God’s Play Blog Tour Round Up

The God’s Play blog tour finished up last week. It was a lot of work (and a lot of fun!) to finally have this happen, and here’s a master list of the blogs that hosted the book and my favorite highlights of what they said about it.

Overall I enjoyed this book. A nice read, great writing and the story will keep you interested throughout. The fantasy was done well and the author didn’t over do it on the genre. I liked that, and would read more from the author!

Lovely Reads

Lynn weaves together a variety of mythologies in an original fashion and writes top-notch character interaction.  The few domestic scenes are particularly well done.  She even manages to weave in flashbacks fairly organically.

In Bed With Books

This is a creative story blending paranormal, fantasy and mythology together into an interesting albeit simplistic plot.

I’m A Voracious Reader

The idea of shapeshifters isn’t a really unique one, but I felt that with the Veil and the links with the mythology, it was a much more unique take on the shapeshifter genre. Since I read a lot of Egyptian and Greek mythology-based books, I recognized a lot of the links that there were in this book.

-Sarah, via GoodReads

Once things got going, I read this book in one sitting. Toby and William are great characters. They are perfect opposites to each other. The start of their “relationship” is biased only on Toby wanting revenge for his mother’s death, and William just wants to get rid of someone from his past who wronged him as well as many other shifters.

Pages to Explore

My Guest Posts:

To Sally Forth

We Do Write

What Happened to The Wallflower

Matthew Graybosch

Lili Lost in A Book

Diane’s Book Blog

Nightwolf’s Corner

Advertisements

God’s Play is a Featured New Release!

It’s also $0.99. In honor of writing what I consider a particularly bloody scene in my WIP today, I’m going to post another snippet from God’s Play that I considered a bit…gruesome. 🙂

“No sign of habitation. Bad tip, brother.” Henry shakes his head, still scanning with his flashlight. He turns to her and mouths one word. “Father.” My mum frowns, the shadowed creases in her forehead half-lit by the dual beams. Henry treads without so much as a shoe squeak towards the front of the store while Mum and I sweep out, moving like a single pair of headlights.

A door shuts. I jerk my head up. A thump from the back of the warehouse, and something crashes over. The woman shouts. There’s a gun shot. And then, another.

There’s more than one monster.

I pull the Bowie knife, and Henry sprints around a dresser. I turn to him, watching in time to see a wolf jump on his back . There’re no wolves this large― it’s a shape-shifter that’s slipped its human skin. The creature digs into his neck, and Henry’s arm twists around, stabbing it in the side. My knife sails through the air, but it whizzes past the monster’s hindquarter.

I drop the flashlight and pull out both knives. Henry’s light thuds on the carpet, rolling around like a top, illuminating the warehouse like an epileptic strobe light. Behind Henry’s attacker, there’s another pair of glittering eyes. My mother steps forward, throwing a knife at it. Hers connects, a sharp thud in the rib cage, and the creature charges, blood leaking from its side. It wheezes, stumbling like a drunk. She hit a lung― the wolf collapses before we need to bother fighting it again.

Her butterfly knife flits in her left hand, the big hunting knife poised in her right. The second pair of eyes gauges her, but this monster lurks behind a set of drawers. It slinks out of sight, and neither of us have a chance to strike it. One of the shifters growls and sprints across the carpet. It pounds down on me like a speeding train. I pivot, duck, and thrust upwards with my hunting knife . I connect with flesh, slitting the stomach when it leaps over me. The canine shifter staggers into a mattress column, howling with rage, splitting my ear drums.

Deafened, I can’t hear the other one attack. It flashes by, maybe some type of feline, pinning me underneath it . My mother screams. Claws dig into my chest, but I thrust upwards and kick it off like I’m launching from the gymnastics vault. My vision bursts into a thousand colors. I punch my knife hand into the feline, and the blade glints in the flashlight beam after each strike. The animal wheezes, and in its death spasms, falls down on top of me. I gasp under its weight, avoiding the last snaps of its jaw before it goes limp, but my eyes are still popping. The flashlight rolls, spinning the world in dollar store yellow lighting. I fumble for my Bowie knife, numb hand grasping chunks of cheap carpet. There’s a scuffle, and in the beam of light, on the other side of a stack of off-white mattresses, my mum is crouched. She only has her butterfly knife left, and she’s swinging it at the giant wolf approaching her. Its eyes glow like a hell hound’s. She backs up, and through neon color pops, I watch the wolf jump at her. She thrusts the knife into its throat.

Its breath gurgles as it dies, but I can’t see either my mother or the wolf over the mattresses now. The scent of blood floods the air like after a shark attack. It can’t be my mum’s― there’s too much of it. My heart is still beating, and it’s driving the bile up my throat. I’m rocking on one of those cheap county fair rides. The world tilts up and down, whirling me until the little cart breaks and goes flying through the cotton candy stands and into the parking lot.

A hand grasps the flashlight, pulling it off the floor, and turning the world dark. Footsteps crunch over the carpet. The soles are heavy, not practiced and light, so it’s not a hunter. I’m hearing through a tunnel now, so maybe I don’t know. The world is all neon lights and animal stench. Someone speaks, and I think it’s a man, but I can’t understand him. The voice is stretched like it’s in slow motion.

The footsteps come near me. A man leans down, and I look up into the face of a jackal.

When I lurch awake like a car with no brakes skidding on ice, I see a monster’s face― the jackal. It slips away, turning into the face of all the monsters I’ve hunted. But that’s a hallucination, and I slip back into nothingness. He’s carrying me― it feels like floating. The rain pours over him while he changes back to a man, but it smells like alcohol and the bitter sting of antiseptic.

Weekend Writing and Book Excerpt

Time flies, especially when I’m hustling to get things done. As usual, writing distracted me last night, but not the writing I was supposed to be doing; minds are finicky like that sometimes. So I’m up, bright and early, doing the work I’m supposed to be doing (and not getting donuts, but I’ve been craving cream filed donuts since last night, so today will probably begin and end at Dunks). To get ready for God’s Play’s two week blog tour, I’m gonna share an excerpt from the book! While I’m writing away, enjoy, and if you’re already bought and started reading the book, congratulations–you’re awesome.

My hands tingle, and my feet are numb. The barrier between my human form and my jackal form is dangerously thin. I push away from the bar, drop a tip, and walk into the drizzle. I don’t bother covering my head and press the paper to my chest like a talisman. I autopilot down to the bridge; it’s a metal serpent grown old and fat and beached across the river, and it can’t get up, can’t move. Below it, down along the wharf, huddles a neighborhood of slum warehouses.

I approach the address, the red-bricked front attached to the large, aluminum box. A gaudy sign sits in the window. From a narrow lane, I watch five figures appear out of the fog. They walk in a V formation like a flock of geese. Hunters. I’m a bit pissed for muscle-clenching fear, but I muster a cold sweat for them. I’m too young to remember the old wars― before the shape shifting, when the hunters banded together with an exploding human population to hunt us. It was pitchforks and torches. But it’s a lot more difficult to convince people that shifters are monsters. We look human most of the time. The hunters go to the warehouse and slip into the side door. I twitch my ears, but there are no shots or yells coming from inside that dump. Then, I see why. Another pack materializes in the mist. These five arrive from different directions, three padding on four legs, and the others stalking in on two legs like B movie horror monsters. They enter through loosened panels close to the ground and slide under like shadows. Fennis, the big wolf in the front, goes inside last.

It’s a nature documentary, except there’s nothing natural about it― monsters hunting hunters hunting monsters. I want to see the BBC cover it. I could be filming it right now― if I had a camera and some balls, I’d be famous. But I’m not close enough, so I go in for a better seat. I’m about to emerge from the alley when two of the beasts limp from the back door. I smell their blood, which makes my mouth water. One of them might make it, but the other staggers like a drunkard. I hope it’s Fennis. He deserves it, if only for drinking that shitty scotch before a hunt.

I let them pass and slide through the open back door. The inside reeks of blood, the sweet smell of death and food. I wire my jaw shut and hunch forward, using my enfeebled human nose. I sniff the first bodies in the back before seeing them. A beast and two hunters, all ripped to ribbons and stabbed with claws and metal. I pass over them, stepping on a gun. I kick it under a sofa and head towards a faint glow.

My boots squash on the carpet, and I try not to slip on the gore. There are two more downed creatures and an older man, lying on his stomach; his entrails reek, and I skirt away from him. I pick up the flashlight. A faint, wheezing gasp catches my attention.

Her hat sits crooked on her head, revealing the ginger hair beneath. Her skin is ashen grey. I look down at her, not wanting to get too close to the blade she clutches in her hand.

“It was a trap, didn’t you know,” I tell her. It’s all I can say, a weak eulogy. My little joke lands flat amid the blood pools and bodies.

She nods and mouths the word, ″Toby. Toby.”

I knit my brow. “Don’t know what that means, love.”

“My son. He… get him out,” she wheezes. The blood pumps from her side. She’ll be dead in minutes, but I get the message.

“Probably dead, too,” I tell her. She shakes her head, using her last breaths to insist her son is alive. Her brain churns to a stop― her eyes going blank and unfocused. A frown creases my face while I watch this warrior woman die. And she died like a warrior should― proud and strong in battle and not wasting from old age. If she knew what I was, she wouldn’t have hesitated to take a stab at me, so maybe it’s for the best. I was too chicken-shit scared to come and die in battle, but she wasn’t. So I honor her last wish and go looking for her son.

When I stand up, I scan the battlefield. There’s a faint rasping ―breathing and a heartbeat― someone struggling for air on my left, gasping in a way that suggests they’re not about to die. I walk over to the dead feline. I roll away the carcass to get at the human body underneath.

And then an iron-fingered grip clutches my ankle, nails digging into the skin above my sock. Every cell of my flesh convulses with a thousand itches, which shoot up my body like rug burn. My skin becomes raw like it’s covered in bug bites. I’ve felt this before, but not for a long time. I stagger, twist my leg, and tug away, pulling deep breaths into my lungs, breaking off contact with the hand. But it’s too late― I’m covered in ebony fur, and I convulse in my clothes, unable to even curse while my face reshapes itself.

I stagger backwards. The damage is done. My hands sport matching sets of two inch black claws, and I’m staring down a canine snout― the one for my jackal face. My real face. The air is alive with blood; when my senses expand, it crashes over me, trying to pull me under and drop me in a rip tide. I’m salivating― I need to run, but there’s the boy, hidden beneath the dead feline. He’s attached to that cursed hand gripping my ankle. He lifted the Veil, the protection that keeps me hidden in my human shape.

That little bastard. I’m just lucky my jackal shape is of the anatomically incorrect bipedal monster variety.

Even when I yank my leg from his grasp, I don’t shift back. Not that I expected to. My heightened senses are awash in the delicious scent of blood and fresh meat. I have to get out of here. I grab a large drape, wrap it around the boy, and carry him away. When I leave, even my animal hearing can’t find another breath in the entire warehouse.

Read more inside the cover.