Saturday, March 16, 2013

Blood and Snow Book Blitz & Kindle Fire Giveaway!

Blood and Snow: The Complete Set by RaShelle Workman
Publication date:  2013
Genre: YA Paranormal

Every thousand years the Vampire Queen selects a new body, always the fairest in the land, and this time she's chosen Snow White.

Snow isn't an ordinary girl. She doesn't know that yet.

When Snow gets bitten by a Hunter, her life is thrown into a whirlwind of change where instead of worrying about what to eat, she has to fight not to drink the blood of fellow high school students. She becomes a revenant - not quite human, not quite vampire.

With the help of an eccentric old Professor, his seven adoptive sons, and her best friend, Snow learns to control her blood craving. Sort of.  She drinks a bloodlust tea, but she'd rather drink from her Hunter.

Or, a human.

She also discovers a whole other realm, one filled with fairies, dragons, and magic. And not only does the Vampire Queen want her, but there's a pendant called the Seal of Gabriel created for Snow by the Vampire Queen's twin sister. And Snow's supposed to use it to restore balance to all magical creatures. Including vampires. 
“I’ve had several seriously sexual day dreams about the new guy. Have you seen him?”
“Cin, I didn’t need to know that.” I jammed my math book into my backpack, and slammed the locker door. Cindy rested her petite frame against the locker next to mine. Her radiant baby blues twinkled. “No, I haven’t seen him. Apparently he’s . . . cute?” I asked.
She snorted. “Cute? No! He isn’t a kitten. He’s hot, sexier than hell, and has a voice that could melt chocolate.”
I had to laugh. Cindy had a way with words. It’d been like that since first grade. We met our first day of school. She’d traded me her Twinkie for my apple with the line, “I don’t think you should eat the apple, Snow White.” We’d been friends almost ten years.
She was different than me in every way, except our blue eyes. She was the epitome of a waif, while I towered over her at five foot eight. She had blond hair that hung long, and was always perfectly styled, mine was a boring dark brown, and came to just below my ears. Her clothes were the latest fashion, as were her nails, makeup, and jewelry, including the heart shaped stud in her belly button. Me, well let’s just say I didn’t own any makeup, and my clothes consisted of baggy jeans, and large old t-shirts, thanks to my seven best friends, and their hand-me-downs. My nails were stubby, and my ears weren’t even pierced. Honestly, I wondered if Cin found me embarrassing sometimes, but I gave her points for sticking around.
“Melt chocolate, huh? He sounds nice.”
“Snow!” She stomped her foot. “Nice isn’t even a proper word. It’s in the same arena as fine, good, okay, and pure.” She shuddered.
“What’s wrong with pure?” I asked, unable to help a laugh, and started toward the gym.
She jogged next to me. “Nothing if you’re Snow White.”


RASHELLE WORKMAN lives on a mountain with her husband, three children, and three dogs. From her back porch she can see the city lights and imagine... She's the bestselling author of the Dead Roses series (Sleeping Roses is being translated into Turkish, and will be available in print wherever Turkish books are sold in 2014), the Immortal Essence series, and the Blood and Snow series.

Author Links:

Rashelle's Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter

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Friday, March 15, 2013

Lucky in Love? Well, are you? It's a time of luck and wealth...or not. With each romance we find ourselves in a new world of love and memories. Are these just by chance? Is it luck? Welcome to your second annual Lucky in Love Blog Hop where we want to hear about your love, your romance, and how much you love St. Patrick's Day!!! Are you wearing green? Ready to get pinched...or you like that?

Almost 300 bloggers have giveaways and posts about those men we love! 

But that's not all....

We have TWO grand prizes. You as a reader can go to EACH blog and comment with your email address and be entered to win. Yep, you can enter over 200 times!

Now what are those prizes?

1st Grand Prize: A $100 Amazon or B&N Gift Card
2nd Grand Prize: A Swag Pack that contains paperbacks, ebooks, 50+ bookmarks, cover flats, magnets, pens, coffee cozies, and more!

Noelle's thoughts on Luck and Love   3/15/13

When I think about Love, Luck and Saint Patrick's Day, I have to go straight to the example of my grandparents.

A couple of months ago, my grandfather celebrated his 90th birthday, my grandmother right by his side. Looking at them, I realized that they have been married longer than almost 90% of the American population has been alive.  They were married on Saint Patrick's Day in 1944 and will be celebrating their 69th wedding anniversary on Sunday.

For the last 10 years or so, they have lived nearby and I have listened to them sometimes bickering, sometimes taking care of each other and at least once I saw my grandpa give my grandma a little love pat on the rear end (not really a visual I wanted, but adorable just the same).  Now I think that any couple who can stay together for nearly 70 years, remain affectionate, bicker and make up, have learned to compromise and work at marriage, but have also seen their fair share of luck.

I hope that your love life will see as many blessings and as much luck as my grandparents have on this Saint Patty's Day!

After over 4,000 comments our Lucky in Love Blog Hop has some grand prize winners!! These readers answered the questions on the posts and were chosen randomly using

Grand Prize Winners:

Amazon Gift Card:

Swag Pack: Heather B.

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Return to the main link and follow the hop! Enter to win great prizes and remember to comment and be entered for the Grand Prize!
Follow the hop here

Cover Reveal for Pretty When They Collide

Pretty When They Collide by Rhiannon Frater
Series: Pretty When She... Novella
Publication date:  March 15th 2013
Genre: Adult Horror

An exciting new novella set in the world of Pretty When She Dies...

Cassandra is a dhamphir-the offspring of a vampire and mortal woman-and a thief of occult relics.

Aimee is a full-blood witch that is bound to a powerful vampire who traffics in the slavery of supernatural beings.

Both are powerful, lonely, and trapped in the dangerous world of the vampires.

When Cassandra steals a relic from Aimee’s vampire master, he targets her as his next acquisition. What he doesn’t realize is that a chance encounter between Cassandra and Aimee ignited a spark between them that they cannot deny.

To survive, the women must find a way to band together and fight against the ruthless evil that conspires to enslave them forever


Rhiannon Frater is the award-winning author of the As the World Dies trilogy (The First Days, Fighting to Survive, Siege,) and the author of three other books: the vampire novels Pretty When She Dies and The Tale of the Vampire Bride and the young-adult zombie novel The Living Dead Boy and the Zombie Hunters. Inspired to independently produce her work from the urging of her fans, she published The First Days in late 2008 and quickly gathered a cult following. She won the Dead Letter Award back-to-back for both The First Days and Fighting to Survive, the former of which the Harrisburg Book Examiner called ‘one of the best zombie books of the decade.’ Rhiannon is currently represented by Hannah Gordon of the Foundry + Literary Media agency. You may contact her by sending an email to

Rhiannon's Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter

Cover Reveal Colour Wielders by Dawna Raver

Colour Wielders 
Heirs of the Magykal Realm Series Book One

Dawna Raver

Genre: New Adult, Paranormal, Urban Fantasy Romance

Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press

Word Count: 133k

Cover Artist: Ricky Gunawan

Book Description:

Behind the Mysts, hidden from Mortal eyes, is a land where Gods and creatures of myth and legend dwell. And in the Mortal Realm, their Princess lives.

Quinn Sinclair is clueless to who she is. She thinks she's an ordinary young woman—well, mostly ordinary—living an ordinary life with her less than loving mother in Conifer, Colorado. On the night of her birthday, Quinn finds herself betrayed by a man who sends her life spinning out-of-control.

As she struggles to pick up the pieces, a vision of a man with haunting tourmaline-blue eyes begs her for help, and she finds herself transported into a Magykal battle forever changing her life.

Arik Morgaine—demi-god bad boy and outcast of the Magykal Realm—tried to avoid contact with Princess Quinn Sinclair for eighteen years, not wanting to make good on an old threat. But the fates have other plans. Arik can no longer deny his growing desire for Quinn, or the need to protect her from those wanting to control her burgeoning powers. Can the two of them come together and save the Magykal Realm from being destroyed by the Darkest of Magyks, or will powers beyond their control destroy them and their world forever?

About the Author:

Dawna Raver is an the author of paranormal romance and urban fantasy. Colour Wielders, book one of the Heirs of the Magykal Realm series, is her first novel. When she's not spending time in her fantasy world, Dawna loves football, reading, and pretending she's a top chef in the kitchen. Oh, and worshiping her dogs and husband.

Thursday, March 14, 2013

The Loved, The Lost, The Dreaming Tour & Giveaway

• Title: The Loved, The Lost, The Dreaming

Author: Michelle Browne

• Release Date: January 28, 2013

Genre: Horror; Sci-Fi; Fantasy; Paranormal; Romance


Nightmares bleed into the waking world. Featuring a full-length novel, "The Underlighters", and eleven stand-alone short stories, this collection blends fairy tales, horror, and science fiction. A city of shadows lurks underground. Restless ghosts, eerie dolls, and spiteful stepmothers wait among other dreams. These are haunting stories of love, madness and small disasters."The Underlighters" is a dystopian horror coming-of-age adventure that follows the life of Janelle Cohen from insignificance to bitter-sweet triumph. "Footsteps in the Snow" is a Lovecraftian nightmare set in a Canadian winter. "A Shot of Vodka", a darkly realistic exploration of life after trauma, rounds out the collection. More and stranger stories fill in the gaps. This genre-breaking anthology is a new and ferocious look at the frailty of the human condition. Gender and sexual mores are rewritten; dreams and reality merge. Primal fears take physical form. This beautifully-written thrill ride will captivate you long after the last page.

GR Link:

Buy Link Amazon:

Author Bio:

I'm a published science fiction author with a love for talking about the end of the world, silver jewellery, nightmares, and chocolate.
I came from a smallish town in Southern Alberta and now live in Calgary with my partner. When we're not saving the world from hipsters or riding our bear cavalry to work, we can be found on the internet or with our friends.

Author Contact Links:


twitter username

Michelle Browne On Goodreads:

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Awakened by Kriston Johnson Cover Reveal

Awakened by Kriston Johnson
Series: The Legends Of Elyndia, #1
Publication date:  April 25th 2013
Genre: YA Fantasy

Can fighting for the right side be the wrong thing to do?

Draven, the tyrant ruler of Elyndia for the last one thousand years, searches for the one who can fulfill his prophecy.

The Paladins, an elite band of warriors sworn to protect their way of life at all cost, search for the one with the ability to bring their world crumbling down.

An innocent girl, tormented by demons only she can see, lives on the brink of insanity and longs for a life of peace.

When seventeen-year-old Jade Rosenberg reads from an antique book, she has no idea she just read an incantation awaking her inherited power. But when opposing—and equally terrifying—groups invade her home, she learns she is descended from an enchanted realm and a member of a powerful race thought to have been hunted to extinction.

Ripped from her world, Jade is forced to seek refuge from those who want her dead. She is given one of two options and the time has come for her to make a choice: assassinate their sworn enemy…

Or sacrifice her soul.


Kriston Johnson lives in Southwest Washington with her husband, teenage son, and miniature Australian Shepherd. Her home rests at the fringe of an old growth forest that she insists is the home of Jason Voorhees. Her husband thinks that’s a ridiculous assumption, because everyone knows it’s really Bigfoot. Every summer Kriston participates in the annual pilgrimage to Faerieworlds, a real life faerie realm here on Earth, and has an unhealthy obsession with Star Wars, The Vampire Diaries, and Iron Man. Awakened is her first novel. You can visit her online at

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Eustice Tour and Giveaway!

Hey all. Q-ball here, Alex Gulczynski's two month old son. Now I know what you're thinking. Really, I do. This bald and giant head in proportion to the rest of my body size not only makes me adorable but in true fantasy clichéd fashion it gives me telepathy. All babies have it. It is how we know when you are the most tired and we just happen to be wide awake. You didn't think that was a coincidence, did you? Maybe, you might think this is mean but hey, when you can't consciously control your limbs, you take what entertainment options you can get.
Anywho, moving on what you were thinking. You don't know who Alex Gulczynski is and you were thinking who is this guy and why should I care? Well, he's my Dad and a great guy but that probably doesn't make you care. What you care about is quality, thrilling, engaging storytelling, with some plot twists, interesting characters, and maybe a ghost or werewolf thrown in so things don't get too boring. And you are in luck, because Alex Gulczynski has a new book out that has all of that (minus the werewolves. I'm allergic anyway.) called, Eustice.
It's great and if I could read or focus my eyes, I would be reading it right now. The book follows the story of a teenage girl, Eustice P. Jennings (title make sense now?), who wakes up in a mysterious world and finds herself drafted into the dangerous Reaper Corps. She struggles to find her place and learn the rules of her new world while getting involved in the sinister cold war between the Angels and Demons, unbeknownst to her of course. She tries her best to survive, find allies and friends, but everything seems stacked against her. It's all very engrossing. If I could sit up I would have been on the edge of my seat as my Dad explained it to me.
Also, when my Dad isn't changing me, feeding me, or staring lovingly into my eyes he is finishing up the second book in this three part series, The Reaper Corps. So if you enjoy Eustice, which my telepathy tells me you will, you won't have to wait long for the next part.
Now that you're all curious about this fantastic book, my job is done. My Dad was supposed to write this post but he is past out asleep on the sofa. I tried to get him up so he could finish this but he mumbled something about being up at two and three and four AM because it was his turn last night. I don't know why he is so tired. I was up at those times and I'm fine. Maybe I'll go drool in his ear to get him up.
Thanks for reading this and check out Eustice. You'll like it.

Reaper Corps Book 1
Alex Gulczynski

Genre: Fantasy, Paranormal, Young Adult

ISBN: 9781476255484

Number of pages: 242
Word Count: 84000

Book Description:

Eustice P. Jennings awakens alone and confused on an ugly piece of office furniture in Purgatory. Being dead is the least of her problems as she is quickly drafted into the dangerous Reaper Corps and plunged headfirst into the endless conflict between Heaven and Hell. Friends and allies are few and far as Eustice struggles to find her place in a surreal world she never imagined could exist.

Chapter 1

Light pours in from behind my eyelids. Through my eyelids. My head pounds and surges with pain. What good are eyelids when they are so thin they don’t even do their job, I think bitterly. I fling my arm over my face to block out the light.
In the darkness, with the reassuring slight pressure of my arm over my eyes, I find a few moments’ solace. Respite from the throbbing pain in my head. I sigh and try not to think of anything at all.
I have always held a strong fascination with meditation, with people who could clear their minds and sit for hours in peace. I marveled at that ability to embrace stillness. I marveled at it because it was something I could never do. Having a clear, pristine mind was such an alluring but alien concept to me.
My mind works continuously. I don’t want it to, it just does. I always felt like my brain and I were consistently at odds with each other. When I want rest and sleep, my brain constantly makes lists, reorders already existing lists, or looks for patterns in the world around me so it can make more lists. Subject doesn’t matter. It could be encounters with my friends, or a hyper fixation on a chance conversation with some new boy at school, or something altogether trivial, like why people toasted Pop-Tarts when they were so much better straight out of the package.
 Oftentimes it was my homework mucking up my peacefulness. I have had it drilled into me numerous times from a young age how important education was to my future. I would stress about what paper I should write first. What reading chapter I should save for last. Would it be more efficient to do my math homework before my history?
The irony is that, in the end, it didn’t matter much, because I would spend so much time and energy thinking about how to do my homework in the best way possible that I wouldn’t allow ample time to actually do it. I would end up staying up half the night rushing through just those things that were due the next day, not doing my best work on them but still eking out a decent grade.
This is how my life had evolved, a neurotic girl with a hyperactive brain. It doesn’t help that the brain is housed atop a short and stocky frame, either.
My parents always disapproved of my way of doing things. They told me that I was forming bad habits. College would be much more difficult than high school, and that I couldn’t just skate by like I was doing in high school.
I didn’t doubt them, they were probably right, but I argued with them. You see, I am stubborn too.
A stubborn, procrastinating, perfectionist. Not the best combination of character traits.
I sigh quietly to myself. The light is gone, but now my mind found a new thing to preoccupy my thoughts, killing whatever slight peace of mind I had found in its infancy. All I can focus on now is a quiet but persistent hum of some electrical device.
I try thinking of clouds to distract myself, but they soon hum and buzz with lightning. I try thinking of flowers, but soon buzzing bees begin to fly into them.
It is no use. I am going to find no rest here.
Slowly, I move my arm from away from my face. I push myself up into a sitting position, feeling the hard, coarse fabric of the miserable little couch I was lying on.  Eyes still closed, my head bent low almost to my knees, I run my hands through my dark, oily hair. I can’t remember the last time I took a shower. The prickling sensation of my fingertips dragging along my scalp eases some of the tension from my body.
I wonder at how long I have been lying on this horrid excuse for a piece of furniture. My back aches. My neck is tight. My legs have nearly gone numb, and still I hear that perpetual hum, now like a high-pitched whine of a belt sander against the temporal lobes of my brain.
Carefully, I open my eyes. I keep my head pointed down toward the floor to shield myself from the harsh lights above. My vision is filled with nondescript, pale beige carpet, ugly in its plainness. With my hands half cupped, half pressed against my forehead, I begin to raise my head.
A large, green potted plant and a dark, heavy oak desk materialize out of the haze, as my eyes adjust to the sickeningly unsympathetic white fluorescent lights of the room.  One flickers just beyond my perception and etches the high-pitched hum into my eardrums. Across the room stands a blank, off-white, sterile wall.
The front of the room is frosted glass from ceiling to floor. One door stands in the middle of the glass wall. I can see another bank of fluorescent lights just outside the glass, and vaguely I can make out ghostly shadows moving farther out.
I have an intense sense of déjà vu, as well as complete confusion as to where I actually am.
This place reminds me of somewhere I’ve been. Somewhere I went to as a small child. Somewhere that must have left an impression, but, frustratingly, somewhere that I can’t seem to recall. My memory is fuzzy, like stale bread with green mold spotted on it. I close my eyes and try to scrap off the green fuzz as best I can.
 I finally decide that this place reminds me of my father’s office, designed to be plain and boring, yet suitable for everyone’s tastes. Not taking any chances at picking a color or shape that might offend someone’s aesthetic palate, but simultaneously not appealing to anyone’s liking. Or at least, I think it reminds me of my father’s office. For some reason, I’m having a hard time bringing up an exact image of the office. The mold is still there blocking any recollections.
But it doesn’t matter, I suppose. I hate this place from the moment I see it.
I sit there for I don’t know how long analyzing the bland pattern in the floor below me, not knowing what to do or where I am. This place is eerily familiar, but I know I have never been here before. I try to force myself to remember how I got here, but, frustratingly, I can’t. I have odd sensations of a cold room, an orange light, and a sticky feeling oozing all over my skin. It doesn’t make any sense to me. So I just sit there in a dazed state.
Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me. Ignoring the aches in my muscles and the throbbing in my head, I brave the intense buzzing lights of the room and scan over the desk as best I can. It is immaculate. A small singular stack of paper lies on the far end, neatly ordered with all the papers aligned. A white coffee mug stands near me with a handful of pens and pencils standing at attention in it. A nameplate stands absolutely centered near the front lip of the desk, but I can’t read what it says from my sideways angle. Dominating the desk is an old and heavy-looking black typewriter.
It occurs to me that I have not seen a typewriter before. I mean, I know what they are, and I’ve seen them in movies or TV shows. But I realize just then that I have never actually seen a real one. It looks intimidating and sturdy enough to survive a bomb blast. I have a strong desire to touch it, press one of the keys and hear the clack as the letter block slams some ink into the fresh, white sheet of paper rolled into it.
I don’t even know where I am, but I decide to give in to my urge. I figured, what the hell. It is only one letter on one sheet of paper. Plus, I want to get up anyway to read the name on the nameplate. I might as well know whose office I am in.
I move to stand up, but as soon as I push myself off the couch, the muscles in my legs protest, freezing in place, and a large rush of blood to my head makes me feel dizzy and nauseated.
Carefully, I gently lower myself back down and hang my head between my knees, breathing deeply, trying not to throw up. I note with some dry humor that my vomit would probably blend in with the carpet. Maybe no one could even tell it was there.
The thought of puking fills my mouth with copious amounts of salvia, and I can feel the tightening of my lower jaw as my stomach prepares to launch whatever was in my stomach out of my body. This is not good. I fight with every inch of my being not to vomit right then and there. Furiously I try to think of something else, and immediately I can hear that insidious buzzing again. Thankfully, my mind is distracted and annoyed enough that my stomach is quelled.
Sitting there, taking long, labored breathes, and gritting my teeth in frustration, I hear a latch turn, and I look up to see the door opening. And I think to myself, “God, what now?”

Chapter 2

My mouth is dry, my back is frozen in place as I whip my head around to stare at the opening door. Nervousness floods my body and my belly fills with ice. I don’t know where I am or how I got here. I have no idea what type of person is walking through the door. I feel vulnerable and exposed. My breath stops.
Quickly, a small woman enters the room. Her posture is prim and straight, like she is dangling from strings. She wears black subdued heels but only to increase her size and stature. A long, dark skirt covers most of her legs, and a black, angular coat covers the rest. Her nose is long and hooked with slim wire-frame glasses propped up on the bridge. Her lips are blood red and her dark black hair is pulled back into a bun so tightly I think the skin on her forehead might tear apart from the strain.
She moves fast and briskly closes the door behind her. I feel naked as she fixes an intense stare at me.
“You are awake.” She speaks like she looks: efficient and proper.
I don’t say anything in response. Partly because I don’t know what to say and partly because I am not so sure my tongue is still working. So I just give a slight, stupid nod.
The lady stands by the door for a moment, scanning me with a penetrating look. She is sizing me up, making judgments and evaluations about my character. I feel the need to make a better impression, so I struggle to sit up a little more straight, bring my knees together and lay my hands flat on my thighs.
She gives a curt “hmmpf,” which I can barely hear and walks with long, precise strides around the far side of the desk, giving me a wide berth, and sits down. I feel like I should say something, but the lady speaks first.
“Eustice P. Jennings.” She says plainly and neatly.
 I flinch at my name being called out. I have never liked my name, but have never liked my nicknames either. My name is stuck to me and I am stuck to it.
Reflexively, I respond with a meager, “Present.” And halfheartedly raise my hand. I am just trying to lighten the mood, but the woman does not seem to notice.
“You have caused me quite the bit of trouble.” Great. Already I have pissed this woman off and I don’t even know who she is or how I’ve done it. She motions to a chair across from her on the other side of her desk.
Meekly, I get up. Fortunately, my legs and head both seem to function much better now. Walking over to the chair, I am unsteady and my knees threaten to buckle once or twice, but I sit down again without incident. I take the opportunity to check out the nameplate now that I am sitting right in front of it.
Beatrice A. Krugmen is etched in the bronze plate.
“Beatrice A. Krugmen,” I think, rolling the name around in my head. Looking at the prim and proper woman with the hooked nose, blood red lips, and wire frame glasses, I quickly think, “fitting name.”
Smaller letters beneath her name on the plate read: Division of Lost Souls, Lead Admin.
Division of Lost Souls? The strangeness of the title hits me like a slap to the face, but before I can give it much more thought, Beatrice clears her throat and speaks.
“For some reason, the powers that be saw fit to not follow the proper channels. To not follow protocol and …” She eyes me as if this is all my fault, when I have no idea what she was talking about, “to not inform me of all this beforehand.” I get the feeling that being in the dark is not something Beatrice takes kindly to.
Beatrice pauses and brings her hands up to her face, index fingers pointed, she makes a rigid triangle under her chin. I think I can make out a few dark whiskers here and there dangling discreetly from her chin and upper lip. My attention snaps back to Beatrice’s eyes when she speaks.
“I do not like surprises. Indeed, I make it my job to eliminate them. You are a surprise. One I plan to get rid of quickly.” I don’t know why she tells me this other than to make me feel bad at what I’ve done to her. But I don’t even know what I’ve done!
I feel a surge of blood flush my cheeks. I don’t understand what is going on, but I know enough not to like the way this woman is talking to me, “Look,” I say more curtly than I probably should have, “I’m sorry for whatever has happened, but I don’t even know where I am right now, or how I got here.”
Beatrice lowers her hands, angling her body forward, and stares closely into my eyes. Immediately, I feel meek and at a disadvantage, but that just makes me dig in my heels and hold my ground. I try to be nice to people when I can, yet I also don’t appreciate this lady’s tone. I meet her gaze and stare back.
After several long seconds, Beatrice leans back. A small smirk briefly appears on one side of her mouth before it dies just as quickly, “No, I suppose you don’t,” is all she says.
Another handful of seconds pass and I feel the need to speak, but again Beatrice cuts me off before I can even start. She looks at a watch on her left wrist and then abruptly rises out of her chair. “The ceremony is almost over, but we can catch the end of it if we hurry.” She briskly walks around the desk and toward the door as she speaks. I can almost hear the carpet groan with pain as she thrusts her heels into it.
Pausing with one hand on the door, she leans over and grabs a large, black piece of clothing off a coat rack I didn’t even noticed before. As she opens the door, she throws the garment at me. It hits me square in the face. My nose is filled with the smell of dust and boiled cabbage.
“Put that on and hurry up.”
I stand up from my chair and fumble with the huge piece of cloth. I can’t even tell what it is yet. It looks like an old, thick, black bedsheet. I struggle to find any holes or discernible way to wear the damned thing.
Beatrice rolls her eyes and a sound of frustration escapes her lips. She walks over to me, grabs the fabric and throws it over my head. Blackness fills my vision, and I almost gag on the musty smell pervading this horrid garment. The next thing I feel is Beatrice’s hand painfully grabbing my arm, “Are you always this slow?” she asks, annoyed, as she drags me out the door.
With only one arm, I fight my way through the darkness and desperately try to find a hole for my head to fit through. All the while, Beatrice pulls me along through a maze of what I assume are cubicles and other desks. I am vaguely aware of other people moving out of our way or doing work at their desks as we storm past them.
Beatrice stops to open another door, and I finally manage to find an armhole.  After some more struggling, I figure out this black garment draped over my head is a robe of some sort. Huge and ungainly though. I am still having trouble finding the collar for my head to go through when Beatrice walks through the open door. The soft plop of her heels on the carpet turns into a hard echoing clip-clop as she walks out into a hallway.
Short of breath, I yank my arm from out of Beatrice’s grasp. The clip-clopping of her heels stops. Now I can hear the steady tap of one foot as she waits impatiently for me.  With both my hands, I am able to find the hole for my head.  I breathe deeply as my head emerges from its dank prison.
Beatrice’s hands are firmly planted on her hips, “Are you finished?” She asks before turning and continuing her fast-paced walk. I have to half jog just to keep up with her.
We walk down blandly decorated, harshly lit corridors. The walls are some reddish dark wood panels, the floor a polished checkerboard of black and white. The reflected glare from the fluorescent lights above renews my headache with a vengeance.
I try to take in the names and numbers etched on the doors that we pass, but we are moving too quickly. For whatever reason, I am already on thin ice with this icy woman and don’t want to dillydally any longer. My curiosity will have to wait.
We make a few turns down similar-looking hallways until we come to two large double doors.  Beatrice pauses and smooths her tightly wound hair of nonexistent strands that might have escaped the stranglehold her bun has on them. She also brushes her shoulders and wipes her palms on her hips. Then she looks at me and frowns.
I look down at myself. I hardly recognize anything. My body is hidden in a voluminous black robe that drags on the floor and hangs loose over my hands. I can’t imagine I look good in it, but she gave me this damn robe and made me put it on. Why is she frowning?
I give a halfhearted shrug and try to pull the sleeves over my hands but with no luck. They just slide back down after a few moments.
Beatrice motions with her hands and mouths “put the hood up.” I don’t know why she is being so quiet, but not knowing is a common theme of the night.
Slowly, I feel around the back for a hood. The robe was so large with so many folds it is difficult to find. Eventually, with Beatrice still frowning, I manage to find it and pull it over my head.
Immediately everything changes. I can feel the waist of the robe cinch up and hug me just above my hips. It is tight but comfortable. My hands are freed as the sleeves shrink down to a normal length, and I have no fear of tripping anymore as the lower hem hangs just above my toes now, no longer dragging a mile behind me on the floor.
I am just about to remark how strange this all feels and how it works, when Beatrice opens the large double doors.
I step through and find myself in the middle of a large theater. There are rows of seats to my left sloping upward and rows of seats sloping down to my right. The room is hardly lit, making it difficult to properly see anything. A single light is illuminating the stage, and a single person stands in the center of the light. He is wearing a robe just like I am.
Straightaway, I sense something odd about his appearance. Though I can’t place what. He seems of average build. Not too big and not too small. He stands with his hands at his sides and seems comfortable in the lone spotlight. His hood is raised just like mine. Since the light is above him, his face is mostly covered in shadow, giving him a ominous look. Even worse is the little of his face I can see. It’s gaunt and too angular, too white.
As I continue to look, something else peculiar jumps out at me that I didn’t notice at first. I can see his teeth. Why can I see his teeth? Then I notice with shock. He has no lips.
He has no skin at all.
My jaw drops and my stomach flips over inside my belly. His chin is pure bone and his white teeth glare at me from across the stage with a sinister smile. I raise my hand to cover my open mouth and to preemptively fight off a deepening sickness in the pit of my stomach.
The room is silent and I can only continue to stare, frozen in place. Many awkward seconds pass, until Beatrice clears her throat.
“We have a late comer.” Is all she says. When nothing happens, she quickly adds with a note of distain, “Pardon the interrupt.”
The man without skin speaks. A gravelly baritone rumbles over the chairs and hits me in the face, “Well now. This is surprising.” He raises a hand and I have to stop myself from retching. His fingers are long, thin, and tapered to a point. They are also pure white. Pure bone.
“But where are our manners,” the bone man spreads out both his hands in a wide arc, “Class. Let us welcome our new guest.”
I hadn’t seen them before, but now a dozen or so other hooded and robed figures seated in the front rows stand and materialize out of the darkness. They all turn to look at me. In the darkness I can’t see their faces. Their hoods reveal only more darkness inside. Images of skulls leering at me through the shadows fill my mind. For a moment, I fear my knees will give way and I will collapse to the ground. Through sheer force of will, I hold firm even after what happens next.
One by one, the robed figures stare at me and give a nice, polite round of applause.

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About the Author:
Eustice is Alex Gulczynski's debut novel. He is currently living in Seattle and teaching science to elementary students. He and his wife had their first child in December. He is using these sleepless nights to work on the next book to further the story of Eustice and Thayer. He hopes to have it out by March 2013.

Twitter: @alexgulczynski