Showing posts with label thriller. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thriller. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

"Dead in the Dark" by Stephen Booth

Dead in the Dark
(Cooper & Fry Mystery Book 17)
by Stephen Booth

Dead in the Dark (Cooper & Fry Mystery Book 17) by Stephen Booth

Dead in the Dark is the seventeenth book in the Cooper & Fry Mystery series by Stephen Booth.

Dead in the Dark is currently on tour with Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours. The tour stops here today for a guest post by the author, an excerpt, and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

How do you prove a murder without a body?
Ten years ago, Reece Bower was accused of killing his wife, a crime he always denied. Extensive police searches near his home in Bakewell found no trace of Annette Bower's remains, and the case against him collapsed.
But now memories of the original investigation have been resurrected for Detective Inspector Ben Cooper – because Reece Bower himself has disappeared, and his new wife wants answers.
Cooper can't call on the Major Crime Unit and DS Diane Fry for help unless he can prove a murder took place – impossible without a body. As his search moves into the caves and abandoned mines in the isolated depths of Lathkilldale, the question is: who would want revenge for the death of Annette Bower?

Chapter One
No one wants to die in the dark. To lie alone in the blackness, feeling the chill of death creep slowly over you. Shut away from the light as the fear numbs your limbs and chokes the breath in your throat. The long, long sinking into the cold depths. And then to sense that slipping away. The final slipping away into nothing.
Do you feel that stab of pain as it shoots through your chest? Try to make your breathing more shallow. You have several broken ribs, a fractured arm, perhaps a punctured lung. You can hardly know, in the dark. But you can feel the internal bleeding, the seeping blood as it squeezes your internal organs, bloats your stomach and intestines. You know your injuries are fatal.
That fear of the dark is overwhelming. Because this is true darkness, an eternal night in which your eyes have become useless. Your heart thumps uselessly as you strain to see where you’re lying. You can sense space around you, a slight movement of icy air, a shifting of heavy masses, a solid weight way above your head. A sharp, stabbing pain is in your back from something hard you’re lying on. This isn’t a grave. But it is your tomb.
Does your fear of the dark make any sense? When you’re dead, you go into endless blackness. Yet you’ve always hoped you would get one last glimpse of the light, always prayed that you wouldn’t die alone.
Well, that’s not going to happen. There’s nothing for you to see here. Not a glimmer of light, not a flicker of hope. Only the darkness.
A creak and a rattling makes you freeze. Is someone here? Or some thing? But no . . . you breathe out and release the pain. The noise has quite a different meaning. It’s something huge shifting overhead. It signals the end, the approach of your death. You’re about to be crushed completely.
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt. Please note the US and UK editions have different covers.]

Praise for the Book
“I love reading about these characters. I love the world in which Ben moves and I really enjoy the cases with which he is confronted. I always look forward to the next installment of this wonderful series.” ~ For Winter Nights
“An elegant reflection of what's happening in the country at large.” ~ The Book Bag
“This is an enjoyable, very readable yet understated crime novel by an accomplished author.” ~ Crime Fiction Lover
“The Peak District setting is as striking as ever ... the ever-present threat of violence will get under your skin.” ~ Real Crime
“Clever, beautifully written and superbly plotted, this is an entertaining page-turner with a compelling twist in the tail.” ~ Lancashire Evening Post*

Guest Post by the Author
Writing a Series
It seems hard to believe now - even for me! But twenty years ago, when I set out to write the first Cooper & Fry novel, Black Dog, I didn’t know I was writing a series.
At the time, I’d written some previous, unpublished novels which were standalones, and I had no particular reason to think that Black Dog would be any different, as I didn’t have a publishing contract for it.
Yet something different did happen. During the course of the writing, the central characters, my two young Derbyshire police detectives Ben Cooper and Diane Fry, leaped off the page and became completely alive for me. I was discovering who they were as I wrote about them and was finding them more and more interesting. By the time I got to the end of that first story, I knew there was a lot more I wanted to say about those two characters than I could possibly get into just the one book. 
This was lucky because all the publishers who were interested in Black Dog assumed it was the start of a series - and they wanted to know what the second book would be about! I already had ideas for number 2, Dancing with the Virgins, and that was what sealed my first two-book contract with HarperCollins.
Since then, I’ve never known how many books there were going to be in the Cooper & Fry series. I’ve never been in the position of someone like J. K. Rowling, who had all seven Harry Potter books planned out in advance. After those first two stories, publishers have kept asking me to write ‘two more books’, or sometimes ‘three more books’. Each time I’ve said ‘yes’ and signed the contract - without actually knowing what anything of those books would be about, except that they’d feature Ben Cooper and Diane Fry, and would be set in their ‘patch’, the beautiful and atmospheric Peak District.
So what kept me saying ‘yes’ without a plan? The characters, of course. As long I’ve felt that Ben and Diane were moving forward and developing, I’ve known that I could keep writing about them. Events are always happening in their lives, and they’ve aged over the course of 17 books (though quite slowly). It’s definitely the characters who have driven the overall story arc, without the author actually knowing where the series was heading.
This can create problems for me, as you might imagine. If I refer to an incident from Ben Cooper’s past, for example, I might find that I’ve contradicted something I wrote six or ten books ago. I’m lucky that I’ve had great editors who know the series and will spot my mistakes. And, if they don’t, readers will soon point them out!
It particularly applies to small details. Diane Fry got a new car in one book, changing to an Audi from the Fiat she’d been driving up to then. In the next book, I forgot that she had a new car, and she was back driving the Fiat. That was wrong in the early editions - but not once readers had begun writing to me to let me know my error!
But generally, it’s these small details which catch me out. The characters and their lives are so real to me still that they seem to know what they’re doing better than I do. Ben and Diane have become like old friends, who have existed in my head for twenty years now. I try to give them as much freedom as I can to get on with their lives.
So, I don’t try too hard to keep track - it would feel as though I was controlling them. Ben Cooper and Diane Fry have an independent existence, and they’ll decide where their storyline goes!

About the Author
Stephen Booth
A former newspaper journalist, British author Stephen Booth is the creator of two young Derbyshire police detectives, Ben Cooper and Diane Fry, who have appeared in 17 crime novels, all set in and around England's Peak District.

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win one of three ebook copies of Secrets of Death by Stephen Booth (read my previous blog post).


Monday, October 15, 2018

"Malevolent" by S. Peters-Davis

(A Kendra Spark Novel Book 2)
by S. Peters-Davis

Malevolent (A Kendra Spark Novel Book 2) by S. Peters-Davis

Malevolent is the second Kendra Spark Novel by S. Peters-Davis. Also available: Unorthodox (read my blog post).

Unorthodox by S. Peters-Davis

Malevolent is currently on tour with Bewitching Book Tours. The tour stops here today for a guest post by the author, an excerpt and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

Kendra Spark, suspense-mystery writer and communicator with the dead, signs on to the next FBI Special Task Force case, trafficked girls that are marked to lose their souls.
Jenna Powers, ghostified criminal analyst, sticks close to the case as she and Kendra are also marked by the same malevolent supernatural force.
Derek Knight, lead FBI Agent on this case, learns of the malevolent entity and the deeper paranormal realm of danger.
Kendra’s unfiltered feelings for Derek struggle to take a backseat, and as the menacing threat grows more intense, so does her passion for Derek.
Derek faces uncertainties he’s never dealt with in his past, like malicious entities and the loss of his heart to love. How can he protect Kendra against forces he can’t see?
As boundless supernatural danger intertwines with the future reality of the trafficked teens, Kendra and Jenna realize only they can shoulder the rescue by calling in a voodoo priestess …

I expected Derek to grab the suitcase. Instead, his arms wrapped around my waist. His spicy-wood scent filled the air around me as he drew my body into his. I rose on my toes to meet his gaze, and his lips gently touched mine, turning into a crush of passion that sent sparks of pleasure to every part of me. His moan slipped between my lips followed by the tip of his tongue. A tremor quaked downward, to the bottom of my belly, his lips trembled as our breaths meshed.
Vanilla sweetened the air, indicating Jenna was back. “Good grief, Sparky. You’re steaming up the windows.”
I opened my eyes. Jenna stood beside us. With a regretful groan and shaken with emotions, I pressed my palms to Derek’s chest to gain some distance. A distance I should have been compelled to follow for a working relationship. Our kiss hinted at something greater, and I wasn’t ready to dive that deep. At least, not yet. “Jenna thinks we’re steaming up the windows.”
Derek sighed. “Jenna, your timing is impeccable. Or, rather it stinks.” He looked around the room as if attempting to hone in on where she might be standing. Our communication improved ten-fold with Derek’s knowledge and acceptance of Jenna’s spirit still being earthbound.
I pointed. “She’s beside you.”
He shook his head, face flushed, as he took a deep man-breath. “I’ll get this loaded in the car while you finish packing your carry-on.” He lifted the suitcase off the bed and instead of allowing it to roll on its wheels, he carried it outside.
I looked at Jenna. “We’re headed back to D.C. Two dead Hispanic girls were found on a North Carolina beach, one washed up two weeks ago and another this morning. FBI task force called in to investigate. They believe it’s related to the container truck of girls found on Friday…or was that Saturday?” 
“I know Merretti has something to do with this.  Let’s go prove it.” Jenna sashayed to the bedroom window facing the roadside of the house, where Derek loaded the suitcase. “Told you he’d get animated if you kissed him. You two are sexy together, you know that?” Her belly laugh echoed in the room, even after she shimmered out of sight. Hearing her after she’d disappeared was a new ability, something to ask her about.
I shuffled through my carry-on, discarded a few things I didn’t need and added new items I might want. Not knowing the length of time I’d be staying in D.C. made packing a bit difficult, plus the fact I needed to include my laptop and notebooks for novel writing. I committed to a new series of books and the first one was due the end of August, but the publicist wanted the cover and blurb at least a month earlier. Not an easy feat when I hadn’t even started character sketches or plotting.
“Is this it then?” Derek slung the strap of the laptop storage bag over his shoulder, along with my carry-on. “Is Jenna still here?”
“No, she’s gone.” I looked around, thinking of anything I might have missed, but my mind kept skittering between Derek, the new case, Jenna, and my writing commitments.
Derek’s brows drew inward as he eyed my face. “You haven’t caught up on your sleep, have you?” He grabbed my upper arm to lead me along.
“Not really. Have you?” I clicked off lights and locked the lakeside door as we made our way out the driveway entry. His fingers remained around my arm as he guided me to the SUV, reminding me of all the times we were together in D.C. and North Carolina.
He opened the passenger door. “I’ve slept, but probably not enough. Climb in while I set this in the back.”
I settled in the seat and sent a quick text off to Denise and Lexi, telling them I was leaving and not sure when I’d be back. I asked if they would mind doing what they did last week for me. I sent another one off to Sharon, my writing accountability partner. I’d sent her the details of my contract with Knixton, so she had a good idea of how pinched for time I would be if this case took too long.
Derek started the vehicle and headed toward the main road. “We’re booked on a flight to D.C. There may be a few other agents on the plane, not more than ten people, so you should be able to catch a couple hours of sleep.”
Like I would get any sleep with Derek sitting next to me. Being near him seemed more of a challenge, deflecting his magnetic draw. I wondered if being away from him had something to do with it like absence makes the heart grow fonder.
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
“Love the spunky, psychic novelist! Murder, spiritual intuition, and romance bound this captivating, little tale. This was definitely an interesting case of a soul-stealing, malevolent force trafficking children.” ~ Sandra’s Book Reviews
“S. Peters Davis shows her writing talent by keeping her reader engaged and even though this is the second in the series you could read it first and not feel lost. You will want to follow this author and read everything she has to offer.” ~ Sharon

Guest Post (a Halloween short story by S. Peters-Davis)
All Hallows’ Eve Silent Night
“I gotta make a quick trip to the restroom. Can I use the flashlight?” I asked, glancing at Rory as he tilted his head. “Oops.” We’d made a pact not to talk, experience the night of stargazing with each other in silence.
Rory handed me the flashlight. “Remember, no talking when you come out. Sasha?”
“Got it.” I nodded, grabbed the flashlight, and then rushed into the dimly lit park restroom. Rory and I had come to the Haggerset Lake Park for the last four years to stargaze on Halloween night, ever since we’d graduated high school. We loved our creep-night, the one night we dropped whatever we were doing and wherever we were to come back to each other on this one night.
A rustle outside, like something heavy falling on the ground, startled me. I hurried with my business and ran out to check on Rory. He stood waiting for me. I slid the light beam his way, and he smiled, pointing toward the ground.
I didn’t say a word at the blanket and cooler strewn over the dewy grass, assuming he’d tripped over something. We both picked up the stuff and headed down the hill away from the tree line to the beach by the lake. The perfect place to lay for an open view of the star-ridden sky.
We spread the blanket and sat. I dropped the flashlight on the blanket, and then pulled the wine and glasses from the cooler. Rory grabbed my hand so I looked at him. He shook his head. I set the bottle next to me, thinking we’d open it later.
He stretched out on the blanket and patted the spot next to him. The moon cast enough light to see his shadowed face and body. I bent down, knees on the blanket, and then flipped to my backside, sliding close to him. His hand found mine and our fingers intertwined.
A spike of electricity charged through me, like what always happened when Rory touched me. I missed him during the long months we’d attended separate colleges, and this would be our last semester apart.
His breath sucked in as he pointed upward. A falling star streaked across the sky.
I gasped, but remained silent as per our pact. An owl hooted in a tree on top of the hill. Crickets set a rhythm, adding to the croaking bull frogs all around us. I adored the sounds and smells of the night, just like Rory had admitted the first time we’d done this.
He squeezed my fingers, raised my hand to his warm moist lips, and kissed my palm. His tongue slithered up and down my wrist, making me giggle. Then his lips attached to my skin and he sucked. My whole insides melted and fluttered at the same time. I panted, wanting more.
His body flipped over mine, his moist lips kissing, nipping, and sucking over my neck. Every cell in my body responded, zinging sparks spiked through my veins. His tongue slathered my skin. My eyelids closed on automatic.
“Sasha!” Rory? His voice came from on top of the hill.
I opened my eyes wide and pushed against the body on top of me. He sat on top of me and covered my mouth with his hand, his other hand held both of mine above my head. The skin on his face shimmered and blurred. He leaned over me, close to my face. A thin forked tongue slithered from his mouth, licking my face.
“Sasha, are you there?” Rory shouted again from a distance.
I bucked, but to no avail. The thing’s skin turned to scales, his eyes…glowed amber, their pupils narrowed into slits like a snake. Fins grew along his forearms.
I fought, hard, struggling to free a hand and bucking to throw him off. My hand came free and I reached for the wine bottle.
Footfalls pounded down the hill, the monster glanced up. I wrapped my fingers around the neck of the wine bottle and swung. The monster’s head snapped sideways and his body fell from on top of me.
Rory stood over us. “My gods, what the hell is that thing? It attacked me and I woke up in the middle of the woods, afraid of what that thing had done to you.” He gave me a hand up. 
A rancid odor burst through the air and the creature’s body sizzled, like brats on a grill.
We stepped back as it turned into bright embers and then dust. Rory pulled me into his arms as the night breeze carried the smoky particles over the water.
“That thing looked just like you. It licked me.” I yanked the bottom of my T-shirt up to wipe my face and neck.
“You couldn’t tell that thing wasn’t me?”
“It never kissed me on the lips.” And I couldn’t help but wonder what it had planned on doing with me. “What do you think its end game was with me?”
Rory took a knee and extracted a small box from his shirt pocket. “Not this.” He turned so the moonlight shone on the box and then flipped it open. A diamond sparkled. His gaze melded into mine as he asked, “Sasha, monster-slayer of All Hallow’s Eve, will you marry me?” He grinned, and then added, “Before some scary creature sweeps you off your feet?”

About the Author
S. Peters-Davis
S. Peters-Davis writes multi-genre stories but loves penning a good page-turning suspense-thriller, especially when it’s a ghost story and a romance. When she’s not writing, editing, or reading, she’s hiking, RVing, fishing, playing with grandchildren, or enjoying time with her favorite muse (her husband) in Southwest Michigan.
She also writes YA paranormal, supernatural novels as DK Davis.

Enter the Bewitching Book Tour’s Haunted Halloween Spooktacular for a chance to win some amazing prizes.


"Winter Eternal" by E. Thomas Joseph

Winter Eternal Book 1:
The River that Flows Two Ways
by E. Thomas Joseph

Winter Eternal Book 1: The River that Flows Two Ways by E. Thomas Joseph

Author E. Thomas Joseph joins me today to share an excerpt from Winter Eternal Book 1: The River that Flows TwoWays.

In 1777, Captain Isaac Pearson joined the British Army when he believed the Colonial Rebellion would be dispatched with effortless haste. Taking a few American lives was an agreeable price for the pampered aristocrat who believed his actions in the conflict would afford him honor and glory. Yet, the path Captain Pearson rode was neither honorable or glorious and the price he would pay was beyond his imaginable fortunes.
Time is the enemy of all, the hunter of the hunters whom no measures of tenacity or weaponry can defeat. Yet, in the early days of America’s war for independence Phantom Regiments, ruthless shadow units, British Redcoats, American militia and crazed men of the occult race to acquire a mysterious Iroquoian artifact which offers the capacity to defeat time. Set in New York’s Hudson Valley, the contest for time will marshal tragic desperation and horrific ends. Winter Eternal, uncovered from layers of dust, deep within the archives of America’s Untold History is the tales of the soldiers and the citizens who sell their souls to pursue the mysterious Native talisman, the Kahontsi Ehnita; the Giver of Life … A revolutionary war has begun.

The northeastern wilderness had already begun its winter rest. A thin layer of wet snow gave way to patches of brown-green grass. Fallen leaves, dull, russet, and drained of all autumnal brilliance wisped about aimlessly. Each of the many rigid, tangled tree limbs reached for the dark gray sky to appear as shattered glass over the backdrop of the colorless heavens. Steadily, tiny flakes of snow were blown sidelong with the passing wind, as it hummed and fought its way through the thicket of branches. A creek lay to the west and flowed gently from the northwest, a shallow tributary of the Mohawk River. Under a thin blanket of mist, its gray water gently cast small ripples on the shore. Along the western horizon, the rolling Catskills were stripped of life and color, white and gray with snow, they bristled with leafless trees watching over the landscape. The creek flowed slowly in a shallow valley; an embankment supported a trail, several yards in width, which ran parallel to the water on the west and a dense forest of evergreens, oaks, elms, and maples, to the east.
A wandering buck lingered casually and approached along the partially frozen, muddied trail for a drink. The handsome beast trotted toward the bank, where he stood amongst the large stones and hardened soil along the river, his antlers tall and proud. He was thinner than he should be, aged to have seen most of his years already passed. His hide was patchy, dull brown and gray, and his eyes were expressionless black pearls. For years he and his kind had roamed the temperate countryside. Never had they laid claim to the land, spoiled nor polluted any of its beauty. For all his magnificence, he was a silent, peaceful creature, a grazer, and wanderer. He looked around as if fondly taking in the natural beauty of his surroundings. He drank from the river, before roaming deeper into darkness.
A faint clap began to draw near. He lifted his head eastward, facing the direction of the rumbling. Without hesitation, he raced into the forest, sprinting along the river way to the west. With each stride, his gallop grew softer, replaced by a rolling, thundering rumble that became louder as it neared.
Three riders, each astride impressive stallions, traveling from the south, revealed themselves and clamored along the same trail with a quickened gallop. Snowflakes melted upon their cheeks, but they remained focused as they moved forward. The warm mist of the horses’ breath billowed alongside as the column hurriedly marched along. All the steeds were clad with forest green blankets adorned with gold and white embroidery, various straps, harnesses, pouches, and canisters that rattled as they galloped forward. Each rider had a haversack draped across the saddle and mounted on the left shoulder, a long “dragon” flintlock musket, and accompanying pistol. The riders sat tall and assured, appearing taller still in part for their signature black Tarleton helmets. A black plume of feathers ran along the top, from front to back, then continued as a tail for some ten to twelve inches behind the soldiers’ backs. The middle horseman had a distinctive peak, ornamented with white goose feathers. They each wore heavy crimson waistcoats with a large, horizontal white striped placket from collar to bottom. Green and gold inlays marked the shoulders, collars, and cufflinks, a white leather belt, clipped with a gold clasp, and coattails behind. The harnesses around their chests met at a gilded plaque with “IV” etched into its surface. Below the inscription, a rare black beryl and ruby gemstone cross sword and crown insignia were embedded. Sturdy white pantaloons were embellished with a forest green stripe running vertically on the leg. Heavy, black leather boots with silver-plated spurs, buttoned and laced, sealed with rugged white canvas sleeves along the calf. Along their left hip was the polished brass handles atop long sabers, which rested in their scabbards. Tassels hung from the mouth of each scabbard, the middle rider’s being braided white rope, the flanking riders’ black. These were the unmistakable and unique markings of the enigmatic Fourth Order of Aquitaine Light Horse Guards of the Royal Dragoons.
The Fourth Dragoons had earned a reputation for tenacity and ruthlessness through several conflicts for the King and Country. As such, they enjoyed preferred status amongst the Ministry and were never wasted on open combat or trivial operations. Equally formidable on a horse, dismounted as a musketeer, or as a piquet warrior, the Fourth Royal Order was not often seen entering or leaving a battlefield, yet their paths could be traced along wakes of desolation. Rumors of their nature and origins had spread like wildfire within the Empire’s army. The most sensible gossip suggested each of these dragoons was nothing short of the most skilled and disciplined soldier, personally selected by the king himself. Reasonable men had insisted their existence to be nothing more than myth, legend, or some manner of exaggeration intent to inspire terror and submission before His Majesty’s enemies. And credence could be rightfully granted to such speculations, given the unusually ambiguous accounts of their formal obligations and whereabouts in wartime operations. Others called the Dragoons the “specters,” shadowy, supernatural archangels of the Almighty—the deadly protectors of the faith. Their mystery and intrigue had only grown as haunting tales of ghosts and demons amongst the king’s men. The Ministry did nothing to disclaim such myths, nor did it discourage their propagation.
The three horsemen proceeded some two hundred yards along the trail as it climbed a small knoll through a gap between two large rock formations. Trotting briskly, they headed toward a thin tower of blackish smoke that bent and rose toward the sky. The lead rider remained no more than a pace ahead of the others. Until he pulled back on the reins and slowed to a near stop when they reached a clearing at the apex of the hill, where a gathering of structures and figures appeared. They were mostly surrounded by a treeless stretch of ground, which revealed furloughs, gardened patches, and tree stumps. At the far end of what would seem to be an archaic village was an unfinished wall of oak logs roughly twelve-foot-high, mounted side by side, each with pointed tips carved atop. The partition began at the northern corner of the encampment, snaked toward the west, then back toward the south, where it ended unfinished near a pile of logs that lay on the ground. The barricade resembled a crescent moon that partially encircled the encampment. Twenty-plus paces behind the incomplete bulwark was an abrupt cliff, dropping some fifty feet or so toward the river valley. From the edge of the precipice, one could see the creek winding amongst the trees.
Three longhouses, mud-clay structures, with curved roofs, wooden supports, and narrow arched entrances were positioned almost congruent to one another. The largest was positioned farthest north and was approximately six feet tall and thirty feet long. It stretched east to west, as did its two, slightly less impressive, counterparts. Various symbols appeared painted along the structures: a black turtle, deer, bear, and a red painted bird among other such animals. A fourth, smaller structure of similar design rested apart from the others to the east. A lone white maple towered in the near center of the village, and pottery, baskets, blankets, and tools of assorted manner lay about without apparent organization. Several large animal skins, resembling those of bears and deer, were stretched flat and bound to frames made from thick tree branches and rested amongst the buildings’ walls. Smoke rose from a dying fire, and the snow continued to lightly fall as three canines angrily barked toward the oncoming horsemen.
A score or more of men, women, and children sat, side by side, in a circular pattern. Most had their arms wrapped around both knees, and all were silent and still. They were a clan of the woodland Iroquois, a people who had lived in these lands for centuries. The Iroquois were mostly nomads who roamed the countryside. After settling, an Iroquois tribe could count on surviving two or three generations before needing to wander again in search of food. This tribe had settled along the creek in the past summer, after being driven out of their eastern home by American settlers. Their manner of dress consisted of deerskin or rough leather blankets, skirts, smocks, sashes, and moccasins. All were embellished with regalia of beads, fringes, jewelry and stitching of varying sort. Some wore differing types of feathered headdresses or bands.
Clad in similar garb to the riders, with cardinal-red waistcoats, nine soldiers stood, spaced several feet apart, in what appeared to be a formal column, alongside the huddled Iroquois. Their appearance seemed more functional than their mounted counterparts. Each had a circular canteen strewn along his back, leather pouches along his waist sides, and a short, cylindrical container strapped to his belt along the small of his back. Each of the soldiers dared not flinch or utter a sound. They were steadfastly focused, dutifully resting long, bayoneted muskets, butts at their feet, up to and over their left shoulders with the muzzles facing skyward.
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
“Enormous and smart ... a grand epic tale ... crammed with characters unbelievably alive across the great gulf of war ... touches all human emotion love and hate, loyalty and treachery, hope and despair. See for yourself. This is truly a novel to get lost in.” ~ Book Review Concierge
“If our history books were only like this! E. Thomas Joseph takes American history on a wicked and disturbing journey in Winter Eternal. Historical fiction really isn't my genre, but the mixture of history and fantasy ... Joseph writes it with enough prowess to grab your attention and pull you in his morbid historical tale.” ~ Janny C
“I found it interesting and clever how the story weaves history with fictional fantasy. At times it can be a bit dark and gruesome even, but that is somewhat balanced by the touches of the light-hearted.” ~ Amazon Customer
“Wicked!!!!! I mean wow!!!! I am literally chewing on my nails. I do not know some authors can write like this.” ~ seasongirl09

About the Author
E. Thomas Joseph is an award-winning historian and Professor of U.S. History in Westchester County New York. Thomas Joseph sits on the board of the Thomas Paine Historical Society and the Historical Society of America’s Forbidden History, has presented at the Lincoln Center, the Cornelius Van Wyck Historical Site, and the Bunker Hill Club.
His fantasy tale, Winter Eternal, is part a fictionalized account of this dissertation on the Revolutionary War and New York’s Hudson Valley and is, in part, based on his research from the Archives of America’s Unknown History.