I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the FOUR FEASTS TILL DARKNESS Series by Christian
A. Brown Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out
my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Books:
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Author: Christian A. Brown
Pub. Date: All books available now!
Publisher: Forsythia Press
Formats: Paperback, eBook, Audiobook
Find it:
Feast of
Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1): Goodreads, https://books2read.com/Feast-of-Fates
Feast of Dreams (Four Feasts Till
Darkness Book 2): Goodreads, https://books2read.com/Feast-Of-Dreams
Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till
Darkness Book 3): Goodreads, https://books2read.com/Feast-of-Chaos
Feast of Darkness, Part I (Four
Feasts Till Darkness Book 4): Goodreads, https://books2read.com/Feast-of-Darkness-Part-I
Feast of Darkness, Part II (Four
Feasts Till Darkness Book 5): Goodreads, https://books2read.com/Feast-of-Darkness-Part-II
Complete Boxset: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/Four-Feasts-till-Darkness-the-Complete-Series
Read all of the eBooks for FREE with a Kindle Unlimited Membership!
Leap into the mysterious, war-torn
realm of Geadhain, where psychic witches clash with technocratic, godlike
kings. A Lovecraftian world of steam, sorcery, romance and ancient mystery. The
complete, spellbinding Four Feasts till Darkness omnibus, a
veritable literary feast spanning five volumes and over 1.1 million words, is
now available for your consumption in a single digital package.
Lauded by the critics as "unmissable," "unputdownable,"
"lavish," and "poetic," Feasts heralds the
arrival of a unique new voice in dark fantasy.
"An unmissable dark fantasy
romance,"—Kirkus (starred review)
Excerpt:
Excerpt (from Feast of Fates)
Poor lass. I
wonder what the brothers grim have planned for her. All that trouble and all
that death, and she is what it amounts to.
To
the right of Morigan, and thinking these dire thoughts, was a brown-haired
woman lined by evening shadows: a fellow prisoner on this craft. Akin to the
prison marches of old, when slaves were herded into the mines of Menos to toil
until they fell, the two of them were cuffed in black manacles with chains that
connected their feet to their wrists and their wrists to each other. In the
swaying, wind-rapped skycarriage, the heavy iron links beat against their
bruised shins and shivered their bones with a song of hopelessness. The two sat
hip to hip, though Morigan was mostly slumped on her fellow captive until a
sand ago when she had groaned herself awake, out of an abyss of unconsciousness
that had surely held her for a day, or longer. With her first gasp of
awareness, she cried out for Caenith using her body and mind. But her
communication was twice stymied: her mouth muzzled by a cloth gag, and the bees
never left her head; they only circled and buzzed. A power was restraining her
gift, at least the far reach of it, and her instincts told her that the iron
she was bound in had more of a burden than mere weight. Aye, it burned her
wrists and ankles coldly, like the bite of frost.
She
could still sense and hear the unseen by touch, however, and the proximity of
her fellow captive was enough to catch echoes of what the other thought. This
prisoner wasn’t a warm woman; that much Morigan learned in only a short
exposure to her. Which was good, figured Morigan, for the soft had no chance of
surviving whatever was in store for them. The cool cunning of the Wolf or
another boldness reined Morigan, and she counted her enemies. First, the grim
men in fitted black clothing that stood steadied by an assassin’s grace in the
shaking cabin. Next, the dead man down the bench, who was calmly stitching an
overcoat that Morigan vaguely remembered perforating with her dagger. The
biggest concern with that adversary was that it didn’t appear that he could be
killed, not by any weapon she knew of, aside from magik, perhaps. The
nekromancer and that silver-mouthed thing were not in the cabin, though she
recalled them well. Calculating the odds of two chained women against seven
very dangerous men left Morigan short of a solution.
Irrespective
of her cunning, she would not get far in chains, not without help or an
understanding of her fate. Morigan nudged closer to the other prisoner and was
given a look of reproach.
Don’t pull away, and don’t show surprise
that I am speaking in your head, whispered
Morigan.
Little
perturbed Mouse’s steely demeanor, but the hollow voice, the shout in a mental
room of her skull almost had her leaping to the ceiling. She made a small noise
of surprise behind her gag, and then shrewdly acted as if she was coughing when
attentions snapped upon her. The dead man dropped his coat to the floor and was
rubbing her back at once. Mouse made him stop with a glare, and he sheepishly
chased down his thread and garment, returning to his task in a speck. When the
situation had calmed, and both women were bleakly focused ahead like the
preoccupied prisoners they were supposed to be, Morigan whispered again.
We need to talk, you and I. This is the only
way that I think it is safe to do so. As long as we are touching or relatively
close, you can hear my words, and I can hear yours. Respond if you understand
me.
Mouse
concentrated on what she was to say. Can
you…can you hear me? A pause, as the message was relayed—and was that a
tinny buzz, wondered Mouse—and then the woman next to her replied.
Yes. What is your name?
Mouse
entered a short debate about how much to reveal to a woman who apparently could
enter her head. Hiding the truth from a seer seemed a pointless endeavor, she
decided.
Mouse. You may call me Mouse. And you,
strange witch?
Along
with Mouse’s words, the bees returned with a few droplets of stolen memory
nectar. Morigan was silent a spell while she sifted through images of a metal
eye; the rank smell of a man’s unwashed sexual sweat; a handsome, dark-haired
face hidden in a hood—even with only his thin jaw showing, she knew this man
was charismatic—and lastly, a gloomy manor with a rusted playground and
scattered cricket set. Feelings of pitiful sadness tainted this final scene,
and Morigan was stirred. This Mouse had lost something: her love, her
innocence. After requesting that the bees behave in their travels, Morigan sent
another thought to Mouse.
Morigan is my name. Where are they taking
us?
Menos.
Morigan
swallowed her distress. Every speck in this craft took her farther from the
Wolf, though she knew in her heart of hearts that he was on the chase. The hope
was there; she needed only to fan the flame.
Why have they taken you? asked Morigan.
The living one that looks like the dead man
beside me, he’s mad as a bull with a hornet up its ass. Master Blackbriar, he
is. Sorren by first name. A nekromancer of the sickest kind, which is saying a
lot for those folks. He stole, well, paid my employer to own me, and I can only imagine what he will do to you
or me after seeing what he has done to others. Stitched a woman—a living woman,
ghastly as that sounds—with bags of powder, whistling while he did it. He
thinks that I’m someone I am not.
Again,
Morigan saw the dilapidated black manor, its windows frosted with grime. She
demanded that the bees stop their foraging. While Morigan’s mind had slipped,
Mouse had been repeating a question over and over, wanting it to be heard: Why have they taken you?
They want something from me, replied Morigan, and delayed before
further explaining herself. Yet the same desperate trust that won over Mouse,
that sinking reality that there was no one here to help them besides
themselves, persuaded Morigan to be honest—within reason.
I have seen things, she continued. I have information that I think would be of
value to those who wanted to abuse it. I should have realized sooner that I was
putting myself in danger, but I…well, I was distracted. I propose that what we
think of next is our escape.
Our escape? replied
Mouse. This woman was as much guile as she was surprise. Cautious to her core,
Mouse didn’t fall into like with
people, though she felt a curious tugging of respect toward this daring
stranger.
Yes, our escape, Mouse. For I do not think I
could do any of this alone and I don’t need my gifts to tell me that you are as
doomed as I.
About Christian A. Brown:
Bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Feast of
Fates, Christian A. Brown received a Kirkus star in 2014 for the first novel in
his genre-changing Four Feasts Till Darkness series. He has appeared on
Newstalk 1010, AM640, Daytime Rogers, and Get Bold Today with LeGrande Green.
He actively writes a blog about his mother’s journey with cancer and on gender
issues in the media.
A lover of the weird and wonderful, Brown considers himself
an eccentric with a talent for cat-whispering.
Find out more at www.christianadrianbrown.com
Website | Facebook | Instagram | YouTube | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub
Giveaway Details:
1 winner
will receive a a full set FOUR FEASTS TILL DARKNESS Series (all 5 books),
paperback, signed giveaway anywhere within the US + Canada.
Ends March 10th, midnight EST.
a Rafflecopter giveawayTour Schedule:
Week One:
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2/1/2023 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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2/2/2023 |
Guest Post/IG Post |
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2/3/2023 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
Week Two:
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2/6/2023 |
Guest Post |
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2/7/2023 |
Excerpt |
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2/8/2023 |
IG Spotlight |
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2/9/2023 |
Excerpt |
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2/10/2023 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
Week Three:
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2/13/2023 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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2/14/2023 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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2/15/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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2/16/2023 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
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2/17/2023 |
IG Review/LFL Drop Pic |
Week Four:
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2/20/2023 |
IG Review/LFL Drop Pic |
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2/21/2023 |
IG Review/Facebook Post |
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2/22/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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2/23/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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2/24/2023 |
IG Review |
Week Five:
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2/27/2023 |
IG Review |
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2/28/2023 |
IG Review |
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3/1/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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3/2/2023 |
IG Review |
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3/3/2023 |
Review |
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