Thursday, March 12, 2015

The Danger of Destiny (Mystwalker Series, Book 4) by Leigh Evans - Plus Enter to Win the Entire 4 Book Series!!

About The Danger of Destiny:


There are very few days off when you're on an epic quest. Believe me, I know. I'm Hedi Peacock—one half Fae, the other were—and if being a half-breed with one foot in each world isn't tough enough to manage, there are the four chambers of my heart to consider. The one who holds the strings? Robson Trowbridge, the Alpha of Creemore. If I had my way, he and I would be locked in a bedroom, for eternity, but a pressing family matter needs my attention. It's true what they say: A woman's work is never done.


My twin brother is being held captive by the Old Mage in another realm. Lo and behold, as soon as Trowbridge and I arrive in Merenwyn, we're separated in spectacular, dramatic fashion—and I'm left to figure out how to maintain the fragile balance between my Fae magic and my wolf's blood in a realm that cries to both. Not easy, particularly when I'm keeping an iron-grip on my temper so as not to dispatch with extreme prejudice the odd wizard or smart-mouthed mutt servant who crosses my path. My mama never told me there'd be days like these, but I'm not going down without a fight…or my mate.

Read an Excerpt:

It took the Black Mage all of eight seconds to heal the wound.
Once finished, the mage bestowed upon the animal a few comforting strokes, then straightened in his own saddle. He spoke to the rider, deliberately raising his voice so that all could hear him. I didn’t know what he was saying— the language barrier prevented me from following— but Trowbridge sucked in a hard breath at his words.
“What did he say?” I whispered.
My mate didn’t answer.
The mage’s words had vastly cheered the rider of the injured horse. He handed his reins to another and splashed his way to Varens’s body. There he unsheathed his knife, then sank to a crouch beside the corpse.
I wanted to close my eyes. I couldn’t.
I had to see.
The cavalryman lifted his arm high, poised to bring it down in a strike. He held the blade in a grip better meant for hammering than for scalping.
Sweet heavens, he’s taking the boy’s teeth. I whimpered in horror and Trowbridge’s arms tightened around me painfully.
Once finished with his gruesome task, the Royal Guardsman straightened, pocketing his tokens with a satisfied grin. He cast a question to his mage, whose response was a languid wave in the general direction of the rapids. The rider put a boot to the boy’s body and pushed him in the swifter- moving current.
I closed my eyes.
A droplet of warm water splashed on my cheek and dribbled to the seam of my mouth. I licked it away and tasted the salt of Trowbridge’s tear.
And I forgave him.
For not being my white knight on the white horse and for being rational in the face of danger, instead of recklessly courageous. For crying silently as he held me in a punishing grip.
I nudged his hand. He wrapped his fingers hard over mine.
The River of Penance accepted the Fae token and carried Varens downstream. With stunned disbelief, I watched that boy’s progress over rocks until he was carried around the bend of the water. Then, I looked down to Trowbridge’s hand, tightened so rigidly into a fist around mine that the veins on the back of it stood out in angry relief.
One of the archers began yelling at the group, repeating the same phrase.
“What is he saying?” I asked.
Trowbridge’s voice was rough. “ ‘Drop your weapons.’ ”
The redhead appeared to be deliberating the wisdom of doing so. And to me, it seemed that as long as she held up the rest would too.
“Let it go, Ophelia,” Trowbridge said. “Be smart. I’ll find you. I’ll find all of you.”
The Black Mage cocked his head at the redhead and clicked his teeth, and within a splash or two he and horse were a monument of arrogance parked a hair’s breadth away from the redhead’s arrow.
Flickers of reflected red light dappled his face.
He studied the woman for a long, long moment. Then, without breaking eye contact, he pointed upward to the cloud seething overhead. Lazily, he sketched a wide circle with his finger. Immediately the dark mass started to turn— its movement sluggish at first, though it gained momentum with each circuit.
When the cloud swirled like a whirl pool in search of a likely sinkhole, a nubbin appeared at the bottom of a mass. This button sprouted a tail, which in turn became a directionless thread of twisting wind.
The Black Mage turned his hand palm up.
A rumble of thunder, a protest of magic being condensed and compressed, then the whole twisting funnel streaked downward like one of the archer’s arrows. It landed square on the center of the wizard’s palm.
Was it showmanship? Or did the magic need to lick his life lines and test the shallow depth of his heart line? The twister of wind danced upon the mage’s skin for four long seconds.
Then he flicked his head and the entire cloud of magic and thunder simply poured itself downward, like oil poured through a funnel, to disappear into the wizard’s open hand.
A cruel smile tweaked his mouth.
He made a fist, then nudged his horse forward toward the woman who’d dared to defy him. She stumbled backward until she and her toddler stood perilously close to the foot of the rapids. She could go no farther, though she kept her arrow primed on the mage, who smiled down at her from his mount.
Cool as ice, the Black Mage leaned sideways in his saddle. He stretched to hold his fist— the one that had swallowed that terrible cloud— over the head of her child.
The boy looked up and wailed.
The redhead’s resistance snapped. The Raha’ell woman turned her bow horizontal, and with defeat weighing her shoulders, she dropped it. A moment later, the rest of the Rha’ells followed suit.
The Black Mage threw back his head and laughed.
Then he opened his fist.
It was empty.

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About the Author:

Leigh Evans was born in Montreal, Quebec but now lives in Southern Ontario. She's raised two kids, mothered four dogs, and herded a few cats. Other than that, her life was fairly routine until the day she decided to write a book about a half-Fae, half-Were girl who's a magnet for trouble. The first Mystwalker novel was grabbed by St. Martins, and released as THE TROUBLE WITH FATE in 2012. Second and third books quickly followed: THE THING ABOUT WERES and THE PROBLEM WITH PROMISES. At the age most people start thinking about retirement, Leigh is slinging words and pummeling plots. Leigh's destiny has finally been met: she's a writer. A little tardy, but then again, her mum always said she was a late bloomer. 

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