Quick Review: Every Heart a Doorway by Seanan McGuire

Book #1 of the Every Heart a Doorway series

Publication: April 2016 by Tor.com
Acquisition: received an ARC at ALAMW 2016

Goodreads

5 / 5 Stars

Very strange - not YA - very short - not for everyone.

Loved the idea of this all.
So many stories out there about kids falling into realms hidden to most folks.
Not many stories about what happens to the ones that return to the real world.
Totally answers the "Ok, what now?" question I've often found myself asking.

Loved the characters and how they fit and don't fit together. Loved the order and organization given to it all.

Kinda short and honestly, in hardcover, that price is a little harsh. Ebook this baby!

Or spend your money however you want - who am I to say ;)

Either way - highly recommend.

Oooo - and there will be more? Wishlisting those 2 lovelies now!

Labyrinth Lost by Zoraida Cordova SPOTLIGHT + GIVEAWAY

Labyrinth Lost by Zoraida Cordova released this week and I've got A TON of goodies to share with you today - including a TRAILER, EXCERPT, COLORING PAGE and a GIVEAWAY!
Zoradia's first book, The Vicious Deep is one of my favorites and I was so excited when I heard about Labyrinth Lost. I started it this week and I am loving it so far!
Lots of awesomeness below and don't forget to read all the way through for your chance to win your very own copy! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nothing says Happy Birthday like summoning the spirits of your dead relatives.

Alex is a bruja, the most powerful witch in a generation…and she hates magic. At her Deathday celebration, Alex performs a spell to rid herself of her power. But it backfires. Her whole family vanishes into thin air, leaving her alone with Nova, a brujo boy she can’t trust. A boy whose intentions are as dark as the strange marks on his skin.

The only way to get her family back is to travel with Nova to Los Lagos, a land in-between, as dark as Limbo and as strange as Wonderland…

Goodreads | Book Website | Book Tumblr | Buy Link

LABYRINTH LOST COLORING PAGE -- seriously check this out because it is awesome!

About the Author:

Zoraida Córdova was born in Ecuador and raised in Queens, New York. She is the author of the Vicious Deep trilogy, the On the Verge series, and the Brooklyn Brujas series. She loves black coffee, snark, and still believes in magic. Send her a tweet @Zlikeinzorro or visit her at zoraidacordova.com.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Tumblr | YouTube


BOOK TRAILER

EXCERPT

1
Follow our voices, sister.
Tell us the secret of your death.
—-Resurrection Canto,
Book of Cantos
     The second time I saw my dead aunt Rosaria, she was dancing.
     Earlier that day, my mom had warned me, pressing a long, red fingernail on the tip of my nose, “Alejandra, don’t go downstairs when the Circle arrives.”
     But I was seven and asked too many questions. Every Sunday, cars piled up in our driveway, down the street, and around the corner of our old, narrow house in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. Mom’s Circle usually brought cellophane--wrapped dishes and jars of dirt and tubs of brackish water that made the Hudson River look clean. This time, they carried something more.
     When my sisters started snoring, I threw off my covers and crept down the stairs. The floorboards were uneven and creaky, but I was good at not being seen. Fuzzy, yellow streetlight shone through our attic window and followed me down every flight until I reached the basement.
     A soft hum made its way through the thin walls. I remember thinking I should listen to my mom’s warning and go back upstairs. But our house had been restless all week, and Lula, Rose, and I were shoved into the attic, out of the way while the grown--ups prepared the funeral. I wanted out. I wanted to see.
     The night was moonless and cold one week after the Witch’s New Year, when Aunt Rosaria died of a sickness that made her skin yellow like hundred--year--old paper and her nails turn black as coal. We tried to make her beautiful again. My sisters and I spent all day weaving good luck charms from peonies, corn husks, and string—-one loop over, under, two loops over, under. Not even the morticians, the Magos de Muerte, could fix her once--lovely face.
     Aunt Rosaria was dead. I was there when we mourned her. I was there when we buried her. Then, I watched my father and two others shoulder a dirty cloth bundle into the house, and I knew I couldn’t stay in bed, no matter what my mother said.
     So I opened the basement door.
     Red light bathed the steep stairs. I leaned my head toward the light, toward the beating sound of drums and sharp plucks of fat, nylon guitar strings.
     A soft mew followed by whiskers against my arm made my heart jump to the back of my rib cage. I bit my tongue to stop the scream. It was just my cat, Miluna. She stared at me with her white, glowing eyes and hissed a warning, as if telling me to turn back. But Aunt Rosaria was my godmother, my family, my friend. And I wanted to see her again.
     “Sh!” I brushed the cat’s head back.
     Miluna nudged my leg, then ran away as the singing started.
     I took my first step down, into the warm, red light. Raspy voices called out to our gods, the Deos, asking for blessings beyond the veil of our worlds. Their melody pulled me step by step until I was crouched at the bottom of the landing.
     They were dancing.
     Brujas and brujos were dressed in mourning white, their faces painted in the aspects of the dead, white clay and black coal to trace the bones. They danced in two circles—-the outer ring going clockwise, the inner counterclockwise—hands clasped tight, voices vibrating to the pulsing drums.
     And in the middle was Aunt Rosaria.
     Her body jerked upward. Her black hair pooled in the air like she was suspended in water. There was still dirt on her skin. The white skirt we buried her in billowed around her slender legs. Black smoke slithered out of her open mouth. It weaved in and out of the circle—-one loop over, under, two loops over, under. It tugged Aunt Rosaria higher and higher, matching the rhythm of the canto.
     Then, the black smoke perked up and changed its target. It could smell me. I tried to backpedal, but the tiles were slick, and I slid toward the circle. My head smacked the tiles. Pain splintered my skull, and a broken scream lodged in my throat.
     The music stopped. Heavy, tired breaths filled the silence of the pulsing red dark. The enchantment was broken. Aunt Rosaria’s reanimated corpse turned to me. Her body purged black smoke, lowering her back to the ground. Her ankles cracked where the bone was brittle, but still she took a step. Her dead eyes gaped at me. Her wrinkled mouth growled my name: Alejandra.
     She took another step. Her ankle turned and broke at the joint, sending her flying forward. She landed on top of me. The rot of her skin filled my nose, and grave dirt fell into my eyes.
     Tongues clucked against crooked teeth. The voices of the circle hissed, “What’s the girl doing out of bed?”
     There was the scent of extinguished candles and melting wax. Decay and perfume oil smothered me until they pulled the body away.
     My mother jerked me up by the ear, pulling me up two flights of stairs until I was back in my bed, the scream stuck in my throat like a stone.
     “Never,” she said. “You hear me, Alejandra? Never break a Circle.”
     I lay still. So still that after a while, she brushed my hair, thinking I had fallen asleep.
     I wasn’t. How could I ever sleep again? Blood and rot and smoke and whispers filled my head.
     “One day you’ll learn,” she whispered.
     Then she went back down the street--lit stairs, down into the warm red light and to Aunt Rosaria’s body. My mother clapped her hands, drums beat, strings plucked, and she said, “Again.”

GIVEAWAY
Runs September 6 - 19th (US Canada only) a Rafflecopter giveaway

Book Review: And I Darken by Kiersten White

Book #1 in The Conquerors Saga series
Genre: YA Historical Fiction
Publication: June 2016 by Delacorte Press
Acquisition: read a free eARC via NetGalley

Synopsis:

No one expects a princess to be brutal. And Lada Dragwlya likes it that way. Ever since she and her gentle younger brother, Radu, were wrenched from their homeland of Wallachia and abandoned by their father to be raised in the Ottoman courts, Lada has known that being ruthless is the key to survival. She and Radu are doomed to act as pawns in a vicious game, an unseen sword hovering over their every move. For the lineage that makes them special also makes them targets.

Lada despises the Ottomans and bides her time, planning her vengeance for the day when she can return to Wallachia and claim her birthright. Radu longs only for a place where he feels safe. And when they meet Mehmed, the defiant and lonely son of the sultan, Radu feels that he’s made a true friend—and Lada wonders if she’s finally found someone worthy of her passion.

But Mehmed is heir to the very empire that Lada has sworn to fight against—and that Radu now considers home. Together, Lada, Radu, and Mehmed form a toxic triangle that strains the bonds of love and loyalty to the breaking point.

(from Goodreads)

4 / 5 Stars

And I Darken is a loooong story and I'm not just talking about page length. It's basically Lada's entire life - from birth to...late teens, early 20s...ish? There are time jumps - days, weeks, years but all in all it's pretty much Lada's complete story.

Some folks I think were put off by this, cause...yeah...it's really, really dense - at times feeling more like a history book then a fiction story.

I, however, really liked it. Maybe not all the time and maybe, a few times, I felt bogged down by the depth of it all and more then once I couldn't remember where the characters were or had been or why they were there or needed to go somewhere else...

Also, I think I was expecting more horror? The whole premise is, what if Vlad the Impaler was a girl - not the Dracula we all know. And maybe I've got that premise wrong but it's what I went into the book thinking and it wasn't the case. In fact, now, I can't find this description anywhere...so...maybe I made it up? No, I must have read it somewhere.

Anyway!

In any case, I was expecting something much more horror filled and messy. Not overly historic and messy. Vlad is Lada's father and now, knowing that And I Darken isn't a standalone (like I thought it was) I can see how maybe Lada gets more impaler like in subsequent books?

I really don't know.

What I do know is, I dove into And I Darken thinking one thing, enjoyed myself while mucking around in it all and was happy to have read it in the end.

And yes, if there is another book, I will be reading it. The history is dense but so are the characters, in a spectacular way. Lada has a long way to go, her brother Radu is such an interesting person and I can't wait to see where he ends up and Mehmed - yeah, maybe I could have done without him but he adds so much to the story and I'm very curious to see where he stands in book 2.

Summing it up!

YA historical fiction with lots of details, and fabulous characters!

Anti Wrap Up Post -- THIS ONE IS FOR THE PARENTS!

August was blargy blarg blarg blargtastic.

No idea how it's September already.

No idea how that extra week of August snuck in.

What's so horrible about an extra week you ask?

Well, you see, where I live, in the lovely state of New Hampshire, school children don't go back to school the day after labor day - which is how things worked for me my ENTIRE LIFE.
No, school children in New Hampshire go back to school on some random day at the end of August - the 28th, or maybe the 30th or this year, this year, how about the 25th!

So you see, not only am I dealing with the stress of a new school for my daughter (sucky school district closed her old one), I also had to deal with a full 7 (SEVEN!) days of school before my favorite of all Mondays -- A MONDAY OFF FROM WORK. I live for 3 day weekends and come school time, I rely on that wonder of wonders, 3 days in the beginning of September to GET MY SHIT TOGETHER.

I mean, anyone can fake it for a few days - kids got shoes, lunch and backpack? It's all good! No worries - push that gigantic pile of forms to the side! You have a 3 day weekend coming up! New bus schedule you say? No worries for those first few days - just drive the kid. Leave all that HARD THINKING for your 3 DAY WEEKEND.

Except...I didn't get my 3 day weekend when I needed it. I had to be an ACTUAL ADULT and it SUCKED donkey balls.

So the kid - the wonderful, amazing kid of mine had to deal with not only a new school but a BAT SHIT CRAZY mother who mentally couldn't get said SHIT together until today...my Monday of Mondays. My 3 day weekend in all it's glory.

But you're not here for the cray cray, you're here for the books.

HA!

HA! I say! August ATE ME ALIVE! Did I even LOOK AT A BOOK all month? No idea. My brain still hasn't caught up.

You know...let's save that Wrap Up Post for later.

Today, I dedicate this post to all ALL THE MOTHERS and ALL THE FATHERS and ALL THE CARETAKERS of ALL THE CHILDREN.

September (and FREAKEN AUGUST) can BRING IT cause we got this covered.

WE DID IT!

We're still here and our kids are as fabulous as always and WE ARE ROCK STARS!

And...the books will always forgive.

More to come soon...
;)

Release Blitz + Giveaway for Fish Wielder by J R R R Hardison

Hey guys!

I've got another little something extra for you today! Fish Wielder by J R R R Hardison released this week and if it hasn't hit your radar yet, consider this post your first *ping* -- keep reading for info, an excerpt and a GIVEAWAY.

Happy Reading everyone!

Fish Wielder is kind of like Lord of the Rings, set in Narnia, if it was written by the guys who made Monty Python and the Holy Grail while they were listening to the music of They Might Be Giants.

In ancient times, the Dark Lord Mauron cooked the most powerful magic chocolate dessert ever made, the Pudding of Power. One thousand and two years later, the evil leader of the Bad Religion, the Heartless One, is trying to recover the lost pudding in order to enslave the peoples of Grome. Only the depressed barbarian warrior Thoral Might Fist and his best friend, Brad the talking Koi fish, have a chance to save the world of Grome from destruction, but that's going to take a ridiculous amount of magic and mayhem. Thus begins the epically silly epic fantasy of epic proportions, Fish Wielder—book one of the Fish Wielder Trilogy.

Amazon | Barnes & Noble

Author J R R R Hardison :

Jim has worked as a writer, screen writer, animator and director in entertainment and commercials since graduating from Columbia College of Chicago in 1988. He is the author of The Helm, which YALSA praised as one of 2010’s best graphic novels for young readers, and has directed animated commercial and entertainment projects, including spots for M&M's, AT&T, and Kellogg's. He co-founded Character LLC in 2000 and has given story advice to many of the world's largest brands, such as Target, Verizon, Samsung, McDonalds and Walmart, and has even appeared on NBC's "The Apprentice" as an expert adviser on brand characters. Jim lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife, two kids and two dogs. Fish Wielder is his first novel.

CHAPTER ONE EXCERPT

© 2016 Jim Hardison
Chapter 1
It was the anniversary of something bad.
Thoral Mighty Fist, perhaps the toughest, most mysterious and manly fighter in all the mystical world of Grome, sat in the Inn of the Gruesomely Gashed Gnome in a dark corner,
weeping into his tankard of warm ale. He hated ale, especially when it was warm, although he’d been swilling the stuff since before breakfast. Now it was well after dinner, and all he’d eaten the entire day was a piece of dry toast and a couple of olives as black as his mood. He raised his mug for another bitter sip and the jeweled hilt of the magic broadsword, Blurmflard, poked him in the side like a reminder of past mistakes. It was awkward to sit at a table with a broadsword at your belt, but the mighty barbarian had kept Blurmflard with him at all times ever since the blade was lent to him by his wizard mentor, Yiz. He even slept with it.
As Thoral sat brooding and trying to adjust his position to more comfortably accommodate the blade, a twelve-inch-long orange koi fish walked into the bar on his tail fins. Standing in the entryway, the koi peered around the crowded, dim interior until his bulging eyes fell on Thoral. The fish frowned.
At six feet, Thoral was a head taller than most other human inhabitants of the world of Grome and was so powerfully built that he barely fit at the heavy wooden table at which he sat. He was dressed pirate-style, with a black leather vest buttoned over his otherwise bare chest, tight, plum-colored breeches and knee-high, iron-toed boots. A wide crimson belt bore the magic sword as well as an assortment of leather and velvet pouches. A less attractive or more effeminate man would never have been able to pull off such an outfit, but for Thoral it was no
problem. He had chiseled features and a head of thick, golden hair that curled to his massive shoulders. The few strands of gray made him even more handsome–in a seasoned and mature
way, of course. His glorious hair notwithstanding, his most striking feature was his piercing gaze. So intense, so smoldering was his stare, that those on the receiving end often felt the need
to look away for fear that they would catch fire. There was no word in Gromish for the vibrant purple color of his eyes, but they were violet.
The koi contemplated the warrior. Given his charisma, strength and fighting abilities, Thoral could easily have conquered his own kingdom. But Thoral didn’t seem to care about that
kind of thing. He mostly liked to drink and fight and brood and wander around in forests looking at trees. As the fish watched, the mighty warrior burped. The hot gas seemed to sear his manly nostrils so that he blinked as his striking violet eyes watered.
Thoral looked up from his drink and squinted around the bar to see if anyone had noticed his tears and if there was anyone worth fighting. He failed to detect the fish, who was hidden behind the legs of a passing barmaid. The other patrons were humans, except a few half-elves and a handful of drunken gnomes. He could take them all on single-handedly, but he knew from experience that he’d feel even worse after beating them. Especially the gnomes. It was better to do nothing, to sit and drink and wish things were different.
Thoral closed his eyes and hunched forward to lay his tawny-maned head on the table. The rough-hewn planks, though, smelled as if they had been wiped with a mildew-y rag, so he
sat back up. He fumbled in one of his many belt pouches for the last of his dried herbs, crushed them between his long, calloused fingers and inhaled their fading minty fragrance. It wasn’t quite strong enough to clear the lingering scent of the mildew.
As Thoral sniffled at his mint leaves, the fish sighed. Shaking his head, he stalked across the sticky floor on his tail fins. The barbarian noticed him with a wince.
“This is the end, Bradfast,” Thoral grumbled at the fish in his outlandish accent, his rough voice heavy with melancholy. Thoral tended to transpose the sounds of v and w and to pronounce th at the beginning of words as z because he was foreign.
“Here we go again,” Brad commented dryly, leaping up onto the bench and then the table. He picked his way across the tabletop and stopped before the warrior. “This isn’t the end,
Thoral. It’s just the beginning…or maybe the middle or something. The point is, it’s not over. It’s never over until you give up—or you’re dead.”
“I dost wonder about death,” the barbarian said, as if to himself. He also used outdated words like dost because he spoke High Gromish even though most everybody else spoke the low version. This was also because he was foreign. “Would it truly bring an end? Or just a transition to another world?”
“You’ve had too much to drink, Thoral,” the fish cautioned. “You always get morose when you drink. It’s time we get moving. Maybe go on another adventure or something.”
“I am tired of adventures,” the warrior sighed. “I wish only to go home.” He burped again, and the fish staggered back, blinking.
“Come on, pal. Let’s get out of here,” Brad suggested, fanning himself with a fin. “We’ll fight a monster or go on a quest or steal the jeweled eye from an idol or something. It’ll be fun.”
“My heart is too…” Thoral trailed off. “What is that word that means when something has substantial weight?”
“Heavy,” the fish supplied. Thoral always had trouble remembering that one.
“Heavy. Yes. My heart is too heavy for adventure,” Thoral complained.
“Well, maybe if we pick something really hard, you’ll get killed,” the fish offered.
“A hero’s death?” Thoral asked, perking up just a bit.
“Yeah, sure. A hero’s death.”
“And then I couldst be done with this world,” Thoral murmured.
“Exactly,” Brad affirmed.
“Then let us go,” Thoral said, “this very instant.” He slammed his drink down on the table so hard that some of the ale sloshed out of the tankard, splashing at the fish. The koi danced back, just missing a soaking.
“Up to bed first and we’ll hit the road in the morning,” Brad countered, stepping around the puddle of spilled drink.
“No, we will leave now.” There was a dangerous edge to the warrior’s tone that drew the attention of everyone in the room even though he had not raised his voice. The bar went silent.
“Look, Thoral,” the koi answered, “it’s getting late. I’m tired. You’re drunk. We could both use some sleep. Let’s not make a rash decision that might lead to all kinds of unexpected
complications.”
Every eye turned to see the barbarian’s reaction. “We will leave now,” Thoral insisted. The warrior and the fish stared at each other.
“Be reasonable,” Brad tried again. “Just give me one good reason why we shouldn’t wait
until morning.”
“We will leave now,” the barbarian declared, “because I am Thoral Mighty Fist!”
Everyone gasped. Brad sagged, defeated. Once Thoral noted that he was Thoral, there was no point in arguing further. Everyone knew it. That’s just how it was.
With that, Thoral drained his pewter tankard and crushed it one-handed. He got unsteadily to his feet, massive muscles rippling under sun-bronzed, battle-scarred skin, and
transferred Brad from the tabletop into a belt pouch. Then he tossed a gold coin to the hideously disfigured gnomish innkeeper to pay for the mug he’d ruined even though it couldn’t have been worth more than a few coppers. The gnome had been engrossed in restocking a spice rack over the bar, so the coin struck him in the head and then clattered to the floor. He stepped on it with his clubfoot before it rolled away and then pinched it between his stubby, ring-clad fingers.
“Many thanks, Fist Wielder,” the innkeeper croaked, his one eye glittering from his gashed face as the warrior strode past him. “Where are you headed now? Not to the Godforsaken
Swamp, I hope. You should steer clear of that place for a while. There is nothing there but death.”
“I am eager for it,” the barbarian whispered as he strode past the gnome, who frowned and wrung his tiny hands.
Thoral staggered from the bar into the dark, filthy street. Although it was well past sundown, the city was still bustling with all kinds of criminals and cutthroats and that sort of
riffraff. They all cleared out of the big barbarian’s way. Three figures, cloaked and hooded in the black robes of the Bad Religion, watched from the shadows as Thoral went to the tavern’s
hitching post to untie his massive tiger-striped steed, Warlordhorse. He fumbled with the knot, his fingers clumsy from the ale. He shook his head and tried again.
“Let us attack now,” the leader of the Dark Brothers whispered. “We will take him unawares.”
“Uh…are you sure?” one of his subordinates asked, his voice quavering. “Have you heard the stories about him?”
“We have our orders,” the leader countered tersely. “Besides, he is inebriated, there are three of us, and we have the ultimate advantage…” He trailed off, sliding a dagger from a fold of his robe. The curved blade was slick with oily, black poison. He leered at his minions for a moment, and they reluctantly drew their own poison-coated daggers. The three of them started toward the barbarian while he was distracted.
Thoral was still having no luck with Warlordhorse’s tether, and grew frustrated. He put his face close to the rope, trying to get a better look in the dim light of the moon, and made
another attempt. The Dark Brothers crept closer, raising their poisoned blades in unison. Just one scratch and Thoral would be paralyzed before he even felt the wound. Agonizing death would follow within hours, but not before they had had time to drag the warrior before the master of their order to find out how much Thoral knew of their plans.
The Dark Brothers closed in on the unsuspecting champion, swift and silent as death itself.


Giveaway:
1 winner will receive a $10 (USD) Amazon Gift Card and a copy of FISH WIELDER
*Gift card is open internationally, but FISH WIELDER can only be mailed to a US mailing address*
a Rafflecopter giveaway