The Hidden Witch by Chandelle LaVaun

Magic. Isn’t. Real. At least that's what I thought. But now, my story is changing...

You know you’re invisible when even your bullies forget to pick on you. That’s me, Bettina Blair, hidden in plain sight. No matter how hard I try I just never fit in with my classmates.

Now I know why. I’m a witch...apparently.

One little demon attack and my parents confess their ugly secret…and ship me off to an elite academy of magic- for witches only.

I can't summon magic. I can't fight with my hands or my fists. I just don't belong here, and Jackson Lancaster keeps reminding me every single chance he gets. This boy is the most insufferable, intolerable, unbearable, judgmental person to ever have the right to be that gorgeous. I don’t care how sexy his British accent is, or that literally everyone else on campus adores him. He hates me, and the feeling is mutual.
​
Suddenly, I’m sent on a quest into the Old Lands to find the only thing that can save Eden from a demon invasion. I’m in way over my head, and my best chance of coming back alive lies in the hands of the guy who wants me gone…

Check it out here. 

Magical Creatures Academy by Lucia Ashta

Rina Nelle Mont has never been a part of the paranormal world. Until now.​

Well, maybe not. The Magical Creatures Academy only accepts supernaturals, and she’s been invited to the school, but she has none of the powers she’s supposed to. Blip. Nada. Not even a spark.

The school hasn’t made a mistake in a century, but she might be the first one. That’s just the kind of thing that would happen to her. Especially since no one has any idea what kind of creature she’ll be … assuming her powers ever decide to make an appearance.

The Academy is the leading institution for paranormal creatures in the world. Its students are the finest of shifters, vampires, and fae.

Speaking of fine fae … Leander Verion, prince of the elves, is off limits. Not only is he arrogant, stubborn, and totally not her style, he’s her brother’s best friend. She will not fall for him. No way. Besides, he’s not interested … is he?

When two men who head the Shifter Alliance, a rebel faction of shapeshifters who seek to escape the control of the Enforcers—the supernatural police force—find out about Rina and her potential for a different kind of magic, they hunt her. For them, the stakes are as personal as they get.

Whether she’s ready or not, Rina is about to find out what she’s made of…

Check it out here. 

AND OF COURSE, FRESHMAN WITCH, OUR NEW BOOK!

Of course, magic is real. Everybody knows that.
Since it came out on the news that Supernaturals exist, I’ve heard they can do spells, shapeshift, live forever, you name it. Wonderful, right? 
Whatever. 
In my world—where I’m homeless and spend my time avoiding rats and meth heads—magic sounds like major BS.
But, when I’m accused of stealing and they’re about to arrest me, the item I took disappears from my hand as if by magic. WTF?
Just like that, the Supernatural Academy swoops in and recruits me. But I don’t belong there, and everyone else agrees, including, Rowan Underwood, this rich and annoyingly handsome warlock who has it in for me. He’s investigating the theft of magical artifacts, and he thinks I’m involved. 
Seriously? I just got here.
But I can’t worry about that, not while dead kings try to drain my essence or a spell from these angry pixie minotaurs sends my hair follicles into overdrive until I look like Cousin It.
Yet, I can’t avoid Rowan, and while I learn enough magic to stay alive, I also need to keep myself from falling for a guy who’s clearly my worst decision ever.
You’ll love this magical academy book because everyone wants a chance to become who they are truly meant to be. 
Get it now. 

I cannot wait for this book to release. It's got action, hilarious banter, a hot romance and MAGIC! There's something in here to please everyone. And to prove it, today I offer you the first chapter of book one, releasing April 23rd. 

CHAPTER 1
FALL SEMESTER
EARLY SEPTEMBER


I was no dentist, but I was sure Trey’s tooth was a goner.
It would really affect his ego, losing a front not-so-pearly white, but that was just the shitty life we lived, a life where teeth were a luxury.
Trey was telling everyone that the guy who punched him was so strong he must have been an actual werewolf, but that was also his ego talking. I’d seen the guy who decked Trey, and he’d seemed pretty normal to me—not that I was an expert at identifying Supernaturals—but I didn’t imagine they stole hamburgers out of people’s hands. Some of them probably could magically make juicy filet mignons appear out of thin air.
Besides, the only real Supernaturals I’d ever seen—a couple of warlocks in black cloaks despite the heat—had seemed pretty well-fed to me. Supers weren’t all that common since only certain people had the required DNA to be one or become one, or some such nonsense. Not that I knew much about that. I was just a Regular, according to their terms.
The Supernaturals kept to themselves for the most part since their “coming-out” ten years ago. Sure, it took most people a long while to actually believe they existed and by then, the hysteria had mostly settled down. There were witches and warlocks, vampires, werewolves, and more lurking among us. They were regulated, though, registered and under control. At least, that’s what we were told on the news. And, I’d never seen anything to the contrary.
Plus, we didn’t exactly get the news pumped into the abandoned warehouse Trey and I called home. We were too busy trying to survive to worry about who might be riding brooms or howling at the moon. Normal humans were way more dangerous, thus Trey’s tooth predicament and my mission to save the day.
As I rode on my skateboard, tall buildings surrounded me, their thousands of glass windows sparkling under the scorching sun. Office workers rushed around like ants on their lunch break, suffering the heat that radiated from all the concrete. Summer in Hotlanta had to be as close to Hell as one could get this side of eternity.
The wheels of my board clacked against the concrete sidewalk as I swerved around one of the suits who worked at the Georgia Pacific Tower. Like usual, I got a dirty look from the man, a stodgy middle-aged dude with a watch so big and fancy it could probably feed Trey and me for six months. Suit types didn’t take well to a homeless teenage girl on a skateboard. Go figure.
Ignoring him, I pushed with my right leg, speeding up, and turned toward the convenience store. When I got there, I hopped off, flipped the skateboard into my hands, and tucked it under my arm.
Head down, I walked into the store and stopped in front of the aisle with the small section of over-the-counter medicine. The smell of stale hot dogs from the roller grill saturated the air, reminding me I hadn’t eaten lunch… or breakfast.
Ignoring my rumbling stomach, I perused through the medicine, searching for something to help Trey with his toothache.
The big bottle of ibuprofen was twelve bucks, so I picked a small one that looked like a tube of Chapstick. It only had ten pills in it, but maybe they would hold off the pain until he came to terms with his loss and decided to go to the Good Samaritan Health Center where dental students pulled teeth out for free. Also, the ten pills only cost three dollars, which the five-dollar bill in my pocket could actually afford.
A box of toothache gel caught my eye. I picked it up and checked the price. Five ninety-nine. Damn. Why was medicine so expensive?
 My gaze darted toward the door, then the cashier. He was staring straight at me. Crap. My attention snapped back to the medicine boxes in front of me.
Out of nowhere, there was a twist in my gut, and I felt like throwing up. I winced, swallowing and rubbing my stomach. Great. All I needed was to get sick, too. But what did I expect from eating street tacos for dinner last night?
Another wave of nausea hit me, and a whooshing sound filled my ears. My chest tingled. I blinked, head swimming. The entire store started spinning.
I squeezed my eyes shut and took deep breaths, willing the vertigo away. It disappeared. Suddenly, I was fine.
What the hell? Was I having a panic attack? A seizure?
The electronic ding-dong on the door sounded as someone else entered the store. My eyes sprang open as I heard their steps in the aisle behind me. The new customer pushed all the way to the back where the cold drinks were kept in glass-door refrigerators.
 I glanced back and saw an old lady browsing for something to drink, her back to me. She wore a muumuu dress in a red, funky pattern that suggested a flower garden had thrown up on it. It stopped mid-calf and hung loose around her bent-over shape, looking more like a old curtain than any sort of clothing. Gray, wiry hair hung in thin strips down to her shoulders, and a pair of massive orange Crocs capped her feet.
As she stood there, she juggled a walking stick from one hand to another, her movements not bad for someone her age. I smiled. I bet she could fend of any pickpocket who tried to slip his hand into her double-wide sized purse. I was enthralled by her confident attitude despite her misplaced fashion sense and extreme age. That was what I wanted to be like at eighty, a badass old lady in orange crocs.
After a moment of pondering, she opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of prune juice. I almost gagged. Nevermind. I definitely didn’t want a future with prune juice in it.
Drink in hand, the lady turned on her heel and headed for the register. This time, she took the aisle in front of me. Her profile was all edges: hook nose, sharp jaw, jutting chin. A huge wart like a ready-to-burst tick clung to the end of her eyebrow.
Sensing my attention, she turned her two-toned eyes on me and bared a smile with a missing front tooth. I hunched over, lowering my head and wondering why one of her eyes had been so cloudy. Cataracts, maybe? The good feeling drained out of me completely.
Was that how Trey and I would look after a lifetime of homelessness? Half blind and toothless? Trey wasn’t even twenty, and he was about to lose his first tooth. Would we end up drinking our food and buying prune juice to unclog our pipes? I shook myself out of my stupid thoughts. I tended to get carried away with my imagination at the worst times. Trey needed his medicine, and I was here daydreaming about how our pathetic lives would play out.
At the register, the old woman dug in her purse, her arm practically disappearing inside its folds. A minute later, she pulled out a zip bag full of coins and dropped it on the counter. The cashier stared at the bag, looking as if he was about to burst a blood vessel. He sneered at the old woman, clearly annoyed
“It’s money, ain’t it?” the woman asked in a voice that seemed to rustle like dry leaves. “Ain’t it?” she repeated in a louder tone, her head thrusting toward the man with insistence.
The cashier jumped back, eyes widening. “Get...get the hell out of here,” he barked. “We don’t serve your kind here.”
The a-hole! Why was he being so rude?
The poor lady was constipated, and she had to put up with this guy’s ignorant ass because she was homeless. All the signs were there. I’d been living on the streets long enough to spot one of us.
Unsure of what made me do it—I seriously despised confrontations—I stepped out of the aisle and let the cashier have it.
“What the hell’s the matter with you? No one taught you to be nice to your elders, you jack wad? Give her some respect.” I gestured toward the old lady, my hand tightening around the ibuprofen as anger roiled in my chest. It was one thing to push around a teenage kid, quite another to disrespect a poor grandma.
He glanced at me, looking pissed. “You’re… with her, aren’t you? I knew you were no good!” He leaned forward, a hand reaching under the counter.
Uh-oh. Just the reason I’d learned to mind my own business.
Defensive instincts kicking in, I took two strides toward the lady and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
At the touch, a crawling sensation traveled up my arm, feeling like the hairy legs of many spiders marching toward a trapped fly. I shivered. My ears started thudding with the beating of my own heart.
I jerked my hand away, unsure of what was happening to me.
The old lady’s head swiveled in my direction as if in slow motion. Her good eye focused on me, while the other one stood blank. By degrees, her wrinkled skin turned gray, while her nose widened and flattened, warts sprouting all around it. Her lips blackened and doubled in size. Her thin hair grew fuller and longer until it resembled a lion’s mane in shape and color. Small leaf-tipped branches sprang around her ears, and metal claws replaced her fingertips. She lifted her walking stick—now a gnarled, rotting branch—and shook it in my face.
Either I really was having a seizure or she was a… a Supernatural.
I took a step back, my insides trembling like gelatine. What the hell was she?
“Oh, shit!” the cashier exclaimed, jumping as far away from the counter as he could, pressing his back to a glass display of cigarette cartons.
“I have holy water,” he spat, reaching a trembling hand into his pocket. “I command you to go back to the pits of hell, evil spirit.”
“I’m not a spirit, you ignorant human. I’m Yama-uba, and I’m hungry.” She looked at me as if I were a medium-rare steak with a side of mashed potatoes.
Fear cracked across my body like a whip, and something inside me seemed to splinter. The nausea returned, and I felt physically ill again as if a flu virus from hell were threatening to fracture me in two. What was wrong with me?
Something like electricity sparked and crackle inside my chest as if I’d turned into a human taser gun, and I felt surrounded by an aura that was not my own.
The hag’s face morphed from hungry to terrified. “Witch!” she cried out, pointing a knobby finger in my direction. Her mouth opened wide, sharp, filth-encrusted teeth forming a terrifying maw. She hissed.
She was afraid of me?
The cashier screamed.
I screamed.
Then I ran.
Ran like my ass was on fire. I pushed out the door, threw my skateboard to the ground, and jumped on top of it, my heart hammering out of control.
Like a horror movie, the old woman’s face played on repeat inside my head, the image of her gaping mouth imprinted in my brain. Why had she yelled witch at me? And what was happening to my body? Forget Trey’s tooth, I need a psychiatrist, an electrician or both.
“Stop right there!” an hesitant, trembling voice shouted.
I had no idea who was screaming or exactly what was happening until someone shoved me from behind, and I went rolling on the ground, my knees and elbow hitting the sidewalk as I spun two or three times. Pain blared from multiple scrapes and cuts, but the constant thrum of fear and nausea blotted everything else out. I was being attacked.
I sprang to my feet on my last tumble and found the cashier bearing down on me like a madman.
“It was all a trick,” he said in a trembling voice, “so you could steal from me.”
My eyes darted behind him, searching for the old woman. No one was there, not even inside the store. But what the hell? Why was this doucheface out here accusing me of stealing, instead of cowering inside?
I pulled my hands behind my back, desperately trying to figure out how to get rid of the medicine I’d accidentally taken with me.
As my luck would have it, the commotion attracted the attention of a Path Force police officer who was riding his bicycle in the opposite direction and, on a dime, turned and started pedaling toward us instead.
People stopped to gawk. Sweat trickled down my back as I clenched my teeth and tried to decide whether or not to run for it. I glanced around looking for my skateboard, but it had rolled under a parked car. My body ached and my ankle felt tweaked, if not sprained. Running wouldn’t really work.
My throat closed off, panic climbing up from my chest. There was no way I could outrun a cop on a bike even in tip-top shape. I was screwed.
Too fast, the cop was there, hopping off his bicycle and demanding what was happening.
“She’s a thief,” the cashier said. “She stole from me, pulling some con with one of those Supernatural freaks.” He pointed toward the store as he said the last word like a nasty slur.
“I’m not a thief,” I said. I’d never stolen anything in my life, despite needing to. Many times. This was just a big misunderstanding.
“Young lady, did you steal something from this man’s store?” the cop asked, glaring down at me from under his stupid bike helmet.
No, I didn’t.
I knew I hadn’t, but the proof was in my hand, behind my back. If only… if only I could get rid of it.
“I… didn’t,” I croaked. My chest tingled with that same energy from before, a sort of crackling burst of electricity that didn’t hurt so much as light up every cell in my body.
“Yeah, right. All you freaks are the same,” the cashier said, crossing his arms over his sunken chest.
“Can you please show me your hands?” the cop asked, gesturing to them with one gloved hand.
Aware that there was no other alternative, I extended my hands forward, palms up.
To my surprise, they were empty.

PRE-ORDER TODAY.

Welcome to YA Scavenger Hunt! This bi-annual event was first organized by author Colleen Houck as a way to give readers a chance to gain access to exclusive bonus material from their favorite authors...and a chance to win some awesome prizes! On this hunt, you not only get access to exclusive content from each author, you also get a clue for the hunt. Add up the clues, and you can enter for our prize--one lucky winner will receive one book from each author on the hunt in my team! But play fast: this contest (and all the exclusive bonus material) will only be online for 120 hours!
​

If you don't know me, my name is Katie French, your hostess for this leg of the hunt.

I write YA dystopian romance and kissy stuff with dragons. I have three kids, teach high school English, and yes, I will make you read Of Mice and Men (one of my favs) and there will be a quiz.
​(Kidding. Or am I?)

WHAT TO DO FOR THE HUNT

Go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page to find out all about the hunt. There are SIX contests going on simultaneously, and you can enter one or all! I am a part of the GREEN TEAM--but there is also a red team, a gold team, a green team, a purple team, and a pink team for a chance to win a whole different set of books!

If you'd like to find out more about the hunt, see links to all the authors participating, and see the full list of prizes up for grabs, go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page.

SCAVENGER HUNT PUZZLE

Directions: Below, you'll notice that I've listed my favorite number. Collect the favorite numbers of all the authors on the green team, and then add them up (don't worry, you can use a calculator!). 

Entry Form: Once you've added up all the numbers, make sure you fill out the form here to officially qualify for the grand prize. Only entries that have the correct number will qualify.

Rules: Open internationally, anyone below the age of 18 should have a parent or guardian's permission to enter. To be eligible for the grand prize, you must submit the completed entry form by Sunday, Oct 7th at noon Pacific time. Entries sent without the correct number or without contact information will not be considered.

SCAVENGER HUNT POST

I am super excited to be hosting GINA DAMICO.
The book she is showcasing is Waste of Space. 

ABOUT GINA 

Gina Damico grew up under four feet of snow in Syracuse, New York, but is seemed like 28 feet some days. She has since worked as a tour guide, transcriptionist, theater house manager, scenic artist, movie extra, office troll, retail monkey, yarn hawker and breadmonger. She is the author of the grim-reapers-gone-wild books of the Croak trilogy (CROAK, SCORCH, and ROGUE), HELLHOLE, WAX and WASTE OF SPACE, all published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Books for Young Readers. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two cats, one dog, and and obscene amount of weird things purchased at yard sales.

EXCLUSIVE CONTENT -  An excerpt from WASTE OF SPACE, her awesome book about ten hormonal teens in a spaceship that becomes an ill-conceived reality show. How cool is that!

Item: Transcript of audio recording
Description: DV8 conference call
Date: January 16
Chazz Young: Hey guys! Chazz here.

So I’d like to bring the entire DV8 family up to speed on our new project. As mentioned at the companywide meeting last week, this project is going to be groundbreaking. It’s going to break, like, every ground that’s been put there since television started. 

So over the past week we’ve been holding casting sessions in cities around the country, and—hang on a sec, before I go any further, we all need to give up some mad, mad props to the publicity department. Thanks to your commercials, press releases, and social media efforts, over ten thousand kids came out to audition! That’s a lot of hormones to shoot into orbit! 

So as usual, we’re implementing the classic smash-and-grab casting technique that our network has become famous for. Any of you out there who are new to the DV8 family, allow me to elaborate on our patented selection process. Back when we were a tiny, fledgling network that didn’t know any better, we dragged out the audition process for weeks. We left no stones unturned, no cell phones untapped. We were thoroughly exhaustive in our attempts to pinpoint what potential castmates might do to one another. But let us recall the season four finale of Alaskan Sex Igloo. We had thought, based on Saffron’s tendency to fly off the handle and start stabbing things, that she would break one of the icicles off the ceiling and use it to stab Khaleesi. We spent all season leading up to it, right? With foreboding music? And tasteful close-ups of the icicles? And Saffron’s confessional where she talked about “getting her stab on”? It’s why we cast her. But for all of our efforts, look what happened—she and Khaleesi hugged and cried and shared a snowcone. With Jared. Jared was the one who was supposed to be so lonely and ignored that he left the safety of the igloo to seek the loving embrace of a grizzly bear! 

But the bears never came. And no one got stabbed. 

From that point forward, we decided to take a more hands-off approach. Now, rather than have the whittled-down pool of applicants come in for a final round of casting, we simply go with our gut reactions and finalize the cast based on their original, uncut interviews. In fact, we whisk them directly out of the auditions as soon as their parents or guardians sign the wavier! (Reminder to all employees: any questions from the press that contain the word “kidnapping” should be forwarded straight to the PR department.) And so we are proud to announce that we have already chosen the final ten cast members—only one week after auditions! And as per usual, we’ll be throwing all sorts of plot bombs and crazy situations at the poor bastards--with the new added twist of a live segment at the end of each episode. 

Of course, we’ll still leave some things up to chance. Fifteen percent of the editing will be done on the fly, based solely on the relationships and developments that we’ll be monitoring closely over the course of each week. Who knows how it’ll unfold? Who knows where it’ll lead? Who knows what those hyperactive, questionably-sane kids will throw at us?
​
I do: Drama.

FIND THE BOOK HERE. 


CONTINUE THE HUNT

To keep going on your quest for the hunt, you need to check out the next author! JOSHUA DAVID BELLIN. GO HERE TO CONTINUE THE HUNT. 
 
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Luminous is here! The first book in the young adult reverse harem urban fantasy is available now. And to celebrate, we are giving away an Amazon Gift Card. Entering is easy. You can even do it more than once. See below for details and in the meantime check out Luminous. Only 99 cents for a limited time only. Go to the book now. 

"There is romance, intrigue, and a satisfying story to tickle the imagination.
I loved it!  Hurry with the next one." 

"I have to say I really enjoyed reading this book. A strong heroine , sexy dragons and a good story are the basics of this book. Entertainment for all ages!"

    In one week, the long awaited last and FINAL book of The Breeders Series releases. Here is your exclusive sneak peek at Chapter One. 

CHAPTER ONE - 
Riley
 
 
 
I’m not a mother. I never will be.
           But today, I sit on the ground and teach Mo letters with a stick. We carve the shapes into the hard-packed sand. She’s useless at it, and, frankly, so am I. The only reading I know I learned from Clay during the quiet nights we lie together in our hovel while Mo whimpers quietly in her sleep. I know the letters okay, and their sounds. Enough to teach a half-human, half-animal baby to scratch shapes in the dirt.
     She grabs the stick in her dirty fist and digs it into the hard-pack, spooling up mounds on either side of her scraggly line that could be an I or an L or really any other damn letter.
     “Good,” I say, swatting a fly away from her. “Can I have the stick? I want to show you another one.” I hold out my hand.
            With large dark eyes, she looks at my hand and the brittle piece of wood. Her first move is to pull it protectively to her bare chest and grunt at me, her beautiful and dirty face challenging.
           “No,” I say calmly. “Give it to Mommy.”
          “Mo mo,” she vocalizes, still clutching the stick.
         I jut my chin and hold my hand out. She’s so damn cute it’s hard to be firm; big brown eyes and a tiny pink mouth. She has this way of pursing her lips that I know means, What are you thinking, woman? Her hair is tangled in brown dreadlocks down her back, and she spends most of her time naked, running around our compound chasing bugs and getting into trouble.
         “Mo, give me the stick,” I say, reaching for it.
Finally, she agrees, thrusting her arm out palm down. She releases the stick with a sigh.
           “That’s good,” I say, smoothing back her tangled hair. “This one is called a G.”
          “Mo mo,” she mutters, watching me, but I can tell she isn’t interested in letters, and I’m a fool to think she’ll learn to read. She has one word, and she uses it for everything.
          I realize I’ve stopped drawing when Mo begins creeping toward me, climbing into my lap to pick at my scalp. It’s an old habit, likely something she did with her real mother before she died, and I don’t have nits, but her little fingers are deft. I hug her small body. She probably only weighs thirty pounds, even when we’ve had our fill of meat from Clay and tough veggies from Auntie’s garden.
Still, she’s my baby. The only one I’ll ever have thanks to that idiot’s knife.
         She stops picking and looks up at me. Her smile, all brown teeth and gums, turns something inside me, a key in a rusty lock, creaking and shifting, unlocking a cobwebbed door I thought would be bolted forever.
            This warmth blooming in my chest, this feeling must be what motherhood feels like.
            And if it isn’t, I’ll never know.
          “Nap time,” I say, gazing up at the blazing sun just outside the shade of our crumbling building wall. She seems to be slowing down, the heat of the day getting to her, to all of us. Sure, we have shade, but it’s New Mexico.
            I lift her sagging body and walk to our hovel. She’s limp in my arms, tired from the heat and her crazy scampering. I get to our hole and set her on the ground as I maneuver toward the ladder that angles down. It’s hard getting her limp form down the six-foot ladder, but I manage. She doesn’t stir. And after carrying her dead weight, the exhaustion hits me, too.
            I lay her on the straw-filled mattress, smoothing out her tangled hair and adjusting her hands. She’s making small moaning sounds behind her lips. I press a kiss to them.
            “Sleep tight, love.”
            But as I move away, her body begins to twitch. At first I think she’s waking, fighting the nap she clearly needs, but the twitching turns into seizing, her whole body shaking against the mattress.
            She’s having a seizure.
            My heart rips open. “Oh God.”
            I stare for awful heartbeats as she jerks and vibrates. Her eyes are open, her mouth, too. The whites of her eyes roll up until the warm brown pupils are gone.
           She looks like a demon, a monster.
       “Clay!” I shriek, grabbing her taut body. I smell the stink and feel the wetness of her bowls releasing. “Clay!”
           Above, Clay’s face appears, a shadow ringed by sunshine. “What is it?” he asks, dropping down the ladder.
            I hold the twitching child in my arms, my tears already wetting her face. “Mo. She’s . . . She . . .”
            One look is all it takes, and he’s back up the ladder, hollering. “Doc! Hurry!”
            As I wait for help, I cry and rock her. White irises peer up at me. Eyelids flutter nonstop. Her sweet, dirty face twitching, a low moan starting in the back of her throat.
          Strange thoughts swirl in my head. How old is she? A few months? A year? When we met she was brand new but already the size of a large toddler. Mo was bred to age at an accelerated rate by scientists trying to solve the dwindling female population. If they could speed up human maturation, that meant more females. Only, they didn’t count on brains not maturing as fast as bodies. Physically, Mo looks like a scrawny five-year-old. Mentally, she’s a baby.
            My baby.
            Hot tears splash on her face and meander through the dirt. I can’t keep her clean. I can’t even keep her alive. We had insulin that we stole from Corra. But it’s running out. I’ve been rationing it. And now the seizures. I’m killing her.
            A shadow passes over, and then Doc is climbing down. One hand holds his doctor’s bag.
            “Doc, help!” I moan, offering her.
            He helps me set her twitching body on the earth and presses his stethoscope to her chest.
            “She was taking a nap. I heard her moving. When I looked . . . This.” My words are clipped. I’m crying too hard. I clutch trembling hands together and watch him examine her.
            “We have to just let it pass,” he says, sinking back on his heels.
            “But, Doc—”
“I know you want to fix this, but there’s nothing we can do but let it run its course. I’m sure it’ll be over soon.” He frowns and looks down at her little body. “I’m sorry.”
            I don’t want his sorry. Biting back my protests, I watch her breathe. Each intake of air takes effort. She could die. She could die right here in the dirt.
            Another shadow crosses the doorway above. “Puddin’, is everything okay?” Auntie asks.
            Doc answers for me. “We’re waiting it out. Should be over any minute.”
            Thundering feet announce another as Ethan tumbles down, almost landing on Doc. The hovel is small, and four bodies is pushing it. Doc shoves at Ethan. “No room. Go up. We’ll call you if we need you.”
            My little brother peers down at Mo, worry on his young face. “She okay?”
            Doc pushes Ethan toward the ladder. “Yes. Go. Wait up top with Auntie.”
            His eyes flit around until they land on me. He gives me a look. We used to be inseparable, but now I’m so busy with Mo.
            “Go, Ethan,” I repeat. “We’ll call you if we need you.”
            Grumbling, he climbs the ladder slowly so we know he isn’t happy about it.
            I can’t worry about him now. How long has this seizure gone on? It seems like hours.
            But when I look down, her little body has stopped twitching. She lays breathing shallowly, her closed eyes making her look like she’s peacefully sleeping.
            “It’s over,” I say, pulling Doc’s arm.
            He listens to her chest again and takes her pulse. I watch as he opens up both eyes and looks at each. “Whew, okay. When she wakes up, we’ll be able to tell what toll that had on her body. For now, let her rest. I’ll help you clean up.” He nods to my soiled clothes from where I held her.
            “I need to stay with her in case she wakes up.”
            Doc takes my arm gently and squeezes. “You need to take care of yourself, too, Riley.”
I pull my arm away. “I’m fine. She’s the one who needs taking care of.”
            From up above, a face appears again. “He’s right, Ri,” Clay says. “Auntie will sit with Mo. Let’s you and me walk down to the stream.”
            I start to protest, but Auntie cuts me off. “Get your ass up here and quit being so damn stubborn.”
            They’re all against me. I burn Doc with a hard stare. “A half an hour and then I’m back down here with her. Got it?”
            Doc holds up his hands. “Talk to your boyfriend and your aunt. I’m just the doctor. What do I know?” He mutters the last part into his doctor’s bag.
            Shakily, I stand, still eying Mo for signs of the seizure’s long-term effects. I climb the ladder and pull myself out into the open.
            Our home for the last few months isn’t much. Whatever structure this building used to be, it’s now a pile of crumbled concrete, splintered metal, and twisted pipe. To the east, two-thirds of the walls still stand with no roof and no windows, but the wall gives shade, so that’s where we dug. It took us a few weeks to carve out our little holes and secure them with beams so the dirt wouldn’t collapse on us, create airways. They’re small and dusty, but it makes us real hard to spot if anyone comes looking. And we have good reason to think someone might come looking—Nessa and her army, Corra and her scientists . . . Hell, anyone who’s not us should not be trusted. And that’s fine by me.
            Clay, Mo, and me sleep in our bigger hovel, Auntie and Ethan in theirs, and Doc in his own. With them uncovered for daytime ventilation, it looks like giant gophers have set up residence inside this abandoned shell of a building. Ethan will even pop his head up out of the entry hole, look around, and pop down, making me giggle.
            But the real reason we can stay is the river. Auntie says people used to call it the Rio Grande. Now it’s less grand and more a small trickle that keeps us alive, but alive is what we need.
            Clay takes my hand and helps me up out of the hole. I climb out and squint into the midday sun beating down on everything. The air shimmers in waves as the crunchy earth and scrub plants bake in the sun.
            “Don’t look at me ’til I’m clean. I must smell like a barnyard,” I say to Clay.
            He smiles sweetly, reaching out to touch my cheek. “Whether you believe it or not, I have smelled shit before.”
            “No kidding.”
            “True story.” When I lean into his hand he rubs his thumb gently down my cheek. “Least it’s not on your face. That’s my favorite part.”
            “Not my brain?”
           “Of course your brain,” he says, kissing me. “And your ass.”
I shove him, smiling despite myself.
            We walk side by side through the remains of the buildings, an old school or municipal office, though it’s too picked over to tell. The only supplies we found when we arrived were some rusted staplers, disintegrating books, and a couple of dented file cabinets. Everything else found a new home long ago. Clay and I walk through one of the crumpled walls and across the path we’ve cleared to the river.
            Here, the debris disappears and the land starts to reclaim its beauty. Strong scrub bushes and trees crop up through the sidewalks and run-to-riot flower beds. The land begins to stretch out, yawning in either direction with browns and yellows and greens. Birds call and insects buzz. Clay’s game hunting has never been better. And Auntie’s been able to coax a few edible plants to life beside the riverbed, though the rabbits keep stealing her profits.
            I squint up at the blazing sun and blue stretch of sky. The heat doesn’t bother me much and the dry season will soon be over. Our life here is meager, but satisfying if you don’t think about Mo’s health.
           When we get to the riverbed, I start to strip.
           Clay gives a low whistle, watching me. “Do a little twirl.”
           I bat a hand at him. “At least wait until I’ve got the shit off me.”
         He shrugs. “It’s not fair to other women, you bein’ ten times more beautiful than they are, even with shit on ya.”
            I smirk. “What other women?”
            He looks around, in mock consideration. “Auntie doesn’t count?”
            I shake my head.
            He runs a hand down his five o’clock shadow. “Does Doc?”
            “Stop,” I say, throwing a boot at him. “You know Doc prefers to be male.”
            “Right,” he says, drawing out the word. “Male. Got it.”
            When I’m dressed in just my chest binding and underwear, I step gingerly over the rocks and begin to wade in the water, my filthy clothes in my hand. The cool water tripping over my feet and shins feels damn good. When I’m hip deep, I turn and look back at Clay. “You comin’ in?”
            He hunkers, watching me. “Just enjoyin’ the show.”
           I shake my head and begin scrubbing the dirty clothes and then my body. We don’t have soap, but a good handful of mud from the bottom does the lion’s share of getting me clean. I crouch down and dip my shoulders in, then my head, letting the water rush over me and the silence swallow me up. Eyes closed as the water washes me clean, I try to think of nothing—no worry, no pain.
            It’s a losing battle.
            When I push my feet into the silt and stand, water dripping from my body and hair, Clay’s still there on the bank, waiting for me. I was without him for so long, sometimes I still can’t believe he’s here. His memory is still full of holes, but he knows me. He knows Ethan and Auntie. He doesn’t remember how we met or the first time we made love, but we’re making new memories. Lots.
            “Come in,” I say, splashing toward the shore.
            He looks at me and then his dry clothes. “You’re just tryin’ to see me naked.”
            “Maybe,” I say, splashing again. “It’ll cool you down.”
           He stands up, slowly taking off his shirt and then unbuckling the belted gun holster around his hips. No one takes better care of his guns than Clay, so when he sits them gingerly on his frayed T-shirt and then adjusts them so they’re out of the direct sun, I’m not surprised. Nine nights out of ten I find him taking those revolvers apart and putting them back together again, rubbing them until they shine. I have Mo; he has his guns. But then we still have each other.
            His pants fall to his ankles. Boxer briefs from his days with Nessa at Kirtland. He walks into the river and toward me. The river parts around his strong thighs, one scarred deeply from his bullet wound and then Rayburn’s cauterization. I’ve got my own scars. A bullet wound in my calf, more cuts than I can say, and the new pink scar where that bastard cut me.
Where he took away our baby and any chance I could ever be a mother.
            I touch it now, and it’s like it’s fresh, brand new.
         Clay slips through the water toward me and takes me in his arms. I wrap mine around his strong back, letting my wet body cool his. When he’s close like this, the heat between us can’t be denied. His lips find the side of my neck, kissing the tender skin there. A yearning stirs in my chest as I run my hands down his back, taking in the scent of him. With one hand he grips the ring he gave me resting on the chain around my neck. And then he’s taking my chin in his hand and lifting my face to meet his. When his lips touch mine, I pull him close so there is nothing between us, just skin on skin, hands and fingers, mouth and tongue. We could kiss a thousand times, a million, and this passion I feel right now, exploding through my body, would never diminish. I want him like I want nothing else in this world.
            When he stops kissing me, we are both breathless. He chuckles. “You clean up mighty fine.”
            I push wet hair out of my eyes and look up at him. “I know we haven’t had much alone time since Mo.”
            He runs his fingers down my back. “We’re alone now.”
            I look up, realizing that even though we’re out in the open, there isn’t another soul to see. “Aren’t you worried someone will come by?”
            He takes me in his arms, lifting me up until he’s carrying me toward the shore. When he lays me in the soft sand, he gazes down on me like he could worship every inch of my body. “Riley, in this moment, just this one moment right here, I ain’t worried ’bout a thing.”

RELEASING ON DECEMBER 20th. MAKE SURE YOU ARE ON MY NEWSLETTER FOR PRE-RELEASE SALES AND NOTIFICATIONS. 

What if you woke up on a deserted island to the sound of screaming? There's a note in your pocket, "Pay for your sins." The monsters you dreamed about are real. They're coming. 

Meet Kat Voss. 
She was kidnapped, along with teens like her, and dumped on a deserted island. 
Then someone hung her twelve-year-old sister from a tree like bait.
The voice on the other end of the camera tells her she has one hour to find her sister. Or else.
The cages are empty.
The monsters are real.
And time is almost up.

Monster Island is a Young Adult mystery thriller where the pages practically turn themselves. Readers who like Maze Runner and Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children will devour this action-packed tale. Get your copy now. 

This Omnibus Edition collects the five Monster Island stories into a single volume. It is for those who arrived late to the party and who wish to save a dollar or two while picking up the same stories in a single package. Save 50% over buying individual editions. ​

Get ready. The Breeders Stories combines three novellas you already love and one new story Plan B: Part Two, continuing Nolan's story and his rescue of the girl from Plan B. Available in June 2017. Make sure you are signed up to my newsletter to find out when and get the special subscriber pricing. 

Do you love it? As you know, I am in the process of recovering all by Breeders Books. Here is Book Two. For me, this is exactly how I pictured Clay. What about you? What do you think?