Deborah Wilde & The Unlikeable Demon Hunter
Give a warm welcome to Deborah Wilde, author of The Unlikeable Demon Hunter due to be released April 18th, 2017! Available for pre-order NOW!
Pull up a chair, grab a drink of your choice from the cooler, a Chocolate Chip or Peanut Butter cookie from the plate, and let’s find out a little about Deborah and her Unlikeable Demon Hunter.
Deborah, what inspired this particular story?
I’d been thinking a lot about what makes a female character “likeable” and why certain traits that seem to be so accepted for male characters are held against women, for example, their level of sexual engagement. Even in fiction, there seems to be a double standard that women are held to. Out of that, my opening scene just popped into my head fully formed. The trick then became, how do I take this idea and create a fully realized, three dimensional character? What does she believe in? What does she stand for? What journey do I want to take her on?
How long have you been writing?
I can’t remember a time I wasn’t writing, though I never thought that it was something I could do as a career. Then I got into film and ended up being a screenwriter for 12 years, having the good fortune to work in both film and television. Eventually, though, I wanted a change and started writing YA romatic comedy novels under the name Tellulah Darling. I’d always loved romcoms and wanted to pursue that passion. After releasing 5 of those books, I wanted to explore more adult themes and the psychological journeys of characters at an older age.
Where do your story ideas come from? If they come to you in the middle of the night, do you get up and write them all down?
I’ve had them come from everywhere: from bits of conversation heard on a bus, to driving past people lawn bowling, to something watched on TV. I have all kinds of scraps of paper with scribbled down ideas and half-thought out notes on my phone. I keep a pad of paper and a pen by my bed precisely for the middle of the night ideas I get. Whether or not they have any merit by the light of day is another story. 🙂
You’ve got a time machine, a cloak of invisibility, and one hour. Where would you go, and what eavesdropping would you do?
Fabulous question! I’d want to eavesdrop on Dorothy Parker and her cohorts at their Algonquin round table and just soak in their verbal brilliance.
A global wanderer, hopeless romantic, and total cynic with a broken edit button, Deborah writes adult urban fantasy to satisfy her love of smexy romances and tales of chicks who kick ass. She is all about the happily-ever-after, with a huge dose of hilarity along the way. “It takes a bad girl to fight evil. Go Wilde.”
You can find Deborah at the links below:
Website Twitter Facebook Goodreads
Now how about a little about The Unlikeable Demon Hunter?
Bridesmaids meets Buffy with a dash of the seven deadly sins.
The age-old story of what happens when a foul-mouthed, romance impaired heroine with no edit button and a predilection for hot sex is faced with her worst nightmare–a purpose
Ari Katz is intelligent, driven, and will make an excellent demon hunter once initiated into the Brotherhood of David. However, this book is about his twin Nava: a smart-ass, self-cultivated hot mess, who is thrilled her brother is stuck with all the chosen one crap.
When Nava half-drunkenly interrupts Ari’s induction ceremony, she expects to be chastised. What she doesn’t expect is to take her brother’s place among the–until now–all-male demon hunters. Even worse? Her infuriating leader is former rock star Rohan Mitra.
Too bad Rohan’s exactly what Nava’s always wanted: the perfect bad boy fling with no strings attached, because he may also be the one to bring down her carefully erected emotional shields. That’s as dangerous as all the evil fiends vying for the bragging rights of killing the only female ever chosen for Demon Club.
Odds of survival: eh.
Odds of having a very good time with Rohan before she bites it: much better.
Where can we buy The Unlikeable Demon Hunter?
How about a sneek peak into The Unlikeable Demon Hunter before they can buy it? Be sure to read all the way to the bottom for the Rafflecopter giveaway!
Mornings after sucked.
Walks of shame were a necessary evil, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed shimmying back into the same trollop togs twice. I picked glitter out of my hair, then straightened my sequined top. I was officially decommissioning it. Multiple washings never quite managed to remove the lingering aura of bad decisions I made while wearing party clothes. My philosophy? Cross my fingers and hope for the most bang for the bucks spent later on new outfits.
The surly cabbie evil-eyed me to hurry up.
I complied, rooting around in my clutch for some crumpled bills before handing them over and stumbling out of the taxi onto the sidewalk.
Fresh air was a godsend after the stale bitter coffee smell I’d been trapped with during the ride. I pressed a finger to my temple, a persistent dull throb stabbing me behind my eyeballs. My residual feel good haze clashed big-time with the glaring sun screaming at me to wake up, and the buzz of a neighbor’s lawnmower cutting through the Sunday morning quiet didn’t help matters. Best get inside.
Smoothing out my mini skirt, I readied myself for my tame-my-happy-slut-self-to-boring-PG-rating body check when a wave of dizziness crashed through me. Whoa. I brought my gaze back to horizon level, swallowing hard. That sea-sickness technique was doing dick-all so I rummaged in my bag for my ginger chews.
No puking in the bushes, I chided myself, letting the spicy smooth and sweet candy fight my nausea. My mother would toss my bubble ass out if I defiled her precious rhodos.
Again.
The rise and fall of my chest as I took a few deep breaths spotlit a slight problem. My spangly blouse was missing two buttons. And I was missing a bra. Hook-up Dude had been worth the loss of a pair of socks, maybe a bargain bin thong. But the latest in purple push-up technology? No. I allowed myself a second to mourn. It had been a good and loyal bra.
The sex, on the other hand? Total crap. The girls, who were normally perky C cups, seemed a bit subdued. I couldn’t blame them. What’s-his-name had started out with all the promise of a wild stallion gallop, but he’d ended up more of a gentle trot. I didn’t know if the fault lay with the jockey or the ride, but it had been a long time since I’d seen a finish line.
Since I couldn’t keep examining my tits on the front walk with Mrs. Jepson side-eyeing me from behind her living room curtains, I thrust my chin up and clacked a staccato rhythm toward my front door on those mini torture chambers that had seemed such a good idea yesterday.
Every step made our precisely manicured lawn undulate. I clamped my lips shut, willing the ginger chews to kick in while fumbling my key into the lock. Dad had screwed up the measurements on our striking cedar and stained glass front door and, being a touch too big for the frame, it needed to be shouldered open.
I crashed into the door like a linebacker. Once I’d extricated myself and my keys from the lock, I brushed myself off, and stepped inside. Our house itself was comfortably upper middle class but not huge, since my parents preferred to spend money on trips and books instead of the overpriced real estate found in here in Vancouver. A quick glance to my left showed that the TV room was empty. I crossed my fingers that Mom and Dad were out at their squash game, my main reason for picking this specific time to sneak back in.
Really, a twenty-year-old shouldn’t have had to sneak. But then again, a twenty-year-old probably should have kept her last menial job for longer than two weeks, so I wasn’t in a position to argue rights.
I kicked off my shoes, sighing in delight at the feel of cool tile under my bare feet as I padded through the house to our homey kitchen. No one was in there either. Someone, probably Mom, had tacked the envelope with my final–and only–pay stub from the call center that I’d left lying around onto our small “miscellaneous” cork board. The gleaming quartz counters were now free of their usual clutter of papers, books, and latest gourmet food find. That meant company. Come to think of it, I did hear someone in the living room.
A study in tasteful shades of white, the large formal room was off-limits unless we had special guests. Mom had set that rule when my twin brother Ari and I were little tornados running around the place and while there was no longer a baby gate baring our way, conditioning and several memorable scoldings kept us out.
Hmmm. Could Ari be entertaining an actual human boy? Le gasp.
I beelined for the back of the house, past the row of identically framed family photos hanging in a neat grid, my head cocked. Listening for more voices, but all was quiet. Maybe I’d been wrong? I hoped not. Both finding my brother with a crush–blackmail dirt–and helping myself to the liquor cabinet were positive prospects. What better way to lose that hangover headache than get drunk again? Oh, the joys of being Canadian with socialized health care and legal drinking age of nineteen. After a year (officially) honing that skill, I imbibed at an Olympic level.
The red wine on the modular coffee table gleamed in a shaft of sunlight like its position had been ordained by the gods. I snatched up the crystal decanter, sloshing the liquid into the glass conveniently placed next to it. Once in a while, a girl could actually catch a break.
I fanned myself with one hand. The myriad of lit candles seemed a bit much for Ari’s romantic encounter, but wine drinking trumped curiosity so I chugged the booze back. My entire body cheered as the cloyingly-sweet alcohol hit my system, though I hoped it wasn’t Manischewitz because hangovers on that were a bitch. I’d slugged back half the contents when I saw my mom on the far side of the room clutch her throat, eyes wide with horror. Not her usual, “you need an intervention” horror. No, her expression indicated I’d reached a whole new level of fuck-up.
“Nava Liron Katz,” she gasped in full name outrage.
My cheeks still bulging with wine, I properly scoped out the room. Mom? Check. Dad? Check. Ari? Check? Rabbi Abrams, here to perform the ceremony to induct my brother as the latest member in the Brotherhood of David, the chosen demon hunters?
Check.
I spit the wine back into what I now realized was a silver chalice and handed it to the elderly bearded rabbi. “Carry on,” I told him. Then I threw up on his shoes.
Ok, that must have made an impression. I like this book already!
It was wonderful having you with us today, Deborah! Please feel free to stop by anytime. Good Luck with The Unlikeable Demon Hunter.
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Posted in Authors' Secrets Blog and tagged Deborah WIlde, Demon hunter, Paranormal, Romance by Tena Stetler with 2 comments.
Mountain of Authors – What Fun!
What wisdom was bestowed upon me at the Mountain of Authors? Where the phrase ‘Blowing smoke up my #?#’ came from. LOL Yep, Keynote Speaker, Mark Lee Gardner an award winning local author, historian and musician told the story. But fellow writer, Donnell Bell repeated the tale so eloquently. “The origin of blowing smoke up one’s &$@&. Once upon a time, tobacco was thought to be of great medicinal value. As a matter of fact, it was actually thought to be able to save drowning victims. This belief was so widespread that when people who lived on or near the Thames in England recovered a victim, the way to resuscitate him was to roll tobacco and shove it…well, where the sun doesn’t shine. Hence the lovely saying we’ve come to think of as exaggeration or telling lies.”
Okay, I learned more than that. We listened to a panelist of writers on Writing for History. Gotta get your facts straight or you can bet someone will call you on it. Yep, that’s why I write paranormal romance, I can make things up as I go and no one is the wiser. <grin>
The next panel discussed “I Wrote a Book, Now What?” The panel of three were experienced in the publishing industry and gave us their take on the industry today. Which is kinda like the Colorado weather, if you don’t like the way things are going, just wait a week or so. The industry seems to be always in flux. Tough if you’re a new writer — heck, if you’re a seasoned writer as well.
I laughed, waved, talked, and snickered with lots of old friends, Pikes Peak Writers were well represented. Then compared notes with several well-known authors, and met a lot of new authors, wanna be authors and readers. As luck would have it, 
I sold and signed a few books which is always good. I hope the purchasers enjoy reading my books as much as I did writing them.
It was a pleasant way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Now it’s time to prepare for the Pikes Peak Writer’s Conference April 27th – 30th. Gee I wonder what kind of trouble I can find lurking in the halls of the Marriott Hotel where the conference is held? Check back for my guest author later this week.
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Posted in Authors' Secrets Blog and tagged Authors, fantasy, Fun, history, horror, Mountain of Authors, Pikes Peak Library District, Romance, Sci-Fi, Writers by Tena Stetler with comments disabled.
L.J.K. Oliva Author of If You Were My Vampire!
New Release Spotlight from L.J.K. Oliva
A Snippet from If You Were My Vampire.
He should have left days ago.
Asher Evans hesitated at the corner of Third and South Park. If he was even half-smart, he’d turn around now. He’d go back to his shitty studio rental, toss everything he could get his hands on into a duffel bag, and get the hell out of town. San Francisco had made it pretty clear it didn’t want him anymore.
Asher jammed his hands in the pockets of his battered leather jacket and started forward again. Another half hour wouldn’t make a difference. In any case, he was already here. He was already committed.
He was going to a tea shop. At close to midnight. Looking for a girl.
It was hands-down the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done.
Asher quickened his pace. He couldn’t even say what it was that had made him notice Grace Alan in the first place. She wasn’t overly attractive, hadn’t spoken more than two words to him each time he saw her. And she worked at a place called Cross Your Teas. Cross Your Teas. That by itself should have sent him running in the opposite direction.
In fact, he might not have noticed her at all except for the single, fascinating thing she’d done the first time they met.
She’d looked at him. In the eyes.
People didn’t look him in the eyes. If they weren’t too afraid of him, they mostly weren’t looking at him at all. But Grace Alan had looked, and she’d kept looking. After the first few times, he’d started to wonder what it was she saw.
He’d tried to put it out of his mind, had told himself it probably meant nothing, but it was no use. Lately, that one simple question had grown from a simple prick of curiosity, to a gnawing fascination, to a preoccupation bordering on obsession.
Tonight, he would have his answer.
Cross Your Teas came into view up ahead. Asher quickened his pace. They would be closing soon, and the last thing he wanted was to have come all this way for nothing. He drew closer. The lights were still on; a good sign. He came to the large front window with the outline of a teapot on it, and peered inside.
Grace’s older sister, Lena Alan, was standing behind the front counter. The drawer of the register was open, and she appeared to be counting out the cash. Then she stopped, a wad of bills in one hand. She quickly swiped at her eyes. Her mouth trembled. Asher blinked.
She was crying.
Lena visibly sighed, and started over. Asher scanned the rest of the shop for Grace. There was no sign of her. He took a deep breath and listened for movement in the back kitchen. No use. There wasn’t so much as a mouse sneeze. Asher ground his teeth together.
Grace wasn’t there.
Now he really should leave. He didn’t have time to be trailing one girl all over the city. But even as the thought passed through his mind, he was already turning his nose into the air. He caught Grace’s scent almost immediately; the bitter-yet-oddly-comforting smell of patchouli. She hadn’t been gone long. Asher followed it up the street and around the next corner.
The darkness grew thicker, despite the thin light of the streetlamp overhead. A stiff wind kicked up, buffeting him with the sharp, briny aroma of the Bay. Asher pulled his jacket a little tighter and fought to hold onto Grace’s trail. Something cold and unsettling moved in his stomach. A mere block or two over, there were wider streets, streets with better light and plenty of traffic. What the hell was Grace thinking, coming this way?
What the hell was he doing, following her?
She wasn’t even his type. His type was blonde, smiling and empty-eyed. Grace Alan was the opposite of his type. Dark-haired, pensive. And her eyes were anything but empty. When she looked at him, he got the distinct feeling she could see right through him. That alone was more than enough reason to leave now.
He had almost convinced himself to do it when he heard her scream.
Asher was running before the sound even had time to register. Grace’s scent grew stronger, and with it he smelled something else: fear. Asher’s chest hardened. The unmistakable sounds of a struggle pricked his ears. A second scent mingled with Grace’s: male, a few days unwashed. Sweat. Arousal.
Asher snarled.
Suddenly, something thick and fragrant flooded his nostrils. Reflex stopped Asher in his tracks. Blood. His mouth started to water. His fangs descended from his gums. He’d come here well-fed, but fuck, whoever’s blood that was, it smelled delicious. There was a subtle bitterness to it, a smell like…
Patchouli.
Asher took off again at a dead sprint. Grace was in trouble. Grace was hurt. A small, snide voice in the back of his head questioned why he gave a shit. Asher ignored it. He slowed, ducked down a narrow, graffiti-plastered alley and took in a deep breath. The male’s scent had faded. Asher squinted. Near the end of the alley, a familiar figure sat slumped against the wall.
He drew a little closer. “Grace?”
She didn’t turn. In the semi-darkness, he could vaguely see her lips move, but no sound came out. Asher closed the distance between them, his footsteps unnaturally loud against the brick buildings on either side.
“Grace—oh, fuck.”
Asher sank to his knees in front of her. She was more than just hurt. He reached out to touch her face, at the last minute thought better of it. His fingertips hovered over the crushed area that had been her cheekbone. Blood gushed from her obviously-broken nose. Asher trailed his gaze lower, sucked in a breath.
Her throat had been slashed wide open.
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Posted in Authors' Secrets Blog and tagged If You Were My Vampire, L.J.K. Oliva, Paranormal, Romance, Vampire by Tena Stetler with comments disabled.
Amanda Jones Author of Dark Angel, The Fallen Chronicles – Book 1
Give a warm welcome to Amanda Jones, author of Dark Angel, The Fallen Chronicles – Book 1 just released on March 29, 2017!
Pull up a chair, grab a drink of your choice from the cooler, a Chocolate Chip or Peanut Butter cookie from the plate, and let’s find out a little about Amanda and her Dark Angel.
With this fallen angel it never felt so good to be bad!
Tells us a little about Dark Angel.
Katia may be a celebrated musician, but she’d always felt a little like an outsider looking in. Who knew that being abducted by a handsome stranger would set her on a crash course with her destiny…
Luc has spent an eternity keeping everyone and everything at a distance as an unstoppable darkness consumes his soul. Will his beautiful captive be his salvation, or will they both be consumed by the ultimate evil…
Dark Angel The Fallen Chronicles -Book 1 — Available from : New Concepts Publishing and Amazon
Amanda Jones lives in Toronto with her exceptionally spoiled pets.Aside from sharing her crazy imagination with others through her books Amanda enjoys travelling and frequent Netflix binges. Amanda has worked in several fields including
sports, music, film, corporate human resources, and is a graduate of York University and Sheridan College.
You can find more information about Amanda Jones here: Website Facebook Twitter Goodreads,Amazon Author Central
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Posted in Authors' Secrets Blog and tagged Amanda Jones, Dark Angel, Paranormal/Fantasy Romance by Tena Stetler with comments disabled.
