New Release: Gathering Storm,
The Order of the Black Swan, Book Five
by
Vctoria Danann
Genre:
Paranormal Romance, Scifi Romance, Urban Fantasy, Fantasy Romance
Publisher:
7th House
Date of
Publication: September 19, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-933320-93-9
AMAZON: http://www.amazon.com/Gathering-Storm-Black-Swan-ebook/dp/B00FAA18QK
GOODREADS: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18336107-gathering-storm
Number of
pages: 364
Word Count:
89k
Formats
available: Kindle, epub, paperback
Cover
Artist: Victoria Danann
Early reviews…
"This
is definitely the best book of the series so far. It was a complete
rollercoaster ride. Victoria Danann is the one of the best storytellers I have
ever come across." - Hooked on Books
"...these
books they are sexy, very exciting, but humorous moments makes them a really
fun read." -Vampire Romance
Books.com
"These
books are like a many layered dessert. Tickling your senses, making your emotions
go nuts, and keeping your heart pounding." - A Tale of Two Books
“The pace in GATHERING STORM had me moving
from page to page, gobbling the words as fast as my brain could take them in.” – Fangs,
Wands & Fairy Dust
Blurb/Book
Description:
The
fifth installment in the Black Swan serial saga.
READING IN ORDER STRONGLY RECOMMENDED. That’s why we have a
try-before-you-buy-program. (click here for Amazon link.)
The first book in the saga, My Familiar Stranger, is PermaFREE everywhere.
THE NEWSLETTER: Z Team, a.k.a Zed Company, is transferred
to Jefferson Unit, which is being temporarily retired as an active hunter
facility and converted to a research / training institution. Sol takes his
first vacation – ever – leaving Glen in charge with Storm supervising. Rosie is
proving to be an extraordinary little girl and Deliverance is in BIG trouble
with her mother.
THE SURPRISES: Storm is
really not himself. Former members of B Team must reunite to preserve
his image and reputation.
No one could
have prepared for the surprises Rosie delivers, least of all Glen.
THE ADVENTURE: The Ralengclan send a second wave
assassination team to Jefferson Unit at the worst possible time, when it’s been
left defended by only Z Team, Glen, the Lady Laiken and the trainees.
Author Bio:
If you're looking for something new and different
in PNR, you've come to the right place. I write unapologetic romances with uniquely fresh
perspectives on paranormal creatures, characters, and themes. Add a dash of
scifi and a flourish of fantasy to enough humor to make you laugh out loud and
enough steam to make you squirm in your chair. My heroines are independent
femmes with flaws and minds of their own whether they are aliens, witches,
demonologists, psychics, or past life therapists. My heroes are hot and hunky,
but they also have brains, character, and good manners - usually - whether they
be elves, demons, berserkers, werewolves, or vampires.
My first book,
My
Familiar Stranger, was nominated for Best Paranormal Romance of 2012 by the
Reviewers' Choice
and Readers’ Choice Awards.
Each of my books has remained on the Amazon best seller list in category every
day since release. All four also earned the Night Owl Reviews TOP PICK award
and have remained on the Amazon Best Sellers list every day since release and frequently appear on various Listopia lists in Goodreads.
The Order of the Black Swan is a series that is
also a serial saga. Each book is an episodic installment in an ongoing story.
Join me for the adventure.
Author web links:
WEBSITE: http://www.VictoriaDanann.com
BLOG: http://VictoriaDanann.me
FACEBOOK: www.facebook.com/vdanann
TWITTER:
@vdanann
Two Short
Excerpts from
Gathering Storm:
Excerpt 1 PREFACE
Dunkilly, Ireland
Glendennon Catch caught
the eye of the bartender who simply pointed toward a back corner. He couldn't
see what the man pointed to, but he nodded and began making his way toward the
rear.
He wound through a few
layers of standing people who were holding glass mugs and talking loudly to be
heard over the music, until he could see a corner snug in the back. It was
close to a window so there was enough light to see, even with the smoke, that
the bartender had been right in surmising that he was looking for Z Team.
There they were - the
farthest thing from inconspicuous. Glen couldn't begin to guess how they had
managed to be successful vampire slayers when everything about them drew
attention and broadcasted vibes of this-is-your-last-chance-to-run. It was a
message that floated around them like a diaphanous cloud of warning.
The four of them fit
comfortably in a snug designed for eight. That was partly because of their
sheer size and partly because they had a casual way of draping arms and legs so
that they took up as much space as possible. It also communicated disdain for
established notions of propriety. Glen knew instinctively that even the word
"propriety" would make Black Swan's infamous misfits laugh out loud.
One of them was wearing a
sleeveless shirt that had once been a denim jacket. His left arm had been
transformed into a tattooed sleeve by an intricately inked mural of muted
colors. It was odd to see bare biceps when it was brittle-dick cold outside,
but Glen supposed that if he'd made that much of an investment in ink he might
want to show it off too.
Glen's initial impression
of the guy sitting next to Sleeve was that he should have the nickname, Dark,
or Black. He wore black jeans, a black metal band shirt that was probably a
collectable, and his spiky hair was so blue black it had to have been dyed that
color. All that with eyes so pale he could almost get away with going
undercover as a vamp. He wasn't wearing eyeliner, but the contrast between his
ice-color irises and those thick ebony lashes made his eyes pop in a dramatic
way that probably drew interest from a lot of babes. The Black Knight. Glen
smiled a little to himself. He enjoyed his own company and his own offbeat
sense of humor.
The third wore a plain
gray long sleeve tee that covered his upper body, but Glen could see black ink
climbing out of the neck of the guy's shirt, stopping just below his pronounced
jaw line. Either tribal pattern or angel glyph. Hard to tell with just snake tails
in view. He had a serious case of bed head going, probably by design, and one
eyebrow that was raised and had been since he'd noticed Glen standing there
watching them.
He said something to the
others. Then the fourth, the one facing away with one long arm draped over the
back of the snug, turned to look at Glen, revealing elfin ears. Those ears were
outlined by light brown hair with titian streaks. Same curl as Sir Hawking. Had
to be Torrent Finngarick.
They looked exactly the
way Glen had expected them to look. Hard. Tough. And like they belonged
together. He was thinking, So they're Black Swan knights with a little bit of a
nasty reputation. They put their pants on one leg at a time just like me.
Right?
It was an inadequate
internal pep talk, but he just wasn't feeling it. He decided to go with Plan A,
which was taking life straight ahead, one step at a time. Glen had a reputation
of his own for being easy going, but he made an exception for passive
aggressive nonsense. He didn't like it, didn't like people who habitually
avoided the front door, and didn't mind letting his irritation with bullshit
bubble over.
Plan A meant walking
straight up to them, stating his business, hoping for the best, but being
prepared for the worst. That was the thought bouncing around in his mind as he
observed their reactions to seeing him approach the table.
When he was standing over
them, he looked around the table and said, "I'm Glendennon Catch."
Then he zeroed in on Torn. "Sorry for your loss, Sir Finngarick." He said
"sir" quietly enough so that only they heard him, but they got the
message. It was as good as a secret handshake. "The office sent me with a
message from the HR department."
They left him standing
there for a minute without saying anything or changing expression. It was a
thinly disguised intimidation strategy to get him to reveal nervousness,
timidity, or some other weakness that would register as a flaw in their eyes.
That sort of thing didn't work on somebody who had inherited the dominant
werewolf gene. He could stand there all day without flinching or looking away.
Finally, the big guy with
the glyphs crawling up his neck grinned, showing dimples which seemed entirely
out of place against the persona he'd so carefully crafted. "So go ahead
and deliver your memo, Sweet Cheeks. We're waiting."
The other three chuckled
softly without taking their eyes off of him. Glen laughed openly and
good-naturedly, but let the sound trail off ending in a low level growl,
incongruent with the smile on his face. The growl wasn't loud enough to draw
attention from the wake-goers, but it was definitely heard by Z Team. They all
sat up a little straighter and took another look at the kid. He had their
interest, but that was worlds away from respect.
Looking at Glyphs, he
said, "My briefing didn't mention that any of you are hard of hearing. If
you want to call me by a name, it's Glen."
Finngarick's blue eyes
twinkled in a way that brought Ram to mind while the other two laughed at
Glyphs being put down by a kid who was years away from growing into his big
frame.
"Long way to deliver
a message. Would you no' have a pint with us then? Glen." He reached out
with a long leg, put the toe of his scuffed boot through the leg brace of an
unoccupied chair, pulled it up to the snug, and made a gesture of invitation.
"You'll find we're no' much on formality. Call me Torn."
Glen nodded then looked
at the others. Torn pointed at the guy with the sleeves and said, "This is
Gunnar. That's Raif." He raised his chin in the direction of 'black
knight'. "The fella with the questionable personality is Bob."
"Gunnar. Raif, Torn,
And Bob. No way."
Finngarick's eyes
twinkled with that special elvish sparkle. "Aye. Make no mistake. Name's
Bob."
Glen shook his head.
"Let's rename him."
Finngarick looked at Bob
and then back at Glen. "What we have here gentlemen is a cool, gloomy
Irish day with no place to go and no' a thin' to do, but have another pint. So
I say we'll play that game. What would you call the man if it was up to you,
young emissary?" Glen shrugged. "Come now. No ideas?"
"Well, yeah, I sort
of named him in my head on the walk across the bar."
"Pub," Torn
corrected.
"Yes. Pub.
Sorry."
Bob raised both brows.
"I, for one, cannot wait to hear what you named me in your head on your
walk across the... pub."
Glen looked at him with
speculation trying to decide whether or not to tell the truth.
"Glyphs."
While Bob studied Glen,
his three teammates studied Bob in turn, like they were trying it on for size.
Bob lowered his eyebrows and rolled his big shoulders in approval.
Finally Torn nodded as if
to say he'd reached a conclusion. "Right you are. Now that you point it
out, I can see he's no' a Bob. Glyphs suits him fine. Congratulations, trainee.
You just named yourself a knight."
Torn Finngarick called
for a Guinness Extra Stout to be served to Glen, who wasn't used to alcohol at
all and certainly wasn't ready for Irish black beer. He took a manly mouthful,
thinking he had arrived, and promptly spewed it all over Torn in a spectacular
demonstration of human fountain power. The other three members of Z Team
laughed so hard they had to wipe tears.
"That was almost as
funny as the night that Chokarzi stripper puked half a gallon of half-digested
Cuervo in your face in the middle of a lap dance."
Glen borrowed a wet bar
towel and offered it to Finngarick with a blush. "I'd offer to clean you
up, but your file says you prefer to get personal with women."
Torn took the towel
without a word, but with a glint of amusement in his eyes. When he was as clean
as was possible without a shower and fresh clothes, he handed the towel to
Glen. "Go get yourself somethin' else. Drinks are on me. Milk maybe?"
he teased.
When Glen returned with a
mug of root beer, no one asked him what was in the glass. Torn simply motioned
to the chair. Glen sat.
"You're needed at
Jefferson Unit. You're to accompany me to Fort Dixon after the funeral. Your
things are being gathered and moved as we speak."
As Glen looked from one
to another, he saw no discernible reaction. They were a cool bunch. He'd give
them that.
Glyphs shrugged.
"New York's no worse than any other place. Maybe better than some."
Finngarick looked at Glen like he was a lab
specimen on a microscopic slide. "Would you be happenin' to know why we're
needed so urgently?"
Glen thought about it for
a minute and decided there was no reason to withhold the truth.
"Yes."
A ghost of a smile seemed
to cross Finngarick's handsome elven face. "And would you be sharin' with
us then?"
"Sorry. No."
Torn glanced at his
teammates as if the four could communicate telepathically. "See. The thin'
is, we're accustomed to hearin' The Order needs to sweep us further under the
rug. No' brin' us into the light. We would no' be the least surprised if you
came to say we're bein' transferred to Antarctica. But this? Naturally we're
curious, you understand."
"Of course I
understand. But I'm not at liberty to say."
Torn nodded thoughtfully.
"Well, then. Might you be at liberty to say why you were sent to escort
us?"
It took Glen less than a
second to process whether it might be problematic to divulge that information.
"The Jefferson Unit sovereign is retiring. I'm being given a try-out for
his job. He sent me to get you." Z Team stared at Glen as if they were
waiting for the punch line. Finally, he said, "No. Really."
Gunnar cleared his
throat. "So. You're saying that, at some point, we might be calling you
boss?"
Glen responded with a
shit-eating grin so big, it begged for comeuppance. Gunnar swept his gaze
around the snug before it came to light on Glen with a chilling mix of
challenge, mischief and amusement.
Torn leaned forward.
"Seems we have limited time for the application of a right proper hazin'
then. Glen."
Four sets of eyes darted
to the movement in Glen's throat when he swallowed.
Excerpt 2 CHAPTER 1
"'Tis a good thing that Stormy
and I are the bad asses that put the bad in Bad Company, else the two of us
might be intimidated by unhappy wives standin' over us with mean faces and
hands on delectably curvy hips."
"I concur," added Storm.
"You can concur until the cows come home Sir
Storm, but you are still NOT playing in the Jefferson Unit Annual Rugby
Match." Litha's voice was loud enough to make the babies get quiet and
listen.
"Yeah. What she said."
Elora couldn't really see what more could be added.
"We're playin'."
"We are."
"You. Are. Retired!"
Elora countered.
"Retired is no' dead."
"And I'd like to add that we retired early. Lots of active duty hunters are older than we are and
they'll be playing. There's never
been a match that didn't have B Team represented and there's not going to be
one this year either."
Elora huffed. "Since they
retired B Team as a commendation to you..."
"And you," Storm added.
"Thank you for the thought,
but not really and I don't think any of you would enjoy having me play. Stop
trying to distract me. I'm in the middle of asking if you plan to still be
repping for B Team when you're ninety."
The husbands looked at each other.
They both sat on the sofa in Ram's and Elora's Jefferson Unit apartment with their
arms crossed and looking like they had dug in to be stubborn.
"She might have a point,"
Storm said to Ram.
"We're no' givin' any points
or any ground. With them 'tis always a slippery slope slidin' toward
capitulation."
Storm looked at Elora. "We're
not ninety now. We'll torch that bridge when we come to it. We're not even
nearing thirty. And we're playing."
"Aye. We are."
Ram and Storm uncrossed their arms
long enough to give each other a fist bump.
"Look," Elora began,
"you're both young, strong, still in your prime and tough as they
come."
"We're no' fallin' for the
flattery approach."
"I'm just saying that you're
also husbands and fathers with bones that can be broken and organs that can be
ruptured." Elora left out the part about how she also hated overhearing
the female spectators objectifying her husband. She already knew that he was
the stuff of nocturnal fantasy and didn't need to have that driven home by
listening to women talk about imagining him when they're with somebody else.
Ugh!
They were silent and resolute.
Resolutely silent.
Litha whispered something in
Elora's ear and they withdrew to the bedroom, closing the door behind them.
"What do you think they're
doin' in there?"
"I think they are saying that
they will have better luck with a divide-and-conquer strategy."
"Aye. 'Tis my thought as
well."
"Pact?"
"Indeed."
"Lust to dust."
"Sperm to worm."
"Womb to tomb."
Elora whispered to Litha.
"Quiet. Ram's ears are amazing."
"Then let's duck out for a
coffee. Or cocoa," she corrected.
When Elora nodded, Litha closed her
fingers around her fellow conspirator's wrist and they popped into the lounge
downstairs. The trip wasn't far enough to disturb equilibrium. It was no worse
than a fast elevator drop.
"It won't hurt them to watch
the babies for a little while."
Elora chuckled. "Neat
trick."
They picked out two of the comfiest
chairs, the ones that made sitting feel like a hug, and sat facing each other.
"Hmmm. Well, I'm thinking that
we're not going to get anywhere as long as they're together. They're feeding
off of each other and ratcheting up the resolve. We need to interrupt that
feed."
"Brilliant. Let us have yummy
drinks and then go to our separate bedrooms to see if we can't get their arms
uncrossed."
Litha smiled knowingly and initiated
a soft five.
"Does it strike you that
they're bein' too quiet?"
"It's your bedroom. You go
check."
Ram opened the door and said.
"Great Paddy loves a fuck. They're gone."
"What?" Storm got up.
"Gone. G.O.N.E. As in your
wife always brin's an unknown factor to the mix. Great Paddy, I'm glad we were
never assigned to hunt somebody like her." Ram ran a hand through his hair
and looked at Storm. "So. Guess who's babysittin'?"
