Justice with a Vengeance She'll risk everything to bring a killer to justice... After one too many deadbeat boyfriends, Joy needed a fresh new start. She swapped out her man for a lovable pooch named Blue and picked up a dog walking gig on the Upper East Side. But she never expected her new lease on life would include a dead body... When her curiosity takes her deeper into the case, she and Blue dig into the dirty secrets of Manhattan's elite. As it becomes clear that murder is only the tip of the iceberg, Joy will put the people she cares about in danger to make sure justice is served. Failure to catch the killer could destroy everything she knows and loves... Unleashed is the first book in The Sydney Rye series of dark mysteries that never shy away from sex or violence. If you like daring heroines, canine companions, and edge-of-your-seat thrillers, then you'll love Emily Kimelman's vigilante origin story. Download Unleashed to get on the case today!
At the end of a long journey, lightning flashed outside my window…I need more control. My hand jumped to Mulberry's forearm and squeezed. Shutting my eyes, I struggled not to picture the small plane cracking in half, my body flying through the air, still seat-belted to the beige leather chair; Blue, his paws grasping at empty space, disappearing into the bruise-colored clouds. The small jet shook and our pilot's voice, smooth and steady, came over the loudspeaker, "Sorry about the bumps. We'll have you down in Miami in about twenty minutes. Just hold tight." Mulberry put his hand over mine. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll be there soon." He smiled, making his crow's feet crinkle. Mulberry's eyes were deep emerald with ochre and flashes of gold. I tried to smile back but could tell I was just giving grimace. Mulberry handed me his whisky and soda. I finished it off. The ice cubes danced in my empty glass. Then we were suddenly out of the clouds. Below us the ocean was close, steel blue with white caps cresting each wave. The city's skyscrapers looked like towers of mercury in the storm's eerie light. Raindrops clung to my window, streaking across it as our speed pushed them aside. Hugh was somewhere down there in that city, a flat landscape made multi-dimensional through the efforts of man. My stomach lurched as we dropped through the air, my seat belt pressing into me. Blue whined softly and flattened himself even further onto the floor of the plane. A giant of a dog, Blue has the coat of a wolf, the snout of a Collie, with one brown eye and one blue. Both of which were trained on me at that moment. My fear was freaking him out. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine the turbulence as a gentle rocking but it didn't work. An ice cube jumped out of my glass landing on the carpeting. Blue, his belly still flat on the ground, inched his way toward it, then his tongue stretched out and pulled the cube into his mouth. He crunched twice before looking back up at me, now hoping for more whisky-flavored ice. I couldn't help but smile at the expectant look on his fuzzy face. We touched down with a jerk that sent my heart racing one more time. But as we slowly taxied toward our hangar the storm seemed suddenly minor. Just a breath of wind fluttered across the puddles, turning them into shimmering mirrors framed by the dark tarmac. "All right Ms. Rye," our captain's voice came back on over the loudspeaker. "Sorry about that descent, but we got you here safe. Thanks for flying with us, I hope we'll have you back real soon." As soon as humanly possible. I didn't want to be here, but Hugh was in trouble, and if there was one person I cared about in this world it was him. He was a tie to my murdered brother, a shared memory bank. I would do anything to help Hugh. P.S. The dog does not die. **Beware: If you can’t handle a few f-bombs, you can’t handle this series.**
Justice with a vengeance Who controls Sydney Rye? Because that person controls a dangerous weapon--a killer and a symbol--proof of a prophet's divinity and the catalyst for an international vigilante network. Sydney Rye is just one woman, but to millions she is much more. Whoever controls Sydney controls the masses, can incite violence, turn wife against husband, daughter against father...release the wolf in us all. Robert, a ruthless and powerful billionaire, wants Sydney... Mulberry, ex NYC detective and injured warrior, faces death for Sydney... April, a devout follower of the "Her" Prophet, believes in Sydney... Anita, a brilliant manipulator of media, fears and reveres Sydney... The Prophet needs Sydney... Who controls her? What do they want? Sydney Rye and her dog, Blue, must travel across the globe from the deserts of the Middle East to the sparkling shores of Miami Beach in a twisted game of cat and mouse to discover the truth. Is Sydney strong enough to control her own destiny, or is she a pawn in someone else's game? Read Flock of Wolves today and discover the truth!
A wizard compelled to kill. A slaughter he vowed to prevent. A murderer who pissed off the wrong guy… Bib the sorcerer hates how much he loves his job. Cursed by the God of Death to collect lives, he focuses their thirst on snuffing out only lowlife losers and contemptible ass-clowns. But when innocents under his protection are brutally murdered, Bib flips the switch on the ultimate revenge spree. Bent on obliterating the bum responsible, Bib is more than a little miffed when he discovers the shocking truth about his own degenerate nature. But knowing the type of killer he is inside, the reluctant hero won’t be stopped until he mows down every evil dude in his path. Can Bib fight his way to redemption before he loses his soul to bloodlust? Death’s Collector is the first book in the darkly humorous The Death-Cursed Wizard fantasy series. If you like snarky heroes, top-notch magic systems, and epic sword and sorcery, then you’ll love Bill McCurry’s addictive tale. Buy Death’s Collector to flirt with darkness today!
The first three books in the Sydney Rye Mysteries: Unleashed, Death in the Dark, and Insatiable. My dog once took a bullet that was intended for me. A bullet that ripped through his chest, narrowly missing his heart, and exited through his shoulder blade, effectively shattering it. This left him unconscious on the floor of my home. Amazingly, this bullet did not kill him. Ten years ago I adopted Blue as a present to myself after I broke up with my boyfriend one hot, early summer night with the windows open and the neighborhood listening. The next morning I went straight to the pound in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Articles on buying your first dog tell you never to buy a dog on impulse. They want you to be prepared for this new member of your family, to understand the responsibilities and challenges of owning a dog. Going to the pound because you need something in your life that's worth holding onto is rarely, if ever, mentioned. I asked the man at the pound to show me the biggest dogs they had. He showed me some seven-week-old Rottweiler-German shepherd puppies that he said would grow to be quite large. Then he showed me a six-month-old shepherd that would get pretty big. Then he showed me Blue, the largest dog they had. The man called him a Collie mix and he was stuffed into the biggest cage they had, but he didn't fit. He was as tall as a Great Dane but much skinnier, with the snout of a collie, the markings of a Siberian husky, the ears and tail of a shepherd and the body of a wolf, with one blue eye and one brown. Crouched in a sitting position, unable to lie down, unable to sit all the way up, he looked at me from between the bars, and I fell in love. "He's still underweight," the man in the blue scrubs told me as we looked at Blue. "I'll tell you, lady, he's pretty but he's skittish. He sheds, and I mean sheds. I don't think you want this dog." But I knew I wanted him. I knew I had to have him. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Blue cost me $108. I brought him home, and we lived together for years. He was, for most of our relationship, my only companion. But when I first met Blue, a lifetime ago now, I had family and friends. I worked at a crappy coffeehouse. I was young and lost; I was normal. Back then, at the beginning of this story, before I'd ever seen a corpse, before Blue saved my life, before I felt what it was like to kill someone in cold blood, I was still Joy Humbolt. I'd never even heard the name Sydney Rye. P.S. The dog does not die. **Beware: If you can’t handle a few f-bombs, you can’t handle this series.**
The only thing more terrifying than taking a life is creating one. The positive pregnancy test rocks my world harder than any bomb or bullet. Like the hurricane bearing down on Miami, it threatens total destruction. I'm confident I can escape Miami, evade the mercenaries intent on killing me, and uncover the people who hired them. But telling the father I'm pregnant... raising a child... I'm not cut out for motherhood. I know I'll survive. It's everyone I love who dies. That changes now.
Hatred and desire haunted my dreams. I woke up tangled in my sheets, Blue standing next to the bed, his eyes glowing green in the darkroom. He whined at me gently. "I'm okay," I told him. He pushed his nose against the mosquito net and whined again. "You don't think so?" I asked with a small laugh. He circled around to the net's opening. I sat up and reached through, petting his head to reassure him. Blue was a giant of a dog with one brown eye and one blue. When I adopted him he was tall, the height of a Great Dane, but thin. Still a puppy really. The pound in Bushwick, Brooklyn thought he was about a year old at the time. Over four years later, Blue looked very different. His coat, which had been ratty when I brought him home to my apartment in Park Slope, now shone in the soft light of my bedroom. He had the markings of a wolf. Black and white and beige all sharing space on his large form. His snout was long and made me think there was some collie in his ancestry. Blue's chest was broad and strong. The pink scars that marked the entrance and exit wounds from a bullet he took for me were hidden beneath his long coat. My scars from that battle were more obvious. One ran under my left eye. White and pink, it arched across the top of my cheekbone, puckering the skin. Above that eye another scar, fainter than the first, ran across my forehead, slicing through my eyebrow and disappearing into my hair. I wore my bangs long, covering the top scar. They almost reached to my gray eyes, but I made sure they never got in the way. My hair was dyed black and cut short, barely reaching my chin. The heat here was too much to bother with long locks. I looked out the glass doors of my balcony and into the jungle. The sky was still dark, the foliage a pitch black mass. I heard the guttural roar of the howler monkeys and knew the sun would be here soon. Blue's nails clicked against the tile floor as he walked to the door. Blue stared at me, then looked at the door, then to me again. "I get it," I said. "You want to go for a run." He lowered his front end, waving his tail around in the air and let out a low warble. Some things would never change. Throwing off the sheet, I climbed through the opening of my mosquito net. The tiles were cool against my bare feet. I dressed quickly, Blue following me around the room, encouraging me by tapping his nose against my hip. Sneakers tied, headlamp in place and phone in hand, I opened my bedroom door. The villa was dark. My house-mate, Cynthia Dawlings, was still in bed. The sky outside the glass was just turning a milky gray. As I closed the door behind me, another group of howler monkeys began their morning call. As Blue and I started down the path toward the trails, I heard another group of monkeys start up in response to the ones in my yard. And then another, like a round robin of roars. The path we walked on was lit by low lights, yellow and solar powered. The air was moist and fresh—it carried a chill that wouldn't last long once the sun rose. I passed other villas on my route. This was once an eco-resort. Now it was a training center for Joyful Justice, the stupidest named vigilante organization to ever blow stuff up. But no one asked me when they were naming it, even though I inspired the whole thing. They had it wrong—I am a monster, not a hero. I don’t care about justice; I crave revenge. P.S. The dog does not die. **Beware: If you can’t handle a few f-bombs, you can’t handle this series.**
Ava is a firebug—she can start fires with her mind. Which would all be well and good if she weren't caught in a deadly contract with the Coterie, a magical mafia. She's one of their main hitmen . . . and she doesn't like it one bit. Not least because her boss, Venus, killed Ava's mother. When Venus asks Ava to kill a family friend, Ava rebels. She knows very well that you can't say no to the Coterie and expect to get away with it, though, so she and her friends hit the road, trying desperately to think of a way out of the mess they find themselves in. Preferably keeping the murder to a minimum, in Lish McBride's Firebug.
The often-tortured class weirdo has disappeared, leaving an enigmatic note on the school library computer. Is he a runaway, a suicide, or a murder victim?
