Available Now: The Cottage on the Border by Hannah Warren

THE COTTAGE ON THE BORDER
The Jenna Kroon Trilogy, #1
Hannah Warren

ISBN: 9781311188069
ASIN: B00XHWE9OG

Length: Novel
Genre: Contemporary Family Saga
Price: $4.99

Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

Jenna's earliest memory is of her mother's feet dangling in dust motes, as a three year old left orphaned while her mother's corpse hung from a beam. Her mother committed suicide, that's how she escaped and freed herself. When her own life falls apart Jenna's earliest memory becomes her anchor, she too wants to be free.

Vincent Van Son is Jenna's adopted brother, her psychiatrist, perhaps her only friend. He takes her to the Cottage for recovery, determined to rescue his sister from herself after her failed suicide attempt. The cottage on the border is at Oud Land, and is the location of many dark secrets.

Jenna's close call with death leaves her open to the psychic world, and in this cottage in the onset of a misty winter, Jenna hears them, the voices of the past, memories of what happened on the border. It becomes a journey to herself. She has to listen, to witness, she has no choice. Their stories are her story, and it is a long heritage of murder, deceit, ethnic discourse and betrayal.

Perspective returns to the introspective prima ballerina, she has learned the truth of her family, of this cottage of psychic confessions. She alone emerges from the rubble of six decades of troubled family history, a lone phoenix.

The Cottage on The Border is a tale of murder, mystery, intrigue, familial despair, heartbreak, and spiritual resurrection.

• • •

Oud Land Cottage
Zeeland, The Netherlands
1 May 2000
“Prior to you, father, prior to this, there was silence and to silence we now return.”

Jenna said it out loud. Her words echoed in the empty room. It was real, it was done, really done, all of it. Both of them were dead and buried - father and son - in graves alongside each other with only the wind whispering ‘agony’.

But she was alive, strange and wrong as it may seem. Her pain buried for good in this godforsaken place on the Belgian border. Jenna’s eyes took in the familiar view from the window. The cattle grazing lazily, the meadow laced with a budding corn field, and the May sun reflected on the red rooftops at the end of her estate. It was a matter of hours now before she would hand the keys to the new owners. A sigh escaped her flat bosom.

From his basket in the corner, Mauritius replied with an even bigger dog’s sigh. A smile stole over the young woman’s delicate features. They were such a team.

Suddenly the silhouette of her grandfather loomed up, a wide-legged weather-beaten farmer scanning his lands. He turned to face her and waved, cap in hand, his grey hair ruffled by the soft breeze. An index finger crooked from arthritis pointed to the V-tailed swallow that skimmed deftly over his head.

She nodded, showing she understood. A swallow flying low meant rain tomorrow. She had farmer’s blood too. But when she blinked, Grandpa was gone. What a dreamer she was, born with the gift! It had brought her so much but in the end left her without blood ties.

“Grandpa Onno.” She had to pronounce his name one last time, now he had come to take leave of her. She had expected him. After all, he was the reason for her downfall and her resurrection. She, Jenna Kroon de Coligny and he, Onno Brenner, were the string to which all the others were attached.

He had shown her how to prevent history from repeating itself. No more killings, no more suicides. All the family stones turned upside down. And she alone emerged from the rubble of six decades of troubled family history, a lone phoenix.



The black Bakelite phone started to ring its old-fashioned staccato bell in the hallway: pring, pring. It shook Jenna from her musings. Startled, she ran to it, her bare feet dancing over the cool black-and-white tiles.

Must be Vincent, telling me what time he’s picking me up.

“She said yes!” Vincent’s elated voice sang in her ears. “Couldn’t wait to tell you. Margot and I are getting married in the autumn, as soon as I’ve got my PhD.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news, Vince. Congratulations.” A warm rush of happiness spread through Jenna’s body.

“And I want my little sister to be my witness.” He sounded resolute.

“Well of course, I’d be vexed if you hadn’t asked.”

So everything was going to be alright?

“Can’t wait to see you again, Jen. All done in the cottage?” he asked.

“Yes, almost. I’ll be so glad to leave it behind. Can’t wait to return to Amsterdam and start a new phase in my life!”

“So proud of you, sissy. You’re such a survivor, but, um … you know what I want to ask, don’t you?”

Ha, the shrink’s head was popping up again.

“I have been eating, doctor, don’t you worry.” She made it sound light-hearted. Through the open door Jenna's gaze darted to the apple on the windowsill; her ten o’clock snack. It was still a battle, always would be, but she was getting there. “I was almost fifty kilos this morning.”

“Hallelujah!” her foster brother cheered. “That’s my girl. Listen, I’m leaving the hospital after lunch. Marge is sorry she can’t come along, but we’ll lock the cottage together, okay? It’s been a rough ride since we arrived.”

“Indeed it has. By the way, Will’s coming to say goodbye to us as well,” said Jenna.

“Good, it’ll be great to see our little saviour again. So about the future, I checked your apartment on the Brouwersgracht, Jen. It’s all furnished and ready for you. Mozzi sent a huge bunch of flowers. The card reads, For Jenna KdC, my star dancer. Welcome back to the show, Mr Mozzi.”

Jenna’s breath caught. Would she be able to dance again and fulfil the Mozzi’s high expectations of her? She would certainly have to train long hours to get back to the top. As always, her brother sensed her hesitation.

“After all you’ve been through you’ll do perfectly fine, Jen. Not a single doubt about that. Now give Mauritius a pat on the head from me and I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“Okay, I will. Drive carefully bro,” she said.

Jenna replaced the receiver in the cradle. Slowly she made her way back to the small living room and took up her position at the window. Her mood dropped like a pool around her feet. Immobilised, she stood on the worn carpet, feeling empty and drained. It was strange, she was suddenly depressed when the news was all positive. Everything was going to be okay.

Simply dismiss Vincent’s call for now and concentrate on cleaning this place, she told herself. The new owners would arrive at three o’ clock. Five hours left. There was still so much to do. Despite her resolution, Jenna sank down on the one remaining chair, the apple in her lap, letting the waves roll in one more time.

• • •

Hannah Warren was born in Paris (Fr.) in 1956 as a second child to a Dutch father and an English mother. She has lived in The Netherlands almost all her life but maintains strong ties with her own favourite triangle: France, UK and Holland.

Hannah studied Dutch literature and Mass Communication at the University of Amsterdam and later obtained a B.A. in English Literature and Language and a B.A. in Translation from Rotterdam University. After having been a lecturer and a translator for many years, she now works as a staff member at the International Office of HZ University of Applied Sciences in Vlissingen.

Her free-time is taken up by writing fiction and doing Yoga. She also likes going on long hikes while listening to audiobooks. After having been a single mum for nearly two decades, her three children have flown the nest. The great sadness that befell Hannah in March 2014 was the loss of her eldest child, daughter Joy, who died after an intense two-year struggle against bile duct cancer. Currently her second child, son Ivor, is fighting a brain tumour. Her whole life and the future of her children (-in-law) is totally upside down. Writing fiction is Hannah’s main outlet in her grief.

From the age of 8, Ms Warren has written poetry, novels and short stories but it took her over 50 years to become a published author. In the past four years she signed with two small Indie publishing houses, who released Hannah’s first two novels, a literary romance and a suspenseful family saga. She is currently writing the sequel to the second book and also a five-book series about five generations of daughters between 1876 and 2015. Hannah found her niche in writing fictional stories about strong women who lead challenging lives.

Find Hannah Online:

Website - http://www.hannahwarrenauthor.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/HannahWarrenAuthor
Twitter - https://twitter.com/hannah_war
Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Hannah-Warren/e/B008A0DHS4
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6424314.Hannah_Warren
Instagram - https://instagram.com/hannahaudreywarren
Pinterest - https://www.pinterest.com/hannahaudrey
Tsu - https://www.tsu.co/HannahAudreyWarren
LinkedIn - https://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=130423383
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Warren_Hannah

Available Now: Casablanca, My Heart by Hannah Warren

CASABLANCA, MY HEART
Hannah Warren

ISBN: 9781310880223
ASIN: B00XF9PQIO

Length: Novel
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Price: $4.99

Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

Heather Simpson takes a cruise to get away from her husband. Far away from judgmental eyes she meets Ghalib, a French-Moroccan aristocrat who seems to know everything about her and has been eager to meet her for years. When the ship docks in Casablanca Ghalib invites this soulful author into his home and into his heart.

Returning from Morocco to every day life, Heather faces a dilemma. Sometimes it seems we are destined to meet the love of our life for only a fleeting moment, leaving us thinking, 'Did fate work so hard to bring us so little or is there more to come?'

This glorious romance will take you to the exotic, stranding you in love's oasis, feeling as if you too have captured the diaphanous emotion of soul-love, questioning your choices and your destiny.

• • •

Male Attention
Atlantic Ocean, 2 July 2005

We all think we know who we are, until life slaps us in the face just when we least expect it. And then we wonder why. Is it to keep us on our toes, to show us life can be just a random happening, to fulfil that unfathomable Karma assigned to us?

No matter how long and hard I have mulled over these questions, there are no answers. All I know is that I had the greatest happiness on earth and I lost it just when I thought it was truly mine. In a split second I wrecked it all, squandered it for good.

But even assigning blame doesn’t rub out the pain; in the end it only increases it. Luuk, my beloved husband is dying, and I am taking a vacation on a luxury cruise ship on the Atlantic Ocean, thousands of miles away from his still, white bed, his shallow breath, and the tireless monitors.

Don’t tell me all this is just to escape the inevitable. I know. I loathe myself, sitting here all dressed up at a table with total strangers when I need to be with the one person I love. All this entourage is staged because I cannot really be with him anymore.

I keep wondering whether he still loves me. There is no way he can tell me anymore. And what has that done to my love for him? Will it last forever?

If only the questions would cease to roll in like the waves on the sea shore. I am so tired of them, and still they come. At least they are more bearable here than when I’m at home. I need the distraction. I desperately need nonsense to rattle through my brain so as not to hear my own sombre thoughts.

I blink at the brilliance of the thousand-armed chandelier above our heads, forcing myself to turn my attention outwards, to this ship and to the people on it.

Where did I read that sentence: ‘Let everyone be better than you'?

I am one of fifteen semi-strangers sitting around the oval dinner table, our separate conversations muted slightly by the room’s heavy velvet drapes. To my left lounges Henry Fisher, a retired chemistry professor from Boston, Massachusetts.

As this is already our fourth day aboard the British liner Costa Victoria, Henry has had ample opportunity to regale me with stories about his wife’s childless womb, her rheumatic joints, and the unsavoury details of the illness which had recently transformed him into a widower. Having exhausted these now familiar musings, he is ready to strike a more cheerful note: his publications.

“I must admit, my dear Femmy,” he says, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, “it is a profound surprise to me that the world's leading scientific journals, Scientific American and The Scientist, are still lining up to publish my articles. What with all the young blood and all … What's more, considering today's extremely advanced research techniques, one would think they had better things to do than print my fossilised ramblings.” He chuckles, a wheezy sort of cough I’ve heard repeatedly over the past four days. “Why, just last month …”

Henry's rosy cheeks glow with pride, emphasising a myriad of tiny veins which distract my attention from his voice. Still, I am glad he is doing all the talking. I can confine myself to throwing in a timely 'Aha', 'Is that so?', 'Really?'. I imagine if we continue at this pace, there will be enough favourite-Henry-topics on my plate to take up the next seven days.

So far he has shown little interest in my life. I cherish this anonymous role in which he has placed me, as I prefer to travel unnoticed. I am sure the circles in which I move are different from his, so I feel safe with him. He is a likeable old chap, absolutely harmless and the perfect table companion, under the circumstances.

On my right rocks a plump English teenager who is travelling with her mother and grandmother. The three have similarly shaped figures, possessing little conversation but sufficient appetite to fill their loose-fitting garments. They barely even speak among themselves, apparently preferring to expend their energy scanning the food laid out before us.

I've met this small female ensemble only at meal times, when the young girl in particular shows a single-minded interest in the puddings and ice creams passing under her nose, spooning heaps of them into her mouth while her eyes scan Elle or Cosmopolitan.

I haven't spoken with the ladies since the introductory round on the first day, and we limit ourselves to a brief 'hello' every time we sit down.

Fortunately, Henry makes up for what they lack in dazzling repartee. An irrepressible urge to interrupt Henry's monologue creeps up on me and I decide it's time to side-track him.

• • •

Hannah Warren was born in Paris (Fr.) in 1956 as a second child to a Dutch father and an English mother. She has lived in The Netherlands almost all her life but maintains strong ties with her own favourite triangle: France, UK and Holland.

Hannah studied Dutch literature and Mass Communication at the University of Amsterdam and later obtained a B.A. in English Literature and Language and a B.A. in Translation from Rotterdam University. After having been a lecturer and a translator for many years, she now works as a staff member at the International Office of HZ University of Applied Sciences in Vlissingen.

Her free-time is taken up by writing fiction and doing Yoga. She also likes going on long hikes while listening to audiobooks. After having been a single mum for nearly two decades, her three children have flown the nest. The great sadness that befell Hannah in March 2014 was the loss of her eldest child, daughter Joy, who died after an intense two-year struggle against bile duct cancer. Currently her second child, son Ivor, is fighting a brain tumour. Her whole life and the future of her children (-in-law) is totally upside down. Writing fiction is Hannah’s main outlet in her grief.

From the age of 8, Ms Warren has written poetry, novels and short stories but it took her over 50 years to become a published author. In the past four years she signed with two small Indie publishing houses, who released Hannah’s first two novels, a literary romance and a suspenseful family saga. She is currently writing the sequel to the second book and also a five-book series about five generations of daughters between 1876 and 2015. Hannah found her niche in writing fictional stories about strong women who lead challenging lives.

Find Hannah Online:

Website - http://www.hannahwarrenauthor.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/HannahWarrenAuthor
Twitter - https://twitter.com/hannah_war
Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Hannah-Warren/e/B008A0DHS4
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6424314.Hannah_Warren
Instagram - https://instagram.com/hannahaudreywarren
Pinterest - https://www.pinterest.com/hannahaudrey
Tsu - https://www.tsu.co/HannahAudreyWarren
LinkedIn - https://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=130423383
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Warren_Hannah

Available Now: One Night in Chicago by Megan Morgan

ONE NIGHT IN CHICAGO
City Nights Series, #12
Megan Morgan

ISBN: 9781310793271
ASIN: B00UUB9KWI

Length: Novella
Genre: Erotica Romance
Price: $2.99

Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

Breaking up is hard to do, especially after four years together.

Taylor Middleton, a singer striving for her big break, and her boyfriend Malcolm Darling, a mover and shaker in the music business, have decided to call it quits. Taylor wants to take her onstage persona—Gracie M—to LA, where she hopes bright lights and big dreams await.

But before they break up, the two decide to spend one last night in Chicago, the city where they once shared a passionate, romantic weekend, in hopes of preserving some good memories. In Chicago, Taylor realizes she's not so sure about taking her talents elsewhere, as Malcolm reminds her why she fell in love—and lust—with him. Taylor may soon discover the right man, like music, can set her free and make all her dreams come true.

• • •

The Cloud Gate, a mercurial, hulking dollop of a sculpture, sat in the middle of Millennium Park on Chicago's magnificent Michigan Avenue. The reflective surface mirrored the brilliantly blue morning sky—thus the sculpture's name—and the towering buildings lining the avenue. Also caught in its surface were the multitude of tourists swarming around, circling it, weaving in and out of the bean-shaped structure's underbelly, and taking pictures in it.
Taylor Middleton stood next to the sculpture. From a distance 'the Bean' gleamed flawless, like a pod dropped from an alien ship. Up close, handprints marred the surface. She had a picture of herself in the same spot, four years prior. She was a different woman then: optimistic, giddy, hopeful, a dreamer and astoundingly naive. She wanted to preserve her memory of that silly girl, thus she didn't take a fresh picture.

A little boy darted in front of her and stopped in his tracks.

"Hi." He waved.

She smiled. "Hi." She tucked her hands in her long green cable-knit sweater. The first touch of autumn had descended.

He ran away, circling around the Bean. His mother arrived a moment later.

"Sorry." She flashed Taylor a tired smile. She rushed past. "Brandon!"

Little Brandon was already laughing beneath the belly of the sculpture. Taylor continued smiling and gazed into the mirrored surface.

She'd had her hair done for the trip, though really, for the trip she'd be taking after she left Chicago. She had it pulled back, the strawberry blond vibrant, straight and silky, freshly cut and falling perfectly. Her eyes were green, her skin creamy and pale. She had her mother's Irish genes to thank for all that. Supposedly, her good looks would benefit her someday.

The Bean reflected the courtyard of concrete squares it sat upon. Behind her, a man was strolling across it, toward her. He was handsome: tall, broad, masculine, his posture easy and self-assured. He had his hands tucked in his pants pockets, no jacket on despite the chill. He wore a crisp white shirt--sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off thickly muscled forearms--and tailored black dress pants. He was older, one of those men who aged well and even got better-looking, who became more sophisticated and casually sexy as they matured. He had a neatly-trimmed beard flecked with gray, though the silver hadn't reached his perfect coif of dark hair yet. He was tan and fit.

The scent of his expensive, sandalwood-touched cologne reached her nose as he walked up behind her.

He stopped and slid an arm around her shoulders. They both gazed at their reflection.

"What are you thinking about?" His voice matched his looks: deep, rugged, sensual and suave. He sounded like a radio DJ.

She folded her arms. "About the picture we took of ourselves right here. Remember?"

"Of course. You took like ten of them because you said your face looked fat."

She pressed her lips in a tight line. Malcolm Darling was a no-nonsense, plain-spoken, frank and tough-minded man, something she'd once found endlessly appealing but now grated on her every nerve. Another item on the long list of reasons they were ending their relationship.

She slid out from under his arm and stepped away. "I thought the purpose of this trip was to remember the good times we had here. Not nitpick."

• • •

Megan Morgan is an urban fantasy, romance, and erotica author from Cleveland, Ohio—a bartender by day and purveyor of things that go bump at night.

She’s a member of the RWA and trying to turn writing into her day job, so she can be on the other side of the bar for a change.

Find Megan Online:

Website - http://www.meganmorganauthor.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/megan.morgan.author
Twitter - https://twitter.com/morgan_romance
Blog - http://meganmorganauthor.com/blog
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/meganmorganauthor
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Morgan_Megan

Available Now: Anam Cara by Kelli McDonald Young

ANAM CARA
Seasons of the Soul Series, #1
Kelli McDonald Young

ISBN: 9781310792533
ASIN: B00XFL5M0O

Length: Novel
Genre: Historical Romance
Price: $3.99

Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

Ainslee MacDonald is a fierce lass, and not one to shrink from danger. Jeopardy has a way of finding her and it does when the Saxons invade the Scottish Highlands. Meeting hardship after challenging hardship, her indomitable spirit flourishes when she meets her soul friend, her Anam Cara.

Conall Geirson is no mere man; he is the beast who comes to Ainslee's aid, bonding their fates. His tribe is hidden, more myth and legend, but Ainslee's knows they're real, for Conall's love is so visceral that she forsakes tradition to vow her life to him.

Their path is perilous, devoted, heartbreaking, and beautiful. Lairds, soldiers, priests, and crones may derail their perfect union, but the one thing no human counted on was her sons being forged of their mother's mettle, or that love transcends human perception.

This is an epic journey which tugs so hard on the heartstrings they break.

• • •

“Sorceress! Heretic! Devil’s Consort! Witch!” accused the crowd.

With her head down as the people standing around hurled curses and insults, Ainslee tried to steady the rhythm of her heart. The tightness in her chest was beginning to make her faint, fear of her condemnation increasing at the unpredictability of the mob.

Dressed only in her night-clothes, having fallen to her knees as the village folk pushed and pulled at her, she was shoved to the resident parish.

Christianity was new to her village and those whom lived on the outskirts, like her and her clan they were not open to the idea of this one god. Though a crude building made like most of the thatch and moss houses, the parish was like walking into Rome with its golden crosses and foul incense.

The priest, Father Paddrig, was a portly man with rotten teeth, breath that would send a fiend fleeing, and had the presence of the Bog Man himself. He was sent from Ireland to redeem the masses in this heathen countryside, whether they required it or not.

Most of the village was too afraid to tell him that wasn’t their way, for he had threatened hellfire down upon them if they weren’t willing to convert. The gods they worshipped were all about nature and love. Hellfire was the last thing they wanted to mess with, though they had not the slightest idea of what it even was.

As Ainslee gained her footing the rioters forced her back to her knees. Bloodied and bruised she crawled toward the prayer benches, seeking refuge. Before she was abducted from the pond below her own thatch and moss abode, she had blessed and kissed her two little boys to sleep.

“Bring her forward, bring me the Whore of Babylon!” shouted Fr. Paddrig.

Hands rushed to seize her upper arms. Stunned at the intense pressure of the hold, she struggled and scratched. Ainslee knew it would make it worse, but in her heart she had reason to fight.

Her fatherless sons were bastards to the villagers and the church, yet beloved to her clan. While she carried both of her boys, going to the village to trade goods was difficult. She was called names for they knew she had no husband. Some would refuse her altogether. Niall was the oldest at seven years, and Bowie only five.

At seven her Niall was broad of shoulder, thin in the waist and hips, hair like a highland bull. His mouth was smart but only to those who warranted it. His mind like a sponge soaking up everything around him. Fearless to a fault he was her champion.

Bowie was her little lover. Arms always outstretched to claim her neck; he would smother her in butterfly kisses. Bowie had a pucker that would eventually drive the lasses wild, with eyelashes they would swoon over. He had the look of mischief with a hint of innocence that kept you guessing at which you would get. His tawny hair, big blue eyes, and crooked grin got him out of trouble more than she could count.

They were her heart, her world. She knew she would never see them grow to be the men she had taught them to be. They would never get to see the pride in her eyes as they took their wives in handfasting, had their bairn, or made lives for themselves. She would never get to introduce them to the man reputed as their father.

She told them stories of how they met, fell in love, and brought them into the world. Oh how she wished they could know their father, but it had to be this way for all their protection. She would be the village heretic, the devil’s consort, or even the Whore of Babylon, for all of them.

Their secret would die with her. She would not allow the village to harm what was hers, and what she loved, because of their ignorance of what has been for hundreds of years.

• • •

Kelli McDonald Young is a warrior at heart. Her Scottish heritage shines through in her writing and her every day life. A voracious reader she took the leap as an author, writing what she knows best, penning a series which probes the realm of the heart, hardship, motherhood, trials, and lore.

Choosing to indulge her love of paganism she remains true to the ethos by writing in threes, releasing a three book series (Seasons of the Soul) featuring the glorious Caledonian highlands.

Resilient, resourceful and determined, she embodies the Celtic mindset which is reflected in her characters.

Living in North Carolina, Kelli has been entrenched deep in the heart of the bible belt for many moons. A rebel at heart, she's pushing back through the voice of fiction. She chooses the old road, the one less travelled, the one which traverses the veil lands which straddle two realms, the modern and the ancient, the human and the fey, taking her readers into a territory both profound and enchanting.


Find Kelli Online:

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/leesgrl13
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/leesgrl
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/McDonald-Young_Kelli

Available Now: The Brotherhood by Daithi Kavanagh

THE BROTHERHOOD
The Tadhg Sullivan Series, #2
Daithi Kavanagh

ISBN: 9781311460622
ASIN: B00USBGLJU

Length: Novel
Genre: Thriller
Price: $3.99

Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

Detective Tadhg Sullivan’s life seems to be falling apart, since being shifted to Clare from Dublin after falling out with the Minister for Justice and the Garda Commissioner. His partner (Journalist Helen Carty) has moved out, unable to live with his bouts of depression and periodic alcoholism. He finds himself once again alone in a world that doesn’t understand him.

Suddenly Sullivan is knocked out of his lethargy when a teenage girl goes missing not far from Ennis where he has been stationed. Sullivan is asked to lead the hunt by the local Superintendent and is catapulted into a world of unimaginable horror. He is confronted by Lord Charles Cromwell the leader of a sadistic cult (The Brotherhood) that derives its pleasures from the torture and murder of young women.

Sullivan’s investigation is once again hampered by political interference. As he fights his way through one bureaucratic obstacle after another he discovers that The Brotherhoods tentacles have not only reached into corridors of power in Ireland but, they are being protected by powerful politicians worldwide.

To cut through this protective ring of steel Sullivan finds himself having to engage with some strange bed fellows. Which included an ex CIA agent (Simon Horowitz) who had saved his partners life during his last investigation and an IRA leader (Rory O’Connor) who has recently been released from prison.

Will this strange combination be able to destroy The Brotherhood before their murderous reign takes another young life or will Lord Cromwell destroy Sullivan and everything he loves?

• • •

She knew nothing of the white van that pulled up behind her, until the two men grabbed her and bundled her into the back of it. She’d been jogging along the road, with her headphones on listening to Mumford and Sons. At first she’d thought it was a prank being carried out by some of her friends. But, as the van tore along the narrow road at top speed and she found herself being tossed from side to side, she knew something much more sinister was unfolding and started to scream. Suddenly the van took a sharp left. She fell and smashed her face against the side panelling. Then she could feel it being driven down a long pebbled lane. She stared at her headphones, the music still blaring, lying on the floor of the van. She cursed herself for not listening to her parents who had begged her to bring her mobile phone.
The van jolted to a halt. She heard the men get out. She heard their feet crunch on the pebble drive as they walked to the back of the van and opened the doors. She cried with terror as the two middle aged men dragged her out and carried her across the forecourt towards a huge wooden door.

One of them rang the bell and seconds later she heard the door creak as it inched open. A tall man of about sixty with a nose like a beak moved to the side as the two men carried her in. As they brought her along the dark hallway, she tried to struggle but to no avail, they were too strong. She screamed and screamed but her screams seemed to be swallowed up by the old house.

When they reached the back of the house, they made her stand up. She begged them to let her go home. Tears ran down her face. They ignored her pleas, opened another door and pushed her through. She found herself in an old church. They prodded her up along the aisle towards an altar. One of them went over to the wall and pulled down a handle disguised as a candlestick. The altar started to move slowly across, revealing a stairway into a dungeon. The two men pushed her down the stairs into the dark hole below. The altar started to move back across. She tried to climb up the stairs, but they forced her back down. She screamed one last scream. Then the darkness folded in around her, as the marble altar ground itself into place, eventually drowning out her pleas.

• • •

Daithi Kavanagh lives in Trinity, County Wexford with his wife and two teenage children.

He has worked for several years as a musician.

In the last couple of years, after taking up adult education, he began writing.

Find Daithi Online:

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/caroline.kavanagh.543
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/DAITHIKAVANAGHWRITER
Twitter - https://twitter.com/Daithik3
Blog - http://www.daithikavanagh.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Kavanagh_Daithi

Available Now: The Alpha Match by Leigh Archer

THE ALPHA MATCH
Untames Safari Series, #1
Leigh Archer

ISBN: 9781310594106
ASIN: B00US77ZPS

Length: Novel
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Price: $3.99

Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

Conservationists, Caro Hannah and Ben Duval, must work together to introduce endangered African wild dogs to a reserve four years after their love affair ended badly. But the challenges of their work pale beside the personal obstacles they must overcome to bring closure to the traumatic events of four years before, or reignite a passion hot enough to set the African bush on fire.

• • •

Dear Caro,
Good news! South African National Parks has at last got the co-operation and funding to resume the African Wild Dog Project that was abandoned five years ago.

I am a great admirer of the work you have done with African wild dogs living in sanctuaries. Your dedicated research and obvious passion over the years has had a direct effect on the way these remarkable animals are perceived by the public.

Since you were part of the original team to propose this project, and in light of your untiring work and ground-breaking research, we would like to offer you a place on the new team as senior co-ordinator, reporting to the project director.

We have assembled as many of the conservationists originally put forward for the project by yourself and Dr Ben Duval five years ago. Of this group, Ben Duval will head up the project. The team will consist of Alan Jeffreys, Dennis Williams, Sophie Kyle and Adrian Barnard, a wildlife filmmaker.

I have attached a contract we would like you to sign, and then please contact our office so we can make your travel arrangements. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to contact me. We look forward to working with you.

~

Mrs Hannah was frantic with worry, but she would not let it show. Caro needed her mother’s strength this morning, and a voice of reason. So instead of saying, ‘Caro, do not do this! Turn the offer down,’ she put the e-mail on the table and picked up her coffee cup.

Caro sat opposite her at the kitchen table that had been part of family life in the Hannah household for more than twenty years. Cheerful blue and yellow curtains framed a portion of grey English sky and the aroma of toast and coffee hovered in the air around them. But none of this homeliness did anything to lighten either woman’s mood. Mrs Hannah took a deep breath.

‘Think very carefully before you decide, Caro. You will come face-to-face with Ben again. You will have to work with him every day. After what happened between the two of you, do you think you could do that?’

Caro ran a distracted hand through glossy black hair.

‘I’ve done nothing but think about it, Mum. I don’t think I can face him, but do I have a choice?’

• • •

Leigh, who writes romance novels set in her native South Africa, has always had a great love affair with Africa’s wild, open spaces, the intensity of its people and sunsets. Her love of storytelling began as a child when she spent every spare moment of her childhood playing barefoot in golden grass, watching meerkats, tracking Eland spoor and dreaming up heroes and heroines exciting enough to stand out in the all the beauty and drama of the African landscape.”

Find Leigh Online:

Website - http://leigharcher.yolasite.com
Blog - http://leigharcher.blog.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/pages/Leigh-Archer/299910886869499
Twitter - https://twitter.com/LeighArcherBook
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Archer_Leigh

Available Now: Into the Unknown by Lorna Peel

INTO THE UNKNOWN
Lorna Peel

ISBN: 9781311369161
ASIN: B00UAY719Y
Length: Novel
Genre: Historical Romance

Price: $4.99

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London on 3 September 1939 is in upheaval. War is inevitable. Into this turmoil steps Kate Sheridan, newly arrived from Ireland to live with her aunt and uncle, and look for work. When she meets Flight Lieutenant Charlie Butler sparks fly, but he is a notorious womaniser. Should she ignore all the warnings and get involved with a ladies man whose life will be in daily danger?

Charlie Butler has no intention of getting involved with a woman. But when he meets Kate his resolve is shattered. Should he allow his heart to rule his head and fall for a nineteen-year-old Irish girl while there is a war to fight?

Private conflicts and personal doubts are soon overshadowed. Will the horrors of total war bring Kate and Charlie together or tear them apart?

• • •

Euston Station, London. Sunday, September 3rd, 1939

Kate Sheridan opened the train door and, with butterflies fluttering in her stomach, stepped down onto the platform. London at last. Her journey from Ireland had taken three days. Where could she hear the latest news? The ultimatum to the Germans to withdraw from Poland was due to run out this morning. War was all but inevitable.

Glancing up and down the platform for her aunt and uncle, all she could see were hundreds of sobbing children, clinging for dear life to their equally upset parents. She knew it was rude, but she couldn’t help but stare.

“Come on, my love,” a voice from behind her shouted and she jumped. “You’re in the way.”

Picking up her suitcase, Kate moved aside as a man in an army uniform jumped down from the train with a sack-like bag slung over his shoulder.

“Why are all the children here?” she asked.

“The evacuation began the other day,” he explained, lowering the sack to the ground, and taking off his side cap. “They’re all being sent to the country for safety. You’re not a Londoner, are you, Miss? What part of Wales are you from?”

“I’m from Ballycarn,” she replied, wincing as a little boy—he couldn’t have been more than six—was pulled screaming away from his mother. “It’s not in Wales, it’s in the west of Ireland.”

The soldier laughed. “Sorry, I thought you were a Taffy, but you’re a Paddy instead. Still, you’d like to hear what old Neville has to say, wouldn’t you?”

“Neville?”

“Neville Chamberlain? The...our Prime Minister. Let’s find a wireless so we can hear him, though I know what he’s going to say.”

Replacing his side cap and hauling the sack onto his shoulder, he grasped Kate’s arm without asking permission, and she had to grab her suitcase. They hurried along the platform, weaving in and out of distraught families and porters, until they came to a railway guard who took their tickets.

“Is there a wireless nearby we can listen to?” the soldier asked.

“Yes, there’s one in the ticket office,” the guard replied. “Wait outside.”

“Good. Come on, let’s find a seat.”

They sat down outside the ticket office, Kate glancing anxiously around for her aunt and uncle. Had they given up after she hadn’t been on yesterday’s train? If only she hadn’t listened to that woman and followed her ridiculous advice. Still, if they were here, it wasn’t surprising they couldn’t find her in all this chaos.

“Shh.” The soldier nudged her arm even though she had been quiet. Don’t talk to any strange men, unless you absolutely have to, her mother had warned, and now look at her. Not five minutes off the train and she was sharing a bench with a soldier, listening to the wireless, expecting Chamberlain to tell them Britain was at war.

Her father had wanted her to go to America to find work and live with his cousin and family. America was the land of opportunity for so many Irish people, far away from Europe and the threat of war. Her maternal aunt and uncle then offered to take her and help her find work in London. So, despite her father’s grumblings, close family in London were chosen over a cousin she had never met in Philadelphia.

“...and against them, I am certain that the right will prevail.” Chamberlain’s speech ended and a long silence followed.

“You picked a great day to arrive.”

• • •

Lorna Peel is an author of contemporary and historical romantic fiction. She has had work published in three Irish magazines – historical articles on The Stone of Scone in ‘Ireland’s Own’, on The Irish Potato Famine in the ‘Leitrim Guardian’, and Lucy’s Lesson, a contemporary short story in ‘Woman’s Way’.

Lorna was born in England and lived in North Wales until her family moved to Ireland to become farmers, which is a book in itself! She lives in rural Ireland, where she write, researches her family history, and grows fruit and vegetables. She also keeps chickens (and a Guinea Hen who now thinks she’s a chicken!).

Find Lorna Online

Website - http://www.lornapeel.com
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/LornaPeelAuthor
Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/PeelLorna
Blog - http://lornapeel.com/blog
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Peel_Lorna

Available Now: Soul Cypher by Poppet

SOUL CYPHER
Poppet

ISBN: 9781310894411
ASIN: B00WK4MJTO
Length: Novel
Genre: Fantasy Romance
Price: $3.99

Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing

The hilarious ravings of Taniya Sexton, god of planet fruitcake, and undercover intergalactic superagent.

Taniya Sexton is an ordinary, downtrodden girl, with authority issues. Having the working day from hades, she is sucked from our reality and into the fifth dimension when summoned to wage a war. Instantly she's elevated to god status and is worshipped as the almighty god Amrak.

Playing 'god' by ear is challenging enough, but without warning she's dumped into the region of her nemesis, the god Adnachiel. Faced with drooling foamers and alien creatures, scrambling to distill hostility, she falls chin first for the gorgeous man, seduces and overthrows her enemy, and on returning home when her mission is over, finds herself suddenly in the employ of The Bureau of Her Majesty the Queen as a secret universal spy.

* * *

When I was a teenager I used to pray to the aliens to come and get me. I was desperate to go home because I knew I didn't belong here.
Let's get real for a second. It only took me ten years on planet Earth to figure out God is a figment borne of desperation (an SS type habit, a bit like cigarettes make you feel better even though they have no health properties to speak of), a need for humans to excuse their addiction to violence and bruising (because we're educated savages as the fact that we continue to play rugby illustrates), or at least either have him to blame for their despicable behaviour, or him to forgive them for what they've done, (as a guilty conscience is the one thing we can't abide – well that and the itch caused by genital lice).

The proof that He's nothing more than a mental construct, I'd pray to him, and bugger all would happen, (a bit like throwing coins in the fountain, or wishing on a dandelion's seeds – net result, nil). What kind of 'god' ignores the prayers of desperate kids? Hungry kids. Scared kids. You see my point.

But after seeing a compelling documentary on a reputable magazine program (they're dedicated to the facts and aren't prone to making things up to get ratings, unlike (for instance) Zane in the shoe department (who's more camp than a Winnebago), well, after that documentary I had proof of aliens, (this was before I'd ever heard of conspiracy theories and all that nonsense.)

Two sisters living in Durban, South Africa, had been continually abducted throughout their lives. Testimony stands up in court, (and church), so why do people mock this kind of testimony if it involves aliens breeding with humans and some such? As I recall that's exactly what the angels did when the 'supernatural beings' took the humans they liked because they had itchy dick syndrome for the daughters of men.

Me, I took the sisters' testimony as the salvation I was looking for. Interviewed on this program they provided the physical proof of their 'mark'. The mark of the chosen. A deeply seated scar (what looks like either a biopsy scar, or a burn scar – deeper than a brand, all significant intel), which is a perfect triangle, and both sisters were marked on their legs. The one interviewed had hers on her shin. You couldn't miss it. God leaves his mark on his chosen, doesn't he? The chosen all get his mark of approval. It's like a passport, but a supernatural one. (Like a boarding pass I suppose, yeah?)

I'm noticing a disturbing pattern emerging here. But then maybe that's because I'm cursed with an ounce of logic. (Just an ounce mind you, any more and I'd have an unfair advantage).

Chosen to go 'home', chosen to have visitation rights with the great cosmic beings (with an agenda), throughout their lives these sisters had what I craved. An escape! Chosen to be 'as one' with their alien family instead of limited to the little box of mediocrity we call life.

It was a strange anomaly for me when out of the blue I developed the same marking on my left thigh. It looks like a scar, yet it appeared overnight. Jubilant, I was expectant, hoping beyond hope that my time was nigh, someone in this universe cared about me, someone would rescue me from the banal hardships of living a lie. You know the lie, right? We all live the lie. 'Everything's fine', when truthfully nothing is, and probably won't ever be. But stiff upper lips shall prevail, the masquerade will go on, and misbehaving marionettes will have their strings cut and get stuffed into little boxes prematurely.

From that day forward I went outside at every sundown, staring at the darkening sky, using my telepathy as hard as I could, begging for those bastards to come and collect their forgotten.

I don't belong here, I knew I was one of theirs. Not an alien mind you, just chosen. This distinguishing factor is important, (I think). I knew I was human (well I cry don't I, so if I was a magical being belonging to 'them' I'd not get hurt by you. I'd know I was better, special, above your petty nastiness... but I digress).

They never came for me. After three years I put them into the God category, a myth that doesn't answer prayers (and as crumbly as sleeping with wedding cake under your pillow). If you don't exist and I have no solid proof other than a weird overnight scar in the shape of a perfect equilateral triangle (sheer coincidence), well then I'm wasting my energy. Best I learn to harness my anger because no one is coming to save me, (or I'm going to have to learn to play rugby).

I'd forgotten I was chosen, completely, until the fateful day that I became god. I kid you not, afraid you should be.

* * *

Poppet started her career writing for magazines and now specialises in edgy fiction of the paranormal and ghoulish. She writes mythology inspired fiction, leaning toward the heretical, with her preoccupation with the realms of gods and fallen angels. Poppet is published with Eibonvale Press and Wild Wolf Publishing.

Find Poppet online:

Website - http://authorpoppet.weebly.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/authorPoppet
Twitter - https://twitter.com/PoppetAuthor
Blog - https://authorpoppet.wordpress.com