My spirits lifted when I spied structures rising above the prairie. For the last three days, the landscape had consisted of uninterrupted cornflower skies above an endless sea of grassland. Occasionally, a wild cow had burst out of the greenery and trotted alongside the horses, before abandoning our company to munch on the juiciest shoots lining the roadside.
I grasped the seat as my boss snapped the reins, urging the horses to quicken their pace. The wooden wheels creaked, and the glass bottles in the back of the wagon chinked together, but Zachery didn’t ease up. Towns equalled business and Dr. Zachery Theopold Montgomery knew how to charm the purse strings open from even the most sceptical non-believers.
This place wasn’t like any of the other towns Zachery plied his lies. Most townships’ main thoroughfares consisted of churned sludge. A medley of mud and manure, with a few planks placed precariously over stagnant puddles. Dried splotches marked my breeches from where I’d previously stumbled into a knee-deep pothole filled with slush I hoped was only mud and water.
Up close, there were only a handful of buildings, but a freshly painted signpost declared we’d entered the township of Serratogha. The horses’ hooves clip-clopped on a smooth expanse of cobblestones. Pastel pink paint coated the hotel, tubs overflowed with rainbow-hued pansies and white roses entwined the veranda posts. I breathed in the floral scents. It sure smelt sweeter than any of the other places we’d passed through.
Laughter tinkled from above, and a feminine voice purred, “Theo, you old snake charmer, about time you came back for a visit. Ya’ll make sure you mark my dance card.”
A lacy handkerchief dangled out of another upstairs window. “Forget dancing, come and play tie-ups.”  
Zachery straightened and pushed his shoulders back, but the brass buttons on his red jacket strained across his chest and stomach. “Gals, no need to fight over me. I plan on being here for a few days, so plenty of time for us all to get acquainted.”
A blonde head peeked out a third window. “Don’t be shy. Bring your good-looking friend.”
Zachery’s ginger eyebrows arched as he coaxed the horses around the corner. “Shame on you, ladies. Harper’s a mere lad of fourteen.”
“Not for long. We’d make a man out of him.”
My cheeks reddened, and I slunk down on the wagon seat.
Window boxes, bursting with sunflowers decorated the stables, and the same shade of pink paint glazed the boards. As soon as we pulled up, two teenage girls, garbed in tight legged chaps, pink and white checked shirts, and cowboy hats darted up to the side of the wagon. Zachery climbed down and tossed the reins at the tallest girl.
One leather-gloved hand caught them. “Jersey-Jayne said for you to go on up to the bathhouse first, as she wants to discuss business. Daisy and I will see to your horses, and we’ll secure your wagon out back.”
Zachery flicked a couple of brass coins toward the other girl. “Young ladies, I’m much obliged.”
He unbuttoned his coat, stuck his thumbs inside his suspenders, and whistled as he pranced towards a third pink-frosted building. I scrambled after him.
Bells chimed on the door, announcing our entry. A placard on the wall listed the range of bathing services available at the ‘Squeaky Inn’. I wasn’t sure what they all meant, and the lowest price was more than I’d earn in a month. Back home, our mamma had insisted her seven children all bathe monthly. We had to share the tepid, murky water and I reckon sometimes I emerged filthier than before I took a dip in the tin tub.
Beaded curtains swished aside, discharging a fully grown woman. Under her pink cowboy hat, dark chocolate plaits swayed on either side of her doll face. Her checked shirt was unbuttoned, but hog-tied under her breasts, revealing a mountainous cleavage, and tanned midriff. Zachery licked his fingers and fussed with his ginger moustache, smoothing the ends until they resembled feline whiskers.  
She slipped her arm through his elbow. “Welcome to Serratogha. I’m Jersey-Jayne, Head Wrangler for the cowgirls. Come through, and let’s get you all cleaned up before we discuss business. My girls report that you specialize in elixirs that are beneficial for enhancing particular social activities.”
“You’re well informed, little lady.” He patted a bottle-shaped bulge in his jacket pocket. “Fortunately, I have brought some samples with me. May I be so bold to suggest we partake in a demonstration where we can mix business and pleasure?”
My face flamed, wishing I’d never agreed to be his assistant. I shouldn’t have left the family farm. Zachery turned to me and made shooing motions. “Harper, out back there’s facilities for the hired help. Go and wash up. I’ll see you at suppertime in the hotel.”
Outside I found tendrils of steam escaping from a trough of frothy water scented with lavender. I’d never had a bath all to myself before. No one was around, so I stripped off my stained clothes and slid into the water. Travel-weary muscles unwound, and I closed my eyes. Bliss.
“Is that a tattoo?”
A tidal wave sloshed over the side as I bolted awake. Daisy, the shorter stable girl, peered at the feather shape on my arm. I was thankful for the camouflaging layer of bubbles.
“No, it’s a birthmark.”
She pulled back her shirt sleeve and compared the tanned, but unblemished skin on her forearm against my cinnamon tones. “Are you from the Tribes?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never laid eyes on a native. Zachery mentioned he’d once taken one on as an assistant, but he didn’t last long as he was a drunkard. Reckons they’re all horse-thieving savages.”
Daisy shrugged. “I dunno about that. Anyways, I brought you some clean clothes and a towel.” She scooped up my discarded outfit. “If you want, when you’re done, I can show you around.”
I leapt out of the cooling water and scooted into the garments before she returned. They fit well and were of a better quality than the ones I’d been wearing. I wondered if I’d get to keep them. Zachery wasn’t fond of spending coins on anyone but himself.
Five minutes later, Daisy appeared. “Come on. Follow me, and I’ll show you the real Serratogha.”
A path, well trampled by many boots, cut through the tall grass and led away from the township. We threaded past corrals filled with cattle. Further afield, cowgirls on horseback steered herds of cattle in and out of the larger pastures. Ahead, smoke rose from several chimneys and mingled with the smell of manure. This settlement was much larger than the sugar-coated town we’d come from. There were over fifty dwellings, including a church, and trading post. Bright flags fluttered from posts, wind chimes swung in the breeze, and cow horns adorned gates.
Daisy grinned. “Most gentlemen visitors don’t know this place exists. They don’t tend to venture far from the bathhouse or the hotel.”
High-pitched giggles followed a horde of barefoot children who skipped around the houses. Their contrasting shades of hair and skin reminded me of my cavalcade of brothers and sisters. Annabel and Sue-Ellen, blue-eyed and fair, like our mother. Ginger curls and green eyes complimented Katie’s pale skin. The twins, Billie and Willie, sported light brown hair and hazel eyes. Jimbo was the spitting image of our Pa, with his darker shade of brown hair and grey eyes. And then there was me with my straight raven-hair and amber eyes.
One small boy with feathers threaded in his dark hair paused and stared at me. Amber eyes met amber eyes for a brief second before he raced off and joined his friends. The feather mark on my arm tingled.
“You sure you’re not part native?” asked Daisy.
Pa’s leaving words flooded my thoughts. Is this what he’d been hinting at? Could it be that he wasn’t my real father? And if he wasn’t, who was?
​

Vashti Quiroz-Vega is a writer of Fantasy, Horror, and Thriller. Since she was a kid she's always had a passion for writing and telling stories. It has always been easier for her to express her thoughts on paper.

She enjoys reading almost as much as she loves to write. Some of her favorite authors are Stephen King, Michael Crichton, Anne Rice, J.R.R. Tolkien, J.K. Rowling and George R. R. Martin.

She enjoys making people feel an array of emotions with her writing. She likes her audience to laugh one moment, cry the next and clench their jaws after that.

When she isn't building extraordinary worlds and fleshing out fascinating characters, she enjoys spending time with her husband JC and her Pomeranian Scribbles who is also her writing buddy.
​

Questions Readers Are too Afraid To Ask Me

Are you a devil worshiper, Satanist?

Absolutely not. My stories are not about the devil, he happens to be a character in one or two of my stories but the stories are not about him and even if they were it wouldn’t mean I was a Satanist.

Do you believe in God? The devil?

I believe in God and angels, so I believe that just like there are good entities there must also be evil ones. How can people like Ted Bundy, Tsutomu Miyazaki, Jack the Ripper, Ahmad Suradji, Adolf Hitler, Andrei Chikatilo among others exist if there wasn’t a devil?

Witches have gotten a bad wrap through the years. Remember the evil witch from “Hansel and Gretel” who snatches up children to eat? How about Bette Midler’s character in “Hocus Pocus”.

In real life, a witch can look like anyone else. To me a witch is simply someone who is aware of her own power and puts that power into action.

Are you a religious person?

That would depend on one’s definition of what being religious entails.  I believe in the Golden Rule, “do unto others as you would have them do unto you”. I’ve also added, “treat others like you would like others to treat your children, parents, spouse or friend.” If you would like others to treat your children with patience and kindness, be patient and kind to other children. If you want your elderly parents or grandparents to be treated with respect and dignity, treat every elderly person you come in contact with the same way.

I believe in doing good deeds and being kind and fair.  I don’t believe that going to a church every week or every day makes one a good person. Although there are many good people who attend churches, synagogues, mosques . . . there are also many self-righteous people who wear the facade of good, caring individuals when in fact they are nothing but selfish hypocrites with their own agendas.

I have no doubt that there are many lovely churches and temples with wonderful congregations but churches and temples are merely buildings. I’ve always felt closest to God surrounded by nature.

Why do you write?
Why does a person eat, sleep, or breathe? To live. That’s the same reason I write––to live.

Why do you write dark fantasy, horror, thriller?

These have always been the genres that I’ve been attracted to since I was a child.  We all have a dark side, dark thoughts. I believe writing dark fiction helps me purge the darkness inside me in a positive way.

Do you read only dark fiction books?

I’ve always loved reading fantasy (High, Epic, Dark), horror, thriller, and science fiction, but I have read books in other genres from time to time. However, since I joined the Rave Reviews Book Club I’ve read many books of different genres. I’m always surprised about how much I enjoy them and some of those genres have really grown on me.

Do you associate yourself with any of your villain?

As a matter of fact, I have at times asked myself, what is the opposite I would do in a certain scenario, in order to determine the villain’s next move. I have done research on serial killers, tyrants, and the criminally insane in order to come up with the personalities and traits of my villains. I’m not a perfect saint but I’m also not evil.

Some people have been offended by the way you portray angels and for writing new takes on heaven and hell. Does that bother you? What would you say to these people?

I probably wouldn’t say anything to these people but for the sake of the interview, I would first remind them that my books are not religious, non-fiction books they are fantasy fiction. Some people just can’t differentiate fiction from non-fiction, they believe everything they read and I consider that to be dangerous. I would also tell them that if they do not like my portrayal of angels then maybe they should write their own book depicting angels in the manner they feel is right. And lastly, I am neither the first nor the last author to write about angels and demons or to create my own version of heaven and hell. There’s “Inferno” by Dante, “Paradise Lost” by John Milton, “Eric” by Terry Pratchett, “The Screwtape Letters" by C.S. Lewis, “What Dreams May Come” by Richard Matheson and many more. I’m in good company.

Some people claim to be religious while knowing very little about their own religion. I’ve also discovered that the people that are truly religious and knowledgeable about the doctrine and scriptures in their faith don’t have a problem with my book or any book like mine, and many have actually enjoyed books like mine because they see them for what they are–works of fiction.

Do you believe in magic?

I believe in magick. The mind is a powerful instrument and people can achieve miracles with the power of positive thinking. You may call it prayer, faith . . . People have cured themselves from incurable diseases because they thought it possible. I have experienced both the power of positive thinking as well as the power of negative thinking. Positive thinking is like a spell of protection. Magick is about raising and directing energy to fulfill your intentions.

Are you a dark and moody person?

I have my dark moments like everyone else, I suppose. I do my share of brooding, but I do not consider myself a dark, moody or pessimistic person. On the contrary, I always try to see the glass half full. I have actually been accused of smiling too much or being too happy at times. I try to see the good in people because I believe there is good in most people. I don’t hold grudges. I rather confront someone who I believe has done me wrong and tell him or her how I feel because then I can move on and forget about it.

If there are any other questions you’d like to ask me please do so in the comment section below.​

Purchase Link & Social Media:
Twitter (VashtiQV):  http://twitter.com/VashtiQV
 
BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/vashti-quiroz-vega
 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Vashti-Q-Author-Page-396515670465852/
 
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Vashti-Quiroz-Vega/e/B00GTXG5W4/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1540242966&sr=8-1
 
Son of the Serpent: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07HS4C3B7/

​Thanks for supporting Author, Vashti Q. Vega on the release of her latest read, "SON OF THE SERPENT."  To follow along with her tour, please visit the CURRENT EVENTS page of the 4WillsPub site.   To book your own virtual 4WillsPub blog tour, please visit us HERE! ​

Charlie Whitehorse caressed the soft texture of the wool blanket as he gathered its folds around himself against the evening chill. He savored its earthy scent, unlocking an onslaught of memories. This wasn't just any blanket. Over three decades before, he'd watched his ama'sa'ni create this one from scratch. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his log cabin, gazing into the roaring fire, he recalled how he'd longed to hunt deer with his father and the other elders. But he was a child of seven, his job to help his grandmother, one of the tribe's weavers. The process of making blankets was long and tedious, one far too boring for a young Navajo boy who felt embarrassed and demeaned performing chores assigned to squaws.
Even now, he remembered every step. First, she'd shown him how to separate the shoulder sections of the fleece, which were the cleanest with the longest staple. After that, she'd instructed him how to prepare the raw wool for spinning. This involved teasing a few locks with his fingers to separate the fibers. Next came combing them with a pair of carders that looked like large, flat dog brushes, manmade imitations of the prickly teasel. Then he'd place the resulting bats in a reed basket, miniature clouds of fluff awaiting her skilled hand. Pure lanolin coated his fingers, making them squeak when rubbed together, its odor one he'd never forget. Nor how it softened callouses earned practicing with his bow. Often he couldn't work fast enough to keep up with her spinning, accomplished using a spindle to twist the prepared fibers into yarn.
Fortunately, once she spun enough yarn, his part became more interesting. Then he no longer had to sit for hours on end, arms aching from carding. Now he could explore a bit as he gathered the materials she needed to dye the yarn into a variety of warm colors.
The collection process for some substances required a knife or ax, which contributed to the feeling of it being a worthy task for a young brave. Bloodroot, hickory twigs, pokeweed berries, and oak bark were some of the things she requested. Among the most challenging were cochineal beetles which, when dried and ground into powder, would yield crimson. It could take an entire day to gather enough bugs for a single batch, but to both him and his ama'sa'ni, it was a day well-spent.
In fall, goldenrod blossoms were gathered to produce vibrant yellow, though color and intensity depended on various factors. When ama'sa'ni was ready to start the dye process, he'd haul water from either the iron-rich spring to the north side of their village for reds, or the alum-rich one to the east for the yellows, the resident minerals necessary for the fiber to permanently retain its color.
When she'd prepared sufficient yarn, Charlie helped her warp the loom constructed from tree trunks, then wrap the different color yarns on separate sticks that served as shuttles. Then, the best part--weaving--began. He marveled as she'd skillfully alternated shuttles, colorful geometric patterns emerging with each row of weft, until at long last their collective labors produced a finished blanket that was not only functional but a work of art.
Only now, as a grown man, did the wisdom of that experience impress itself upon his mind. Not only the work itself, but what it taught him about nature, going full circle from the vegetation the sheep ate to dyeing the yarn with some of those same plants. Yes, the process was tedious and long; yet the result was well worth it. It taught him patience, perseverance, and appreciation. For simple things. Like a blanket that felt softer to the touch each year, improving with use, unlike so many things that didn't last. Analogous to life itself. And old friends. A cherished cover that had kept him warm for what would soon be thirty winters, many of which were spent in the frigid Colorado Rockies.
His cultural roots demonstrated man was intended to be an integral part of nature; stewards, not conquerors. Unlike those who'd invaded their land, forced Indigenous population to settle in inferior regions, then even drive them from there, when a wealth of silver, gold, copper, and other minerals were discovered beneath what they considered sacred ground.
Rather than extracting and processing it in a way that honored the earth and showed gratitude for its abundance, they'd virtually raped the land, leaving gaping holes and tunnels behind. Some hundred-fifty years before, his people had sadly admitted defeat and had no choice but to tolerate such behavior.
Yet, their misfortune didn't end there. It was harvest time in 1869 when a band of drunken Whitemen raided the village, waiting until the tribesmen were away for the final hunt in preparation for winter. The invaders not only ravaged the women and burned their homes, but stampeded the horses that remained in camp. A few young braves, not yet old enough to join the hunt, had attempted to save the steeds, only to be driven by a hoard of deranged miners over the edge of a cliff to be decimated in the ravine a hundred yards below. Charlie recalled when he'd first heard the story as a youth and how he'd imagined himself as one of them.
Was it any wonder that when the tribesmen returned and found the resulting devastation that their medicine man, likewise a shaman, cursed that canyon?  So far, however, the Whiteman had continued to benefit from exploiting and abusing the entire area. Perhaps the dawn of the curse resided in the aftermath of the leaching and other processing methods used to extract the precious metals. These involved noxious substances such as arsenic and mercury. Their residue poisoned the ground and eventually migrated to nearby streams when abandoned mines filled with rain and snow melt. The toxic drainage eventually killed all aquatic creatures and drove away wildlife that depended upon such channels for drinking water.
The mines were mostly exhausted, yet water continued to accumulate in their cavities. The latest bitter irony that they were using the excavations' polluted aftermath to further devastate the ground. The acid mine water was being used for hydraulic fracturing, commonly known as fracking, again dishonoring the earth while stealing from its depths.
It was easy for Charlie to question whether or not the curse was real. So far it was questionable, no apparent consequences answered upon those who had wreaked so much destruction for the sake of greed. Only the earth and local wildlife had suffered.
Local tradition dictated that the curse would manifest in its entirety when their actions reached the pinnacle of evil. After that, it would dissipate, but only when the Whiteman and his Indigenous brothers mended their ways; when they closed the persistent rift between them in friendship and cooperation. Unlike many, he was one of the few who had tasted of such sweetness with his friend, Bryan Reynolds. They'd met in their teens, when Charlie had moved north to live with his father in his male parent's native Cheyenne country. Oddly enough, the two boys even shared the same birthday, spending dozens of adventurous summers together, exploring, hunting, fishing, and growing up in separate cultures, yet being of one heart.
But now Bryan was dead. His life terminated in that very ravine known to his people as Dead Horse Canyon. Charlie suspected his friend's tragic accident had been orchestrated by those to whom the curse had been directed. Yet so far, no guilty party had been identified, much less suffered due consequences. It didn't make sense. Seven generations has passed. Surely it was time. And intuition assured him fulfillment was in progress.
But why Bryan? Why now? And what, if anything, was Charlie's role?
The blanket's warmth enjoined him to patience. From that first bat of carded wool to its liberation from the loom, it had comforted and instructed him in the ways of life. Legend assured him that the curse would end. Soon. And in some way, currently unknown to him, he would be part of it.
​

Amazon reviewers posted these 5* reviews:​

Shiloh broke off an icicle from the tree behind which she’d taken shelter and yanked off her glove with her teeth, then grabbed the ice in her bare hand.  With this makeshift wand, she harnessed the power of water to cast a shield of protection around them, one which allowed the curses from Hatch and Perce to pass through unimpeded.  The arrows of the Feralfolk, meanwhile, didn’t simply stop dead upon hitting the ward; they turned and sped back toward their points of origin, betraying those who’d loosed them.
Silas threw his head back and fairly cackled in delight when he realized what she’d done, then continued to cast his curses.  The rest of the men stood up now that they had no further need to fear incoming projectiles, save Gil who lay bleeding in the road.
                                                                ***********
Shiloh opened her mouth to scream an alarm and leapt in front of the man just as a curse left his wand.  She felt the hex collide with her chest, tossing her well above the railing. 
Time seemed to slow.  She watched her silk slipper fall from her foot and glide through the air, ribbons trailing behind.  Pain spread through her torso as she plummeted toward the aisle dozens of feet below. 
Mercifully, she lost consciousness before she met the marble floor.
                                                               ************

“Where are you taking me?” she asked plainly.  “Am I really going to the Academy?”
“Yes,” he answered.  “You will be educated with pure-blooded noble children and your fellow mixed-blooded illegitimate offspring.  Your power is too great to be managed at a monastery, or else you’d just be tossed into holy orders like most of us.  If Brother Edmun was correct in his assessments, you will be one of the greatest sorcerers at court for the rest of your many comfortable days.”
“Because if you're planning to kill me, this is the place I would choose,” she continued, as though he’d said nothing.  “It’s pretty here.  I'd prefer my bones rest in my own land, close to my Da and Brother Edmun, if it's all the same to the king.”​

Want to read more? Then grab your copy from Amazon! 

An online book club I belong to (#RRBC) challenged its members to enter the Alpha-Omega writing challenge and produce from scratch as many short stories as they could within 3 months. All entries had to be available on Amazon by the 2nd July (I made the deadline by 10 hours - phew!).

​I used this exercise to experiment with some new genres under my pen name Wendy Jayne.

Tequila Rose Virginity Blues is set in my home town of Hokitika, New Zealand.
​(Contemporary / Romance / Comedy)
Tequila Rose may have met the man of her dreams. Unfortunately, she wakes up suffering from alcoholic amnesia and doesn’t remember anything about the night before. Tall, dark, and Jack may be the cure her jaded heart desperately needs, but Tequila’s wary as friends warn her that Jack hangs out with the local drug dealer. Thrust together at a Speed Dating event, their chemistry sizzles, but is Jack after a different kind of fix?

Hexed: A Purr-fect Catastrophe.
​(Paranormal Romance Comedy)
A year ago, an unknown assailant heart-hexed Cassidy. Covertly, she’s used her witches’ powers seeking a counter spell, but to no avail. The year of enforced celibacy is grating on her sexual nerves. Cassidy’s situation worsens when she falls for the very sexy warlock, Hunter Rutherford, but must keep him at arm’s length. Sparks fly when they kiss, but these sparks are the type that burn.The only way they’ll be able to consummate their relationship is by finding who cast the hex and convincing them to remove the curse. 

Feeders: Madeson Reid, PI.
​(Futuristic / Paranormal / Vampires / PI)
Madeson Reid, PI, is tracking a killer, but her suspect isn’t hiding in LA’s underworld. Voted the sexiest vampire of 2078, Gideon, is the nation’s most popular reality TV show star. Stripped of her laser blasters Madeson navigates the fusion of sub-cultures now populating downtown LA to find the truth. The city’s a volatile mix of humans, vampires, and robots. Her investigation plunges her into the political turmoil of the Vampire Rights Campaigners; who ask the question, “What defines us as human?”

​Your review on Amazon would be greatly appreciated.

Happy Reading,
​Wendy xxx​

Legend of the Walking Dead: Igbo Mythologies is a journey into the mysteries of life and death of the Igbos of Nigeria. The book draws readers into the Igbo people’s ancient and traditional beliefs about life and death.

There is a very thin line dividing the land of the living and the land of the dead, so thin that spirits from both lands coexist. Sometimes, during the story, it is difficult to differentiate between the living and the dead. Both have bodies; the living existing in their bodies, while the dead exist in (are using) borrowed bodies.

Fifteen-year-old Osondu has disappeared. His mother goes searching for her son and faces the same fate. She too goes missing.

The gods are ever present, in control, and minister to both the living and the dead. This is because the gods minister to the spirits, not the bodies that harbor them. To the gods, the spirits of both the living and the dead are ever alive.

The world of the traditional Igbo society is a world in which the dead visit and interact easily with the living. It is also a world in which most of the time the living are at the mercy of the gods. 


​Author:  
​Joy Nwosu Lo-Bamijoko​
​​

 
​Amazon Reviewer. lcr, rated Fantasy Prompts 5*:
'Fantasy Writing Prompts is the latest book in this wonderful collection. It is brilliant for children of all ages (including the adult sized ones) and has prompts for everything from hobgoblins to Dragon poo ... what more do you need? Just add imagination and away you go.'

The planet Rak Shoma, has several continents. Maevens Ash and Orm have graduated from the magic school on Laktu. With her silvery purple hair Ash stands out from her peers. The two young maeven travel to other continents to search for Ash's parents by riding on a mechanical carriage.
They arrive at​ Stavmo, a country based on steam. Stavmo is run by a dictator who ordains everyone must have red hair. Those without this color hair, and anyone else who goes against him, vanish into the mines or are thrown into the volcano.
Steam cars, whirlybirds, and small appliances, even guns, are all powered by steam. A huge factory has toxic smoke billowing into the air, and only the rich are able to escape the smell by living on the opposite side of town.​
The magical pair make friends with the rebels and try to help them fight for their rights, but in doing so they get separated and place themselves in danger.

Buy Links: 
Paperback:  Amazon
Kindle:  Amazon
Other ebook formats:  Desert Breeze Publishing 
Author webpage: Sue Perkins
Facebook: Sue Perkins, Author ​