[Image descriptions: Four pages of light purple text on a dark purple background. The first three contain a snippet of the first chapter of the Basics of Spellcraft (Ember Academy for Young Witches: Book One), and the last one contains the cover, which features a white, blonde teenage girl with short hair, producing purple light from a wand. This image also contains info and links that are below, and the full snippet on the first three pages is below the cut.]
Just a short preview from the first chapter of the first Ember Academy for Young Witches book, winner of the Lesfic Bard Award for fantasy in 2020. If you love kick-ass heroines, Sapphic slow-burn romances, and magical boarding schools, you’ll love this latest fast-paced series in L.C. Mawson’s Snowverse.
The full ebook available for free from your favourite ebook stores, and the book is also in paperback and audio.
Full snippet under the cut:
I hugged my arms tight around my chest, a chill running through me as my ears pricked up, as if waiting for something.
I was being ridiculous, I told myself. But then I looked over to Auntie Jess and Nightingale.
Both of them were standing straight, their eyes scanning the environment.
Before I could figure out exactly what that meant, my legs froze, refusing to move.
What the hell?
I tugged, thinking my shoe must be caught.
But no.
My legs were stuck, my muscles ignoring me.
I tried to force myself forward, straining with everything I had against whatever force held me there.
But it was futile.
I tried to look down, to find the issue, but my head wouldn’t budge either.
Every inch of my body was frozen.
Trapped.
Including my mouth, a plea for help unable to leave my throat.
The strangled cry I’d made was matched by two more to the side of me as I realised that neither of my parents were moving, either, though it was tough to make them out from the corner of my eye.
All three of us were frozen stiff, held hostage by some invisible force.
“Shit,” Auntie Jess said, still moving. “Nightingale, watch my back. I’ll try to break the curse.”
Nightingale nodded, her arms coming up to a defensive position as Auntie Jess reached down to her boot, pulling out a stick of wood.
How the hell did she think a stick would help?
But then she started to mutter something and the end of the stick glowed blue as the wind whipped up around us.
Before stopping dead.
“Mum!” Nightingale cried, just as several figures appeared around us.
They were cloaked in shadow, but I could just make out paper white skin and glowing red eyes.
Something primal inside of me reacted to the sight, screaming with warning.
Get out.
Danger.
But no matter how I struggled, my legs refused to move.
And with every spike of fear, I swore that the crimson eyes glowed brighter.
“Shit,” Auntie Jess muttered again before raising the stick to the sky and yelling something I didn’t catch.
A purple light shot from the end before exploding in the sky above.
The figure with glowing eyes closest to her smirked. “Call for help all you like, it’s too late now.”
More strained noises came from next to me, more frantic this time.
I struggled to look, just barely able to see my mum from the corner of my eye.
My vision swam, but when it came into focus, my blood ran cold.
I hadn’t seen much, but the glint of the blade at my mum’s throat was enough.
Nightingale glared at the man who held her. “Let her go.”
My cousin moved faster than I could see.
But not fast enough.
“Stop,” the attacker growled.
I strained to see once more, but all I saw this time was red.
Blood.
Nightingale stopped dead in her tracks, and all I had to judge the extent of my mum’s injury was her reaction.
But I couldn’t parse her wide-eyed stare and my stomach twisted with the thought of how bad it might be, my breath refusing to come in anything but short, sharp spurts.
He’d had the knife at her throat, if he’d cut her…
I struggled against whatever was holding me, but it was no use.
I remained frozen.
“Come any closer, and I will kill her. Then him.”
My stomach lurched. She wasn’t dead.
Not yet.
But that didn’t do anything to calm my racing heart.
Nightingale didn’t move.
“Now,” the first figure said, “hand over the little Witch, and we’ll let the Humans live.”
It took me a moment too long to realise who the ‘little Witch’ he was referring to was.
But he was looking right at me.
Nightingale immediately moved to my side as my auntie pointed her glowing stick at him.
“Never,” she growled.
“You cannot protect her alone.”
“You underestimate my friends if you think I’m still alone.”
A sword burst through his chest, cutting off any response he might have had.
I stared, my mind taking a moment to catch up with the sight before me as he collapsed to the ground, revealing a woman with a long golden ponytail and crimson eyes holding the sword.
“You know, it ruins the surprise if you tell them that we’re here,” she said to Auntie Jess.
But before my auntie could answer, a voice cried out from next to me.
“Caroline! Quick, my healing spell isn’t working.”
The Unwanted Prophet is a low fantasy about a god of Death and the ex-convict he chooses to be his prophet.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
"The world that Carolina Cruz has created here, and characters that inhabit it were both a delight to get to know and to follow on this adventure." - goodreads reviewer
I've started posting this book chapter by chapter now and I'm so excited about it! I wanted to show off this beautiful cover I spent hours on and talk about the book! Tropes:
Defiant-beaten-into-submissive whumpee, vampires (horror), domestic whump, BULLYING (lots!), kidnapping, slavery, whipping, gang beat-downs, and PTSD
I write about survivors, for survivors, and for everyone who enjoys a good action thriller with lots of hurt and very little comfort!
Check it out here, (first chapter here) and let me know if you want to be tagged on upcoming chapters!
Am I forgetting something? Michael asked himself. Is there something I know, some kind of police training conflict management I'm supposed to remember to keep this guy from kicking my ass right now?
Michael was a detective, he was supposed to know what to do.
Then again, he wasn't a great detective. He'd almost put his gun through the wash once, he was that forgetful.
He'd go into work and be greeted by his coworker, always with some variant of,
"How's our lowest performer doing this morning?"
He'd roll his eyes, mutter something and sip his coffee, then realize it was still hot, curse, and change the subject.
Seriously. Every fucking morning.
Last Saturday, Mr. Ross--the only guy that knew Michael's real past--had told him there was just no way to justify keeping Michael above board, with his performance levels.
Then instead of firing him, he handed Michael a folder.
"Uh, if this is a new job, I…"
"It's a new life. I want you to join your brother Morgan. And I want you to report back to us about his gang activities."
And just like that, Michael was being roped back into the worst family that ever owned him. The Huers.
And Morgan's dad--he didn't think of that man as his own father--would only be in prison for a bit longer. He needed to get in with Morgan, and get out before his father's parole, to prove himself to the department.
That was when he noticed the tattoo on Jordie's arm--small serif text that said "never be divided".
Michael's eyes widened as he made the connection. These guys were the Westside Kids--the Huer's longstanding enemies.
"Jordie, wait," Michael cringed at the hand raised to slap him, face already stinging as his skin remembered every slap he'd received throughout his life. There were a lot. "Listen to me. Pete!" His eyes latched onto Pete's. "Pete. They won't want me. They hate me."
The slap landed hard across his cheek, and if Jordie hadn't been holding him, Michael would've tumbled off the tires and into the wall. As it was, his neck popped against the jerk of his head.
"They hate you?" Pete said, coming up closer.
At his boss's approach, Jordie dropped Michael. Michael grimaced as the sting went up and down his face, blinking at tears coming to his eyes.
"Man, if this is about the Huers, I'm sorry, but you're all out of luck." Michael said. "Just drop me off on the road, nobody will be the wiser. I don't even--"
"Do you think I'm stupid?" Pete said. "Don't you dare lie to me."
Michael felt a flutter in his stomach, but he gulped and said,
"They won't come for me, man. Please. I ditched them a long time ago. We haven't seen each other for four years."
"Hm." Pete said. "Then you'll be relieved to know that Morgan Huer has been looking for you."
Michael groaned and turned his head away. That just made it worse.
"They want to kill me!" He said through his teeth. "Whatever you do to me, if they had their hands on me, they'd do worse. Please. You'll get nothing if I'm the bait--they'll just laugh."
Pete looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.
"So… I should just kill you then?"
"Wh--well, uh…" Michael licked his lips. Why hadn't he thought of that? His mind was muddled.
Pete smirked slightly.
"You're pretty good at lying, aren't you?" He said.
He put a hand on Michael's face and tilted it into the sliver of light between the two men's shoulders. Michael couldn't make out much of either of them, but they'd be seeing him pretty clearly. Dirty-blond hair, darkly tanned skin which now was probably a wrinkled mess of a terrified wince.
Michael couldn't answer that question; he wasn't lying, but he wasn't going to try to convince Pete of that now.
"Like I said, you can't lie to me, Michael." Pete released him.
Jordie took him by the front of his pj's and hauled him forward and up to his feet from the tires.
Jordie let go and a fist skiffed over his ribs as Michael bent down to protect his stomach. Jordie took him by the back of the head and rammed a knee into the same spot, and Michael crumpled to the metal floor, knees hitting hard. Two gasps of air.
"Pete, can you kinda hold him down for me?" Jordie said.
"I'm not your--victim!" Michael lunged toward the door, and the other guys actually moved, probably not wanting to get battered in the shins with his skull.
The door was barred, but Michael turned around fiercely, leaned back, and kicked out at Jordie's shin as he approached. Jordie shouted in pain and jumped back, hot rage flooding his face. He paused, looking around the truck. The other guys seemed to not be interested in fighting.
"Fine! I'll do it myself!" Jordie stepped back and hauled a tire off the pile, then tossed it in Michael's direction.
Michael rolled slightly, using his legs to protect his face as the tire fell onto him, and when he lowered them, Jordie was there. He sat down on the tire and Michael's legs strained to stay upright, trying to keep structure so he didn't break anything.
"You asked for it." Jordie said.
"That's bullshit!" Michael hissed.
Slap. It knocked Michael's head sideways again.
Michael cringed, holding his breath as his arms reflexively tugged at the zip tie bruising into his skin.
Slap. Slap.
Jordie's hand came across Michael's helpless face over and over.
And then he started punching. For a moment it actually hurt less, and then the ache began compounding, and Michael grunted and struggled, face screwed up defensively to protect his eyes and nose.
Michael gasped. The door was right here. He just needed to get up. He got one of his legs out from under the tire as Jordie jumped off of him, kicking him in the rib.
"Ugh…" Michael maneuvered himself toward the corner with his un-trapped leg, pushing at the tire with his knee so he could stand.
"You're gonna kill him," Someone observed.
"I'm not killing him." Jordie said, kicking him in the rib.
A shooting pain went up from the spot he kept striking. A rib, if it broke bad enough, could puncture a lung and kill him.
"Wait listen--" Michael hissed.
Jordie kicked off the tire and grabbed Michael by the ponytail, yanking him, dragging him over onto his chest on the cold metal floor faster than his knees could catch him. It smelled like gasoline. Michael squirmed under the stomp of Jordie's boot between his shoulder blades, trying to push away with his legs. He was panicking. He tasted acid, like he might puke again.
"Get his arms, Jordie." Pete said.
"Why are you doing this…" Michael groaned. "I was only defending mys--ugh--" The kick struck him in the ribs on the right, where he'd already taken so many punches earlier. Michael bit down another cry of pain. The rib couldn't take another kick.
"Don't give me that look," Jordie was saying. "I'm not going to break him. Just a couple kicks. Can you hold him for me?"
"What did you expect me to do?" Michael's words scraped over his aching chest.
"Just shut up and take it, kid." Pete said.
"I'm not a 'shut up and take it' kind of person!" Michael shouted.
"You done?" Pete said, toeing a bruised rib.
"Don't break my ribs, man, come on, it's not fair."
Jordie's boot thumped lightly--painfully--against Michael's ribs, making him wince.
"This, Jordie said, "is mercy compared to what will happen later."
"If you defy us." Pete's boot came down on Michael's back. "Just behave, and things will be easy on you."
"If not," Jordie lifted his boot and Michael braced himself for a break.
I don't want to die. I don't want to die.
The booted kick smashed into his arm instead, making a ringing, pulsing sensation go down into his wrist and up into his shoulder. He groaned and writhed.
Content: arrow wound, ptsd, past child abuse , anticipating abuse
Caboodle
Caboodle supported his older brother, stumbling in a suit of armor that made him almost immobile in his wounded state after the battle. A thirty-minute walk had turned into grueling hours, all to arrive at the most frightening place in Gapp–their father’s house.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Caboodle heard his brother repeat the words so annoyingly.
“Kit, look at me.” He said, trying to turn Kit’s face to his the way their Dad did; Kit was leaning on him anyway so it was probably not going to be offensive.
Kit jerked his face away.
“Kit, please, stop apologizing.”
“I’m practicing.” Kit said, then he looked at Caboodle with a small smile.
“That’s not funny, Kit.” Caboodle,said, exasperated. He clenched his fist as he looked up at the massive gates around their “estate”, which was a tower in the middle of Gapp just like everyone else’s so-called “property”. All a big trap.
“He’s not going to hurt us, Caboodle. Probably.” Kit said, then groaned and his grip tightened around the younger boy’s narrow shoulders.
Caboodle clenched the fist that his brother couldn’t see, staring into the front field of well-curated grass and flowers.
“If he does, I’ll kill him.” He muttered, probably sounding like the intimidated little kid he was, walking up to offer up his wounded brother to an angry war veteran who certainly hadn’t lost his edge.
He rang, and when the servant saw them, she freaking ran inside to alert their father. The gate opened immediately, and Glen’s servants crowded around, supporting Kit’s limping frame and pushing Caboodle away as if he didn’t want to be there.
He saw the door open much too wide the way his father opened it, and his father filled the frame and paused for a moment.
Then he stepped down and ran across the lawn toward Kit, ignoring the gravel path.
Kit had stopped, watching his father run toward him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Lord Glen was running to him, not shouting and winding up for a fight.
Kit flinched when the man’s arms wrapped around him, and then Glen started checking him for injuries, asking him what happened. He seemed too scared to speak, and too scared to even take his hands away from the arrow wound.
“You can’t, you can’t just,” Glen stopped and embraced Kit around the head, since that was the only body part available to squish; his torso was still protected by the stolen armor.
Caboodle watched, finding himself biting down on his thumb anxiously, trying not to accept it either. It could change at any moment, anyway.
“How did this happen?” Glen finally demanded of Caboodle, turning with his head still pressed against Kit’s. He looked ridiculously protective.
Kit groaned, and fell into the arms of the surrounding servants, who did their best to prop him up and carry him into the house.
Caboodle was last, watching everyone going in and fussing over Kit. He took his thumb out of his mouth and wiped it off on his shirt with embarrassment; it was so unfashionable that he still bit his nails, especially his thumb, when stuff like this happened.
He didn’t want to go inside. Apparently Glen was having another “nice” streak, and it would only hurt more for Caboodle to stand there while everyone hovered over Kit, asking him how he felt, treating his wound, giving him sympathy.
Better to stand outside, before anyone had the chance to ignore him.
Then he imagined Kit silently searching the room for him, not wanting to ask where he was out loud for fear of getting him in trouble, but worrying…
Caboodle hunched his shoulders in frustration, glanced down at his gorgeous boots for courage, and raised his chin.
Okay.
He marched inside to let Kit know he was okay.
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Content: child soldier (forced), nonsexual sex (idk how else to describe this), belt, fighting
Nife
Knives flying everywhere.
Sching sching sching! Sch-sching!
It was just like her dreams of being badass, except more bad and less ass.
She was terrified, and she wasn’t even fighting. She was terrified every time that knife flew out of her hand, watching it fly to the target, terrified that it was strike and more terrified that it wouldn’t. And she had to watch to see if they blocked. At this distance, some could see them coming.
She lunged forward for a gap between buildings, scaling the alley by putting pressure on either side, bending her knees under her. She was panting hard as she got up onto the crevice and hung on for a second before following the crevice to the edge of the alley. One more level and she’d be able to swing in.
The flag of the house of Cretta hung just around the corner. Slowing her breathing deliberately, Nife lowered herself, then let go and swung in for it, throwing a knife mid-fall to shatter the window, catching onto the flagpole, and then swinging in with a torque to her body and smashing in through the window with Caboodle’s heeled boots leading the charge. Glass falling around her and splitting her skin, Nife plucked them out as she hurried away, gritting her teeth so she didn’t cry out.
The guards were gone, of course–Quartz’ fifty were on that job–but Nife booked it toward the ballroom, knowing the servants would be there at the crash site in a minute to find out what had happened. Changing her footsteps to disguise her sounds, she forced herself to breathe slowly and listen, even though her heart was pounding.
She didn’t feel angry or certain anymore. This was fucking scary.
Then she remembered why she’d been angry.
The bruises piling up on Greeviss’ chubby body, purple at the elbows and forearms, heat all over his back and thighs–he wouldn’t sit down. The knowing, fearful look the Banes hid when they talked about “parents”. Greeviss’ boldness and willingness to die, all but declaring “it’ll be better than this.”
Nife was biting down on her lip, trying not to growl as the memories flashed faster.
The broken hand. The broken rib. Then absence.
She bared her fangs as she approached the kitchen, remembered her nails crushing the fiber of the mahogany, taking a crossbow bolt and a stabbing to the heart in stride. She was exactly like one of those monsters that could rip apart, dismember with her own claws, anyone in her way. She had as much animalistic rage, anyway.
And now was not the time to hold back.
Now, was the time to eat.
The doorway was bright around each edge as the girl sneaked closer, finally touching the edge of the door and pulling it open carefully about an inch to peer inside.
She tried to make sense of what she was seeing; a mass of pinkish mounds and whimpering sounds was on the table–
Nife lurched back away from the door, clapping a hand over her mouth in horror.
They were having sex. Naked.
Come on, She told herself, setting her teeth. I have to do this–Do I have to do this?
They’ll kill Greeviss.
And she couldn’t let Lord Gravelin Amlee kill her friends.
She shuddered, closing her eyes, and pressing her lips together in an attempt not to cry.
Then she forced herself to open her eyes again, went around and peeked in.
Suddenly there was a flinch and a big creaking noise as the door opened further, and the two broke their kiss, separating with audible rubbery moist sounds as Nife drew her last three knives--two in the right hand between her fingers.
Amlee pulled up his pants from around his knees as he jerked around, and froze when he saw Nife. The man's physical similarity to Greeviss made the position he was in that much more disgusting, though thankfully he had covered his penis in one shameful hand.
His pale horror turned to a nearly gray wrath as he buttoned the top button of his pants, leaving the rest bulging grossly.
"Well, look what the rats dredged up from the bottom." He said, clenching his fists at his sides. Then pulled out the belt that was still dangling from his trousers and folded it in his hands.
Weird thing to pick as an improvised weapon, Nife thought.
She raised her right hand, knives ready, then realized Cretta was right behind him. If he was as good as Greeviss said, he'd dodge, and she'd end up killing Cretta by accident.
She could see him gripping the belt tightly, seeming to be trying to get his head straight from the shock.
This is wrong, it’s got to be wrong to kill a man.
The thoughts intruded on her.
She gritted her teeth.
No, it has to be right. I’m right, I have to be.
She strode forward, changing the angle of her attack so that the knives would hit home, but also giving Amlee the chance to–
He swung the belt, and Nife barely jumped back to her starting point in time to be grazed over the forehead with it. The impact knocked her head back and ripped off enough skin that she felt blood running down her forehead onto her nose, plus it hurt.
And she was just standing there, hesitating with the rest of her knives.
He laughed.
Maybe he was right.
Now she darted to the right and away in the direction of the hall, then threw. He dodged the first, but the second struck him in the chest as he charged forward at her, and the third was stuck in her hand as he battered her sideways and onto the table, throwing a good chunk of his two-hundred-something pounds of weight onto her body, and when her head hit the hardwood, she saw black.
Here's Miasma on kindle (it is improved after the Tumblr version)
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Tag list: @bamber344 @sorcererfen @iamheretohurt @notlikeothernurses
Content: Undead, slave brand, magical control, action horror, beating and knife fighting, character "death"
A Slave’s Rebellion 1/2
Nife
The priceless look of shock on the lord’s face faded into something more controlled. Something more familiar.
He was uneasily looking her over and over, examining her like a painting with those cool yellow eyes that missed nothing. The slave cuff still stuck to her wrist, the cool gray skin of her chest and arms now revealed in the absence of the beads she’d ripped off after breaking those chains with her bare hands.
“What the fuck,” He managed.
“I’m here to kill you.” She said disgustedly, being honest for once in her life. It felt good.
And she really shouldn’t have told the truth, because again for once in her life, someone believed her, and it wasn’t Striker.
“Lay one hand on my little brother, and you’ll regret it.”
A deep voice sounded from the shadows, and, another first, Striker flinched at the sound. Nife saw glowing orange eyes under the brim of that creepy fedora.
Keerenn Wry once a laughable rumor, here in the flesh.
Before Keerenn was close enough to stop her, Nife darted forward with the knife up toward Striker’s throat.
Striker reflexively batted it away, eyes still locked on Nife’s glowing ones, and the block was hard enough to throw her sideways into Keerenn–as if even completely dazed, Striker couldn’t not be unbeatable.
Damn my training, I’m throwing it next time. She dodged Striker, darting into the darkness of the hall.
“Forget about the cuff, Nife?” Striker’s voice was approaching at a deliberate pace toward her. “I know exactly where you are, slave.”
What the fuck? Head down in the darkness, Nife tried to pulse her magic into her branded forearm.
It wasn’t working–she had no magic. Nothing. That meant the tracking spell on the slave cuff would be working, and any Wry in the household could track her with it.
Fuck–
He was coming slowly, at a mockingly deliberate pace. She hated it when he did this–she hated it when he took his time, when he made her flinch over and over.
Nife clenched her teeth.
Yeah, not this time.
She flipped the knife tightly between her fingers a couple times, and opened her glowing red eyes. They hesitated at the uncanny grin she displayed, but Keerenn rushed her, barely leaving her time to throw the knife at Striker.
She heard a hiss and gasp as it struck, but he’d blocked it with his arm. Damn unkillable fucker.
“Come to me.” The command she’d been given forced her feet forward, so she lunged at him. He dodged and his arm came looping around her head, squeezing it like a melon he wanted to pop, and he was so tall that she couldn’t kick off the floor.
So she kicked off his knee.
She was tackled by Keerenn from behind just as her fingers caught Striker’s candlestick.
Chest hit the floor. Legs under a stone-like weight. And somehow, her snatch had overpowered Striker’s powerful grip.
With a twist that crackled her spine, Nife gave the candlestick a twirling torque and smashed it against the side of the head with the glowing eyes.
A pop sound came from the force of Keerenn’s hat hitting the wall, followed by a little thump of the candle flying off somewhere.
Keerenn was cursing as she hit him again.
“Guards!” Striker shouted. “In here! Now!”
Keerenn was on top of her now, knee on her now-healing spine and one hand pinning her wrist, trying to take the hot silver candlestick. There were pieces of rug and hardwood in Nife’s nails as she tore at the ground to get free.
Wait, I broke this fucking chain, I can break this hold–
With a twist and a kick, she dropped him onto the pointed part of the candlestick.
Everything else yielded before the strength of the vampire except this candlestick, which, as Nife felt from the friction heat, actually rammed into his chest and throat, pieces breaking off of it and falling over her hand. There was a pop and gurgle. Something dripping like wax onto carpet.
Keerenn reeled toward her with a moan of a curse as she raised the bloody candlestick, arm shaking.
“Wh–the blaze-is that thing?” He gasped under his breath, trying to grab it from her.
A candlestick, dumbass. Though she had no idea why it was working.
She yanked it back and slammed it into the side of his temple, over and over until he toppled over sideways into the light of a dozen fresh lanterns as guards rushed in with servants to light the way, swords drawn.
The vampire’s skull was breaking under repeated blows from the candlestick. Nife’s arm was still clutched tightly in its grasp, and with each blow she wrenched at it, wrenched and smashed, wrenched and smashed, and it didn’t want to let go.
“She’s right there. Go!” Striker was pointing at her, even though her eyes were squinted shut and she could no longer see Keerenn’s either.
Her magic was broken.
Nife rolled sideways to reach the fallen knife, hand slapping over it as the servants with candles arrived, lighting up the twitching form of Keerenn Wry on the carpet. Guards closed in.
The vampire wasn’t getting up, and Nife had no idea why.
“Flaming heavens above...” Someone murmured.
The kitchen knife sailed out of the darkness. It struck true into the throat of the guard between Nife and Lord Creack’s chambers. Nife lunged for the opening. Suddenly something was rammed through her lower side, plunging her to the ground as she gasped, mouth opening all the way in a silent scream. She was stabbed, the blade pinning her to the ground. She could feel it inside her body, burning and cutting, but her body could only shudder and sputter saliva onto her arm. It was Ebbett’s sword, Ebbett, captain of the guard, who had stabbed her.
A harsh kick from Striker’s leather boot slammed into her face, knocking her head sideways like a soccer ball. Crack. Her spine jutted against vocal cords as she jerked in too late to stop it. Her ear sagged under her shoulder, neck broken.
He stepped back–she was finished.
~
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