|...vibrant, funny, poignant...|
I’m soon to launch The Bull At The Gate, the second in the Torc of Moonlight trilogy of mythic occult thrillers, and as part of the pre-launch promotion I’m discounting Beneath The Shining Mountains to 99c/77p to give readers a taste of my writing style.
Due to this being a time-sensitive discount it only applies to Amazon. Those who read via Nook, Kobo, iBooks, etc can use the Coupon Code HL73P at the Smashwords checkout to gain the same price – but only until 03 March. Get it while you can!
In a previous guise for a mainstream publisher, Beneath The Shining Mountains sold 30,000 copies in paper format and has gained good reviews since my rights reverted and it was launched as an ebook. In this excerpt the young heroine Moon Hawk and her new husband, Winter Man, are travelling with the people and hoping to cross a swollen river at daybreak.
The people had wrapped themselves for sleep long before, but there was still much movement to be heard. Coughing from a sick person, the fretful whimpering of a young child. A grandmother sang to comfort it, and those who listened added their voices softly to hers. Horses snorted and stamped. The dogs barked at nothing and themselves, and at a distant wolf which scented them and recalled them to the wild. Above all, hissing as if a giant serpent, the river surged relentlessly by.
“Have you vermilion to paint your wrists and ankles?” Moon Hawk whispered. She felt her husband chuckle. “Do not laugh! The water monsters will remember and seek you out.”
“I’ve crossed wider rivers than this, and I’ve never needed to paint red stripes about my wrists to protect me from water monsters.”
“Then your Medicine must be very strong. Twice I’ve mourned relatives who were dragged beneath the surface by them.”
A kiss brushed her lightly on the cheek, repeating along her jaw towards her ear. Winter Man’s voice became more tolerant. “If it will make you happy, you can paint my wrists with the protection in the morning.”
She felt his hand move behind her back, his slim fingers fanning over her skin, the pressure of his touch intensifying, drawing her towards him. Her heartbeat began to rise, her palms reaching to stroke the warm contours of his chest.
“If you want,” he murmured, “you can paint me tonight. Any color you’d like.”
She smiled, seeking his lips with her own. He could laugh at her, she didn’t care, just as long as he was safe, and in her arms.
Despite living in England, Linda Acaster has always been fascinated by the past lives of the native peoples of the American northern plains, and for many years was a re-enactor giving talks to schools and community groups.
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