Orangeberry Book of the Day – Guardians Inc.: The Cypher by Julian Rosado-Machain

Part I

Guardians Incorporated.

Vice Principal Killjoy

Thomas fiddled with his thumbs waiting for his grandfather to emerge from his meeting with Vice-Principal “Killjoy” Khanna.

He hadn’t come up with that nickname; it was something he had heard since his first day at Oceanic High School, in Carlsbad, California. It was whispered along the corridors and classrooms with dread, like a monster under the bed. If you did something wrong, Killjoy would get you.

Even the adults knew about her fame. Morning drop-offs at school were always a chaotic cutthroat race until Killjoy took command of the school’s entrance. Holding a metal notepad in one hand and a large coffee mug in the other, Killjoy gained control of the drop-off zone. As parents cautiously drove through the parking lot, a mere frown stopped those who wanted to cut in line and a wave of the metal notepad dissuaded those who wanted to drive into the teacher’s parking lot. Her system was very simple: students wouldn’t be admitted to school that day if their parents tried to cut in line. Simple as that.

Killjoy always wore a long overcoat over a buttoned knitted sweater, even in the summer. Her haters compared her to a barrel with legs, but many of the girls were jealous of the wavy black hair that reached her lower back and her thin manicured hands. Nobody had seen her eyes — she always wore huge sunglasses that covered half her face — but it was rumored that her eyes were the blackest black.

She was shorter than the average sophomore girl, so it was easy for her to walk among students undetected during recess, and she was silent too, like a tiger stalking prey. Someone had found out that her shoe size was around 12 or 13, but Killjoy wore rubber-soled shoes and walked in a short step gait.

In those first two weeks, Thomas had been startled three times by her sudden appearance. Only the first time had she acknowledged his presence by nodding her head at him, her chin embedding itself deeply into her large double chin.

That simple nod was enough for an introduction.   

There was a story about how Killjoy stopped a speeding SUV by standing in front of it and putting her hand on the grill of the car. The incident happened before Thomas even entered school, and he knew it must have been an exaggeration, but the story went that two days later, the family who was driving the SUV, moved from the county.

Or so it was rumored.     

Parents avoided her, teachers respected her, and students were completely terrified. In a nutshell, the school was completely under Killjoy’s iron grip. The Principal seemed happy to be just a figurehead, the school ran like clockwork, and there were no problems between him and Killjoy since Killjoy was always right.

Everyone told Thomas to avoid her, but he was now on her radar.

Thomas shifted in his seat, swinging his legs back and forth. He stared at Killjoy’s closed door. He shivered. This was his first visit to her office, and since he had just transferred from Ohio, the Killjoy legend hadn’t really sunk in. A boy from his class had called him a “farm boy” in front of a group of girls, and although he had let that one slip by, he couldn’t ignore “hick,” “redneck,” and all the other names that followed. He dropped his backpack and immediately a ring of onlookers gathered.

The other boy, Roger Hill, was large and strong, blond hair and blue-eyed. He was three inches taller than Thomas, and his shoulders were many inches wider. Roger was a linebacker on the school’s football team.

Thomas was the complete opposite – always on the skinny side, black hair, brown eyes. But, three years in Tae Kwon Do earned him a red belt and third place in Ohio’s junior open. Of course, nobody knew that, and Roger found out the hard way.

Thomas didn’t throw the first punch; he tried to talk first, but when the punches came he made sure to throw the last kick, and then the next one, and the next one, as Roger’s teammates jumped in to help their linebacker. Thomas was in a trance – fighting – and zooming in on one of Roger’s friends when the circle of onlookers opened and Killjoy entered the arena.

With a wave of her notepad, Killjoy dissolved the spectators and assessed the situation. Everyone was silent. Thomas tried to catch his breath.

“You three,” she said in a thick Hindu accent, “to the principal.” Then she turned to Thomas and pointed with her coffee mug. “You, follow me.”

Thomas picked up his backpack and followed the short, plump woman through the school hallways. All the kids looked at him with pity; some even waved him goodbye.

With a little kick, Killjoy opened her office door and led Thomas inside. She pointed to a chair across from her desk and waited for him to sit down before plopping in her chair. She intertwined her fingers and leaned over her desk, staring at Thomas.

Thomas tried to keep his cool and held her gaze while he counted in silence. He’d never been prone to get into trouble. He was never singled out for anything other than for his prowess in Tae Kwon Do in Ohio.

In Fullton, a town of roughly eleven thousand people, and a high school with a total two hundred students, everyone was familiar with each other. They’d actually grown up together. His old principal, Mr. Blair, had been to barbecues at his home many times. When someone got into trouble, not only did the parents know about it, within hours, the whole town heard of the news. And, like it or not, your reputation grew up with you – screwing up as a kid you’d be branded a “bad apple,” and your reputation would follow you forever.

The switch to Carlsbad, a proper city between San Diego and L.A., and a school with about three thousand students, had been difficult. It was harsh and disorienting. It seemed that everyone was trying to be individuals, trying to do something that would set them apart from each other. Clothing, attitude, friends, sports. It was all about who was who. Who did what?And, who was with whom? Thomas had tried to keep a low profile, but once again, his prowess in Tae Kwon Do had singled him out.     

And now he was sitting in front of Killjoy.

When he had counted to twenty Mississippi, Killjoy finally spoke.

“Did you throw the first punch?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did you enticed the fight in any way?”

“Enticed?”

“E-N-T-I-C-E-D. Enticed,” she spelled. “To bait, to attract. Did you lure Roger to fight with you?”

“No. They started it.”

“They?”

“Roger and his friends.”

“So you know him?”

“He’s in one of my classes.”

“And you don’t like him.”

“I don’t really know him.”

“You wanted to fight him?”

“No.”

“You wanted to show off in front of the school? Build a little reputation? Show everyone who’s boss.”

“No.”

“No to which question.”

“No to all of them.”

“Show me your hands.”

Thomas paused, and then extended his knuckles.

“Palms up,” Killjoy said leaning forward. He opened his hands and turned up his palms.

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Genre - YA Fantasy / Adventure

Rating – G

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Website http://www.guardiansinc.com/

Orangeberry Book of the Day – A Study in Sin by August Wainwright

Chapter 2
The Pluto Incident

We met at the apartment the next day. There was a narrow door between the front of the bakery and the tailor’s shop next door. Remy used her key and we ascended the dark staircase to a single steel door. I flicked the light switch at the top of the stairs, but none of the three bulbs that hung overhead came on. The narrow hall was perfumed with a thick musky smell.

Once we were inside, I was shocked at the size of the place. The room was one large space, with tall picture windows that covered the entire back wall, bathing us in afternoon light. There was a small hallway to the left of the entryway that contained a single closet and full bathroom. Further down the left wall was a door leading into the bedroom, which happened to be the only separated space in the apartment. There was a galley style kitchen to the right with a long bar top counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the room. Other than those details, and the fact that a layer of dust lay on top of every surface, the entire place was empty. The main room had old hardwood floors and brick walls that stretched up to the celling hanging twenty feet above. Every step echoed like a gunshot. The ducting and wiring were all exposed in the ceiling area and gave the room a modern industrial feel. I found out later the bakery owner had used the room for storage after she bought the building, but eventually paid a contractor to add the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen for her brother who needed a place to stay a few years back. He moved out after less than a year and it had been empty ever since.

The apartment was so amazing, and the price so cheap, that we immediately told the old woman we would take it. I wasted no time, and started bringing things over from my shitty old place later that same night. Remy followed suit the next morning. For the next few days, we spread our collected belongings throughout the apartment and it quickly began to feel like a place I could call home.

I expected an awkward conversation when it came to the lone bedroom. The single room meant limited privacy for one of us and I suspected Remy would claim it, being of the female persuasion and all. But, even after insisting multiple times, she would hear none of it.

“I sometimes keep very odd hours, and although you don’t sleep much, I would hate to wake you by bursting out into the living area.”

She chose the far corner of the room, farthest away from the front door, and sectioned it off using two sets of tall divider screens that were a dark hand carved wood. I thought they were quite nice, so it worked out well. She fit her bed and large chests behind the screens and had her own secluded space which she seemed very comfortable with. Who was I to argue?

On the far wall, next to Remy’s makeshift bedroom, she installed an entire workstation, complete with three computer monitors, two laptops, and multiple other electronics.

“Do you have your own computer, Jay?” she asked me a few days after we moved in.

“Yea, I have a laptop I use.”

“Good. I’m sure I can trust you, but I would just appreciate it if you didn’t make a habit of using my workstations. I keep things a very specific way.”

“That’s no problem,” I answered. Her only response was a small smile as she went about her business.

In no way was Remy a difficult person to live with, even with her many eccentricities. Her schedule was fairly regular; many nights she would stay out long after I went to bed and would be gone when I woke. Sometimes I would hear her come back in the middle of the night, but she was always quiet and respectful towards me. And nothing could derail her when she put her mind towards something. She would go non-stop for days on end. By the third week, I was convinced she only slept an hour or two a night. Her energy levels never ran low, that is, except for when she would enter into one of the episodes she had warned me about. When that happened, it was like living with an entirely different person. Dr. Jekyll and little Ms. Hyde. Remy would curl up into a ball on the couch in front of the wall of windows and stay there for hours, sometimes days. Her bouts would always follow the same pattern: First, she would curl up and go silent, and she looked as though she was suffering from one of the worst flu epidemics of all time. Next, she would sit up, open the window nearest to her, and stare out at the street below. It would be the first sign of life, sometimes in a day or two, and would act as a false hope for progress. Because within an hour of opening the window and letting in the fresh air, she would become irritated at the commotions, slam the window shut and curl back into the fetal position. Finally, she would go to the kitchen and brew a pot of coffee, always hazelnut, and after finishing exactly two cups, she would look around the apartment as if seeing it for the first time. A few minutes later, she would be up, bouncing around like nothing had ever happened. If I didn’t know better, and if it had been absolutely anyone else, I would have sworn it was the effects of a drug withdrawal.

As the days and weeks went by, my fascination with Remy only intensified. Never once did we discuss what had happened the day we met; hell, we never even acknowledged it. I would find myself looking her up and down as she worked at her computer, wondering why she had kissed me and what it meant. I wondered what was wrong with her and I wondered why she smelled the way she did. Remy carried her tiny frame with a grace that I found extremely appealing. In spite of the fact that I never saw her spend more than a few seconds getting ready – she never wore makeup – somehow she always looked attractive. Not gorgeous, maybe not even beautiful, but there was something undeniably alluring about her. Saying that she was confident in herself would be the equivalent of saying a lion on the plains of the Serengeti is capable of finding its own meals. On more than one occasion, I was online submitting my resume when I looked up to find her walking naked, with only a towel wrapped around her wet hair, directly through the middle of the living room. Whether she did this on purpose, was completely oblivious to the fact I was present, or simply just didn’t care, I’ll never know. But if it wasn’t an issue for her, then there was absolutely no way I was going to voice a complaint.

Seeing as how I was finding it difficult to locate even the slightest hint of a well-paying job, I immediately took notice of the fact that Remy never lacked for funds. Her computers and electronics had to have cost thousands and she never objected to going out for meals, many times, paying the bill behind my back when I got up to use the restroom . Yet, no matter how much I watched, or what questions I asked, she wouldn’t talk about what it was she did.

College was out of the question. Although Remy spent hours reading science journals and skimming through books that induced yawning just by reading the title, she never stayed on any one subject for long, quickly moving on to something completely unrelated. At one point, I was certain she was a freelance programmer because she stayed on her computer for days, going through screens of code line by line. So I asked her if she was a programmer. She looked at me for a moment, or better yet, she looked through me, and then turned back to her screen. I took it as a no. The idea struck me that whatever she was doing, it might not be what one would define as legal. Whatever her reasons, I knew that nobody would put in the effort Remy did if there wasn’t an end goal in mind.

She was educating herself but didn’t go to college. She spent hours behind her computer, but it wasn’t her job. She had “appointments” that kept her out at all hours, but no friends to speak of. She had money but didn’t answer to an employer. I was beginning to question my certainty that drugs weren’t involved when things suddenly changed.

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Genre - Mystery / Thriller / Suspense

Rating – PG13

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Website http://augustwainwright.com/

Orangeberry Book of the Day - Blood Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers) by Alexandra Sokoloff

Chapter One

The dark concrete corridor stretched out before him, smelling of blood and semen and terror.

Roarke had been here before, these stinking hellholes, cellblock rooms barely big enough for a mattress and bed stand. Twenty-five girls to a block, locked in the rooms and drugged to the gills, servicing twenty-five to forty men a day, twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Not just ordinary johns tonight: it was a new shipment, private party for the traffickers themselves.

He could hear the shallow breathing of the agents surrounding him, feel the warmth of bodies: four men before him, three in back, encased in camouflage body armor and hoisting riot shields, brandishing an entire armory. Somewhere down the hall there was sobbing, a young girl’s cries. “Mátame. Por favor, mátame.”

Kill me. Please kill me.

The number one man gestured the signal and the team shot forward in formation, then peeled off in a fluid dance, odd men to the right, even men to the left, kicking through doors, shouting: “FBI, drop your weapon! Face down on the floor!” Elsewhere in the corridor, shots blasting, more screaming, heavy thuds and the jangle of cuffs as men were wrestled to the floor.

Roarke covered the agent ahead of him until the tiny room was secure, bad guy kissing concrete. Roarke looked once at the terrified teenage girl cowering naked on the filthy mattress, and said “Es terminado.” It’s over. Then he moved out the door, leading with his Glock, down the corridor, past doorways open to similar scenes of hell.

He kicked open the next closed door and burst in—

A man with his pants half off turned with an enormous, ugly AK 47. Roarke shot twice, straight into his center mass. The man’s chest opened, blooming red, and his body went down, jerking as if tasered.

Roarke stood, his heart booming crazily in his chest.

And then, though the trafficker was as dead as a person could get, Roarke followed procedure and turned the corpse over to cuff him.

As he straightened he saw the girl, tiny and frozen, huddled on the floor against the mattress, her back pressed into the wall, her eyes wide and glazed with fear. This one twelve or thirteen years old at most, dressed in nothing but a cheap, stained camisole. Roarke felt a wave of primal anger he was able to suppress only by telling himself he must not frighten this child any further.

“Estás seguro,” he told her in the softest voice he could muster through the adrenaline raging through his bloodstream. You are safe. Although he wondered if any of the girls who walked out of this place, this night, would ever feel safe again.

There was movement behind him and he twisted around... to see Special Agent Damien Epps in the doorway. Tall, dark, lithe, and righteously pissed.

“All clear,” Epps reported. His whole body was tense. “Thirteen of the fucks in custody, three —”

He paused as he glanced down at the dead man at Roarke’s feet. “Four dead.” And his face and body were suddenly tense in a different way. “Nice shooting,” he added.

Roarke felt the jab. He had twelve years of Bureau service and before two weeks ago, he had never killed in the line of duty. The man at his feet was his third since then.

He gave Epps a warning look, nodding at the girl huddled against the wall. He wanted to help her up, give her the shirt under his vest, but he figured she wouldn’t be wanting any man near her for a very, very long time. “Social Services?” he asked Epps quietly. They had social workers waiting in vans outside to take the rescued girls to hospitals and on to a shelter that specialized in support for trafficking victims.

“On their way in,” Epps said.

Roarke spoke directly to the girl. “Mujeres vienen. Usted se va a la casa.” Women are coming. You are going home.

The girl didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him. He stood for a moment, helpless, knowing he was not the one to help her. He moved to follow Epps out. And then he stopped, his eyes coming to rest on the bed stand.

Just above the gouged surface of the table there was a small drawing on the wall. Roarke stepped closer... to look down at a figure scratched in the concrete, a crude skeleton wearing a flowery crown. Scraps of food and torn bits of lace were laid carefully in front of it.

Epps was staring, too, stopped in the doorway. “What is it?”

“An altar,” Roarke said. “To Santa Muerte.” Lady Death, Holy Death, protector of the lost.

He looked at the girl, still and silent on the floor, with her old and wary eyes, and wondered if somehow her prayer had been answered and the saint had intervened.

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Genre - Mystery / Thriller

Rating – PG13

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Website http://alexandrasokoloff.com/

Orangeberry Book of the Day - Swimming Upstream by Jack Thompson

Sometimes justice needs a hand.

When a young lawyer for the number one environmental law firm in Seattle is found dead on Mount Rainier, the police declare it a tragic accident. A desperate mother turns to Raja Williams, a private investigator always willing to help.

Neither the dark, tragic anti-hero nor the James Bond super-hero type, Raja is a wealthy Oxford-educated PI of mixed Caribbean descent who possesses a strong empathic power and a sixth sense for evil that gives him headaches and steers him straight into trouble. His partner Vinny Moore is a gorgeous hipster geek who prefers hacking computers to haute couture.

The discovery of a sinister scorched-earth plot to hide the truth leads Raja and Vinny to the Arctic wilds of Canada and lands them in the middle of a battle over the riches of the pristine wilderness. If assassins don’t kill them, the sub-zero weather just might.

Swimming Upstream is the third intriguing mystery thriller in the Raja Williams Series. The colorful cast of characters and timely topics make it a fun, entertaining story that can be read as a stand-alone novel.

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Genre – Mystery & Thriller / Suspense

Rating – NC17

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Website http://jackwrites.com/

Orangeberry Book of the Day – The Way Life Is by Rick Johnson

1

Peace and innocence

The peace and solitude of the small prairie town that Patty and I had lived in during the early years of our marriage reflected our life before children – ordered, secure, and repetitive. My job in the provincial government civil service fit right into the mold, also secure, predictable and repetitiv

Neepawa, located in south central Manitoba, just a few miles from Riding Mountain National Park to the north, in the mid 1970s was a town of about 3,000 people, about half of whom were retired farmers.

On any half decent day, most of them were out walking along the perfectly squared-off streets, in front of well-manicured lawns and flower gardens surrounding impeccably-kept little homes, all exactly the same distance apart and the same distance from the street. Throughout the town, those streets were canopied by huge Dutch Elm trees lined up on the boulevards like so many soldiers on parade.

It often amazed me how the fire engine-red hydrants were always particularly shiny clean and bright in Neepawa, as if they were somehow resistant to splashing water from the gutters, and to the dogs in town, which it seemed, must have been trained to avoid them for some other, less conspicuous facility. Perhaps a civil servant, not unlike myself, with scrub brush and Windex in hand, had the job of maintaining clean fire hydrants.

I remember how most days the westerly prairie breeze seemed to come to town with the same predictability as everything else, bringing with it the rich smell of freshly cultivated fields in spring; the sweet odor of wild roses and fresh cut hay in summer and the dusty, dry scent of harvest in the fall. The growling combines in the distance always reminded us it was time to take the annual drive through the park to see the reds, yellows and oranges of autumn, and time to plan the ritual trip to the in-laws for Thanksgiving.

Life was as predictable as the seasons. Each day was a copy of the one previous. I would head to the office at the same time each morning to the backdrop of a blue jay squawking at the neighbour’s cat and then, further down the street, a dozen chattering sparrows would take their turn. In late summer, trees full of blackbirds, tired of the slough and the cattails on the edge of town, would come in to enjoy the vantage point the elms offered them as they screeched at me passing belo

Winters were silent, odorless and colourless for the most part, and after a few years in Neepawa, we began to wonder if that was what our life was becoming. There was comfort and security in it all for certain, but we began to grow weary of predictability, security and comfort.

We decided it was time to start a family, but getting pregnant did not happen the minute Patty quit taking the pill, as we had thought it would. So, for about nine months, a calendar and a thermometer dictated our love-life. Frustrating and disconcerting, to be sure. Fears of infertility, or something being wrong with one of us, were the biggest challenges our relationship had faced in five peaceful years of marriage and two similar ones before the wedding.

We were, in fact, quite distraught about the situation for a time, partly because, although I was just 27 and Patty 25, in those days, going so long into marriage without kids was not nearly as acceptable as it is today, and our respective parents were none too subtle about reminding us that it was time to give them grandchildren.

On one visit to our home, my mother, a quiet personality reluctant to enter any conversation that was not absolutely necessary, which usually meant it had to be about her children, was sitting in the living room knitting something for a child of one of my older, more productive siblings. Patty, unlike her mother-in-law, enjoyed a lot of conversation, so she took the initiative.

“That’s going to be nice. I hope you will knit something like that for our kids somed

To that, mother, who was a healthy 62 at the time, replied without hesitation or the slightest glance from her work, “Well, I hope I still have my eyesight then

For children of the 60s, Patty and I were not very radical in any way. Although Patty was a mild feminist, she never went without a bra, let alone burn one. But she did do all the required reading for her generation of females: The Descent of Women, Mother Was Not a Person, Women’s Fate, some Germaine Greer and Gloria Steinem stuff, and a subscription to Ms Magazine when it was in its heyda

We were as influenced by our 1950s early childhood upbringing as we were by the radical 60s, sometimes caught in the middle of changing value systems, one day living with the old and traditional, the next day with the new and radical.

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Genre – Self-Help / Mental Health

Rating – PG

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Delia Colvin – The One Thing

The One Thing

by Delia Colvin

Two years ago I had a freak reaction to minor surgery when my blood began to coagulate at an abnormal rate creating numerous blood clots that raced through my veins, into my heart—nearly stopping it and then splattered onto the wall of my lungs in what the technician said was more blood clots than they had ever seen in a living person’s lungs.

Remember that great line from City Slickers:

Curly: Do you know what the secret of life is? One thing. Just one thing.

Mitch: But, what is the “one thing”?

Curly: That’s what you have to find out.

In that moment with my heart pounding wildly, knowing I had only moments left of consciousness, to be honest there was more than one thing. There were three things.

First, believe it or not, I had run into the bathroom for some odd reason and I immediately thought of Elvis and realized that I did not want to die in a bathroom. Yes, really. I returned to the living room.

Then I looked at my husband, Randy. It had been a very difficult couple years for him and I worried about how he would deal with this.

Randy and I have this amazing communication. Later, when they carried me to the back of the ambulance he was instructed to follow us.

As the doors to the ambulance were closed I thought, I don’t believe Randy knows that he will never see me again. A moment later the back of the ambulance opened and he smiled and said, “See? You thought you wouldn’t see me again.” He doesn’t remember saying that to me.

The third thing that I thought was that I was a storyteller yet nobody had ever read any of my stories. I had files and files of unfinished novels and screenplays. But I had never had the courage to allow anyone to read them and I had come to doubt my ability to complete a novel.

One year later I was still thinking about previous novels and how I would finish them “one day” when suddenly a new concept for a story flashed into my head in a matter of seconds. It was a storyline so odd to me in a genre I would never have considered and yet I was absolutely compelled to write.

I was working twelve hour days in D.C. in an intense job and truly no time to write. So I pulled out my iPhone and wrote on the notepad while walking the mile to and from my car, during lunch and other breaks and then in the evening when I got home.

In three weeks I had completed my first novel.

Seeing me writing on my computer was not an oddity at our home.  What was odd, was when I took my laptop over to my husband’s desk and in a very small voice said, “I’ve just finished my first novel. Do you think you could take a look at it?”

Randy is not a fiction reader and it was absolutely terrifying for me to open my story to him. After reading for a few hours Randy turned to me and shook his head. I thought he didn’t like it. Then he said the words that forged our lives in a whole new direction:

“Forget air traffic control. This is what you were born to do!”

What an extraordinary gift! Followed by another…the story was a trilogy. Within 10 weeks I had completed the first draft of a paranormal romance, The Sibylline Trilogy. This was followed by the arduous task of rewriting, editing and learning the book business in a world that is changing rapidly.

For the past year and three months I’ve been a full-time novelist and I now spend a glorious 10-14 hours a day mostly writing but also learning and working the book business. I’ve been blessed to have stumbled upon the most extraordinary of teachers—first and foremost the amazing Melissa Foster, bestselling author and best friend to authors around the world with her various author groups—primarily Fostering Success.

I’ve seen the first two novels of the trilogy, The Sibylline Oracle and The Symbolon hit Amazon’s bestsellers lists with extraordinary reception. I’ve made money (yes, it is possible). But mostly I am living a life that reflects my one thing—okay two things, my passions, my husband and my writing and it is a beautiful life!

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Genre – Paranormal

Rating – PG

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Website http://www.deliacolvin.com/

Orangeberry Free Alert - Awaken - RM Daigle

 

Awaken - RM Daigle

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Contemporary Fantasy

Rating - PG

4.4 (88 reviews)

Free until 12 July 2013
Book One in the Fated Saga, A Contemporary Young Adult + Fantasy Series, fueled by Action, Adventure and the Eternal Desire for Truth...
While summering in a New England campground, mind reading thirteen-year-old twins, Meghan and Colin Jacoby, discover they have until the rising of the Blue Moon to help save the life of a young man, whose caravan is forced to flee through a magical portal to another world, without him.
In the process, they have a dark awakening when their own simple, normal world, begins to collide with the complexities of the magical world. The twins face unimaginable dangers, which thrust them into an unexpected choice: to live as they always have or to learn the truth about their past and enter a world that is equally thrilling and terrifying.
More importantly, however, is whether they even have a choice, or will destiny not only force this new magical reality upon them, but require them to sacrifice everyone they love in doing so?
Fated Saga Book List:
Book One, Awaken
Book Two, Shifting
Book Three, Embrace
Book Four, Broken
Book Five TBA
Book Six TBA