Wednesday, April 29, 2026

Picture Imperfect Destination Romance Book 1 by Kate Berberich

 

 


Can two imperfect people finally decide that they're perfect for each other?


Picture Imperfect

Destination Romance Book 1

by Kate Berberich

Genre: Contemporary Travel Romance


Bad girl turned heiress, Lacey Devere has a penchant for falling for precisely the wrong person. Her dad is determined to give her a fresh start, beginning with a luxurious European tour and a new camera to capture each perfect moment.

Dan Lewis is a modern-day highwayman traveling the world, relieving wealthy tourists of their excess cash and jewelry. He learned the hard way not to let anyone get too close.

Their heads are urging caution, but their hearts are being swept away by the glamour and romance of the dazzling cities they’re visiting.

 

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Dan checked his watch. Again. He ran a finger inside his shirt collar. The damn thing was custom-made. For what he paid for it, he should bloody well be able to breathe.

Stop fidgeting. Anyone would think you’d never worn a tux before.

Any number of appreciative glances assured him it looked outstanding—if he’d been in any state to notice.

“Relax,” Mr. Wilson advised from behind his ever-present newspaper. “My wife is well aware of the curtain time, and she won’t miss it for anything.”

“I feel like I ought to apologize for this,” Dan offered.

“Eh…Martha would have found an excuse to stuff me into this thing sooner or later.” Mr. Wilson—or at least his newspaper—shrugged. “It’s fine. Anyway, it’s good for her to have a pretty girl to fuss over. It takes her mind off…well…it’s good for her. This is better than one of those charity events. People expect me to talk at those things. And write checks. The seats at the opera house are extremely comfortable and if I get bored, I can take a nap.”

Dan let the subject slide. He’d done more in-depth digging online since they’d be spending the entire evening with the Wilsons. He knew what a day spent dress shopping and primping with a young woman would mean to Mrs. Wilson.

A flash of icy silver-blue caught his eye. Just like in Madrid, his mouth went dry, and he forgot to breathe for a moment. Also, just like in Madrid, he vowed to never again criticize his sister’s taste in movies. All that romantic hokum must have some basis in fact.

Lacey and Mrs. Wilson stepped off the elevator. The older lady wore a softly draped navy-blue gown with a glittering broach on one shoulder—a high-end fake, he guessed, since no one in their right mind would travel with a genuine piece of that scale.

But Lacey…unlike her usual bright-colored outfits, tonight she wore a frosty blue gown that shimmered when she moved. Her hair was swept up in an elegant knot, with a few loose curls framing her face. The entire ensemble somehow managed to be both demure and sexy at the same time.

Well, it was Lacey. Dan considered her sexy in sweaty workout clothes. He questioned the eyesight of anyone who did not.

Mr. Wilson folded his ever-present newspaper and swatted him with it. “Breathe, young man.” 


A Perfect Brew

Destination Romance Book 1.5



Dan Lewis is a man on a journey—and not just the summer tour of Prague. He’s escaping his past and embracing the sweetness of his new love and new career with equal fervor. But old instincts are strong. When his younger sister, who he’s taken care of all his life, joins them for her graduation trip, it stirs bitter memories of their history and all the things he did to keep them safe.


Lacey Devere is savoring every drop of summer, visiting romantic locales and reveling in long, steamy nights with Dan. She dumped her past mistakes down the drain and embarked on their bold new future together. However, she’s learning love is more than just sugar and cream.


Together Dan and Lacey learn true love means accepting your partner’s imperfections and blending the bitter with the sweet. And sometimes, the best family is the one you find for yourself.

 

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Dan sauntered into the hotel lobby, hand in hand with Lacey. A few paces in, she wrapped her free hand around his arm, slowing them enough for Dylan to get a few steps ahead. She rested her head against his shoulder and smiled at him. He grinned, watching his sister, frozen on the green and blue mosaic tile floor, staring around in open-mouthed wonder.

Honestly, he’d had the exact same reaction the first time he walked into this hotel. Almost forgot to look for security cameras. He found them easily now: main entrance, front desk, concierge desk, and elevator bank. A tinkling fountain marked the center of the two-story lobby. Potted palm trees created intimate corners, and armchairs and settees upholstered in soft blue velvet nestled among the greenery.

Dylan wandered over to the gleaming glass enclosure, stretching to the skylights. She touched her fingertips to the window and a peacock stirred and blinked its beady eyes at her. A moment later, it unfurled its glorious tail feathers and took a few mincing steps closer to the glass. She glanced over her shoulder at them. “Okay, now I understand why you do this. Wow. Just…”

“Wow?” Lacey asked, tugging Dan by the hand.

A uniformed bruiser Dan pegged as security frowned at Dylan’s attire, but then noticed her teal Dolce Vita wristband and subsided with a gracious smile and nod.

“Very wow.” Dylan flung her arms around Dan. “You’re the best big brother ever. Thank you.”

He kissed her temple. “You’re welcome.”

“Are they all like this? All the hotels you stay in?”

“Well, all the hotels the company uses are five or six stars, but this one’s pretty spectacular, even by their standards. Why don’t we get you settled, then we can walk around and explore the neighborhood a bit?”

“And find the nearest source of non-snack bar coffee?”

He rolled his eyes affectionately and steered her toward the shining brass elevators with filigree peacocks rendered on their doors.


A Perfectly Imperfect Holiday

Destination Romance Book 2



Lacey Devere is looking forward to her first holiday season with the love of her life. Unfortunately, her sister’s wedding wiped her out. But is it just stress? Or are she and Dan facing the prospect of another passenger on their new journey together?


Dan Lewis thought he had it all—a new legitimate career and an amazing woman he loves. But his beginning is off to a rocky start. A robbery took place on the last tour, and he has no alibi. Can he live down his past, or will his and Lacey’s first holiday season together be their last?


As the Christmas tour progresses through London, Amsterdam, Nuremberg, and Vienna, they’ll deal with everything from bungled reservations to lost luggage—as well as a couple of life’s biggest questions—with their trademark blend of humor and love. Most of all, they’ll figure out how to build a life together.

 

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They were staying at the “fairy castle” hotel again. The doorman bowed and a waft of spicey pine scent from the fresh greenery tickled Dan’s nose as they entered.

Christmas trees of various sizes adorned in shades of blue, white, and silver replaced the cream and pink floral displays from their previous stay. A majestic gingerbread castle held pride of place on a satin-draped display table in the center of the lobby—thankfully with no rampaging soccer fans to destroy it.

Tasteful instrumental holiday music played quietly over the sound system. Everything was neat and polished and in its place. An aura of peaceful late-night quiet prevailed.

The desk clerk smiled broadly and gestured to an enticing tower of pale blue and white macarons which stood on the front desk. “Gruss Gott.”

Gruss Gott,” Lacey replied, reaching for a cookie.

Dan adjusted his sling irritably. “Dan Lewis and Lacey Devere, with the Dolce Vita holiday tour.”

“Of course, sir. We understand from your hostess that one of your bags has yet to arrive. We took the liberty of prechecking you into your suite and having the remainder of your luggage delivered. Your bathroom is fully stocked with complimentary toiletries, but if there is anything else we can supply, please call and we will be more than happy to assist you.” He tapped a few keys on his computer, then slid a key pack across the counter.

Dan eyed it suspiciously. “You have our reservation?”

“Certainly, Herr Lewis. Dolce Vita travelers are among our most elite guests. We are delighted to welcome you and will of course do whatever we can to assist you with your stay.”

Dan still didn’t take the key pack. “And this is for a clean room?”

The bewildered clerk nodded.

“With no one else in it?”

Another nod.

“The door locks? And the world champion sports ball fans aren’t having a wild party on our floor?”

The clerk edged subtly away from the desk.

“The building’s not on fire?”

“Perhaps Herr Lewis would care to speak to the manager on duty?”

A security guard dressed in a dark blue blazer emerged from the back office. He nodded pleasantly while exuding a distinct aura of “don’t mess with me.”

Lacey laid her warm hand on Dan’s good arm and squeezed gently while offering a bright smile to the desk clerk. “I’m sure it’s fine. We’ve had…issues…with our accommodations this trip.”

The clerk stared at her wide-eyed. “Apparently so.”

“And on that note, the missing piece of luggage is my garment bag. It’s got my gown for the New Year’s Eve ball, so I’d appreciate a call whenever it’s delivered. The night manager can wake me up—I don’t care. I just want to know it’s safe.”

“Of course, Fräulein. Should you wish, our concierge would be happy to provide a list of fine clothing establishments in the area.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary but thank you. Are there any parcels for us?”

The clerk checked his computer. “Not at this time. Should any arrive, they will be delivered to your suite.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” She elbowed Dan.

“Yeah…thanks.”

****

Dan slumped onto a couch covered in elaborate ice blue brocade. His movements dislodged several slippery satin cushions, which tumbled to the floor. A Christmas tree decorated with shimmering blue glass baubles and white velvet ribbon swags stood in the corner. Glittering silver icicles tipped the branches. Fairy lights draping the tree and mantel cast a soft glow over the space.

Lacey returned from a walk-through of their suite and sat next to him, sending even more cushions cascading to the carpet. “Hey, guess what? It’s a nice clean room, with no one else in it, it’s a reasonable temperature, the doors lock, and there’s hot water. How’s that for a Christmas miracle?”

“It looks like a blue satin cushion factory exploded in here,” he grumbled.

“If they’d exploded, the room would be full of feathers, which it isn’t and please don’t give the universe any ideas. It has enough of its own.” She nestled into his side, filling his senses with hints of lavender and warmth. “It’s a beautiful room, we can sit on the furniture, and the tub is big enough for both of us.”

“And I can’t soak in it.”

You’re being a jerk. You realize that, right?

She rolled her eyes. “You can rest your arm on a towel on the edge. There’s lots of plush blue and white towels. The velvety kind.”

He snorted. “I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

She toyed with the buttons on his shirt. “You know, right this second, you’re reminding me of a very particular holiday character, and it’s not a flattering one.”

He exhaled explosively and sagged against the back of the sofa. “I’m sorry. It’s just…this whole trip, everything’s gone sideways.”

“And now we’re here in a lovely room and it’s almost Christmas and can we please just try to enjoy ourselves? Please?”


Perfect By Design

Destination Romance Book 2.5



Set amidst the magnificent architecture and Mediterranean sunshine of Barcelona, Dan and Lacey design their perfect future. No matter where in the world they travel, they know home is in each other’s arms. Together their love is as strong as a Gothic cathedral’s granite foundation, as whimsical as Gaudi’s bright-tiled dragon house, and as passionate as the Sant Jordi festival’s red roses. Now all they need is to escape a lonely nanny and her charge, and a womanizing architect long enough to settle a very important question.

 

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Dan lolled against the doorframe, watching Lacey. He never needed an excuse, but stretching up on her toes, running her fingertips along the top of a picture frame did very interesting things to the hemline of her little flowered sundress. Do I really get to have it all? The whole world, and her, too?

She’d scrunched up her face adorably, concentrating on the project at hand, and he had no willpower where she was concerned, so he strolled over and wrapped his arms around her tiny waist. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and pressed his lips to her pulse point.

“Babe? Whatcha up to?” he mumbled against her skin.

She relaxed into his arms and huffed a stray lock of hair out of her face. “The wallpaper design was giving me a headache, so I thought it would be easier to close my eyes and go by touch.”

He dropped a kiss onto the top of her blonde head. “Clever.” Her familiar scent of lavender and citrus, and something uniquely Lacey, enveloped him, heightening his senses. Have we got time to check out that bed? There’s gotta be a mattress somewhere under all those red brocade battering rams. Seriously, who thinks a stiff cylinder covered in scratchy material is a good idea for a pillow?

She wriggled around in his embrace and slid her arms around his neck. “This would be a really easy room to hide a mic or camera in. No one would look closely enough to try and find it.”

He kissed her forehead. “Except us.”

She grinned, then pressed up on her toes and kissed his chin. “Except us.”

He rubbed his thumbs over the thin material of her sundress. “And did you? Find anything, I mean?” He hadn’t, but one never knew. Hence the standard security check at every new destination.

“Not even a bit of dust. You?”

“Not a thing. Whatever we might think of the décor, the staff certainly takes good care of the place.” He tugged her a little closer. “And what else did you notice?”

“There’s a camera focused on the elevator bank, and the fire stairs are at the left end of the corridor.”

“Eight doors down.”

“Picky.”

“Hey, there was a night in Amsterdam—”

Lacey shuddered and burrowed against him. “Please don’t remind me.”

Okay…enough teasing. “How about some dinner? Barcelona has amazing cuisine.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Like what?”

He kept his tone carefully nonchalant. “Oh, all sorts of things—local seafood and game-”

“That’s code for things I won’t touch with a ten-foot fork.”

“What have you got against rabbit—”

“Eww! Rabbits are for cuddling, not eating!”

“They are here.” She cringed and made a gagging noise.

“Or squid?”

“Gross. Just gross.”

“So, we’re in one of the culinary wonderlands of the world and you’re gonna go look for a burger joint?”

“If I have to.”

“What could entice you to try a regional delicacy?”

“No bunny rabbits and no squid. I mean it!”

“How do you feel about snails?”

“How do you feel about sleeping on the couch?”

He eyed the stiff brocade monstrosity. “That couch?” The Chesterfield in question was upholstered in red, with a pattern worked in shiny gold thread. It made him itchy just looking at it from across the room. It looked as though a quarter would bounce right off. A good sofa invited you to sink into its cushioned embrace. That thing looked like it would snigger haughtily while he slid to the floor.

She smirked. “That couch.”

He shook his head in defeat and amusement. “Fine. You win…this time.”

She smirked up at him, her eyes sparkling. “I usually do.”

Oh, is that how it’s gonna be? Game on. “Let’s go find you a burger. But I will find something local you’ll like.”

“You can try.






I am an author with a penchant for writing about strong, sassy ladies and the men they love (and cats!). I have a background in historic and theatrical costuming. I live in New York with my cat, Miss Toby Toebeanz, and lots and lots of books.

Destination Romance is a modern day “lady and the highwayman” that follows the adventures of Lacey Devere and Dan Lewis as they travel the most glamorous locations in Europe. Picture Imperfect, A Perfect Brew, A Perfectly Imperfect Holiday, and Perfect by Design are currently available from your favorite retailer.

Falling for the Cat Guy is a sweet, small-town Halloween romance (with cats!) currently available in paperback and digital formats. The series is heavily influenced by real life cat rescuers. Mistletoe Kisses for Two, Ted and Hollyn’s Christmas romance, will be on sale November 2nd in paperback and digital formats.

You Otter be in Pictures is a small-town summer romance with a hint of spice, on sale now, in paperback and digital formats from your favorite retailer.

 

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Monday, April 20, 2026

Book Tour and Giveaway: Wind From the Abyss The Silistra Quartet Book 3 by Janet Morris

 


Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler ....

She is descended from the masters of the universe.

To hold her he challenges the gods themselves. 


Wind From the Abyss

The Silistra Quartet Book 3

by Janet Morris

Genre: Dystopian Epic SciFi Fantasy Romance



Dystopia. Fantasy. Science fiction. Allegory. Political.

 

Wind from the Abyss is the third volume in Janet Morris' classic Silistra Quartet, continuing one woman's quest for self-realization in a distant tomorrow.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler .... She is descended from the masters of the universe. To hold her he challenges the gods themselves.

 

Praise for Janet Morris' Silistra Quartet:

"The amazing and erotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow's universe." -- Fred Pohl

"Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure." -- Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine.

"The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is Janet Morris' Silistra series." -- Anne K. Kahler, The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine.

 

This Perseid Press Author's Cut Edition is revised and expanded by the author and presented in a format designed to enhance your reading experience with larger, easy-to-read print, more generous margins, and covers designed for these premium editions.

 

Wind from the Abyss starts with this . . .

 

"Since, at the beginning of this tale, I did not recollect myself nor retain even the slightest glimmer of such understanding as would have led me to an awareness of the significance of the various occurrences that transpired at the Lake of Horns, I am adding this preface, though it was no part of my initial conception, that the meaningfulness of the events described by "Khys' Estri" (as I have come to think of the shadow-self I was while the dharen held my skills and memory in abeyance) not be withheld from you as they were from me. I knew myself not: I was Estri because the girl Carth supposedly found wandering in the forest stripped of comprehension and identity chose that name. There, perhaps, lies the greatest irony of all, that I named myself anew after Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, who in reality I had once been. And perhaps it is not irony at all, but an expression of Khys' humor, an implicit dissertation by him who structured my experiences, my very thoughts, for nearly two years, until his audacity drove him to bring together once more Sereth crill Tyris, past-Slayer, then the outlawed Ebvrasea, then arrar to the dharen himself; Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of Nemar, co-cahndor of the Taken Lands, chosen son of Tar-Kesa, and at that time Khys' puppet-vassal; and myself, former Well-Keepress, tiask of Nemar, and lastly becoming the chaldless outlaw who had come to judgment and endured ongoing retribution at the dharen's hands. To test his hesting, his power over owkahen, the time-coming-to-be, did Khys put us together, all three, in his Day-Keeper's city -- and from that moment onward, the Weathers of Life became fixed: siphoned into a singular future; sealed tight as a dead god in his mausoleum, whose every move brought him closer to the sum total, obliteration. So did the dharen Khys bespeak it, himself. . ."

 

“Morris, so good at giving us characters we can identify with, characters we can love and hate, strikes at the very heart of the human condition and the duality of humanity — both good and evil. Her prose is lean and spot-on, every word carefully chosen to enhance the milieu of her imaginary world and advance the plot, giving us access to the thoughts, emotions and machinations of the people whose stories she is presenting to us. Once again, she gives us a “thinking man’s” science fiction/fantasy that explores the nature of power and sexuality, and how they can be used, misused and abused. This is a brilliant, mature and very adult novel that will not only leave you thinking about your own place in the universe, but questioning the very nature of existence.” – Goodreads reviewer

 

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I.In Mourning for the Unrecollected

 

The hulion hovered, wings aflap, at the win­dow, butting its black wedge of a head against the pane. Its yellow eyes glowed cruelly, slit-pupiled. Its white fangs, gleam­ing, were each as long as my forearm.
I screamed.
Its tufted ears, flat against its head, twitched. Again and again, toothed mouth open wide, it battered at the window, roaring.
Once more I screamed and ran stumbling to the far wall of my prison. I pounded upon the locked doors with my fists, pressing myself against the wood. Sobbing, I turned to face it.
The beast’s ears flickered at the sound. Those jaws, which could have snapped me in half, closed. It cocked its head.
I trembled, caught in its gaze. I could retreat no farther. I sank to my knees, moaning, against the door frame.
The beast gave one final snort. Those wings, with a spread thrice the length of a tall man, flapped decisively, and it was gone.
When the hulion was no more than a speck in the greening sky, I rose clumsily, shaking, to collect the papers I had strewn across the mat in my terror. They were the arrar Carth’s papers, those he had forgotten in his haste to answer his returning master’s summons.
I knelt upon my hands and knees on the silvery pile, that I might gather the pages and replace them in the tas-sueded folder before Carth returned.
Foolish, I thought to myself, that I had so feared the hulion. It could not have gotten in. I could not get out: It could not get in. Once I had thrown a chair at that impervious clarity. The chair had splintered. With one stout thala leg, as thick as my arm, had I battered upon that window. All I had accomplished was the transformation of chair into kindling. The hulion, I chided myself, could have fared no better.
Hulions, upon occasion, have been known to eat man-flesh. Hulions, furred and winged, fanged and clawed, are the servants of the dharen who rules Silistra. I had had no need to fear. Yet, I thought as I gathered the arrar Carth’s scattered papers, hulions are fearsome. Perhaps if I had been able, as others are, to hear its mind’s intent, I would have felt differently. My fingers, numb and trembling, fumbled for the delicate sheets.
One in particular caught my eye. It was in Carth’s precise hand and headed: “Preassessment Monitoring of the Arrar Sereth. Enar Fourth Second, 25,697.”
I had met, once, the arrar Sereth. Upon my birthday, Macara fourth seventh, in the year ’696 had I met him, that night my child had been conceived. I had read of his exploits. He frightened me, killer of killers, enforcer for the dharen, he who wore the arrar: chald of the messenger. Sereth, scarred and lean and taut like some carnivore, who had loved the Keepress Estri, my namesake, and with her brought great change to Silistra in the pass Amarsa, 25,695 — yes, I had met him.
I sat myself down cross-legged on the Galeshir carpet, papers still strewn about, forgotten, and began to read:
The time is approximately three enths after sun’s rising, the weather clouded and cool, our position just south of the juncture of the Karir and Thoss rivers. I highly recommend that you look in upon the moment.
The arrar Sereth, on the brindle hulion Leir, touched his gol-knife. It was the first unnecessary movement he had made in over an enth. My presence, alongside upon a black hulion, disquieted him. The brindle, gliding at the apex of its bound, snorted. He touched its shoulder, and the beast, obedient, angled its wings and began its descent.
When its feet touched the grass, he set it at a grounded lope. 1 followed suit, bringing my black up to pace him.
Sereth regarded me obliquely. I, as he, served the dharen, he thought, and touched his hulion to a stop.
We had been riding all the night, up from Galesh, where I had met him with the two beasts. He had served the dharen, most lately, in Dritira. And before that, in the hide diet, and before that upon the star world M’ksakka had he dealt death and retribution at Khys’ whim. And dealt them successfully, though those tasks had been fraught with deadlier risk than a man might be expected to survive. His thought was wry, recollecting.
“How did you find M’ksakka?” I asked, to key him, to bring something else above the impenetrable shield he has constructed. My hulion rumbled at the brindle he rode, and that one answered.
“I will make a full report to Khys,” he said, slipping off the hulion’s back. “Let us rest them.”
I joined him where he lay upon the grass, staring at the sky.
“I missed this land,” he said. “The sky there is dark and ominous, always cloudy. M’ksakkan air stings eyes and lungs. Everything is covered with a fine black dust. I would not go again off the planet.”
“Perhaps he will not send you,” I conjectured.
He saw M’ksakka, and that seeing was colored by his distaste, both for the world and the work he had done there. The methods he had employed displeased his sense of fitness. The value of the M’ksakkan’s death was to him obscure. I saw the moment: the adjuster’s surprised eyes, wide and staring as Sereth’s fingers closed on his throat, around his windpipe,·the M’ksakkan’s clawing hand upon his wrist as he ripped out the man’s larynx, vocal folds dangling; then the blood, spurting, and the sound of the adjuster’s choking death. And I saw others he had killed, those who were anxious to try their skills against a real live Silistran. He had been hesitant to do so, but more hesitant to face an endless line of their ilk, so he had killed the first three. Again, his thoughts sank below readable level. The hulions lay quiet, lashing their tails. The clouds scudded heavy over the sun. A soft, drizzling rain commenced.
“The dharen is pleased with you,” I said.
He sat up, his mind absolutely inviolate. “What do you want, Carth?” He stared down at me. I lay perfectly still. He made no attempt to read me for his answer. He merely waited.
“A first impression. You are coming up for assessment.” I rose up. “We want to get some sense of you. Your mental health is now our concern.” He ducked his head, ripping grass from the sward. “You brought child upon that well woman in Dritira,” I prodded.
He saw her. In many ways she had reminded him of the Keepress. It had been passes since he had taken a woman. On M’ksakka there were females, but nothing he understood to be a woman. He had not couched many of them. And in hide diet, there were only forereaders. In Dritira, with that woman who reminded him of the Keepress, he had spent his long-pent seed. Four times he had used her, before she was more than a receptacle in his sight. And he had abused her, more than was his custom.
“Get me the forms. I will collect my birth-price,” he answered. He did not want the woman.
“You should take her. We have been considering her. She might yet make a forereader.”
“Then it is a pity she caught. From inferior blood can come only inferior stock.”
“Khys has asked me,” I told him, “to bid you welcome to any of the forereaders we hold in common at the Lake. Spawn from such a union surely would be possessed of talent. The bitterness you hold is out of proportion to the reality. We all, at one time or another, find there is something we want that we may not have.”
He did not answer me, but rose and went to his hulion. He thought of the Keepress Estri as one thinks of the dead, with acceptance; and then thought of his own life, and what compromises he has made to keep it. What he let me know, I have no doubt, will please you. What he did not — that is what concerns me. He allowed me nothing else for the duration of our return.
His shield, as you will find, is set lower and much farther into his deeper conscious than any I have encountered. Most of his processing must take place behind it. Deep-reading him is out of the question. He visualizes barely enough to verbalize his will. That he is functioning superbly is attested by his works. That he feels it to his advantage to serve us at present is a certainty. I worry over what might occur should he choose, eventually, not to serve us.
My formal recommendation is for a complete and detailed assessment. Also, I feel some attempt might be made to pacify him, in light of what he is fast becoming. Or perhaps even to eliminate him, lest he become, like Se’keroth, the weapon turned upon the wielder.
And it was signed Carth.
“Carth!” I gasped, as a dark hand snatched the sheet from my grasp. Still upon my knees, I twisted to see him. His dark eyes gleamed. He ran his hand through his black curls.
“Did you find this informative, Estri?” he asked, towering over me, the paper crumpled in his fist. Carth was furious.
I dared not answer. I started to my feet.
“Pick these up!” he commanded, pointing.
I scurried to obey him, scrambling for the leaves strewn upon the web-work carpet, my stomach a knot. Once before, I had seen Carth this agitated, when I had written for him a certain paper. And he had called it audacious, and destroyed it. I finished, and rose to my full height, handing the tas envelope to him. My head came to his shoulder. He looked down at me, stern-faced.
“You were ill-advised to do this,” he said. “The dharen is not pleased with you. This” — he threw the crumpled sheet across the room — “will only aggravate matters. You had best make some effort to placate him.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded. “Has he taken some sudden interest in me?” I had seen the dharen precisely three times since I had come to reside at the Lake of Horns: the night he had gotten me with child, the day following, and once while I lay near death when the unborn had driven me to seek it. He had not been at the Lake of Horns when I bore his he-beast into the world. I had cried out for him during that premature and extended labor. He had been unavailable. Now, nearly eight passes later, he had returned.
“Do not be insolent!” Carth’s voice rasped as his palm cuffed my face to one side. Tears in my eyes, I put my hand to my cheek. It was what I had thought, not what I had said, that had brought me chastisement. Shaking my head, I backed away from him. Though I had known Carth a telepath, a surface-reader, rarest of Silistran talents, never had he shown his skills before me, one who neither spoke nor heard the tongues of mind.
“Estri, come here.”
I went to him, my hand trailing from my cheek to the warm, pulsing band locked about my throat.
When I stood before him, he lifted my face, his hand under my chin, so I must look into his eyes.
“He is very angry, child. You must realize that what you think is as audible to him as what you say. I know it was not malicious, that you read what you found. Forget it, if you can. Concentrate on what lies before you.” He patted my back, all the anger gone out of him.
“I do not want to see him,” I said, toying with the ends of my copper hair, grown now well below mid thigh.
Carth pursed his lips. “You have no choice. He will see you in a third-enth. Make ready.” And he turned and strode through the double doors that adjoined my prison to Khys’ quarters. Khys, my couch-mate, was again in residence. The dharen of all Silistra, back from none knew where, would again rule from the Lake of Horns.
Make ready, indeed, I thought, combing my hair. I had only the white, sleeveless s’kim I wore; thigh-length, of simple web-cloth. My jewelry was the band of restraint at my throat. I retied the garment upon my hips. Throwing my hair back, I regarded myself in my prison’s mirrored wall. My body, copper-skinned, lithe, only shades lighter than my thick mane, postured at me, arrogant. I had thought, for a time, that the he-beast had destroyed it, but such had not been the case. Exercise had given its grace and firmness back to me. My legs are very long, my waist tiny, hips slim. Pregnancy had altered me little. My breasts were still high and firm, my belly flat and tight. Good enough for him, surely. I widened my eyes suggestively, then stuck my tongue out at her. She made a face back. I grinned and wondered why I had done so, turning from the wall that ever showed me the boundaries of my world.





*Don’t miss the previous books in the series!**

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Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and published more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. She contributed short fiction to the shared universe fantasy series Thieves World, in which she created the Sacred Band of Stepsons, a mythical unit of ancient fighters modeled on the Sacred Band of Thebes. She created, orchestrated, and edited the Bangsian fantasy series Heroes in Hell, writing stories for the series as well as co-writing the related novel, The Little Helliad, with Chris Morris. She wrote the bestselling Silistra Quartet in the 1970s, including High Couch of Silistra, The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss, and The Carnelian Throne. This quartet had more than four million copies in Bantam print alone, and was translated into German, French, Italian, Russian and other languages. In the 1980s, Baen Books released a second edition of this landmark series. The third edition is the Author's Cut edition, newly revised by the author for Perseid Press. Most of her fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense and national security topics.

Janet said: 'People often ask what book to read first. I recommend "I, the Sun" if you like ancient history; "The Sacred Band," a novel, if you like heroic fantasy; "Lawyers in Hell" if you like historical fantasy set in hell; "Outpassage" if you like hard science fiction; "High Couch of Silistra" if you like far-future dystopian or philosophical novels. I am most enthusiastic about the definitive Perseid Press Author's Cut editions, which I revised and expanded.'

 

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Tuesday, April 14, 2026

A Giveaway and An Interview with Susie Black Author of the Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series

 

How did you get into writing your quirky, fun series?

Like the protagonist in my Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series, I was a ladies’ apparel sales executive. The most critical skill a sales executive must have to succeed is storytelling. Fortunately, I’ve been telling stories since I learned to talk. One thing I was told over and over as a sales executive was to know your product inside and out. I heard the same thing when I started writing cozy mysteries: write what you know. If you don’t know it, either do the research and learn it, or don’t dare to write it. Whether you’re an author or a sales executive, you’re selling yourself, and readers, like buyers, can sniff out a phony in a heartbeat. Then you and the story you’re telling are toast.

I came to write in the cozy mystery genre because I love solving puzzles. My parents would certainly confirm that I always asked a lot of questions. I am naturally curious (some narrow-minded people say I am nosy…go figure…LOL). So, writing mysteries was my natural next step. Since I’d never written a novel before, the only thing I knew to do was to apply the same storytelling skills I’d successfully used hawking bikinis to writing a tale. It turns out that how you present an apparel line is the same way you write a story. Both have a beginning, a middle, an ending, and a point of view.

Where do your story ideas come from? 

From the start of my career, I kept a daily journal that chronicled the quirky, interesting, and often challenging people I encountered as well as the crazy situations I’d gotten myself into and out of. The journal entries are the foundation of all my writing for the stories that comprise the Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series. With a dollop of imagination, a pinch of angst, and a decades-long career chocked to the gills with juicy characters, I had more stories itching to be told in my daily journal than time to write them.

Did you want to kill any of your clients? 

Who could push a sales exec to dream of murder and mayhem? Who else but a buyer?  After completing a rather challenging conversation with an important but difficult customer, I imagined how good it would feel with my hands around her scrawny neck, squeezing the life out of her. While the notion of knocking off my annoying buyers was wildly appealing, a horizontally striped prison uniform making my four-foot, eight-inch body look like a barbershop pole and a fire hydrant had a child wasn’t a pretty sight. The viable alternative? Writing humorous murder mysteries set in the Los Angeles garment center with a protagonist based on me. Brilliant and cathartic! In one fell swoop, eliminate a pain-in-the-patootie buyer, avoid life in prison, and still get the order. It doesn’t get any better than that.  

The Giveaway! 

With swimsuit season upon us, Susie is giving away her guided to the fearful Need a Swimsuit? Don't Panic. Comment on this post to receive this timely guide! 

What else are you doing?

More mysteries, of course! The Hannah White Mystery Series, to be specific.

Tell us about yourself! 

 

Named Best US Author of the Year by N. N. Lights Book Heaven, award-winning cozy mystery author Susie Black was born in the Big Apple but now calls sunny Southern California home. Like the protagonist in her Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series, Susie is a successful apparel sales executive. Susie began telling stories as soon as she learned to talk. Now she’s telling all the stories from her garment industry experiences in humorous mysteries.

She reads, writes, and speaks Spanish, albeit with an accent that sounds like Mildred from Michigan went on a Mexican vacation and is trying to fit in with the locals. Since life without pizza and ice cream as her core food groups wouldn’t be worth living, she’s a dedicated walker to keep her girlish figure. A voracious reader, she’s also an avid stamp collector. Susie lives with a highly intelligent man and has one incredibly brainy but smart-aleck adult son who inexplicably blames his sarcasm on an inherited genetic defect.

 Where can readers find you and your books?

Blue Sky: @hollysusiewrites.bsky.social

Facebook: https://facebook.com/TheHollySwimsuitMysterySeries

Instagram: Susie Black (@hollyswimsuit) • Instagram photos and videos

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/authorsusieblack-61941011

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/hollysusie1/

Substack: Substack Home -Susie Black

X: Susie Black (@hollyswimsuit) / X

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/susieblackwritescozies

Susie Black Books - BookBub

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21437641.Susie_Black

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21437641.Susie_Black

Contact Susie at: mysteries.authorsusieblack@gmail.com