, my moan half pleasure, half despair. Rohan stroked the back of my neck, halting mid-verse. “It’ll come back to you, baby. I promise. I’m proof you don’t need a turul soul to sing.” “Just make love to me,” I whispered, pulling back to look into his eyes. He gazed intently back at me, brow creased and jaw clenched, betraying how my own hurt affected him just as acutely. I took a deep breath and started rocking my hips again, focusing on the pleasure of our connection as he resumed the song. The music truly helped, even if I couldn’t join in without an instrument. I let myself get lost in the rhythm he set and the deep notes that rose above the steam. I could draw the pleasure out with him, trusting that he’d let me know when he’d given too much. Rohan urged me on, holding tighter and shifting his hips into mine at a quicker tempo. The lyrics to the song gave way to his cries of pleasure as we crested together, both of us finding our climax at the same second amid sloshing water and slippery, gasping kisses. Rohan’s strained expression fell into laughter as he relaxed, his skin glowing faintly with my iridescent magic and my own skin glimmering golden and wet. I sank against him with a sigh, grateful for yet another reprieve from the ever-encroaching threat to my sanity and the added disappointment of losing my voice. Perhaps with enough time and their continued attention, that need would fade and my songs would return. For now, I would enjoy the lucidity when I had it and let them do the singing for me.
GIVEAWAY! Crazy For You
-- EXCERPT: From Prologue – Emily Normally, being face-down, ass-up, and waiting to be hand-cuffed would be a welcome Friday night activity. Too bad it’s Tuesday, and an actual officer of the law is the one doing the cuffing. Before all the commotion, I’d just fallen into an amazing tranquil lull of relaxation. I barely smoke weed anymore, so I can normally get pretty high off a hit or two, but Fozzie’s water bong has a nasty, dark, film of resin on the inside of the base, which means he barely cleans the thing. I needed four hard hits to get any sensation. A part of me wonders if I’m inhaling black mold instead of marijuana. Though his couch is probably coated with more disgusting fluids than a motel comforter, I’m sprawled out with my hands clasped behind my head. If I allowed myself to think about how much shit has been spilled and jacked onto this dirty-ass piece of furniture, I’d never even come over, let alone lay on it. But Fozzie’s my oldest friend, and sometimes you suck it up and forget about housekeeping habits for people you love. Fozzie, or Franklin Thomas the Fourth, which is how our teacher introduced him when he joined our class midway through our third-grade year, sits on the floor sorting packets and counting cash. “When are you going to stop selling that shit, Foz?” I ask. “When North Carolina legalizes it,” he responds, holding up a thick stack of bills. “Wanna spread it out on my bed and roll around in it?” “Nah, we did that last Tuesday,” I tease. For the record, I have never rolled around in drug money. I may have done it after being paid in cash for the first major back piece I tattooed, but it was totally a joke. I really wish he’d stop selling weed, but I know he needs the money to make ends meet while his band, Drowned World, carves their place in the music scene. I’ve offered to loan him cash on multiple occasions, but he always turns me down. Stupid male ego shit. Thankfully, they’re climbing the charts fast and getting recognized by more people every day, so he should be able to leave his dealing days behind soon. I’m not hating on it, because I totally get the hustle. I almost resorted to selling weed back when I first left my parent’s house. But as much as I wanted to piss them off at the time, I knew I’d ruin their reputation if I got busted for something like that and I just couldn’t have that on my conscious. I don’t hate them, I just don’t want to be a part of their lifestyle. “If you need to use the bathroom, use the one upstairs, okay?” He lifts his head, a shock of bleach blond hair falls, covering one eye. The rest of his head is shaved, except a patch on top that’s been bleached, gelled, and sprayed to stay in place. “Got it.” I don’t think anything about his request. Fozzie lives with two other guys —and none of them take any steps to keep any of their rooms clean. The bathrooms, especially, are always disgusting. The electronic, 80’s vibe of Missio’s “Rad Drugz” fills the air, slowing bringing me to another level of relaxation. I’ve almost fallen into a wonderfully hazy state of mind when a booming bang on the door startles me out of my dazed haze. A muffled voice announcing themselves as “the police” calls for us to open the door. Everything is a blur from there. Probably because my mind immediately switched from a luxurious relaxed state to ultra-paranoid within seconds. “Fuck!” Fozzie jumps to his feet, kicking the bags of weed under the couch before heading to the door. He glances at me over his shoulder, waiting as I shove the bong between two couch cushions and tug an afghan over it before he opens the door.
GIVEAWAY! Cassidy
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