Thursday Thrillers ~ Solid as a Rock

I’ve been doing rounds of #MedievalMonday with several Medieval Romance authors for a while and have been thinking of setting up a similar exchange on Thursdays featuring Paranormal Romance authors. I’m thinking #ThursdayThrillers might work well. I have several authors in mind to approach about such an exchange, but if you have suggestions, please pass them along via my email: If I can get it going, we’ll start up in January. That should give me plenty of time to get everything set up. In the meantime, I’ll be sharing some of my favorite Paranormal Romances with you. I’m starting off with my new release, Solid as a Rock.

solid-as-a-rock-ecover-200-x-300EXCERPT:  THE SLAM OF PRISON DOORS CLANGED IN HIS EARS.

The memory of that sound washed over Michael Munro as he stared down at the body. He rubbed one hand over his throbbing forehead. He would never go back. He had made a vow, and it was one he intended to keep. The searing pain that had originated behind his eyes radiated to the back of his head and spread to his neck and shoulders. Images flashed across his vision. He closed his eyes against them, but they only became more distorted, more confusing. The tiny nerves and muscles of his eyes ached at trying to see them all at once, yet he could no more stop himself from trying than he could prevent his heart from beating.

Forsyth Park was usually quiet this time of night. Even the tourists had called it a day by this late hour. Opening his eyes, he looked around, peering into the darkness for further signs of trouble. But he didn’t have to. Amidst the blurry, random images causing havoc in his brain, he saw them emerge from the shadows an instant before they actually did.

They had come for him, and there were too many to fight off this time. Any advantage his gift might have afforded him was swallowed up by the chaos in his head. He had barely defeated the man who lay dead at his feet, a decoy or a test, apparently. Either way, he was far outnumbered now, and the power inside him was out of control. If only he could slow the images down, organize them, make sense of them. Then he could use his gift to kill these bastards and be on his merry way.

Among the scattered scenes in his mind, he noticed one man in particular closing in behind him, a vicious-looking knife poised to slice him open down the length of his spine. Michael waited, his gaze on the men before him, his hearing tuned behind. He detected the subtle difference when the men in front of him tried to distract him rather than engage. He strained to hear his attacker’s footsteps closing in. Just as the man lashed out to bring the knife down, Michael whirled and landed a powerful upper thrust to the man’s nose, his strength sufficient to shove bone and cartilage into his brain. The man dropped like a stone.

Michael retrieved the discarded knife. The throbbing in his head intensified as the swirling images came faster and faster. There were so many, he no longer made the effort to see them clearly. Instead, he tried to block them out, knowing before he did so that he could not. The images came and went, seemingly random visions that could appear at any given moment, usually the wrong moment, yet were impossible for him to recall or make sense of.

The dead man’s companions closed in. Michael resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut against the blinding pain in his head. He swayed on his feet, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. A wave of nausea swept over him. He swallowed the bile that burned the back of his throat. He needed all his wits about him if he had any hope of getting out of this alive.

Jaw clenched, he took up a stance with the dead man’s knife held menacingly before him. He took several steps back as they moved closer, anything to keep them from surrounding him completely. He wondered briefly if he could outrun them, but that was not his style. Michael had faced death before. He was not afraid.

He was going to die. It was inevitable considering the odds. But he would take some of these bastards with him.

Would she be saddened by the news? Would word of his death even reach her?

He had not thought of her in days. Quite a feat as he had thought of little else since she left without so much as a “fuck off” ten years ago. The devastation of her rejection had nearly driven him mad. The prospect of death was almost a relief.




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