• Melissa Snark is published with The Wild Rose Press & as an Indie author with five unique titles: A CAT’S TALE, THE MATING GAME, LEARNING TO FLY, THE CHILD THIEF, and HUNGER MOON.
•  Her Loki’s Wolves series includes THE CHILD THIEF, HUNGER MOON and BATTLE CRY.
•  She lives in the San Francisco bay area with her husband, three children and a glaring of cats.
•  She is a professional cat herder and unrepentant satirist who blogs about books and writing on The Snarkology.

Here’s a message to you directly from Melissa!

Hello! My name is Melissa Snark, and I’m a fantasy and romance author. If I could have a moment of your time, I’d like to ask for your help as a reader. Please consider nominating my Norse folklore fantasy novel Battle Cry on Kindle Scout.

Amazon’s new publishing program is called Kindle Scout, an innovative platform that provides readers with a sneak peek at unreleased books as well as the opportunity to have a say in what gets chosen. The timing of Scout was amazing. The announcement came just as I neared completion of my novel. The terms being offered are attractive. As a publisher, Amazon has as much clout as one of the traditional publishers. This simply seemed like too good of an opportunity to pass on, so I submitted Battle Cry for consideration.

Per the FAQ: How does Kindle Scout benefit readers?
Kindle Scout readers get to preview new, never-before-published books and influence which ones are made available to millions of readers on Amazon. In addition, any time a reader’s nomination gets published, they will receive a free copy.

I appreciate your support!  To nominate Battle Cry, you only need to be logged into your Amazon account. You can head over to the Kindle Scout website and view Battle Cry’s profile page. If you like what you see, please consider voting for Battle Cry.  Thank you so much!

Battle Cry Kindle Scout Giveaway – enter the Rafflecopter below for a chance at one of thee great prizes!

1. Nordic Lights Jewels of the Moon Pendant Amulet Talisman for Psychic Ability by Maelstrom Oddsonn.

2. Chance for one of three signed paperbacks of Hunger Moon.

3. Chance for one of two $10 Amazon gift cards.
a Rafflecopter giveaway

EXCERPT

Shade enshrouded Skuld, and her voice manifested upon the air, thick and oppressive, closing in from all sides. “Your daughter will not grow to adulthood in Midgard.”

Victoria’s heart slammed against her breastbone. Her breath expelled in a horrified gust. The bowl dropped from her hands and flew to protect her abdomen. “What do you mean?”

“Your daughter will be taken from you on the eve of her third birthday,” Skuld said. “The one you trust most, a member of your own pack, will give the child over to your greatest enemy.”

A growl trembled in Victoria’s throat, and her entire body shook under the dual assault of fear and rage. The suggestion of betrayal from within her own pack filled her with disbelief to the core of her being. It was unthinkable. Gritting her teeth, she sought a solution, refusing to dwell on it. “How am I to prevent this?”

“We speak of what will come to pass,” Verðandi said in a sympathetic tone.

“Your predictions are not carved in stone,” Victoria said. Arguing with Fate was a foolish endeavor, but she refused to accept their prophecy.

The old woman, Urðr, smiled with a frightening gleam in her eyes. “Predictions, carved into the trunk of the World Tree, carved into the spiritual fabric of the world.”

Stubborn determination settled over Victoria like armor. Her mother had taught her there was no absolute fate, just as there was no absolute free will. Life consisted of a wide range of possibilities between the two extremes. She refused to allow her daughter to die at three years of age. She would move worlds, alter fate, slay gods.

Whatever it took.

“Do you wish to save your child?” Skuld asked.

Victoria answered without thought. “Yes. I’ll do anything. Tell me. Please.”

“The final days are upon us,” Verðandi said.

Skuld took over speaking. “To save your daughter, you will side with Loki against the Aesir. You will use your enchanted dagger to cut the binding of the great wolf Fenrir. You will be responsible for freeing the beast that kills Odin.”

Victoria’s stomach turned. Her head shook in automatic denial. “When the gods imprisoned Fenrir, my people pledged fealty to the Aesir. We have served them loyally ever since. Even when we were driven from the homeland, almost a millennium ago, we remained faithful. I will never cut Fenrir’s bonds. To do so would end the world we live in and doom us all.”

Skuld’s gaze held steady. “You will.”

Victoria snarled her denial. “No. I will never become the servant of the Trickster or willingly take part in bringing about Odin’s death.”

Skuld turned her head and pinned Victoria with one black eye that rolled in its socket like a liquid marble. “To save your daughter, you will.”

END of EXCERPT

Just a reminder to help Melissa out with Kindle Scout. To nominate Battle Cry, you only need to be logged into your Amazon account. You can head over to the Kindle Scout website and view Battle Cry’s profile page.

Connect with Melissa Snark:

Author Website

The Snarkology

Email: melissasnark at gmail.com

Facebook Author Page

Twitter: @MelissaSnark

Goodreads

Amazon Author Page

EXCERPT

I glanced around the room again, in the midst of a minor panic attack and, seeing my bike, remembered the first time I’d ever talked to Boone, for real. Last September, on a gorgeous Saturday evening, I’d taken my old bike—a heavy blue Neanderthal compared to my Giant—for a quick spin to escape the freshman roommate from hell who’d gotten high, or drunk, or both—in the middle of the afternoon, no less—and drained her cell phone battery with sobs to her hometown boyfriend. When I tried to be sympathetic, her wordless snarl told me she didn’t want my support, though I’d tattled to our RA on my way down the hall. I really didn’t want to return from biking to find my cray cray roomie dead from an overdose.

After my responsible escape, I’d ridden four or five miles out of town then looped back on the country roads. At the first stoplight, a biker came toward me on the perpendicular street. He nodded at me and looked away then looked back at about the same time I recognized him. Boone freakin’ Ramer. The unexpectedness both jazzed and horrified me. Hotness, all to myself, yes, but he was seeing me in a helmet, sports sunglasses and a water bladder backpack.

“Hey,” I said.

He wore sunglasses, too. The reflective orange lenses hid his eyes, but not his frown. “Aren’t you a freshman at Western Case?” he asked. His voice was nice, not crazy deep but definitely masculine, and he spoke with a slow cadence, in no hurry at all.

“Yeah,” I said. Scintillating. Brilliant.

“What’d you think of the game?”

“What game?” I scooted my bike farther onto the shoulder of the road as a car cruised past.

“The football game. Today. At home.”

“I don’t follow sports much. Was it good?” Those maddening mirrored glasses hid everything. His extended silence couldn’t be a positive sign.

“Are you lost?” he finally asked.

I glanced around. “I don’t think so. Do I look lost?”

His self-deprecating smile thinned his lips but showed no teeth. “No, sorry, most students only ride far enough to find beer.” He moved his head in a way that suggested he was checking out my gear. “I should’ve noticed you weren’t dressed for a grocery run.”

“I only did about ten miles,” I said with a shrug.

“Twice what I can do on these hills.” He grimaced.

I slid my sunglasses off my sweaty nose. I didn’t like not seeing his eyes and hoped he’d show me his if I showed him mine. I used the maneuver as an excuse to check out the rest of him. His biking shorts were loose, like gym shorts, accentuating awesome, tight calves. The top half of him didn’t disappoint, either, with the thin fabric of his shirt plastered over his pecs. He was respectably muscled, not over-juiced like Bodacious.

Hot. Ness.

“New to biking?” I asked.

“Rehabbing my knee.”

“That sucks.”

“Yep.” He finally removed his sunglasses to wipe his forearm over his ruddy face.

“What happened?” I indicated his leg with the tip of my chin.

His quick glance registered surprise before he gave the same odd little smile. “Oh. I was a quarterback for the football team. Took a low hit at the end of last season.”

I squinted at his leg. “Wow, those scars are tiny.”

He prodded at a shiny pink dot on his hairy skin. “The doctors in Pittsburgh are some of the best.” He sounded tired, or sort of downcast.

In an unusual moment of insight, I said, “Was today the first game since?”

“Yep.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t play?”

He looked down the street, away from me, then at the road cinders at our feet. “This is the first fall I haven’t played ball since I was six.”

“Wow. I can’t think of anything other than, you know, the basics like breathing I’ve been doing for that long.”

He smirked.

“Docs wouldn’t clear you?”

“They did. I didn’t.” He picked up the front of his bike by the handlebars then set it back down. “When the mom who drove you forty miles round trip for midget practices and the dad who wrecked his shoulder passing the ball back to you both say it’s time to quit….”

“Sounds like your parents are good at mind-jobs, like mine.”

He smiled a little more cheerfully and I smiled back, glad because he’d been cruising toward miserable. Just the image I wanted to create—here’s the sports ignoramus who can totally bum you out in thirty seconds flat.

“They let it up to me in the end. I made the right decision. It’s not like I have a chance to go pro. I’ll be able to walk when I’m forty, maybe throw the ball with my own kid.” A shrug bunched the muscles at his shoulders. Another shadow of doubt passed over his face.

“The bike’ll be good for you.” Again with the brilliance, as if some millionaire orthopedist hadn’t already told him about biking. Duh.

“I can go farther in Nebraska. Fewer hills,” he said. He reached for the water bottle attached to the down tube of his bike, and I could almost see him shaking off the blues. “Where are you from?” His green eyes bored into me with unanticipated curiosity.

“Indiana. We have hills but not like this.”

“Why do you ride?” he asked after he’d finished taking a deep drink from the Copperheads Football bottle.

“Um, mostly ’cuz it feels good. I mean, it helps me to clear my head.” It feels good? Really, did I say that out loud?

“Endorphins,” he said. “Though I could do without the bugs smacking me in the face.” He tucked the bottle in the cage and pushed his sunglasses back on. “Wanna head back?”

“Sure.” I slid my own glasses on and clipped one foot into a pedal.

We stood on the corner, ready to launch, each waiting for the other to lead.

“You go ahead,” he finally said with a chuckle.

“Is this a test to make sure I’m not lost?”

“No.” He grinned. “My mama taught me ladies go first.”

I rolled my eyes, checked traffic and pushed off, thanking God my other biking shoe clicked neatly into its bracket.

“Clips,” he said from over my left shoulder. “You’re brave.”

“Power on the upstroke and downstroke,” I said.

“Or instant death the first time I tried to stop.”

I laughed. “I practiced in my front yard for awhile. If I can do it, anyone can.” I shifted into a lower gear for the gentle climb. The real bitch of a hill would come at the end.

“Don’t baby me, now,” he said.

I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Have it your way.”

He panted in even, deliberate puffs by the time we reached the edge of campus, but he hadn’t given up. He’d stayed on my back wheel. I did a cool down loop on the local streets before guiding us to the dorm.

I stepped off my bike and reluctantly removed my helmet. My stubby ponytail was mostly intact, though much of the front section of my hair slipped from the skinny hairband. I did my best to tuck the errant strands behind my ears.

He arranged his own gear then looked at me with the green stare again, more intense than before. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“I’m sure we freshman all look alike.” I extended my hand. “Violet Perch.”

“Boone Ramer.” He took my hand and, though our palms were hot and sweaty, he continued to hold it, lighting a fuse of attraction that sparked up my wrist and past my elbow. “Violet. Unusual name. I’ll remember it now.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of a curse,” I said as the heat passed my shoulder to go straight to my skort.

“I didn’t mean unusual bad. It’s nice. Feminine.” He released my hand while his eyes touched me, sliding down my pink jersey and along legs I knew weren’t particularly long but had hints of muscle definition.

I knew what I was. In our world of breast enhancements and thigh gaps, I didn’t have the right dimensions to attract a guy in Boone’s league, especially with my sports bra smashing my itty bitty titties down to nothing. Helmet hair, sweat stained armpits, padded bottoms, and black sturdy shoes completed the non-seductive, flat-chested ensemble. I was all in.

His face sharpened in a way that suggested he might like what he saw. My nostrils flared in immediate, misguided response. God, he was magnetic.

“You’re in good shape,” he said appreciatively. “I bonked on the last hill but you pulled me up.” He waggled his brows at me. “Couldn’t let you make me look bad.”

My face flushed beyond exercise-induced red. “You did good.” We wheeled our bikes toward the door and I’d almost worked up the courage to ask if he’d like to ride together again when a trilling voice called his name.

Twyla Blakelock, who’d ignored me at a rush party last week, bounced up to press her glossy lips against his mouth. Her nose wrinkled. “Ewww, you’re all sweaty,” she said.

What kind of moron touches him and says Ewww, I thought. You’re ewww, Twyla.

“Hey, I’ll see you later,” I said out loud, eternally grateful for the guy who came out the door at the right time to hold it for me.

END OF EXCERPT

Only 99 cents at Amazon until September 27.  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MRHAIRO

BLURB

Rochelle of Alda, a feisty Frank noblewoman, expects to continue her industrious life managing her family’s estate. When her emperor summons her to the palace to meet the skilled soldier she is required to marry, Rochelle engages in a battle for independence from David of Bavaria. As her own deceptions multiply, she suspects another of also plotting against their marriage. To her surprise, and too late, David’s passion and patience begin to win her heart. Can their love survive the tangled web of her schemes and the secret adversary David refuses to see?

In this excerpt of David and Rochelle’s first meeting, David has arrived to take Rochelle to the palace for the betrothal, and is dismayed to learn her mother has told her nothing about it.

EXCERPT

David turned his head as the noise from the door escalated, unsure what he expected to enter his life. Given her mother’s shocking hair, he didn’t hold his hopes too high for the girl’s appearance, no matter what Theo said. The need for deception to even get her to Aix did not indicate a particularly biddable personality. Based on the increasingly violent rattling from the latch, she couldn’t even open doors for herself.

He was about to climb the steps to offer assistance when the door finally wrenched open, releasing a storm of muttering about city workmanship and rotten carpentry carried in a whirlwind of deep blue linen. She all but flung herself onto the narrow staircase. Not exactly light of foot nor entirely graceful, she rushed down the stairs, noticing his presence in time to abruptly stop on the bottom step.

She stared at him.

From across the room he could feel the chill of cold caution. Even so, his concern about her looks evaporated. She stood taller than her mother, clear skinned, with eyes of a soft green. The gold circlet on her head held her veil neatly in place, covering what it was intended to cover. An unexpected desire to see the color of her hair shot through him. He could only approximate it from her eyebrows:  not quite brown, but certainly not red either. And her female attributes remained a mystery to him as well, hidden under layers of varying shades of blue, though a heavy gold girdle studded with aquamarines suggested narrow hips.

“Mother?” she queried.

David reluctantly turned to Marian, who, it appeared, had been watching him stare at her daughter. A small smile quirked her lips. Her tightly clasped hands now lay on her chest as if in prayer. She did not find her voice until David cleared his throat expectantly.

“Rochelle!” she said too loudly. “Theophilus, the gentleman who has helped us so much, sent this burly young man to escort ye to yer audience with the emperor. He is called David. A Bavarian, no less!”

David raised his brow at her rather obtuse explanation of his role in the upcoming event. Marian gave him a slight warning shake of her head. Well, if the woman hadn’t the courage to tell this girl the truth of the matter, he certainly did. He didn’t know much about getting along with women, but he guessed that starting his marriage with deception – and necessarily short-lived deception at that – could not be wise.

As he opened his mouth to explain exactly who he was, Rochelle spoke, “I do not see why I need an escort. I found the palace yesterday.”  She lowered herself off the last step and strode toward him with a confident swing of her arms. “But if Theophilus wants to share his guard, so be it.”

Marian bobbed her head. “It was quite thoughtful of him.”

David held up a hand. “I am not Theo’s guard. And did you just suggest you were wandering about the city yesterday, alone?”

Rochelle studied him assessingly. Yes, assessingly was the only word for it and, God help him, she was lovely up close. Her not brown, not red brows arched over green eyes flecked with hazel. A dusting of freckles decorated a thin nose that flared pertly at the nostrils. Her soft pink lips were slightly parted exposing straight teeth.

“Not alone. Our servant, Gilbert, was with me.”

“Gilbert, the bag of bones who opened the door?” David scoffed. “He could not keep a street rat away much less a pack of thieves. From this day forth, you will not leave here without an able-bodied man at your side.”  She smelled nice.

Rochelle placed her hands on her hips, pleasantly outlining a slim waist beneath her clothing. “What has given you the idea you can make pronouncements such as that to me?  I will go where I wish, when I wish, escorted or not, as I wish!”  Her chest heaved a bit and there were breasts under that tunic, he could tell, and damn it when was the last time he’d lain with a woman?  He mentally bridled himself. First, betrothal. Betrothal was the task set before him today. It was time to attend to that task.

He stepped forward, purposely crowding her and letting his hard gaze bore into her fiery eyes, daring her to challenge him. “I will tell you what gives me the right –“

Marian made a strangled sound before finding her words. “Ye should be going!  It will not do to be late to the palace.”

Rochelle eyed first him, then Marian, before backing away to grasp her mother’s hands. “Mother, I do wish you would reconsider. Certainly the nobles have forgotten your circumstances by now. Father would want you to have the honor of meeting Charlemagne’s son.”

Marian laughed a bit shrilly. “No, that is no place for me. Ye shall have the glory today, daughter. Here is your cloak.”  She kept babbling as she closed the gold and aquamarine clasp at the neckline of the pale blue garment. “David will keep you safe. Do as he says, my dear. He is in charge of you today. And possibly tomorrow.”

Rochelle chortled. “Mother, do not be ridiculous. This will be over in an hour or two and then we are going home!  Home, where I also do not require an escort!”  She fixed David with a significant look before she walked to the door, wrenched it open with relative ease, and stepped onto the street without him.

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END OF EXCERPT

Alethea’s Fun fact: I live in and write about Wyoming, the same state as Longmire author Craig Johnson and the Joe Pickett novels writer C. J. Box, although I’ve never met either of them.

A fun fact from Laura: My interest in writing about Sherwood Forest and Robin Hood’s descendants began when my daughter was small and we used to play “Robin Hood Barbies”.  The living room and the space under the dining table became Sherwood Forest and Nottingham Castle, and I sewed period costumes for all her dolls!

That’s a wonderful memory, Laura. My grandmother sewed boxes and boxes of Barbie clothes for my sisters’ and my dolls. I spent hours bringing a happy ending to my Cheryl Tiegs Barbie. Little did I know where those imaginings would lead.

Anyway, today Laura shares a first meeting excerpt. Here is the setup of the scene.

Gareth de Vavasour, nephew of the Sheriff of Nottingham, has been captured by outlaws in Sherwood Forest. The first time he meets the heroine, Linnet—a Saxon healer and the granddaughter of Robin Hood— she has been sent to tend his wounds so he may be traded for ransom.

EXCERPT

“This will hurt,” the woman told Gareth, and he caught his breath. Each time she had told him so, it had proved true and he believed her now. He braced himself for more pain and told himself he was nowhere near the end of his endurance. Was he not a proven knight? Had he not endured broken bones before, been tossed in the lists and taken many a hard fall?

Aye, but then he had only needed to get to his feet and weather his injuries. He had not been surrounded by a pack of carrion ravens.

True, he found himself, now, alone inside a dim hut with this woman. But he knew the scavengers still lurked outside – he could hear at least two men just beyond the door, no doubt guarding it, and talking to one another. The other noise outside had not abated. Folk seemed excited by the proposed spectacle of his death.

But would they provide him this care only to kill him? The woman – Linnet, he had heard someone call her – had skill in her hands, quick and gentle. Already she had set his broken arm and now worked over the ugly wound at his shoulder, which brought her very close to him, indeed. She poured some vile smelling liquid into the wound and he caught his breath sharply.

She had not lied: it hurt.

“That will help keep the poisoning from setting in,” she said with brief asperity.

“Does it matter? They wish only to kill me, that crowd out there. They will never return me, even should a ransom be paid.” He stole another look into her face. Nothing like he had imagined a Saxon peasant, she was entirely surprising. Aye, some of their women were bonny and reputedly lustful, with bountiful yellow locks and still more bountiful bosoms. None of that fit this woman at all.

Her face floated above him, a pure, almost perfect oval. Most of her dark brown hair lay gathered under a head covering but her brows soared like two dark wings over eyes so beautiful and unusual he scarcely dared look into them. Fringed by the longest lashes he had ever seen, they appeared liquid dark, bottomless and wild. In truth, she felt wild withal, despite her neat clothing, a foreign creature not meant for this place. Yet her hands remained kind and calm, her face serene – an intriguing contrast.

“They will not kill you,” she said softly. “Though, it will go better with you if you tell them your name so they can send word to Nottingham.”

Gareth shook his head.

A slight frown marred her smooth brow. “A word of advice – you will tell them, sooner or later. Spare yourself their persuasion.”

“Torture, is it? As might be expected of cowards.”

She withdrew slightly. “If you think those people out there cowards, you know nothing about them.” In defiance of her hard words, her fingers slid over his skin, applying some sort of unguent before pressing a cloth bandage in place.

To Gareth’s surprise, he felt a prick of arousal. This was not the time, the place, nor the woman – beautiful as she might be.

Someone – a man – thrust his head inside the open door of the hut. “All right, Linnet?”

“Aye. I am nearly done.”

Briskly now, her hands moved to the rent at his thigh. Once more he caught his breath, though not against pain this time.

The wound there, he knew, was a grave one – had it landed a bit further to the left, he might well never lay a woman again. She tore the cloth further asunder, only to find she had exposed more than the wound. She tipped back on her heels and a lovely, deep color swept her face.

Her eyes met Gareth’s in a look so deep and dark it pierced him to his soul. A wave of feeling rose between them, bright and intense. So powerful was it, for an instant Gareth almost supposed he could sense her thoughts, every whit as entangled as his own.

“Ah,” she said softly. “I will be as quick as I can.”

“Aye,” he said in a voice that sounded strangled. And just as well.