The Crown of Moonlight by Martina Boone blitz with giveaway
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The Crown of Moonlight
Martina Boone
(The Five Crowns, #1)
Publication date: November 11th 2025
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance
She’s the Highlander who saves his life with forbidden magic. He’s the immortal stranger who falls first—one healing touch, one fierce kindness at a time.
A romantic fantasy inspired by Scottish history, where the land itself is magic and chooses a woman as its champion.
Flora Domhnall is the last of her line: a healer, a strategist, her clan’s only defence in a war neither side can win. When she finds a dying immortal warrior in her woods, saving him is a terrible risk. But if he dies on her land, her clan will pay the price.
Her choice binds her fate to his.
Chyr has spent four centuries chained by the oaths carved into his flesh—oaths that read his every thought. Violence and honour are all he knows, and Flora’s brave, impossible mercy breaks him open.
Hunted across the burning Highlands, they can rely only on each other. Their longing grows with every mile they share a saddle, every sacrifice made in silence, and every night they guard each other in the dark.
He’s hopelessly fallen. She’s fighting not to fall.
Then the ancient sovereignty magic of the Cailleach Queens awakens in Flora—and marks her as something the world hasn’t seen in four hundred years.
And Chyr’s oaths may demand he destroy the one person he can’t bear to lose.
For her, he’ll try to break his oaths. Even if it kills him.
From award-winning author Martina Boone, The Crown of Moonlight is a mythic Celtic romantasy perfect for readers who love the haunting historical romance of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, the soul-deep yearning of Rebecca Ross, and the dark, aching magic of Rachel Gillig’s One Dark Window. The first book in a sweeping series about ancient crowns, impossible oaths, and a love that must survive betrayal, war, and the gods themselves.
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EXCERPT:
Flora
My knees shake as I crouch beside the nearest Ever, and a hot flush of magic ripples across my skin. More magic than I’ve ever felt. But that’s not the only shock. Although the ancient tales talk about the beauty of the Everfolk, seeing it in front of me makes my breath catch.
The Ever is handsome in a way that explains the warnings in the ancient stories—the blinding, dangerous sort of beauty that’s said to make humans lose their will and descend into madness. His features are too eerily perfect, his black hair has the gleam of raven’s wings, and the blue eyes that look unseeingly into the sky catch the light like layers of stained glass, revealing more colours the deeper I look.
His sightless stare unnerves me, and I brush my fingers across his lids to close them. The skin is still warm. I flinch from the contact, and my hand grazes a pale-blue crystal set in a ring on his right hand.
A jolt of pure power jars me as I touch it—so hot and bright that it pulls an answering flare from the ember of magic that burns inside me. Snatching my hand away, I wait for the sensation to ebb. But I miss it when it’s gone. My magic misses it, which makes no sense since my magic isn’t Ever magic. Careful not to touch the ring again, I bend closer to examine the crystal set within it. There’s movement inside, gold threads of magic dancing like lightning behind a thin haze of cloud.
The movement is mesmerising, holding me captive a moment too long after Ari snorts and stomps his foot. By the time the thud and the jingling of his bridle finally register, his muscles are braced as he uses his back to pull harder against the reins that tie him to the tree.
Then a twig snaps somewhere close. Behind me? To the left?
I spin around, searching. But there’s nothing. No one.
Well, I refuse to play this game.
“Who’s there? Come out and show yourself instead of hiding like a coward.”
The Wood falls unnaturally still. Then shadows stir beneath an oak tree to my left.
“I know you’re there,” I say, gripping the dagger tighter.
A voice answers me from the shadows. “Careful, little one. Taunt the things you fear, and you might just prove you were right to be afraid.”
The voice is male—slow and resonant, pitched between a growl and a cat’s deep purr. A predator’s voice, claws barely sheathed.
A shiver of awareness ripples down my spine. I draw on the cool, gritty power of the earth and fuse it with the fire that burns inside me. Needles of magic rake through bone and tissue as I force it outward, pouring it into the dagger. The blade groans, lengthening and thickening until it becomes a perfect replica of my father’s sword and rests cold, heavy, and steadying within my grasp.
An Ever steps forward, his figure cloaked in gloom, footsteps whispering over the frost-crusted moss. He’s larger than the bodies behind me seemed, taller and broader, his features carved in bold strokes beneath gilded hair that’s tied half-up in a warrior’s knot and reveals a widow’s peak. He looks gaunt, worn down, though power and command still radiate from him. He’s every bit as beautiful as the others—and devastatingly male.
He watches me with a faint, treacherous smile. “You can put that illusion away,” he says. “You’re lucky I didn’t mistake it for a threat.”
“The sword is no illusion,” I say, “and the threat is no mistake.”
Author Bio:
Martina Boone is the award-winning author of romantic fiction set in magical places. Her books blend lush writing, strong heroines, wounded heroes, atmospheric landscapes, history, folklore, family secrets, and magic woven through the ordinary world. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found traveling, reading, studying history and folklore, wrangling wildflower meadows, or playing with Shetland Sheepdogs and tuxedo cats.
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For Liberty and Love by Shanna Hatfield blitz with giveaway
**This post contains Amazon affiliate links which will allow me as an associate to earn a small commission on any purchase made through the link of the products I share. This commission in no way changes the pricing of any items for the buyer.**
For Liberty and Love
Shanna Hatfield
(Petticoats & Patriots, #1)
Publication date: June 16th 2026
Genres: Adult, Historical Romance
Courage built a nation. Love made it worth fighting for.
Throughout 250 years of American history, a well-loved locket finds its way into the hands of eight spirited heroines—each standing at the crossroads of love and destiny, and each inspired by a true patriot. As it journeys from one heart to the next, these stories unfold with sweet romance, unwavering hope, and a deep love of country, proving that even in uncertain times, love is always worth the risk. Start reading the Petticoats & Patriots series today!
She never intended to become a spy … or fall for one.
Philadelphia, 1776
As whispers of revolution turn swell into a roar for freedom, Lucy Carlson is no longer content to simply watch from behind the counter of her father’s jewelry shop. When a mysterious woman—none other than Martha Washington—leaves behind a locket, Lucy discovers the piece is more than a pretty keepsake. The necklace is a secret vessel for the revolution that carries the promise of love.
Drawn into a dangerous spy ring, Lucy begins crafting coded messages concealed within the locket’s clever design, living a secret double life and risking everything she holds dear in a time of sacrifice and war.
Continental soldier Branch Barton is a man defined by duty. Tasked with rooting out traitors, he moves through the shadowed world of deception and divided loyalties. He’s trained to trust no one, yet he finds himself drawn into a slow-burning connection with the jeweler’s spirited daughter.
But when Lucy begins to suspect Branch may be a Redcoat in disguise, their fragile bond is tested by mistaken identity, growing mistrust, and the threat of betrayal.
In a war where even allies can become enemies, Lucy and Branch must navigate a world of hidden truths and guarded hearts. With the fate of the colonies—and their hearts—hanging in the balance as Lucy delivers a message in enemy territory, will they find the courage to trust each other and choose love?
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EXCERPT:
Lucy rushed into the shop and drew up short at the sight of the man who had stood across the street earlier, leaning against her workbench. Despite being so taken aback by his presence, she couldn’t help but admire his muscular form and his handsome features.
When he removed his cocked hat and nodded politely, her gaze fell on the sun-kissed golden hair of his head, traveled down to expressive brows that raised slightly at her perusal, and hesitated at soulful eyes the color of moss caught in a beam of sunshine. His full lips and defined jawline added to his masculine allure. As he straightened and stepped toward her, she had the fleeting thought that he moved with strength and purpose, as though he was in full control of himself and his surroundings.
“Hello, Miss Carlson,” he said in a soft, deep voice that made Lucy’s knees feel unexpectedly weak.
Or perhaps the weakness came from realizing she’d stupidly left the ledger open and out in plain sight for anyone to read the entries. Not that she nor her father had anything to hide, but she didn’t think the tall man with a commanding bearing had any right to know who purchased merchandise in their store.
“May I help you, sir?” Lucy asked in a crisp tone as she strode behind the workbench, closed the ledger, and slid it onto the shelf where her father kept it.
“I came to retrieve something my…” He hesitated just long enough for Lucy to grow suspicious of his intentions and motives. “… aunt left here. A pair of gloves. Aunt Patsy sent me to retrieve them.”
Lucy could have easily handed over the gloves, which were sitting next to her tools just inches from where she stood, but she didn’t. Surely, he had to know she’d seen him lingering across the street, watching for Patsy.
Did the man mistake her for a complete dunce? Or did he think his attractive features and a voice that rumbled like a summer thunderstorm wrapped in velvet would leave her so captivated that she would bow to his every whim and wish?
Affronted, she stiffened and lifted her chin. “I will give … Patsy the gloves when I next see her. If that is not her preference, then please bring a note from her to indicate otherwise.”
“I assure you, Miss Carlson, I mean no harm. My aunt was quite distressed to realize she’d misplaced her gloves. They were a gift from someone quite dear to her heart, and it would be a tragedy for her to lose them.”
“And I assure you, Mister …” She paused, since the man had failed to introduce himself.
“Barton. Burwell Barton at your service,” he said with a bow, then offered her a boyish grin that caused her stomach to flutter. “But my friends call me Branch.”
“Branch,” she repeated, wondering if the name had anything to do with the series of barely noticeable moles on his left cheek that were shaped like a curved tree branch.
As though he could read her thoughts, his fingers brushed over his cheek. “A mark from birth, I suppose. Now, may I please have my aunt’s gloves?”
Lucy shook her head. “No, you may not. I intend to place them into her hands myself, sir. Now, unless I can interest you in a set of buckles or perhaps a snuff box, then I’ll have to ask that you depart. My family is waiting for me.”
“My apologies, Miss Carlson.” He backed toward the door. “My intent was not to insult or upset anyone.”
“Yes, well, I …” When she looked up into his face and caught him smiling, it was as though all the words she’d planned to say fell back down her throat. Mercy, but he was handsome with those sharp cheekbones and a bottom lip that seemed designed for passionate kisses.
Passionate kisses? Heavens above! What was she thinking? For all she knew, this man could be one of the king’s spies.
Author Bio:
USA Today Bestselling Author Shanna Hatfield writes sweet romances rich with relatable characters, small town settings that feel like home, humor, and hope.
Her historical westerns have been described as “reminiscent of the era captured by Bonanza and The Virginian” while her contemporary works have been called “laugh-out-loud funny, and a little heart-pumping sexy without being explicit in any way.”
When this farm girl isn’t writing or indulging in rich, decadent chocolate, Shanna hangs out with her husband, lovingly known as Captain Cavedweller. She also experiments with recipes, snaps photos of her adorable nephew, and caters to the whims of a cranky cat named Drooley.
To learn more about Shanna or the books she writes, visit her website http://shannahatfield.com or find out more about her here: linktr.ee/ShannaHatfield
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Night Home by Rose Titus blitz with giveaway
**This post contains Amazon affiliate links which will allow me as an associate to earn a small commission on any purchase made through the link of the products I share. This commission in no way changes the pricing of any items for the buyer.**
Night Home
Rose Titus
Publication date: December 2nd 2017
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Thriller
When Muriel Aubrey inherits an old house in a small town, she imagines that moving into the rural community will be deathly dull. But the old house once belonged to her eccentric granduncle, a professor who was said to be researching something very mysterious and unusual before his untimely death. While exploring the slightly rundown Victorian age home, she finds the research notes that had been hidden away and discovers that the professor was researching vampires.
It isn’t long before Muriel meets residents of the small town who knew the professor almost a century ago, and that everything he wrote in the notes he kept is true… And she suddenly finds herself stalked by a vampire hunter.
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EXCERPT:
There was the usual convenience store stuff on the rack: Tabloids, celebrity gossip, fashion magazines, newspapers. The store sold lottery tickets, junk food, candy, beer, a few grocery items, even a few small appliances. She noticed the guy who owned the place was watching her. It made her nervous. Not because he watched her, but because he was so pale. He did not look unhealthy. It was like he just never got out into the sun.
“You must be the new girl.”
“Huh?” She spun around to face him.
“You’re new in town. You just moved into that old house.”
“H-how do you know?”
“Well, how could I not know? I live across the field and saw the light was on for the first time in a long time.”
“Oh,” she felt silly. “Yeah. That’s right. I’m new in town. The house will need some work, but it’s not really that bad. My eccentric old uncle owned it a long time ago and—”
“I know. Professor Aubrey. He was a good man,” there was sadness in his voice.
“Yeah, that’s what they say—” how the hell would he know if he was a good man? This guy looked no more than thirty. The old guy had been dead for at least since 1936, according to the old newspaper clipping.
“Elton.” He seemed to smile as he introduced himself. “Elton Masaryk.”
“Muriel Aubrey.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
She went up to pay for the magazine she picked.
“You let me know if you need anything over there, all right? I live just across the field. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. Really.”
“Thank you.” She went for the door but turned around. “You sound as if you know something about Professor Aubrey?”
He hesitated. “A little. Why?”
“He was related to me, but I hardly know anything about him. I heard he was murdered by his colleague from the University and—”
“Yeah. That’s right. The same guy who murdered your uncle also killed three other people too. They gave him the chair. Bastard deserved it.” But then he was silent. He was beginning to sound as if he knew more than he could tell. As if it still angered him somehow. “Oh well.” Then he went silent.
“Okay. Thank you.” She left. She returned home as the sky began to brighten, and finally slept.
Author Bio:
Rose Titus resides somewhere in cold, dreary New England with two manipulative cats and a very out of date computer with which she creates horror and fantasy fiction. She also has a restored classic Buick to ride around in while in search of adventure.
For travel she has stayed the night in an allegedly haunted castle, has taken a boat ride on Loch Ness, and has visited the Bermuda Triangle — without getting lost.
Her work has previously appeared in Lost Worlds, Lynx Eye, Bog Gob, Mausoleum, Weird Terrain, Descend, The Dead River Review, and other literary magazines. She also writes regularly for Blood Moon Rising Magazine.
When she’s not working or writing or messing with her old car, she waits by the mailbox for her Fortean Times to arrive.
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Makerborn by Daymon Ashcord blitz with giveaway
**This post contains Amazon affiliate links which will allow me as an associate to earn a small commission on any purchase made through the link of the products I share. This commission in no way changes the pricing of any items for the buyer.**
Makerborn
Daymon Ashcord
(Maladies of Empire, #1)
Publication date: June 15th 2026
Genres: Adult, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy
The God War is over. An empire built on suffering, slavery, and betrayal remains…
In the fractured lands of the Salvian Empire, the Great Houses rule through blood and fear. For years, Alandra Phoenyka has hunted powerful Sonomancers in the empire’s name, paid in empty promises that her stolen daughter would be returned. Each step forward demands another compromise. Another betrayal. Another piece of herself lost.
When those promises turn to treachery, she is forced to take matters into her own hands and risk everything to reclaim her child.
In the empire’s mining camps, Bez Windstrider has endured years of torture and brutal experimentation. Broken but unyielding, he clings to one purpose: vengeance. The men who murdered his parents will pay, and their deaths will complete the ritual needed to free his parents ’souls from damnation.
But the deeper his grief cuts, the more he becomes something far more dangerous, for himself and for the empire.
As their paths draw closer, the buried truths of the God War begin to surface. What begins as two personal vendettas threatens to unravel something far greater than either of them can control.
Because empires do not fall quietly.
And the gods that shaped them are not as dead as they seem.
Makerborn is the first book in the Maladies of Empire series, a brutal epic dark fantasy of vengeance, sacrifice, and the cost of love.
For readers of dark, character-driven epic fantasy in the vein of Joe Abercrombie, Mark Lawrence, R.F. Kuang, Evan Winter, and Steven Erikson.
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EXCERPT:
Chapter 2
A Son’s Vengeance
Bez woke in darkness, deep in a pit, having failed his parents yet again. The night air was heavy and damp. The acrid stench of feces had lessened, but his nose still burned with the stink of decay. He felt like he would never wash the smell from his body. What does it matter now?
The moist earth offered scant relief from the Southern Waste’s merciless heat. Sweat slicked his body. His skin felt on fire, reminding him of how the Salvians slowly roasted meat on spits. He pinched his right nostril and blew out a thick wad of phlegm.
How long? How squalling long have they left me down here to rot?
He traced fine grooves in the earthy wall of his cage with long, dirty fingernails. Twenty-seven days he’d scratched before he’d given up counting. Then the real fun began. Weeks of wading in his own shit like a rutting hog once the pit guards had stopped retrieving his privy bucket. Weeks more of starvation when the obvious solution to avoid living in a hog pen penetrated his addled mind: no food, no feces. His only companions were self-pity, nightmares, and maggots gorging on his noxious filth.
And the moans of indentured miners, likely years past their freedom date, and Collared All-Tribe—his people—drifting down in his dirt tomb.
“Water,” cried a pit prisoner.
“Bread, just a heel of bread for Seal’s sake,” whined another.
“It was Tuftson,” someone sniveled. “He made me do it. It was him. Please, let me out.”
“Shut your gobs!” bellowed a voice.
The sounds washed over him, had become part of him, familiar as his gnawing hunger or the ever-present worms wriggling against his hot skin. Even without starlight, his people’s blessed vision allowed him to penetrate the mirk. He watched his sunken stomach rise and fall. Each rib pressed against his skin. Sour spit filled his mouth.
He wasn’t surprised that an army of worms assaulted the sides of his stomach and shoulders while he dozed. The slimy little grubs coated him with a sticky sludge, but he was past caring. Hands trembling, he brushed the vanguard away that had reached his chest. His legs were a lost cause. Scores of grubs covered them so only his toes peeked out.
Bez yawned. Heat-induced spans of intermittent sleep kept him drowsy and muddled. Sometimes his parents sat beside him in the dirt, back from the dead, singing and laughing. Other times, he was in the mountains climbing crags, or swimming in crystalline lakes so clear he could see rocks at the bottom. Moments ago, he was a boy again, running barefoot with his cousins through Uncle Darian’s fields, the tall grass whipping at his legs. Then a cry from a prisoner or the damp air clogging his nose had awakened him, shattering the vision. What was real or imagined blurred. Maybe I’m with my uncle still and the pit is only a nightmare.
Hesitantly, he stretched his hands to either side, fingertips brushing the cool, root-tangled walls. Feet firmly pressed against damp earth. Not a nightmare. He moaned like a wounded animal.
“Guardian spirits above,” he wheezed, not wiping the hot tears streaking down his cheek. “There’s no way out.”
But that was a lie. There was a way. His fingers searched for the gouge in the wall, finding the sharp-edged shard of obsidian he’d hidden there. My final escape.
He pried it free, hand shaking, and pressed the jagged edge against the soft flesh of his right wrist. A bead of blood sprang from the tip.
“I’ll do it this time,” he said to the crude face carved into the wall. A pause. “I know that’s what I said last time. By the All-Spirit, I can’t—” His throat tightened. “I can’t take it anymore.”
“Enjoying your new home, demon-blood?” asked an unwelcome voice from the pit’s metal cage above.
“Dorota,” he rasped, tongue clumsy from disuse. “What a pleasure.”
He hated Yan’s henchwoman, but at that moment, his life in the balance, he clung to her words like a drowning man to driftwood.
Her chuckles echoed in the earthy tomb. “Liar. Play it friendly as you like, slit-eyes, but we both know what you are.” She crouched, damp hair plastered to her face, mouth hooked in a grin that never reached her eyes. “I saw the demon in you when we caught you on that ridge. Thought you were clever, didn’t you? Thought the aqueduct workers wouldn’t notice you and your two friends? What is the count? Your third?”
It was his fourth failed attempt to escape the Makersmetal mining camp, but he didn’t bother correcting the murdering bitch. I failed them just like my parents. Tala dead. Marcel beaten or worse. Anelia missing. And Bez… well, he would die in darkness, dooming his parents ’souls to wander the Shadowlands forever, never to reunite with their ancestors. He choked down a sob, not wanting to give her any satisfaction seeing him broken.
Author Bio:
Daymon Ashcord writes dark fantasy shaped by suffering, resilience, and the brutal edges of love pushed too far.
Born in Gdańsk, Poland, and raised in New York, he grew up on science fiction, fantasy, and the stories that linger long after the final page. After studying accounting and public policy, he left a conventional path to travel the world and create a documentary, turning storytelling into something essential.
His debut novel, Makerborn (2026), reflects years of persistence, personal setbacks, and a fascination with the darker truths people endure to survive.
He lives in North Carolina, hiking mountains by day and writing by night. He is considering adopting a dog, a cat, or both, and suspects they would judge him harshly.
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The Ice Queen’s Shoes by R.S. Kellogg blitz
The Ice Queen’s Shoes
R.S. Kellogg
(Breadcove Bay)
Publication date: August 7th 2021
Genres: Adult, Fantasy
When missing your train could change everything…
Freshly graduated from Borealis University and reeling from a failed apprenticeship, Della only wants to get home. But a minor injury changes her route in magical ways and opens unexpected possibilities.
If you love atmospheric fantasy, subtle magic, and stories where a single moment can change a life, discover The Ice Queen’s Shoes today.
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The Ice Queen’s Shoes is a FREE prequel story setting up the novel the Sea Queen’s Key, which will be releasing on Kickstarter soon. Follow the campaign at the link below to be notified when it goes live!
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EXCERPT:
“It is my holiday,” the man sitting across from Della on the train said. “A short one. Two days. So, I suppose it’s going a little bit differently than how I’d envisioned.”
Della watched him carefully. Who had a holiday that lasted only two days? And, for that matter, what kind of a person had a holiday now? Her university had reached the end of its term, but most of the city wouldn’t go on holiday for another three weeks, and then the whole city basically would take a month off.
The old man must have read something in her questioning expression. “I’ve been working on a project,” he said. He looked a bit stressed as he said it, but there was also something a bit impish about him—Della liked him despite her natural distrust of strangers. He seemed avuncular, and she could tell by the unique worn smooth brown cloth of his clothing that he was one of the North Men, rarely sighted in the city of Breadcove Bay.
She was a little flattered by the focus of his attention.
It was going to take some time to get to where she was going, so she may as well spend the time in interesting conversation.
“Tell me about your project,” she said.
He grinned. It was all the encouragement he needed.
“Me and my men have been tracking something across the northern plains,” he said, with the flair of a natural storyteller. “And a week ago, it just got a little bit more interesting. But three days ago, the trail went cold, fast. So, me and the men, we decided a break was in order. We’d each take a two-day vacation, and start at it fresh again.”
“If you’re tracking something,” Della interjected, “Wouldn’t taking a break mean you’d risk the trail going cold?”
The man shook his head.
He looked smug, Della thought. Smug with the air of a man who has supreme confidence in his craft.
“It’s not a beast I’m tracking,” he said. “Not that kind of a being at all. The way tracking of this nature goes, first the trail goes cold, then, we take a break, and if we’re lucky, as we soften our approach to it, the perfect information will naturally show up.”
Curiosity piqued, Della tilted her head. “Naturally show up when you are nowhere near the trail of your prey? I ask you, what on earth are you tracking?”
She’d heard, of course, the legends: that North Men tracked animals, found lost humans, located lost camps and lost objects, and sometimes . . . rumor had it . . . tracked supernatural beings.
She wondered whether she’d happened upon a North Man in the middle of a fairy tale, feeling a bit like an explorer who has stumbled into a strange new environment, where the people might do something completely unexpected at any moment.
Staring at him as though she were watching a polar bear in the governor’s private animal enclosure, where she had been a guest at the winter party one year, she waited as he seemed to debate within himself whether to share with her any part of his tracking tale—and if so, how much.
“I’m tracking a lady,” he finally said, and Della roared with laughter.
The man jolted, clearly knocked off kilter by Della’s hearty response.
She didn’t have a delicate laugh. It was more like the way a man would laugh when he had bested everyone at a game of cards. And it would come out of nowhere.
She cocked an eyebrow at him, folding her arms. She didn’t care a twig how people responded to her laugh. They could take her or leave her.
Just as she could take or leave anyone who came across her path.
And at the moment, this was a person who was entertaining her.
“You’re tracking a woman?” she asked him. “Did she wander out into the north and get lost? Or are you trying to find a romance?”
She snorted and shook her head.
He looked wounded but still doggedly eager to pursue the conversation.
“I’m tracking a Sky Woman,” he said, and Della leaned forward intently, her smile instantly gone.
A Sky Woman.
That would be more akin to a goddess.
“Why are you tracking a Sky Woman?” she asked him.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s complicated,” he said. “But it’s part of the job of my family, and my men, to keep the balance between the Sky people of the north and the
boundaries of the city. We have to make sure that neither side encroaches on the side of the other.”
She sighed. “That sounds like a big project.”
He nodded.
“How do you even begin to do something like that?” Della asked.
Author Bio:
R.S. Kellogg writes the Everyday Goddess Stories, the Mermaid Magic Tales, and fiction in the story realms of Breadcove Bay and Agratica, among other places.
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