Monday, March 18, 2024

#Review - Invocation by Aileen Erin #YA #Fantasy

Series:
 Days of Iron & Clay # 1
Format: Ebook, 413 pages
Release Date: March 19, 2024
Publisher: Ink Monster, LLC
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult / Fantasy

There are three things I know without question.

One: demons are real.

Two: humans make awful mistakes that get them in demonic trouble more often than you’d think.

And three: I’m the only one who can help them.

I straddle the line between the mortal and spiritual realms every day. People might think they’re two different places, but they’re not. They lay on top of each other. It’s messy, and that’s why so many people need my help. Since I was little, I’ve been called all kinds of names—unusual, abnormal, even insane. Which is fitting, since they keep throwing me in to mental facilities. I’ve been in and out of them my entire life.

But no matter what people say, no matter what I’m risking, I will always help those in need.

Because there’s an endless war carrying on all around us, every minute of every day. One that can’t be seen by mortal eyes. But I can see it, the spiritual battle for mortal souls, and I’m working hard to make sure my father is on the losing side. He — Astaroth, Satan’s general— is why I can do this. He’s why I’m not normal. I can’t have friends, a life, or a boyfriend. I won’t be selfish enough to drag someone into this fight. But I’m not lonely. Not exactly. I have my mom. She’s my rock, my best friend, my partner. She helps me do what needs to be done, and she’s never afraid when it feels like I’m always afraid.

Because I hear my father whispering my name each night, his taunts echoing through the spiritual realm. He’s hunting me, and I know the day will come when I must face him again.

Every portal I open could be the one that finally pulls me back to Hell, and I wonder if I will be brave enough, strong enough, good enough to fight him.

My name is Samantha Catherine Lopez, and I am Nephilim. This is my story.



Aileen Erin's Invocation is the first installment in the author's Days of Iron and Clay series. Even though it is said that you do not have to have read the Alpha Girls series, it would be nice to understand the world this story takes place. Especially since a bunch of characters from the Alpha Girls series play pivotal parts in this story. The world recently woke up to the news that supernaturals like werewolves, witches, vampires, and other supernaturals are real. 

The story follows Samantha Lopez who is not exactly human, but something else. A Nephilim. Samantha just happens to be the daughter of a human and a fallen angel named Astaroth who is willing to do anything to get his wayward daughter back in hell where he thinks she belongs. Samantha also appeared in a short novella called Two More Days. 8 years ago, Samantha escaped from Hell and the man who claims to be her father. To this day, Sam hears his voice when she is trying to relax. 

Samantha, who is the resident demonologist, is the person you call if you are demon possessed or in trouble. She's so good, that she is constantly busy sending lower & higher demons back to Hell from where they escaped. Samantha is destined to be an important, extraordinary person who is set on protecting innocent humans from demon infestations and evil spirits - via exorcisms and creating portals to Hell. With Heaven & Hell battling for millennia, Sam and her friends are all that stand in the way of the apocalypse.

Sam, who helped Tessa McCaide (Alpha Werewolf who has visions of the future) defeat her father, now lives in a supernatural community in Texas called The Sanctuary. Sam's friends/family include her mother/partner Elena Gomez, Phoenix Herrera (former soccer phenom), Frank (Priest), Eli (Archon Warrior Angel), Gabe (Demon-dead Nephilim), Dastien (Tessa's mate), Cosette (Fey princess), Claudia (Witch), Lucas (Peruvian Alpha), Axel, and Chris (Werewolf). As I said, all of these characters were part of the Alpha Girls series. 

There is something of a dramatic event that happens at the beginning of this book which ends up with the story skipping years before ending in the present. Later, Sam is forced to rescue another friend, Van (Fey Warrior) from Hell after her father captures him, and uses him as bait and trap for Sam. Sam is not perfect. She gets into situations that end up with her in trouble. But she is a spiritual being, whose powers are spiritual, and even though Eli is her friend and protector, there are things that not even he can do without without becoming one of the Fallen.

I have every intention of continuing this story once the sequel releases next winter.  




Friday, March 15, 2024

#Review - What Monstrous Gods by Rosamund Hodge #YA #Fantasy

Series:
 Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 368 pages
Release Date: March 5, 2024
Publisher: Balzer + Bray
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult / Fantasy

From the New York Times bestselling author of Cruel Beauty comes a darkly romantic and subversive new standalone fantasy twist loosely inspired by the classic Sleeping Beauty fairy tale.

A rich and romantic new standalone fantasy perfect for fans of These Violent Delights and The Shadow Queen.

Centuries ago, the heretic sorcerer Ruven raised a deadly briar around Runakhia's palace, casting the royal family into an enchanted sleep—and silencing the kingdom's gods.

Born with a miraculous gift, Lia's destiny is to kill Ruven and wake the royals. But when she succeeds, she finds her duty is not yet complete, for now she must marry into the royal family and forge a pact with a god—or die.

To make matters even worse, Ruven's spirit is haunting her.

As discord grows between the old and new guards, the queen sends Lia and Prince Araunn, her betrothed, on a pilgrimage to awaken the gods. But the old gods are more dangerous than Lia ever knew—and Ruven may offer her only hope of survival.

As the two work together, Lia learns that they're more alike than she expected. And with tensions rising, Lia must choose between what she was raised to believe and what she knows is right—and between the prince she is bound to by duty...and the boy she killed.



Rosamund Hodge's What Monstrous Gods could be the author's personal journey to address her conflict with her faith. From Cruel Beauty, a re-imagined Beauty and the Beast, to Gilded Ashes, a re-imagined Cinderella, to Crimson Bound, a re-imagined Little Red Riding Hood, and Bright Smoke, Cold Fire, a re-imagined Romeo and Juliet, all the way through this latest book, Rosamund is building a brand as an author who reinvents classic tales—and does it extremely well. 

Centuries ago, the heretic sorcerer Ruven raised a deadly briar around Runakhia's palace, casting the royal family into an enchanted sleep—and silencing the kingdom's gods. 17-year-old Lia Kurenava has grown up an orphan, raised by nuns in a world where the royal family has been deep in an enchanted sleep for hundreds of years. It's Lia's destiny to breach the enchanted hedge circling the palace and break the curse, unleashing a new golden age for Runakhia. 

But when she succeeds, she finds her duty is not yet complete, for now, she must marry into the royal family and forge a pact with a god—or die. To make matters even worse, Ruven's spirit is haunting her. As discord grows between the old and new guards, the queen sends Lia and Prince Araunn, her betrothed, on a pilgrimage to awaken the gods. But the old gods are more dangerous than Lia ever knew—and Ruven may offer her only hope of survival. As the two work together, Lia learns that they're more alike than she expected. 

And with tensions rising, Lia must choose between what she was raised to believe and what she knows is right—and between the prince she is bound to by duty...and the boy she killed. Rosamund infuses the classic story with fresh twists including sorcery, a fascinating pantheon of gods, a lush and courtly setting, and a romance that will take your breath away. While the story takes its initial inspiration from Sleeping Beauty, it then spins off into something gloriously dark, romantic, and thought-provoking—in short, something that only Rosamund Hodge could write. 

Readers love a great enemies-to-lovers romance—and this is one for the books! Lia is a complex protagonist who deals with timeless universal challenges that will resonate with teen readers, such as questioning authority and the faith one has been brought up to believe in and carving out your own path in life. While the old world prayed to a pantheon of Gods, this new world believes in something else entirely. Ruven may not be a POV co-lead, but he is a major play nonetheless. He is in every way Lia’s foil. What she considers blasphemy, he considers truth, and vice versa. In a curious twist, the author states that she likened this story to Kylo Ren and Rey in The Last Jedi. 




Thursday, March 14, 2024

#Review - The Dead Years by Jeffrey B. Burton #Thriller #Suspense

Series:
 A Chicago K-9 Thriller
Format: Hardcover, 244 pages
Release Date: March 5, 2024
Publisher: Severn House
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thriller / Suspense

A serial killer, dormant for years, reawakens after viewing a Netflix docuseries depicting his string of homicides. The killer is not happy with his portrayal and no one in the cast and crew is safe! The first installment of a gripping new thriller series set in Chicago and featuring a young sibling sleuth-duo and their working dogs.

Siblings Cory and Crystal Pratt are still trying to get their lives together after a tragic accident which killed their parents years ago. The only thing that distracts them now is their jobs. With Crystal working as a newly minted detective at the Chicago Police Department and Cory owning a dog training academy with two human remains detection dogs of his own, their professional paths cross every now and then.

Crime, and especially murder, in Chicago is nothing new, but when a string of killings happen that seem to be connected to a Netflix docuseries and its cast and crew, Cory and Crystal are called in to stop the number of bodies from piling any higher.

But when the siblings start poking around the killer's business, the killer sets their sights on the pair . . . and particularly on Cory and his dogs! Will they be able to escape the fury of the serial killer or become the newest victims?

This fast-paced thriller, with insight into a serial killer's mind, is a perfect up-all-night binge-read, and a great choice if you love spirited detectives, great action - and very good dogs!



Jeffrey B. Burton's The Dead Years is the first installment in the author's A Chicago K-9 Thriller series featuring a sibling sleuth-duo and their working dogs. A serial killer, dormant for years, reawakens after viewing a Netflix docuseries depicting his string of homicides. The Dead Night Killer is not happy with his portrayal and no one in the cast and crew is safe! Key Characters: Cory Pratt (23), Sole proprietor of Cor Canine Training Academy, Crystal Pratt, Detective Chicago PD Violent Crimes investigator, Alice (bloodhound), and Rex (springer spaniel).

7 years ago, The Dead Night Killer suddenly stopped killing. Nobody knows why. Except for the killer. But now the bodies are starting to pile up again. Then again, that's nothing new for Chicago. Anyone associated with the Netflix docuseries is finding themselves tracked down by the serial killer. Cory and his sister Crystal are slowly getting on with their lives after losing their parents in a freak storm. Cory still has issues and blames himself, but thankfully he has Alice and Rex to keep him from losing himself. 

The only thing that distracts them now is their jobs. Crystal has recently been minted as a detective and Cory is the one-man band who operates his own canine training academy, and now as a consultant to the Chicago P.D. But when the siblings start poking around the killer's business, the killer sets their sights on the pair and particularly on Cory and his dogs! Will they be able to escape the fury of the serial killer or become the newest victims?

The author tends to alternate each chapter from a different character including the serial killer and yet another who I won't spoil. The killer's part of the story is creepy. Seriously. But necessary to understand why after 7 years, the DNK killer chooses to pick up his killing. Burton is the writer of another K-9 series called Mace Reid K-9 Mystery. As with the previous series, Burton's dogs tend to steal the show, and thankfully Cory has both of them to keep him sane, and safe after he becomes a target of the killer. 




Wednesday, March 13, 2024

#Review - Still See You Everywhere by Lisa Gardner #Thriller #Suspense

Series:
 Frankie Elkin # 3
Format: Hardcover, 416 pages
Release Date: March 12, 2024
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thriller / Suspense

Frankie Elkin is an expert at finding the missing persons that the rest of the world has forgotten, but even she couldn’t have anticipated this latest request—to locate the long-lost sister of a female serial killer facing execution in three weeks’ time.

She has called herself "death," but people called her the devil.

The case was sensational. Kaylee Pierson had confessed from the very beginning, waived all appeals. Despite the media’s chronicling of her tragic circumstances—the childhood spent with a violent father—no one could find sympathy for “the Beautiful Butcher” who had led eighteen men home from bars before viciously slitting their throats.
Now, with only twenty-one days left to live, Pierson has finally received a lead on the whereabouts of the sister who was kidnapped over a decade ago, and she needs Frankie’s help to find her. The Beautiful Butcher’s offer:

When was the last time your search ended with finding the living?

Unable to resist the chance for a rescue, Frankie takes on Pierson’s request. Twelve years ago, five-year-old Leilani went missing in Hawaii. The main suspect? Pierson’s tech mogul ex-boyfriend, Sanders MacManus. Now, on a remote island in the middle of the Pacific—the site of MacManus’s latest vanity project—fresh evidence has appeared. In order to learn the truth and possibly save a young woman’s life, Frankie must go undercover at the isolated base camp. Her challenge: A dozen strangers. Countless dangerous secrets. Zero means of calling for help. And then the storm rolls in…


Still See You Everywhere is the Third installment in author Lisa Gardner's Frankie Elkin series. This story is shades of Agatha Christie’s And then There Were None and Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park, in its descriptions of a Pacific atolls' beautiful yet terrifying island ecosystem. Frankie Elkin is the female version of Jack Reacher, except without the military experience. She's a recovering alcoholic. She has more regrets than personal belongings. She has no mailing address, or property to her name, or a real phone number.

She misses a detective in Boston. She mourns the loss of a man in Wyoming. All of her belongings can be stuffed into a suitcase, and she usually travels by bus. Yet, she has a curious ability to find missing people, especially the so called overlooked and marginalized. She's mostly successful, with 20 cases thus far, and that is why a lawyer (Victoria Twanow) for a death row inmate named Kaylee Pierson, aka The Beautiful Butcher, asks to meet with Frankie. 

It seems as though Kaylee with face her mortality in 3 weeks by lethal injection, but she has a request for Frankie. Find my young sister Leilani who she lost contact with. Allegedly, a man named Sanders MacManus, a tech mogul kidnapped her sister 12 years ago and hasn't been seen since. Frankie is told that MacManus might be found in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, hours from Hawaii which means that she will have to go undercover and hope nothing goes wrong. 

So, Frankie soon finds herself being flown cross country to Los Angeles, then Hawaii, and lands on a place called Tetiaroa Atoll. Tetiaroa is filled with a variety of dangerous giant coconut crabs, ginormous wolf spiders, and maybe drug-related criminal activity or human trafficking after a sub-washed up onshore. To complicate matters further, someone is actively sabotaging the resort's operations, putting staff members' lives at risk, and to make things even more dangerous Frankie and the island's archaeologist find the dead body of a woman that went missing. 

Frankie, who recently survived a brutal killer in Wyoming and likely has a version of Post Traumatic Stress, must think that bad luck follows her everywhere. Even though Frankie finds Leilani, she soon realizes that she has been used for something much bigger than she realized. There are wolves on Pomaikai heavily disguised in sheep’s clothing and we only see their fangs towards the end. 

So, the reason for my rating is that nothing happens for a large chunk of this book. I also don't think this is the strongest book of the series. Frankie meets an interesting cast of characters and finds herself friends with Ann and Trudy who provide the meals while trying to avoid being eaten by crabs. The cast is as mysterious as the island they are expected to work on. Some are not who they say they are. There are those who think that Frankie is here for nefarious reasons. And, there is danger ahead on the horizon which will leave Frankie lucky to be alive. 




Monday, March 11, 2024

#Review - A Grave Robbery by Deanna Raybourn #Historical #Mystery #Victorian

Series: 
Veronica Speedwell Mystery # 9
Format: Hardcover, 336 pages
Release Date: March 12, 2024
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery & Detective / Historical / Victorian

Veronica and Stoker discover that not all fairy tales have happy endings, and some end in murder, in this latest historical mystery from New York Times bestselling and Edgar Award–nominated author Deanna Raybourn.

Lord Rosemorran has purchased a wax figure of a beautiful reclining woman and asks Stoker to incorporate a clockwork mechanism to give the Rosemorran Collection its own Sleeping Beauty in the style of Madame Tussaud’s. But when Stoker goes to cut the mannequin open to insert the mechanism, he makes a gruesome discovery: this is no wax figure. The mannequin is the beautifully preserved body of a young woman who was once very much alive. But who would do such a dreadful thing, and why? 

Sleuthing out the answer to this question sets Veronica and Stoker on their wildest adventure yet. From the underground laboratories of scientists experimenting with electricity to resurrect the dead in the vein of Frankenstein to the traveling show where Stoker once toured as an attraction, the gaslit atmosphere of London in October is the perfect setting for this investigation into the unknown. Through it all, the intrepid pair is always one step behind the latest villain—a man who has killed once and will stop at nothing to recover the body of the woman he loved. Will they unmask him in time to save his next victim? Or will they become the latest figures to be immortalized in his collection of horrors?



A Grave Robbery, by Deanna Raybourn, is the Ninth installment in the author's Veronica Speedwell Historical mystery series set in Victorian England, featuring intrepid adventuress and sleuth Veronica Speedwell, and her partner, Revelstoke Templeton-Vale. Veronica and Stoke have been cataloging Earl of Rosemorran's vast collection of artifacts while also putting their lives on the line to solve curious mysteries that have nearly taken their lives more than once.
  
In this story, Lord Rosemorran has purchased a wax figure of a beautiful reclining woman called "Anatomical Venus" because of his daughter Lady Rose and asks Stoker to incorporate a clockwork mechanism to give the Rosemorran Collection its own Sleeping Beauty in the style of Madame Tussaud’s. Stoker is enamored of the wax figure. He can't get over how much the mannequin resembles his beloved Veronica. However, that is not the only shock that Stoker experiences. 

When Stoker goes to cut the mannequin open to insert the mechanism, he makes a gruesome discovery: this is no wax figure. The mannequin is the beautifully preserved body of a young woman who was once very much alive. But who would do such a dreadful thing, and why? Sleuthing out the answer to this question sets Veronica and Stoker on their wildest adventure yet. How did she come to be in a glass coffin in a warehouse? But the truth is dangerous and many people wish it would stay buried in the past.

From the underground laboratories of scientists experimenting with electricity to resurrect the dead in the vein of Frankenstein to the traveling show where Stoker once toured as an attraction, the gaslit atmosphere of London in October is the perfect setting for this investigation into the unknown. Through it all, the intrepid pair is always one step behind the latest villain—someone who has killed once and will stop at nothing to recover the body at all costs. 

Will they unmask the villain in time to save his next victim? Or will they become the latest figures to be immortalized in his collection of horrors? One of the historical aspects of this story is that there were anatomically correct figures that were made when real bodies were in short supply. I have read the Veronica Speedwell series from the very first book, A Curious Beginning. I have watched as Veronica and Stoker's relationship has grown to the point where they are inseparable.

Veronica is a cheeky character, and I love how she always seems to find trouble when she should be focusing on her lepidoptery job. Stoker is the more serious character and he has the scars to prove how much he has been through. Veronica and Stoker actually call in two people to help. J.J. Butterworth, a female reporter who knows that Veronica is carrying a heavy secret about her parentage, and Mornaday, who works for Sir Hugo Montgomery of Scotland Yard. I do recommend that the series is best enjoyed if you read the books in order. 


Chapter

1

London, October 1889

I draw the line at monkeys," Stoker said with considerable severity. "I will have no monkeys, Veronica."

Stoker was usually amenable to animals of every description, but the fact that the creature in question was currently sitting atop his head in a posture of nonchalance had doubtless contributed to his irritability.

The monkey in question was a golden lion tamarin-Leontopithecus rosalia, to be exact-also known as a golden marmoset, a description which is far more enticing than the creature itself. It was small, weighing no more than a pound and a half, and of modest proportions. Its quizzical expressions and the bright orange hair that circled its head in an exuberant impression of a lion's mane might have been charming, but the effect was spoilt by its naked face and downturned mouth. It was scarcely a year old, but it studied everything around it with the sour judgment of a wizened old person. Occasionally, when it looked at me, it tipped its head to the side and pulled its mouth further down, as if it could penetrate my secrets and found me wanting. It was unpleasant in the extreme, and the fact that it had taken to Stoker with an affection that bordered on the aggressive was a welcome development. It had been a gift to our aged friend, Lady Wellingtonia Beauclerk, from a Brazilian admirer, and in a moment of lunacy, I had agreed to care for it until Lady Wellie could make permanent arrangements. Unfortunately, there were few listings for callitrichines in the Situations Wanted advertisements in the London papers.

"It is hardly my fault the little beast prefers you," I said serenely. "Lady Wellie assured me it would be no trouble. A dish of tea, a spoonful of fruit, and a secure little nest is all it requires for its comfort, I am informed. And you must admit, it does not ask for much beyond that."

"Much beyond?" Stoker's voice took on a distinctly strangled note. "Veronica, she drinks out of my teacup. She purloins food from my fork. And the least said about her unhygienic sleeping arrangements, the better."

He might have been grumbling, but I observed with a smothered smile that he had already assessed the monkey's gender and applied the correct pronouns.

"It is adorable that the little beast dotes on you so," I assured him. "You are a very large, strong man. Surely you do not begrudge food and drink for such a tiny creature."

"I do not begrudge her the food and drink. I begrudge her the fact that she sleeps upon my pillow, and this morning she tried to join me in the bath." A delectable rosy blush tinted his cheeks.

"One can hardly blame her," I murmured, delighted to see the blush deepen to crimson. Stoker and I had, for some time, enjoyed a thoroughly satisfying and thrilling personal relationship, a meeting and mingling of minds and bodies that was as successful as our working partnership. We were both us natural scientists, Stoker with an affinity for large mammals and extensive taxidermic skills whilst I preferred lepidoptery. We were employed by the Earl of Rosemorran-great-nephew of the monkey-riddled Lady Wellie-with cataloguing, repairing, and arranging his vast store of artefacts, art, and other agreeable treasures for eventual display in the Rosemorran Collection, the museum he planned to open for the edification of the general public. We had initially anticipated that his lordship's possessions, including the hoards inherited from his ancestors, a wealthy and acquisitive group, could be organised and ready for installation within a few decades. But as his lordship was an incorrigible haunter of auction houses, showroom sales, and other people's attics, the amount we had to sort seemed to increase on a frankly alarming basis.

The benefit to this, of course, was that Stoker and I could rely upon our employment to extend into extreme old age. The drawback was a tendency towards melancholy when contemplating exactly how much remained to be done. It did not help matters that we were, all too frequently, called away from our endeavours by the crime of murder and occasional instances of grand larceny. More times than would seem probable, Stoker and I had been prevailed upon-or had chosen, if I am honest-to involve ourselves in the investigation of the most heinous crimes. We had thwarted villains, saved innocent men from the hangman's noose, and restored priceless jewels to their rightful owners. We had masqueraded as royalty, foiled ancient curses, and evaded certain death. Our escapades were as invigorating as they were unlikely, and I had adored each and every one.

But I was conscious that morning, as a brisk October wind teased russet leaves from the branches of the trees, of a certain restlessness. We had, only the month previous, concluded a successful investigation that had imperilled both of our lives. Stoker had scarcely healed from the dislocation of his shoulder, and our dogs-five at last count-had just begun to accept that we were at last home and settled. Without the benefit of marriage, Stoker and I naturally occupied separate quarters at the earl's Marylebone estate of Bishop's Folly. A series of small, perfectly appointed pavilions had been built by one of the earl's ancestors-a Roman temple, a miniature pink Scottish castle, and so forth. I had claimed the French Gothic chapel for my own use whilst Stoker slept in the Chinese pagoda. Next to these charming buildings was a pond of significant size and depth to permit swimming, and bordering this pond was a shrubbery where the earl's Galápagos tortoise, Patricia, frequently upended herself, legs waving woefully in the air and giving lamentable cries until a rescue party could be formed to put her to rights.

Beyond the shrubbery was the Belvedere, a freestanding ballroom of sorts which held the bulk of the collected artefacts. It was workroom, office, laboratory, and club, furnished with such oddities as a decaying camel saddle, a collection of caryatids, the workings of a Sicilian puppet theatre, and an Egyptian sarcophagus which served as our sideboard. Busts of emperors jostled with mediaeval weapons, and paintings of dour Madonnas looked down upon Wardian cases filled with creatures of every description. Upstairs, the snuggery provided shelving for acres of books and periodicals along with Napoléon's campaign bed-a surprisingly comfortable spot to nap. A porcelain Swedish stove provided tea-making facilities and a handy cloisonné cupboard was always stuffed with tins of biscuits, gingerbread, and assorted sweets. There were cushions for the dogs, and an entire wall of cubbyholes crammed with papers, waxes, inks, brushes, pens, paints, glues, filaments, furs, wires, and every other supply we might require. The roof was sound, the walls thick, and his lordship's numerous-and frankly anarchic-progeny were strictly forbidden to enter without adult accompaniment.

It was, in short, the happiest place on earth, in my estimation, and I was never more contented than when engaged with a new batch of Lepidoptera. I had meant to spend the forenoon writing up the talk I had been invited to deliver to the Aurelian Society, but the morning's deliveries had distracted me. They included a pair of elegant cases of French design, each holding a pristine sample of the Madagascan moon moth. I had sat for several minutes, admiring the elegant sweep of their hindwings and the vividness of their eyespots before Stoker and his monkey interrupted me.

I turned back to my magnifying glass and my enormous silk-spinning beauties. "I have every faith in your ability to cope with one of the smallest primates in existence," I assured him.

"I have work," he muttered. It was with an heroic effort at restraint that I did not point out he was interrupting my own work. It has been my experience that the male of the species, though often thoroughly illogical, can-when encouraged to sit quietly and think hard-be guided into a position of sense. I applied myself to my moths whilst Stoker considered his options. He had just begun to feed the monkey bits of honeycomb from the paper twist in his pocket when a discreet cough sounded from the doorway.

"I do hope I am not come at an inconvenient time?"

I looked up at our employer with sincere pleasure. "Your lordship! It has been an age since you have visited the Belvedere," I said, laying down my magnifying glass. "We have made real progress since your last inspection."

"I have no doubt," Lord Rosemorran said. He seemed a trifle uncomfortable, tugging at his collar. His fingers, as usual, were begrimed with ink and left a grubby mark upon the linen. It did not matter. His clothing already bore traces of encounters with his children. His garments were streaked with the acids, inks, and paints of their various activities. I was only glad to see no traces of Lady Rose's latest endeavours. Her attempts to dye her aunt's white Persian cat the same colour as a peony had resulted in the entire household's linen turning a virulent shade of pink. She was the youngest, and by far the most villainous of the earl's brood, and I made a point of avoiding her whenever possible. I do not care for children even when they are biddable, quiet, and clean, and Lady Rose was never any of those.

As if intuiting my thoughts, the child in question bounded in behind her father, her eyes dancing with an unholy light. "Have you asked him, Papa?" she demanded.

The earl shifted uneasily. "I was just coming to that, my dear."

She hopped from foot to foot. "Do it now, Papa. You must!" Her tone was imploring, and she gave him a look only an indulgent father would interpret as winsome.

"What is it you wish, Lady Rose?" I asked.

Her expression turned baleful. "Nothing from you, Miss Speedwell. I need Stoker," she said. The very sound of his name was adoring on her lips. Like females of all ages and most species, Lady Rose harboured a tender spot for Stoker. Whether it was the courtly manners which had been bred into him by his viscountess mother or the juxtaposition of those manners with his staggering appearance-one need only say the words "Elizabethan buccaneer" to conjure tumbled witch-black locks, an occasional eyepatch, and a wealth of tattoos and golden earrings-most feminine creatures found themselves utterly beguiled by him.

"Oh," Lady Rose breathed as she looked at Stoker properly. "You have a monkey on your head. Did you mean to?"

"Yes," he told her solemnly. "I hear it is quite the fashion this year. Even the queen has one-a chimpanzee, I am told. It sits on her head in place of a crown and sleeps in a golden bed in the palace."

Lady Rose grinned. "You are very silly," she informed him.

Stoker returned the smile and gently removed the monkey from its perch, depositing it into the marble embrace of a handy caryatid. "Now, what can I do for you, my lady?"

Before Lady Rose could reply, there was a commotion at the door. Porters arrived bearing an enormous and obviously weighty crate. Lady Rose danced around it. "She's here, Papa! She's here!"

I looked in some alarm to his lordship. "She?"

The earl hurried to explain as Stoker directed the porters where to place their burden. "It is a trifle complicated. Perhaps it is better to show you."

The porters eased the crate to the floor and left, their pockets weighted with the earl's generous gratuities as Stoker applied a prybar to the lid. It was the work of moments to have the thing opened, and as the wooden sides of the crate fell flat, we stared in frank astonishment.

Inside the crate was a long glass box, a crystal casket, and inside lay a waxwork figure on a satin pillow. It was a young woman with long dark hair, rippling unbound over her shoulders. She wore an old-fashioned dress of heavy red velvet edged in fine lace, four inches deep. The neckline was deep and square, revealing an unblemished décolletage the same pale hue as the graceful hands. They were not, as one might expect, folded at the breast in a posture of stiff repose. Instead, they rested at her thighs, palms gently curved, the fingers tapered and relaxed. Her face was singularly beautiful, each feature moulded with grace, from the arch of the dark brow to the delicate line of the jaw. The complexion was pale except for the flush across the cheekbones and rosy lips which were softly parted. The whole effect was one of a maiden captured in enchanted slumber, a fragment of a fairy tale translated from the page to our workroom.

"She is exquisite," Stoker said hoarsely. His gaze rested dreamily upon her face, and I suppressed a flicker of irritation. One cannot be envious of a waxwork, I reminded myself firmly. I turned to our employer. "Where did you find her?"

"There is a warehouse in Shoreditch that currently holds a few items I haven't had the chance to transfer here," he said. I looked around at the already crowded Belvedere wondering precisely how much more his lordship intended to bring us. We could scarcely move about the place as it was. He must have seen something of my thoughts in my expression, for he hurried on. "Only a few items," he assured me. "Very small. You will hardly notice them when they arrive. But I happened to stop in to deposit a quite modest collection of-"

"My lord, you are not only keeping things in Shoreditch we knew nothing of, you are adding to them?"

He had the grace to look abashed. "Well, one sees things and one simply cannot resist them." He spread his hands helplessly. "In this case, I had purchased a full set of German tilting armour-very fine, fourteenth-century-from an auction house quite near to the warehouse. It seemed easiest to take delivery there and leave the armour until we had cleared space here in the Belvedere. Whilst I was there, I happened to notice the adjoining warehouse was clearing out items that had been left and never claimed." He nodded towards the figure in the glass casket. "When I heard there was a waxwork for sale, it seemed the happiest of coincidences. Rose had asked for one for her birthday."

"Had you?" I asked his daughter.

She was hopping from one foot to the other, fairly vibrating with excitement. "Oh, yes. Sidonie takes me sometimes to Madame Tussaud's." Their mother long dead, the earl's children were left frequently in the care of his sister. Since governesses left the house as frequently as the soiled laundry, the lady's maid, Sidonie, was occasionally pressed into service to lend a hand. I was not surprised that her notion of an appropriate outing for Lady Rose was a trip to the waxworks. The excursion was cheap and thrilling and conveniently located a quick walk away in Baker Street. "I am particularly fond of the Hall of Horrors," Lady Rose went on. "But Sidonie thinks I am too young to see them, so I made a point of escaping her to see the murderers. She found me in front of Burke and Hare," she said, pulling a face. "They robbed graves, you know. A nasty thing to do. So then we went to see something nicer and she showed me the Sleeping Beauty."




Friday, March 8, 2024

#Review - Murder Road by Simone St. James #Thrillers #Suspense

Series:
 Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 352 pages
Release Date: March 5, 2024
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thrillers / Suspense

July 1995. April and Eddie have taken a wrong turn. They’re looking for the small resort town where they plan to spend their honeymoon. When they spot what appears to a lone hitchhiker along the deserted road, they stop to help. But not long after the hitchiker gets into their car, they see the blood seeping from her jacket and a truck barreling down Atticus Line after them.

When the hitchhiker dies at the local hospital, April and Eddie find themselves in the crosshairs of the Coldlake Falls police. Unexplained murders have been happening along Atticus Line for years and the cops finally have two witnesses who easily become their only suspects. As April and Eddie start to dig into the history of the town and that horrible stretch of road to clear their names, they soon learn that there is something supernatural at work, something that could not only tear the town and its dark secrets apart, but take April and Eddie down with it all.

Simone St. James's Murder Road is the story of a young couple who finds themselves haunted by a string of gruesome murders committed along an old deserted road. The story is set in 1995 Michigan. Two days ago, April Delray and Eddie Carter were married. On the way to a resort on the shore of Lake Michigan where they hoped to spend their honeymoon, they find themselves lost in Coldlake Falls after taking a wrong turn onto Atticus Lane. They soon become suspects in a murder investigation after they help a hitchhiker badly hurt to the local hospital. 

Detective Quentin seems to have his own agenda, and what better way to solve a decades-old murder than by arresting a couple who has their own secrets. Atticus Lane, where April and Eddie discovered the hitchhiker either by chance or by accident, has been named Murder Road because there have been 5 other murders of hitchhikers on this road going back to 1976. The first victim has never been identified, but she has been labeled as the Lost Girl.

Both April and Eddie have their own secrets. April isn't her real name, and it appears that she has been keeping a low profile hoping not to attract any attention. She has a job serving food at a bowling alley and met Eddie. Meanwhile, Eddie, who served in the Gulf War, sometimes sees things. And in this case, Eddie may have seen the Lost Girl in the truck that chased them to the hospital. While ducking and weaving away from scrutiny, April and Eddie could have picked up and run away, but they choose to stay and fight for their innocence. 

Fortunately for the couple, they encounter several individuals who help them along the way starting with Rose who runs her own Bed & Breakfast. Then there are the sisters Beatrice and Gracie Snell, two resourceful teens who are better sleuths than the detectives in charge. What is even stranger, could it be that Lost Girl intentionally lured the couple here? And if so, for what reason? The author adds enough realistic detail to place you in that decade without bombarding you with so much 90’s trivia that it distracts from the story. Murder Road, like the author's previous installments, has supernatural horror elements, and a thriller twist, but at the heart of the story is a mystery.


Chapter One

That July night seemed full of possibility, with the empty highway stretching out before us. I had just woken up from a nap in the passenger seat, my head foggy as I remembered where we were. I took off my flip-flops and pulled my bare legs up, crossing them and running my hands through my hair. The digital clock on the dash said it was two in the morning, and the road didn't look like the same road we'd been on when I fell asleep. I wondered where we were going. There was no way I would fall asleep again.

"We're lost," I said.

Eddie glanced over at me from the driver's seat. "I don't think so. We took a wrong exit, that's all. I'll get us back on the interstate."

I looked out the window at the narrow country road, lined with dark trees, and thought we were definitely lost-but the truth was, I didn't care. I was riding at night in Eddie Carter's Pontiac, which had a front seat like a sofa. It was July of 1995 and I was twenty-six years old. I was here because Eddie and I were on our honeymoon. We had been married just over twenty-four hours.

We were headed for a motel that was a cluster of cabins on the shore of Lake Michigan. We'd budgeted enough money to stay exactly five nights. We planned to swim, play Scrabble, barbecue burger patties on the rusty charcoal grill, drink half-warm beer from a cooler, swim some more, then go to bed.

Repeat five times, and then we'd make our way home to the small apartment we rented together in Ann Arbor, and Eddie would go back to work fixing cars and I'd go to my job at the bowling alley. We'd both go to work every day, then we'd come home and have dinner that was probably one of six kinds of sandwich, and then we'd go to bed. Repeat every day, forever.

I glanced over at Eddie. He was frowning, concentrating on the road. His brown hair had grown out since he left the army, though he still kept it short. He was wearing a light gray T-shirt and worn jeans. He wasn't a huge man, but he was sleekly muscled, and his biceps were hard under the sleeves of his T-shirt, his physical presence at odds with his quiet, studious expression. At twenty-seven he was a year older than me, though he seemed much more mature. As I looked at those biceps, it hit me yet again that I had married a man instead of a boy.

Married. I had to toss the phrases around in my head, trying to get used to them. I married him. We got married. Eddie married me. I am his wife. We are a married couple.

The words still felt strange.

"Do you want me to pull the map from the glove box?" I asked him.

"I think I know where we are," Eddie said. "Roughly, at least. Something about this is familiar. I think we're heading south. There should be a turnoff to get back on the interstate."

"Are you tired?"

The question seemed to amuse him. "No."

Right. He'd slept in all kinds of weird places, at weird times, while he was overseas. I didn't know the details of what he'd done in Iraq-he didn't talk about it much. But I'd seen Eddie say he was going to sleep for exactly one hour, and then do it, as if his brain had a timer. It was one of his mysteries.

I leaned forward and turned on the radio, twisting the dial and watching the needle move along the numbers. Most of the stations around here were off the air at this time of night, and much of the dial was static. I finally found some country music that wavered in and out of existence, like a ghost passing from room to room. "Haunted cowboys," I said as a man's voice warbled patchily into the silence of the car. "Dead a hundred years, and still trying to drink whiskey and find a woman."

Eddie smiled. He was the only person I'd ever met who liked my jokes.

"Don't worry, April," he said, which was a little strange, because I wasn't worried. Or was I?

I looked out the window again. It was pitch-dark out there, not a streetlight or lit window in sight. A three-quarter moon hung low and crisp in the sky. It was the kind of night that wasn't suffocatingly hot, but if you slept with the window open, you'd wake up with clammy skin and damp, chilled sheets. You'd stay tucked in bed until sunrise, when it started to get hot again.

"There's no one out there," I said. "It's like we launched into space."

"Not true." Eddie pointed. "There's someone right there."

Sure enough, through the trees a light glowed. Low at first, then brighter, lighting in a smooth flow. It wasn't the flip of a switch or a flashlight. It took me a moment to place it, but it seemed more like someone turning up a kerosene lamp, making the flame go higher.

Was it inside a house? Or someone outside in the trees? I couldn't tell. I watched the light as we passed it, turning as it shrank behind us. I should have felt comforted, but I wasn't.

"What was that?" I asked as the country music on the radio changed tunes, then wafted out of range again.

"Beats me," Eddie said. "Look, we'll give it another ten minutes. If we don't see a sign, we'll-Oh, Jesus."

I turned back to face front, and I saw what he saw. In the beam of the headlights was a man at the side of the road. A teenager, maybe. He wore a baggy jacket and was walking slowly, his head down. As our headlights hit his back, he didn't turn.

Eddie slowed the car so we didn't pass him, but kept him in our headlight beams. "Drunk, do you think?" he asked me.

I watched the figure take another slow, careful step. He still didn't turn our way, though we must have been the only car to come down this road for a long time. On second look he was small for a man, and I noticed jeans that flared at the bottom.

"I think that's a woman," I said.

"Could be." Eddie kept the car at a crawl, inching behind her. There was something strange about the way she didn't turn, but there was also something pathetic about it. "She could still be drunk," Eddie said.

"Maybe," I said.

"She might need help. Should we stop?"

I thought about the light we'd passed behind us, and something cold touched my spine. "I think she needs help."

"All right. Roll down your window."

I cranked the window down as Eddie pulled up beside the figure. He leaned across me as the car slowly rolled, his voice sounding friendly and authoritative. "Hi there. Do you need help?" he called out my window.

For the first time the figure paused and lifted her head. It was a woman with brown hair cut short, exposing her ears and the back of her neck while bangs fell over one eye. Her skin was pale, and I could see a faint spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She stopped walking and turned our way, squaring her shoulders as if she'd just noticed us. She didn't speak.

"Do you need some help?" Eddie asked again. "We can drop you somewhere."

The woman looked at me. I gave her a smile and a wave. I hoped it made her feel better. A lot of people thought I was pretty-they used the word pretty, not beautiful. I was high school yearbook kind of pretty, not the kind of beautiful that made men crazy. Still, before Eddie I'd been asked out all the time. There's no accounting for taste.

"You can get in," I told the woman. Or girl? It was hard to tell in the dark. "We're nice people, I promise."

The girl had fixed her gaze on me, as if Eddie wasn't there. "I shouldn't," she said. Her voice was soft and low, like she was making an effort.

Of course she was wary. It was the middle of the night. The girl wove in place, and I put my hand on my car door handle, thinking I might get out and help her. Eddie put his hand on my knee, halting me.

I looked at him. He shook his head.

Staying where I was, I turned back to the girl. "We're heading for the Five Pines Resort," I said, giving the name of the cheap motel Eddie and I were going to. "We took a wrong turn off Interstate 75. I'm April and this is Eddie. Eddie Carter. We're married. Just married."

Whether the girl took all of this in or not was anyone's guess. She was still looking at me-as if she'd seen me before, or maybe as if she was memorizing me for later. She was wearing a jacket that was too big for her and fell past her hips, the sleeves too long. It might have been Army green. She pulled it tighter around her and looked down the road behind us.

I followed her gaze, leaning my head out of my window. There was no one else on the road, but I thought I heard a soft sound. Leaves shuffling along the ground. The air was oddly cold. I blinked into the darkness, trying to match a movement to the sound. There were leaves stirring, lifting as if in a breath of wind. And yet there was no wind that I could feel.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asked the girl as I stared at the leaves. "Are you sick?"

The girl kept her gaze fixed on the road. Maybe she was watching the leaves; I couldn't tell. Her voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a telephone line. "No, I'm not sick."

The leaves settled, and I turned back to her. "What's your name?"

The girl paused again. She still seemed reluctant, but it would be wrong to just drive away and leave her. She was all alone and it was the middle of the night. Where was she going?

I thought I heard the shuffle of leaves again, faint on the road behind us. I was suddenly glad I hadn't gotten out of the car. Stranded girl or not, I felt the urge to leave, to drive as fast as possible. I wanted to get out of here.

The girl's fingers curled into the fabric of her coat, clutching it tighter. She bit her bottom lip briefly, still looking down the road, and then she seemed to come to a decision. "I'll take a ride. Thank you."

She opened the door to the back seat and got in. She moved slowly, like an old lady, and I wondered if she was hurt. She didn't have a bag or even a purse. She leaned into the back seat and briefly closed her eyes, as if she'd been on her feet forever.

"What's your name?" I asked her again as Eddie pulled off the shoulder and onto the road again.

"Rhonda Jean."

"That's a nice name. Where are you going?"

Rhonda Jean seemed to pause, as if thinking about this or changing her first answer. "Coldlake Falls." She closed her eyes again, resting her head against the back of the seat. "It's a few miles ahead."

"I've heard of that place," Eddie said. "I have no idea where, though."

I opened the glove box and pulled out the map, folding and refolding the complicated squares and squinting at it in the darkness. "Is it on the way to the Five Pines Resort?" I asked Eddie.

"No idea, but I'm sure there will be someone there to ask for directions."

"Depends how big a town it is," I said to Eddie, still turning the map in my hands. "It's late. Maybe nothing's open. If we get lucky, we'll find a gas station."

"I don't think it's that small," Eddie said. "There has to be something."

"There's a hospital there," Rhonda Jean said.

Eddie and I both went silent. I felt a trickle of alarm move up my spine.

I looked at the girl in the back seat. She was motionless, her eyes still closed. Her hands clutched her jacket shut.

"Did someone hurt you?" I asked her, my voice low.

Rhonda Jean winced at that, though she didn't open her eyes. "I'm sorry."

In the driver's seat, Eddie's voice was as low and calm as my own. "Do you need a doctor, Rhonda Jean?"

"I don't know." Rhonda Jean's eyes blinked open, and for a second they were unfocused. "I don't think a doctor will help."

I let the map slide from my hands, down to my feet. I kept my gaze on the girl in the back seat. Everything became clear and still in my head. I knew now that this was why she had looked at me at first like she recognized me. It was because she did. We'd never seen each other before, but we recognized each other. Women like us recognized each other all the time.

Two things happened at once. When I thought about it later, I was sure about it. The timing was very clear. Both things happened at the same time, like a switch had been flipped in my life, changing it forever.

The first thing was that I reached into the back seat and touched the edge of Rhonda Jean's jacket. I gently pulled it open. It was unfastened, only wrapped around her like a robe, and her grip was limp now and unresisting.

Inside the jacket, on the front of her shirt, I saw the black wetness of blood.

At the same time, a pair of headlights appeared out the back window, a car on the road a mile behind us, light pinpoints in the dark.

I looked from the back window to Rhonda Jean's face. Her eyes were open, focused now, and she was staring at me.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "He's coming."

Chapter Two

For a second, I just looked at Rhonda Jean's pale face, seeing the pain and exhaustion etched there. Maybe I should have felt surprised. I didn't know. I only knew that I bypassed surprise and felt things I didn't know existed click in my brain at those words.

I'm sorry.

He's coming.

"April?" This was Eddie in the driver's seat. His voice sounded stern, army stern. He knew something was wrong.

"Rhonda Jean is injured," I told him, still turned around in my seat and looking at the girl. "Really bad. Under her coat. She's bleeding everywhere."