QSFer Chris Quinton has a new paranormal book out:
Jubal, the last Carlyle, lives the full width of the continent away from his Abenaki ancestors until a letter from a lawyer draws him and best friend Sal to the suffering town of Whitewater, Vermont – where dark forces, unleashed by one man’s obsession, bring depression and
hopelessness to the people.
Jubal’s father was unable to drive back the incursion, but Jubal knows he must try; without knowledge or training he has only instinct to rely on – and Sal, who is rapidly becoming far more than a ‘friend with benefits’. The dangers they face are insidious, and their lives and sanity are at risk – and so much more.
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“Was wondering when you were going to wake up,” said the voice. Since his head currently felt as if an axe was embedded in it and coherent thinking wasn’t an option, Jubal managed a slurred, “Shut up,” and tried to open his eyes. It didn’t happen. His lids seemed to be glued shut. Not that it fully registered with him. The mere effort had been enough to send the pain soaring to a new level.
“You don’t want to think about moving just yet.” The deep timbred voice sounded wryly amused. Jubal decided he hated the guy, whoever he was. “You got a minute or so.”
“Wha…?” he groaned. At the same time he became aware of bruising pressure across his chest and legs A hard and jagged cage-like something enclosed his body. He heard the pings of cooling metal, the steady drip-drip of leaking gasoline. Smelled it as well. Not good. Memory surged back in a nauseating rush.
He’d been returning home after his shift at the forest ranger station ended, looking forward to getting out of the deluge that hadn’t let up all day, and into a hot shower. Friday night with the rain lashing down, he’d had the back roads leading from Seattle’s Capitol State Forest to himself. Until a deer had come out of nowhere, dashed in front of him in a flash of glistening wet hide and black eyes. He’d slammed on his brakes and—nothing at all after that.
“You don’t want to hurl either,” the man said. “Trust me.”
“Help me, for fuck’s sake!” Jubal snarled. He tried to raise his right arm so he could scrub at his eyes, but the pain struck again and he nearly passed out.
“Can’t.” The man didn’t sound regretful, just matter-of-fact. “You gotta do it yourself. And if I was you, I’d start right about now. Bastard’s struck a match.”
“Mother-fuck—” A faint crackling sound started up and another smell assaulted his nostrils. Something was burning.
Panic exploded through Jubal in a scorching tide. He tried to simultaneously shove off whatever was pinning him, roll over, get to his feet. He failed at all three. The agony was oddly distant, but the whoosh of flames and their heat were not. His fear became a savage beast that clawed at his brain, at any vestige of self-control that remained. There was only the all-consuming need to be somewhere else—
Something tore deep inside him and Jubal howled. He must have blacked out for a while, because the next thing he knew the biting weight had gone from his body and his arms were free. Rain pattered on his upturned face, slid its chill fingers across his skin. He had just enough time to register the texture of the earth and grass beneath him before the gas tank exploded. A wave of heat and pressure scooped him up and dropped him into a puddle.
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Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she’d ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web.
Chris’s reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor.
She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals.