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Kindle Nation Daily Bargain Book Alert: Rex Jameson’s LUCIFER’S ODYSSEY is our eBook of the Day at Just 99 Cents, With 4.3 Stars on 13 Reviews, and Here’s a Free Sample!


Here’s the set-up for Rex Jameson’s Lucifer’s Odyssey, just 99 Cents on Kindle Until Jan. 1:

Lucifer languishes in an earthly prison, awaiting the apocalypse that will finally free him after 200,000 years. Before breaking loose, he discovers that the armageddon he set in motion will destroy the capital of Chaos, his home universe.

He travels back to Chaos and stumbles upon a bloody civil war devastating his homeland. The realm’s magic wielders are firmly under the control of a rival clan, and without their protection, Lucifer’s family is in mortal peril. As old demon clan rivalries blossom and a new hostile universe expands across the known multiverse, Lucifer is faced with not only protecting Chaos from annihilation but also saving his rightful place on the throne.

Lucifer’s Odyssey is the first book in the Primal Patterns series, an episodic glimpse into an alternate multiverse where many of our biblical histories and fables are premonitions of upcoming conflicts between immortals with god-like powers over truth and shadow. The sequel, The Goblin Rebellion, is set to debut in February.

Length: 85,000 words (350 pages)
Electronic versions on sale at $0.99 until January 1, 2012.

From the reviewers:

Rex Jameson does a wonderful job telling this story in a completely unexpected way. Lucifer is a good character and while I didn’t really relate to him much (he is still a bit of a sociopath at times) there are parts where it is easy to sympathize with his problems.   –  Rex

An interesting perspective on Lucifer, it’s not irreligious but it is completely different from the Christian worldview. The sci-fi fantasy themes drew me into this book right away. It contains magic, immortals, and complex relationships. A bit of a classical mythology spin (gods and goddesses are related and have family issues) combined with speculative/alternative history. An interesting read. I look forward to the next book.  –  Arador

Never in a million years did I think I’d be rooting for Lucifer! This book has a whole new take on the relationships between Lucifer, Michael, Jehovah and the rest of the gang. Lucifer, by the way, is the Crown Prince of Chaos and he’s stuck on Earth. This was an amazing story.  –  D.M. Lawrence

Visit Rex Jameson’s Amazon Page

Rex Jameson was born in Alabama and attended high school and college in Tennessee. Rex earned a BS in Computer Science in 2007 and a MS in 2010. He is currently working on his PhD with an expected graduation date in 2012 from Vanderbilt University. A life-long reader of speculative fiction, Rex found his love for writing fiction in between working on research projects. He lives with his wife Jenny and their two cats in Nashville, TN.

Recent Awards and Activities:

1.) Rex Jameson recently won first place in PJ Jones’s first annual Crappy Poetry Contest for his entry “Oh Henry of Third Period Biology”. To see Rex’s terrible poem, see http://pjjonesramblings.blogspot.com/2011/08/musings-of-my-broken-heart-aka-crappy.html

2.) Rex’s flash fiction “Don’t Mess with the Meadow” was included in the Pink Snowbunnies in Hell Anthology, now released on Amazon and other online book stores.

And here, in the comfort of your own browser, is your free sample of LUCIFER’S ODYSSEY by Rex Jameson:


Today’s Kindle Daily Deal – Wednesday, Dec. 14 –Two Great 5-Star Reads for 99 cents Each! Who needs Dan Brown when you can save 89% on The Grail Conspiracy? plus … Spine-chilling, bestselling YA adventure that belongs on the Christmas Kindle of every teen you know, and maybe yours too! Kat Calen’s PRIDE’S RUN (Today’s Sponsor, Just 99 Cents, 4.9 Stars!)

But first, a word from … Today’s Sponsor

by Cat Kalen
4.9 stars – 14 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Seventeen year old Pride is a tracker—a werewolf with a hunger for blood. Taught to trick and to lure, she is the perfect killing machine.

Kept leashed in the cellar by a master who is as ruthless as he is powerful, Pride dreams of freedom, of living a normal life, but escape from the compound is near impossible and disobedience comes with a price.

When she learns her master intends to breed her she knows she has to run.

Pride soon learns if she is to survive in the wild, she must trust in the boy who promises her freedom, the same boy she was sent to hunt.

With life and death hanging in the balance the two find themselves on the run from the Paranormal Task Force—officers who shoot first and ask questions later—as well as her master’s handlers.

Can Pride flee the man who has held her captive since birth and find sanctuary in the arms of a boy who has captured her heart? Or will her master find her first?
Each day’s Kindle Daily Deal is sponsored by one paid title on Kindle Nation. We encourage you to support our sponsors and thank you for considering them.

 

and now … Today’s Kindle Daily Deal!


The Grail ConspiracyKindle Daily Deal: The Grail Conspiracy

In Lynn Sholes and Joe Moore’s page-turning thriller, a television journalist on assignment in the Middle East stumbles upon an archeological dig that uncovers the world’s most-sought-after religious relic: the Holy Grail. But what begins as a hot news story for the ambitious young reporter soon turns into a nightmare when a series of unexplained “accidents” begin to occur.

Yesterday’s Price: $9.19
Today’s Discount: $8.20
Kindle Daily Deal Price: $0.99 (89% off)

Kindle Nation Daily Bargain Book Alert! 19 Authors, 19 eBooks, 99 Cents Each! Load up your Kindle with great reading with this awesome 99 Cent eBook Event hosted by the WoMen’s Literary Café

Please join our friends at the WoMen’s Literary Café as they celebrate two new releases with a veritable reader’s bonanza!

Three Days Only!

Thursday, Dec. 13-15!

19 Authors

19 eBooks

99 Cents Each

Buy 3 Get 1 Free

  • NICKELS, (Christian fiction) by author Karen Baney, and
  • SHADES OF GRAY, (mystery) by author Andy Holloman.

Check out The WoMen’s Literary Café site for 19 great reads at just 99 cents each (for three days only), including these two exciting book launches!

by Karen Baney – Christian Fiction
4.9 stars – 9 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Niki Turner has finally arrived. Her career as a Software Engineer is soaring—she has just been offered the company’s most sought after account, Helitronics. Life would be perfect, if she could stop her roommate from playing matchmaker.

Then Kyle Jacobs mysteriously re-enters her life. As painful memories resurface, his presence turns her life upside down and threatens to waylay her career. She must find a way to work with him—after all, he’s the helicopter flight consultant for the new flight control system she’s coding.

Can she forget the past and see him as the new man he has become? Or will her resentment keep her from finding what she has always been searching for?

by Andy Holloman – Mystery
4.7 stars – 16 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

In the Fall of 2001, John Manning’s life is in turmoil. His six-year-old daughter Lucy needs a kidney transplant, and his travel agency is in financial distress because of the 9/11 tragedy. A lapse in his health insurance means he also has to quickly secure funds for his daughter’s operation.

Wanda, a client of John’s travel agency, is facing similar difficulties. Her livelihood as a drug dealer has also been hit hard by increased airport security. As a single parent, she wants to leave her dangerous profession and break free from her drug-lord boss Jamel, but a lack of funds has curtailed attempts to start a new life with her daughter.

Desperate times lead to desperate measures, and John and Wanda form a partnership to smuggle cocaine via cruise ships.

How far should a father go to save his child? Can a man and woman from completely different worlds help each other? Could they fall in love? And who will live to see the summer of 2002?

The WoMen’s Literary Café (welcoming both men and women), founded by bestselling author Melissa Foster, is an online community that bridges the gap between readers and authors, with the sole mission of promoting great literature. The WoMen’s Lit Cafe offers helpful promotions to authors, reviewers, bloggers, and editors by creating avenues to bring them together under one umbrella in an easily navigable venue.

(This is a sponsored post.)

19 Authors, 19 eBooks, 99 Cents Each! Kindle Nation Daily Bargain Book Alert! Load up your Kindle with great reading with this awesome 99 Cent eBook Event hosted by the WoMen’s Literary Café

Three Days Only!

Thursday, Dec. 13-15!

19 Authors

19 eBooks

99 Cents Each

Buy 3 Get 1 Free

Please join our friends at the WoMen’s Literary Café as they celebrate two new releases:

  • NICKELS, (Christian fiction) by author Karen Baney, and 
  • SHADES OF GRAY, (mystery) by author Andy Holloman.

Check out The WoMen’s Literary Café site for 19 great reads at just 99 cents each (for three days only), including these two exciting book launches!

by Karen Baney – Christian Fiction
4.9 stars – 9 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Niki Turner has finally arrived.  Her career as a Software Engineer is soaring—she has just been offered the company’s most sought after account, Helitronics.  Life would be perfect, if she could stop her roommate from playing matchmaker.

Then Kyle Jacobs mysteriously re-enters her life.  As painful memories resurface, his presence turns her life upside down and threatens to waylay her career.  She must find a way to work with him—after all, he’s the helicopter flight consultant for the new flight control system she’s coding.

Can she forget the past and see him as the new man he has become?  Or will her resentment keep her from finding what she has always been searching for?

by Andy Holloman – Mystery
4.7 stars – 16 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

In the Fall of 2001, John Manning’s life is in turmoil. His six-year-old daughter Lucy needs a kidney transplant, and his travel agency is in financial distress because of the 9/11 tragedy.  A lapse in his health insurance means he also has to quickly secure funds for his daughter’s operation.

Wanda, a client of John’s travel agency, is facing similar difficulties.  Her livelihood as a drug dealer has also been hit hard by increased airport security.  As a single parent, she wants to leave her dangerous profession and break free from her drug-lord boss Jamel, but a lack of funds has curtailed attempts to start a new life with her daughter.

Desperate times lead to desperate measures, and John and Wanda form a partnership to smuggle cocaine via cruise ships.

How far should a father go to save his child?  Can a man and woman from completely different worlds help each other?  Could they fall in love?  And who will live to see the summer of 2002?

The WoMen’s Literary Café (welcoming both men and women), founded by bestselling author Melissa Foster, is an online community that bridges the gap between readers and authors, with the sole mission of promoting great literature.  The WoMen’s Lit Cafe offers helpful promotions to authors, reviewers, bloggers, and editors by creating avenues to bring them together under one umbrella in an easily navigable venue.

(This is a sponsored post.)

Publetariat Dispatch: Thoughts On Getting Close To The End

Publetariat: For People Who Publish!

In today’s Publetariat Dispatch, author and small publisher Alan Baxter muses on the experience of finishing a new manuscript. Note: this post contains some strong language.

Novels are like lovers – you only pick the ones you think you’ll like, but no two are really the same. Sometimes they’re just awesome and make you feel special. Sometimes they let you down. Often they can surprise you, make you feel a whole range of emotions. And when it’s over, you sometimes wish it could go on forever and other times you’re glad, because it started to feel like more work than it was worth. Or you’re satisfied and it lasted just as long as it was supposed to.

And I’ll stop there before my analogy disappears up its own arsehole. The thing is, it occurred to me today that this applies to writing novels as well as reading them. I’m currently around 94,000 words into my third novel. I’ve written numerous short stories, a couple of novellas and now I’m close to typing those strange words – The End – on my third novel length work. Novels are certainly unique creatures and while many bear similarities, just like lovers, no two are the same. And no two writing processes are the same either.

I’m still very much a journeyman writer. Perhaps when I get to that stage where I’ve written loads of books I’ll have developed some kind of process that’s familiar and practiced, but there’s a part of me that hopes that never happens. I like the excitement of taking on a new project and if it all started to feel the same I might lose the urge.

RealmShift was the first novel I wrote. Not the first one I started, not by a long way. I’ve written varying amounts of several novels. But it was the first one I finished and knew was a real novel. It went through many more redrafts and rewrites before it was published, of course, but I remember the feeling of reaching the end of that manuscript. I remember the feeling of writing it, feeling the story pouring out, astounded at how it was telling itself. Other times I struggled, trying to make something work. But there was a distinct vibe to writing RealmShift. I knew the main character inside out, I knew the mission he was on, but I wasn’t entirely sure how it was going to end until I got there.

My second book is MageSign, the sequel to RealmShift. When I started writing that I knew exactly how it was going to end. The final climax was the entire reason for writing it, but I wasn’t sure how to get there. I had lots of notes and plans written, but there were huge gaps that I trusted myself to fill as I got to them. Which I did. There was a distinct vibe to writing MageSign too, and it felt very different to RealmShift.

Now I’m close to finishing the first draft of my next book. It’s the same “world” as RealmShift and MageSign, but a whole new story with all new characters. There are a couple of cameos from key players in the first two books, but that’s mainly for the geeky fun of it. This book feels very different again. Where RealmShift grew from the main character, and MageSign grew from the final climax, this one has grown from a strange and weird concept. The concept led me to develop a main character and that subsequently led to the story. It feels quite different to either of the previous two.

I wanted to write something different. My books are dark fantasy thrillers, and this new one is too, but with a slightly different feel, a different pace. I’m playing with different archetypes, different character relationships and a pervading sense of dread rather than a flat out race against time. And it’s been a struggle. This story has been harder to get out than either of the previous two. A lot harder, in fact. That’s not because it’s more complicated. If anything, it’s a simpler concept than either of the previous two, with fewer key characters. I don’t know yet if it’s any good. I think it’s awesome, but you always feel like that with a new lover. Hopefully I’ve written something better than ever, less predictable, more nuanced. The fragile, insecure writer in me wonders if I’ve blurted out a pile of shit.

When I finish a novel, I immediately go through it again, sorting out all the little issues that occurred to me along the way, that I made notes about as I wrote. Sometimes something will happen later in the book that means I need to change something near the start. Or I’ll have a better idea and need to rework something. Then there are all the little bits and pieces that I can weave in here and there to make the whole story arc flow seamlessly, and often some of those things can only be added later, when you know exactly how it all ends.

After that, assuming I don’t decide I need a complete rewrite (pleaseno!), the next stage is to put the book away for at least a few weeks. I’ll write other things in that time. I have a couple of short stories clamouring to be written and I want to write the next Ghost Of The Black novella. Then I’ll go back to this novel and redraft again. That’s when I’ll really get a feel for what I’ve created.

Only time will tell. Regardless, I’m very close to the end of actually writing it, as opposed to revising it, and some time in the next couple of weeks (I hope) I’ll type those two fateful words. The End. Then I’ll sit back in my chair staring at a completed manuscript. I suppose I’ll have to brace myself and, after the process described above, send it out to the beta readers and see what they have to say.

I wonder how other writers do it? If there process is anything like mine?

Anyway, it’s another novel, like the others I’ve written in so many ways. It’s the kind of thing I think I’ll like. At times it made me feel special and awesome. I really hope it doesn’t let me down… or would that be me letting it down?

 

This is a reprint from Alan Baxter‘s The Word.

Kindle Nation Bargain Book Alert: Just 99 Cents with 24 Out of 25 Rave Reviews: UNTRACEABLE, S. R. Johannes’ new YA wilderness thriller that proves teen heroines can exist in the real world, without magical powers or fantastical elements.

Untraceable (The Nature of Grace Series)

by S. R. Johannes

The new YA wilderness thriller that proves teen heroines can exist in the real world, without magical powers or fantastical elements.

Complete with a missing father, a kickbutt heroine, and of course … two hot boys.

by S. R. Johannes
4.5 stars – 25 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

“Grace is a spunky, independent, nature girl who doesn’t need a boy to save her. With wilderness survival, a juicy love triangle, and more twists and turns than a roller coaster, this fast-paced novel had me holding my breath until the very last page—and still begging for more!” -Kimberly Derting, author of the popular The Body Finder series

“This thrilling story is a dramatic entanglement of mystery, deception and teen romance. The action flows like a brisk mountain stream interspersed with rapids, holding suspense to last page.” – Kirkus Reviews

16 year old Grace was reared in the wilderness. Her first pet was a bear named Simon. Her first potty, an oak tree. And, her first swing, a forest vine. Grace has lived in the Smokies her whole life, patrolling with her forest ranger father who taught her everything he knew about wildlife, tracking, and wilderness survival. But when Grace’s dad goes missing on a routine patrol, unlike everyone in her sleepy mountain town, she refuses to believe he’s dead. When a Cheetos bag and stolen government file materialize, Grace is convinced she’s one step closer to proving all the non-believers wrong.

Then one day while out tracking clues, Grace is rescued from imminent danger by Mo, a hot guy with an intoxicating accent, that’s definitely not from her neck of the woods, and a secret. Grace has never felt a connection like this before, certainly not with her ex-boyfriend, the adoring, but decidedly unrugged Wyn.

Now with renewed confidence, Grace travels deeper into the wilderness that has always been her refuge only to learn that her father’s disappearance is not a mere coincidence. Soon she’s enmeshed in a web of conspiracy, deception, and murder. And it’s going to take a lot more than a compass and a motorcycle (named Lucifer) for this kickass heroine to emerge from an epidemic that’s spreading like wild fire, threatening everything and everyone she’s ever loved.

About the Author: S.R. Johannes

After earning an MBA and working in corporate America, S.R. Johannes traded in high heels and corporate lingo for a family, flip-flops, and her love of writing. S.R. Johannes lives in Atlanta Georgia with her dog, British-accented husband, and the huge imaginations of their little prince and princess, which she hopes- someday- will change the world.  You can find her hanging out online and visit her at srjohannes.com

Grace has lived in the Smokies all her life, patrolling with her forest ranger father who taught her about wildlife, tracking, and wilderness survival. When her dad goes missing on a routine patrol, Grace refuses to believe he’s dead and fights the town authorities, tribal officials, and nature to find him.One day, while out tracking clues, Grace is rescued from danger by Mo, a hot guy with an intoxicating accent and a secret. As her feelings between him and her ex-boyfriend get muddled, Grace travels deep into the wilderness to escape and find her father. Along the way, Grace learns terrible secrets that sever relationships and lives. Soon she’s enmeshed in a web of conspiracy, deception, and murder. And it’s going to take a lot more than a compass and a motorcycle (named Lucifer) for this kick-butting heroine to save everything she loves.

 (This is a sponsored post.)

A Free Excerpt From Courtney Milan’s Unraveled, Our Romance of the Week!

Courtney Milan’s Unraveled:

 

by Courtney Milan
5.0 stars – 3 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
From New York Times bestselling author Courtney Milan… Smite Turner is renowned for his single-minded devotion to his duty as a magistrate. But behind his relentless focus lies not only a determination to do what is right, but the haunting secrets of his past—secrets that he is determined to hide, even if it means keeping everyone else at arm’s length. Until the day an irresistible woman shows up as a witness in his courtroom…Miranda Darling isn’t in trouble…yet. But she’s close enough that when Turner threatens her with imprisonment if she puts one foot wrong, she knows she should run in the other direction. And yet no matter how forbidding the man seems on the outside, she can’t bring herself to leave. Instead, when he tries to push her away, she pushes right back—straight through his famous self-control, and into the heart of the passion that he has long hidden away… Unraveled is a full length novel at 95,000 words.
(This is a sponsored post)
The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:

Chapter One

Bristol. October 1843.

“Well, Billy Croggins, why are you here again?”

The petty sessions had already started when Miranda Darling slipped into the dingy hearing room. She ducked her head and contemplated the floor, trying not to attract attention. She was playing a young lady today: posture erect, eyes cast demurely down, elbows at her sides. A young lady wouldn’t fuss with her hair. Especially not to scratch where her wig drove an errant pin into her scalp. Today, her future rested on her performance.

Nothing new in that. The future was a perpetual burden, weighing her down. Sometimes she felt like one of the acrobats her father had taken her to see at Astley’s as a child, dancing atop a bareback horse. One foot put false on a backflip, and she was like to come crashing to the ground. Like the acrobat, she could only pretend her footing was secure, do her best, and smile for the crowd no matter what came.

There was a bit of a throng today, maybe ten or fifteen men and women arrayed on the wooden benches of the hearing room. Her palms prickled with an edgy energy. She smoothed her hands against the fine muslin of her borrowed gown and counted breaths, until the tension inside her faded to a passive lump of nerves.

The white-haired man at the front of the room—Billy Croggins, he’d been called—didn’t seem nervous at all. His face was red, and he shrugged, unembarrassed, at the question that had been put to him.

“Why, Your Worships, I’m here for the same reason I’m always here. I had myself a little bit to drink.” He raised his hand, miming. “I ended up a bit disorderly. You heard what my daughter had to say.” Croggins flashed an ingratiating grin.

He had nice teeth for a drunkard. Miranda sidled down the aisle and slipped into an empty spot in the front. Billy Croggins had a nice nose, too. His white, disordered hair gave him an air of respectable eccentricity. Useful, if you had no claim to respectability on your own.

Nobody noticed her as she arranged her skirts. All eyes were trained on the unfolding drama, insignificant though the outcome might have been.

These weren’t the quarter sessions, where murderers and burglars would be sentenced to death or transportation. The magistrates here judged little thefts, brawls gone bad, acts of public lewdness. Fines were levied; men were imprisoned for a few days. The stakes were low, and the crimes were interesting only because a neighbor had committed them.

She’d not yet allowed herself to look in the direction of the magistrates. Old superstition, that—one didn’t peek through the curtains at an audience before a performance. That spelled ill luck.

The austere white walls seemed to magnify the autumn chill, but Miranda slipped out of her worn cloak and removed her straw bonnet, taking care not to disturb the blond wig she’d donned that morning.

“What is this?” one of the magistrates asked. “The fifth time you’ve appeared before us?” His voice was familiar. Too familiar.

Damn. Miranda’s hand clenched around the wool of her cloak; she forced it open before the gesture could betray her.

“Right as always, Your Worship,” came Croggins’s cheery reply.

At her immediate right, the clerk sat, his pen arrested over the inkwell. He hadn’t written a thing in minutes.

Miranda leaned over and spoke in an urgent whisper. “Sir. I happened to witness one of the crimes today. The accused is a boy, perhaps twelve years of age—”

He glanced at her, frowning, and then looked away. “Tell me when he’s up,” he whispered gruffly. “I’m busy now.”

He didn’t look busy. The register before him read only: Drunk. Admits he did it. Convicted. Billy Croggins hadn’t been convicted yet, but she couldn’t blame the man for prematurely judging the result.

“If we keep convicting you, why do you keep at it?” This from the judge on the left. He scratched his head. “Turner—what is the punishment, again?”

Turner. So she had recognized that earlier voice. Another flash of nervousness traveled through her, this one tinged with a hint of fear. Still, she kept her gaze trained on Croggins.

The defendant grinned unabashedly. “I wager I know the punishment by now. Ten pounds for the repeat offense, which I haven’t got—and so six hours in the stocks instead.”

“Don’t worry, Billy,” someone called from the audience. “We’ll make sure all the turnips are nice and rotten before we throw them, so they don’t scratch your pretty face.”

The room erupted into laughter.

“Gentlemen,” the florid-faced magistrate in the middle said, “it’s a conviction, then?”

Everyone else shifted to look at the magistrates to the left of the room. It would look out of place if she didn’t follow their lead, and so Miranda raised her head. The three men tasked to hear the sessions today sat behind a heavy oak bench. They were dressed identically: curled, white-powdered horsehair wigs atop and heavy black robes beneath. The man in the center with the red face was the mayor. On his left sat a fellow she’d never seen before. That man’s wig was askew.

“Indeed,” Croggins was saying, “what’s another conviction amongst friends?”

On the right, sitting a good two feet from his compatriots… “Perhaps,” this last magistrate said, “I might ask a few questions before we rush to judgment.”

Miranda swallowed. He was Magistrate Turner—better known as Lord Justice.

His face wasn’t red. His wig was straight. And while the other magistrates were smiling at Croggins’s antics, Lord Justice looked as somber as a crow in his black robes, stern and implacable. She could almost believe the stories that were told about him.

“Always covering the ground, Turner,” the mayor said in exasperated tones. “Very well. I suppose you must have your way. But I hardly see the point, as the man has admitted his guilt.”

Compared with his colleagues, Lord Justice looked like the statue of a magistrate instead of irresolute flesh and blood. He fit the name he’d been given. Justice was hard lines and inflexible resolve. Justice had sharp, mobile eyes, which seemed to take in everything all at once.

Lord Justice, everyone said, could smell a lie at twenty paces. Miranda sat no more than fifteen from him.

Just looking at the man gave her gooseflesh. She’d appeared before him once. Even thinking of the questions he’d asked, the way his eyes had pierced her, made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. And that time, she’d been telling the truth.

“Perhaps,” Lord Justice said, “you could help me understand the events of last night. I’ve heard the testimony from your daughter. But I wish to hear it in your words. How did the fire start?”

“Ah,” Billy Croggins said, “that would be the drunk part of drunk and disorderly.” He smiled winningly.

Lord Justice was not so easily won. He steepled his fingers. “Were you voluntarily drunk? Or did you have your drink forced upon you?”

“I’d be much obliged, Your Worship, if people forced drink upon me. As it were, I had to purchase it like a regular booby.”

The only response to that witticism was a thinning of the magistrate’s lips. “When you were inebriated, you went to your daughter’s house?”

“Yes, and can you believe my own child wouldn’t open her door for me? Told me to go away and come back sober. If I waited for that, I’d never see my grandchildren at all, not ’til Gabriel sounded his trump at the last.”

A woman in the crowd let out a harsh bark of laughter at that, and the mayor hid a smile behind his sleeve.

Lord Justice still found no amusement in the proceedings. He tapped his fingers against the bench. “Was it then you threw the lantern into the woodshed and threatened to burn her out?”

The smile on Croggins’s face fixed into place. “Might have done, might have done. Wasn’t thinking so clearly at that point. I didn’t actually burn her woodshed down—just wanted to scare her a little, so she’d show some respect for her father. Besides, it seemed like an amusing thing to do.”

Lord Justice sighed and leaned back. “You see, Billy Croggins, this is what has me worried. Everyone in this courtroom seems to think you’re a jolly old fellow. Everyone thinks you’re amusing. Everyone is laughing. Everyone, that is, except your daughter. Why do you suppose that is?”

“She’s got no sense of humor.”

A few chuckles rose from the audience, but they were weaker.

“Here’s my theory: her two infants were in the house when you tried to burn her out. Maybe she didn’t find a threat to their lives amusing.”

“Aw, it was just the woodshed!”

“It was an outbuilding, within the curtilage and attached to the dwelling-house,” Lord Justice said. His gaze focused on some point in the distance, as if he were reading those words off some page that only he could see. “According to the Statute of George, that’s arson.”

“Arson! But the wood scarcely even caught!”

Lord Justice leaned over the bench. “Arson,” he repeated firmly. “As you didn’t succeed, attempted arson, and as such, punishable by one year’s hard labor. Do you think that might dry you out?”

“Your Worship, I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Under the rule of Lord Hale, a man who becomes voluntarily drunk is responsible for his actions, the same as if he was sober.”

Croggins glanced about. There was no laughter in the courtroom now. Lord Justice had doused it of all humor. This little display, after all, was just another demonstration of how Magistrate Turner had come by his name.

Miranda clenched her hands together and bit her lip. She could only hope he would not examine her so closely.

“Turner,” the mayor said, “this is the petty sessions. We’ve no authority to consider a charge of arson at a summary conviction.”

“Quite right,” Lord Justice said. “Nor was arson charged in the indictment. But we can dismiss the case and commit him until the Assizes. I’ve heard enough testimony to have him charged when next the grand jury meets.”

It wasn’t Magistrate Turner’s looks that had earned him the sobriquet “Lord Justice.” In the two years before he’d become a magistrate, the petty sessions had convicted every man but one who had stood before them. In Turner’s first six months in office, he’d let more than a dozen people go, claiming the crimes had been unproven. But he wasn’t kind; far from it. He punished the guilty with harsh efficiency.

The Lord part came about because his brother was a duke. But they called him Justice because he was as cruel—and as kind—as the weather. You never knew what you were going to get, and no complaint would change the result.

Billy Croggins licked his lips. “Lord Justice. Please. Have mercy.”

The man shook his head. “The proper form of address is ‘Your Worship.’”

Croggins frowned.

“In any event,” Lord Justice continued, “if the house had truly caught fire, you might have killed your daughter and your grandchildren.” He paused and looked round the room.

He stole the breath from his audience, packed a thousand years of expectation into those bare seconds. If this had been a performance, she would have applauded the perfection of his timing. But this was no play, put on for public amusement. This was real.

Lord Justice looked back at the defendant. He spoke quietly, but his words carried in the waiting silence. “I am having mercy, Mr. Croggins. Just not on you. Not on you.”

Miranda shut her eyes. She’d done this before—stolen down to the hearings at the Patron’s behest and delivered testimony designed to prevent the conviction of a particular defendant. The other magistrates never doubted the testimony of a genteel young lady.

But Turner asked questions. He listened. He heard the things you didn’t intend to say. She’d spoken before him only once—the first time she’d testified, well over a year ago. It was the only time she had actually witnessed the crime in question. He’d wrung every last drop of truth from her then.

She surely couldn’t afford Magistrate Turner’s brand of mercy today.

“I’ll conduct the examination,” Turner said. “Palter—hold Mr. Croggins.”

A blighted silence reigned in the hearing room, broken only by the shuffling of feet.

“Call the next case,” the mayor muttered.

Beside her, the clerk began to speak. As he did, Lord Justice’s gaze traveled over the spectators. His eyes briefly rested on Miranda. It was only in her imagination that they narrowed. Still, she shivered.

Under Lord Justice’s voluminous black robes, he might have been fat or slender. He might have had tentacles like a cuttlefish, for all she knew. His long white wig made his features seem thin and severe. Perversely, all that black and white made him appear almost young. That couldn’t have been the case. A man had to be ancient to deal justice as he did without flinching.

Don’t lie to this man. The instinct seemed as deep as hunger, as fierce as cold. But if she walked away now, she’d lose the protection she so desperately needed. And Robbie… It didn’t bear thinking about. One didn’t say no to the Patron’s requests. Not even when justice threatened.

An officer was shuffling about, bringing to the front… oh, yes. It was Widdy this time.

She’d received her orders less than two hours before. She was to speak on Widdy’s behalf, to make sure that he wasn’t convicted.

She didn’t know why. She was never told why. But she’d asked, once, in a fit of lunacy, and she’d never forgotten the answer the Patron’s man had given her.

In Temple Parish, justice belongs to the Patron, not the magistrates.

At the front of the room, the boy looked fragile and scared. The harsh life of a street-urchin in Temple Parish had broken him long ago. She doubted Widdy’s release mattered except as a symbol, proof that the Patron was more powerful than the law.

She listened attentively as the baker who was prosecuting the case—a florid-faced gentleman by the name of Pathington—railed against Widdy specifically, and all small scourges upon honest sellers in general. The urchin looked confused and desperate against that onslaught.

When the baker had completed an exaggerated recounting of crime, infamy, and a missing half-loaf of bread, it was Lord Justice who turned to Widdy. “What is your name, young master?”

Widdy swallowed. “Widdy.”

There was a pause. The clerk next to Miranda wrote the word, then looked up. “I beg your pardon, Your Worships. Is that his Christian name or a family name?”

Widdy looked beleaguered.

“Well?” the mayor said. “Speak up. Is that short for something?”

“Yes.” Widdy shifted his feet uneasily. A faint chuckle rose from the onlookers.

“Well, what for?”

“I don’t know. Me mam called me Widdy, back when.”

“And what is your mother’s name?”

Widdy looked away.

“Well, boy,” the magistrate in the lopsided wig thundered, “what is your mother’s name?”

Widdy shrunk in on himself. “People called her ‘Spanky.’”

The laughter rang out again, darker and just a little more cruel.

Lord Justice cast a quelling glance over the room. “What did she do?”

“She’s dead,” Widdy replied earnestly. “But she used to drink gin.”

The hearing room erupted at that. Lord Justice didn’t even crack a smile. “Do you have work? A place to stay?”

“I sweep streets, sometimes. I hold horses, when gentlemen go into the shops. That’s my favorite. Sometimes, I deliver billy-dos.”

“Billy-dos?” The mayor’s mouth quirked up.

“For ladies,” Widdy explained earnestly. “When they don’t want their words to be seen.”

Skew-wig reached over and nudged the mayor’s elbow. “I believe the boy is referring to billets-doux.” His mouth twitched in a self-satisfied smile.

Lord Justice cut his eyes briefly in their direction, and did not join in their merriment. “Did you take the bread?”

“No, sir. It wasn’t mine.”

“That’s what they all say,” Skew-wig said, shaking his head. “It’s his word against a respectable business-owner. I believe the man who doesn’t carry billy-dos about.”

That was as good an entry cue as any. Miranda took a deep breath, expelling all her fears. Then she reached out and tapped the clerk again. The man jumped, spattering ink, and then caught her eye. She pointed at Widdy, and the man coughed once more.

“Your Worships,” the clerk said, “there is a lady here who claims to have witnessed the whole affair.”

“Where is she?” the mayor asked.

The clerk jerked his head at Miranda. She felt as if she’d been thrust onstage: every eye in the room trained on her. She went from cold to too-hot before she took control of her nerves.

“Your Worships.” It was realistic to let the tremor of her hands show, to drop her eyes from the intensity of Lord Justice’s gaze.

“I saw the events in question. This boy merely watched.” Her words felt almost mushy in her mouth. She pitched her accent somewhere between aristocrat smooth and street-wary, with an added touch of broad country. She needed to hover on the brink of respectability. In this gown, she’d never manage wealthy.

Silence stretched as she kept her eyes on the floor. How many people had stood here like this, hoping for the best? A bead of sweat collected on her forehead. After a few moments—seconds really, although it felt an age—she dared to lift her eyes.

Lord Justice watched her, unblinking, one hand on his chin. If there’d been a hint of softness in his manner toward Widdy, it had evaporated at her appearance. Next to him, his colleague frowned in puzzlement.

It would be a mistake to let the stretching silence drive her to speak. That way lay babbling, and too much revelation altogether. She dropped her chin and contemplated the floor instead.

Lord Justice spoke first. “You saw the entire thing.” It wasn’t quite a question, the way he said it. Still, she bobbed her head in response.

Beside her, the clerk shuffled his feet. “Should she be sworn in?”

Lord Justice gave a negative wave of his hand. “What is your name?”

“Whitaker,” Miranda said. “Miss Daisy Whitaker.”

Her day-gown was serviceable muslin, one that a countrified girl might wear. He’d already taken note of her accent. He glanced to either side of her, and then scanned the room before raising one eyebrow.

“You are here unaccompanied,” he commented.

“My father is a farmer. A gentleman farmer. He’s here for market, and brought me along to town. It’s my first time.” Miranda ducked her head. “I didn’t think it was wrong to come. Was it?” She glanced up once more through darkened lashes, and willed him to see a headstrong girl from Somerset. Someone not used to being chaperoned at all times. Someone who might walk through fields by herself at home. She wanted him to see a foolish chit, so innocent that she believed going out alone in the city was no different than traipsing down a dusty lane.

“I had to come,” she added softly. “He was just a child. Your Worship.”

Lord Justice examined her a minute longer—as if she were a mouse, and he the owl about to swoop down and gobble her whole. “Where do you and your father stay?”

“The Lamb Inn.”

His gaze cut away from her. “Mr. Pathington, in what manner did Master Widdy remove the loaf of bread from your premises?”

The baker who’d made the accusation jerked his head up. “I—well—that is to say, I did not precisely see him take it. But there was no one else about. I saw him; I turned away for the barest of instants. I turned back, and the loaf was gone. Who else could it have been?”

Lord Justice tapped his fingers against the bench. “Precisely how bare was your instant?”

“Pardon?”

“Estimate how long you stood with your back turned. What were you doing?”

“Counting change for a half-crown, Your Worship.”

Magistrate Turner looked up and away, as if in calculation. “As much as a half-minute, then. You want me to punish this boy, who had no bread on him when he was apprehended, because you did not watch your storefront?”

Pathington flushed red. “Well, Your Worship, I wouldn’t put it precisely like that—”

Lord Justice jerked his head. “In my opinion, the charges have not been proven. Gentlemen?”

“Here now,” the mayor said, “Miss…uh, the miss over here has not delivered her testimony.”

Turner’s lips compressed. “No,” he said shortly. “But there is no need to hear it, as it is duplicative of what we can determine by reason. The lady”—he glanced sharply at Miranda—“need not expose herself.”

“You cannot be serious, Turner. Maybe the boy didn’t steal this particular loaf of bread,” the mayor said. “But surely he is guilty of something. Skulking about bakeries, carrying billy-dos. We can’t just let him go.”

Lord Justice turned to the mayor. Miranda had that sensation once again—that he could have been on a stage, so clever was his timing.

“How curious,” he finally offered. “Here I thought our duty was to decide if the charges before us could be proven. I recall the indictment most particularly, and yet I don’t remember seeing this boy charged with the illegal carrying of letters.”

The mayor flushed and looked away. “Suit yourself, Turner. If you insist on letting the rabble run free, I suppose I can’t stop you.”

A small smile touched Lord Justice’s lips. “You heard the man. Master Widdy, you are free to go.”

Miranda held her shoulders high, not daring to gasp. Still, relief flooded through her. Thank God. He’d not seen through her. This time, she’d scarcely had to talk with him. She’d survived. She felt as if she’d landed a double backflip atop a moving horse, and she could not keep from grinning.

But just as the babble in the room was beginning to grow, Lord Justice held up one hand.

“Miss…” He paused. “Whitaker, you said?” His lip curled.

Miranda’s apprehension returned in full force. “Yes, Your Worship?”

“The Lamb Inn is through the market. A woman shouldn’t walk down those mobbed streets unaccompanied. There are cutpurses loose. And worse.”

“If I leave now, Your Worship, I’ll be back before my father returns.”

He drummed his fingers against the oak bench. “I’ll see you to your lodgings, if you’ll wait a few minutes in the anteroom.”

Oh God. What a ghastly proposition. “Your Worship. I sh-shouldn’t take you from your duties.”

He sighed. “We are in complete accord on that point. Nevertheless.”

Before she had a chance to argue, he signaled and the clerk struck the gavel. The waiting crowd rose to its feet, and the magistrates stood as well. Miranda wanted to run. She wanted to shriek. But she didn’t dare draw attention to herself—not here, not with constables and magistrates both close by.

The clerk hopped to his feet and ran to open the rear door. The other judges turned and paraded out of the room, one in front of the other.

Turner was the last of the three to leave, his black robe swirling about him as if he were a herald of doom. But the clerk held the door open even after Lord Justice passed through, as if waiting for one last judge. And sure enough, from under the bench, a dog pushed to its feet and headed for the door. Miranda hadn’t seen it before; it must have lain quietly on the floor for the duration of the session.

The animal, a bit higher than her knee, was a mass of gray-and-white fur. It followed on Turner’s heels, as stately and ageless as its master. It paused when it reached the doorway, and looked back. She couldn’t even see its eyes through all that fur. Still, it felt as if the creature were marking Miranda, ordering her to wait until Lord Justice could see to her. She shivered, once, and the creature turned away.

Just her imagination.

And just her luck that His Worship had chosen today to show a gallant streak. She could not let him accompany her. There was no gentleman farmer, no comfortable inn. There was nothing but her cold garret waiting, and if he knew that the shining blond ringlets on her head were a wig, and her gown a costume…

Miranda swallowed. She didn’t need justice. She needed to get out of the room—and fast.


Unraveled