Romance Reviews

The Romance Reviews

Crimson Romance

Crimson Romance
For the best in romance, from sweet to naughty!

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Revenge of the Mad Scientist, Book 1, Airship Adventure Chronicles by Lara Nance

Publisher: Lara Nance
Pages: 268

From the Cover:

A steampunk adventure with a hint of romance.

When Lady Arabella Trunkett’s father, the High Lord Minister of Urbannia is kidnapped, all clues point to the mysterious country of Gandiss and the world is thrown into political upheaval.

Arabella is convinced the more sinister nation of Carabarras is to blame, urged on by a mad scientist seeking revenge. So, she sets out on a perilous airship journey across a variety of exotic locales to save him, and halt the potential world war.

But air-pirates, secret assassins and slave traders aren’t her only trials. The fickle hand of fate has made the captain of the only airship available for charter, the man who left her at the altar. For eight years she's wanted nothing more than to see him dead. Now he's her only hope. 
Lady Arabella's father is kidnapped and by the very people he was hoping to arrange a peace treaty. Is it hopeless? Would the ambassador from Gandiss really attempt to kidnap her father? Belle doesn't think so. But to prove this, first she must confront those whom everyone assumes to be responsible. And to does so, she'll have to travel across the desert regions to the true kidnappers and assassins, Carabarras.

An airship is her only course of action to solve her problem. Unfortunately, not very many are willing to travel across the continents threatening to go to war with each other. When the airship she contracts is damaged, it leaves her with one option, allow her ex-finance who left her at the alter, back into her life, and trust him to help her retrieve her father before the invaders from Carabarras can move him or worse, kill him.

Revenge of the Mad Scientist by Lara Nance is the first book in the Airship Adventure Chronicles. It's a steampunk world full of the imaginative wanderings. The inner working of the steampunk machinery... airships and steam carriages, the Victorian world and their strange devices. Lara Nance seems to capture not only the inner workings, but also the elegance of the Victorian era, the grand ball where Lady Arabella's father is kidnapped, even Lady Arabella herself. Then, the desert worlds of Gandiss and Carabarras are filled with wonderful and despicable characters... the thieves, assassins, and the unsavory. And, it's a good mystery to keep you guessing.
Revenge of the Mad Scientist is a quick read that will leave the reader begging for more, wondering when Book 2 will be released? How is Lady Arabella and her young charges going to survive? Will Urbannia's Queen accept the word of the wandering aristocrat? My heart broke a little for the young Arabella, her father is one of the most important people in her life. At first, I didn't think I was going to like Rett, after all, he did leave Arabella at the altar. But, it was a marriage in love with the idea of marriage, it takes the growth of both characters to let the real love grow. I very much enjoyed this read from author Lara Nance, her first foray into the world of self-publishing. And yay for her, her first self-published book is a winner. If you enjoy Steampuck, visiting strange new worlds, action packed adventure, and a great love story waiting to unfold, pick up Revenge of the Mad Scientist, Airship Adventure Chronicles. You won't be disappointed, it's an excellent read. Available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Five out of five fairy kisses for this reader.


I received this ebook from the author, Lara Nance, for review. All opinions expressed are my own.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Monday Morning Flash Fiction Challenge, Week 107

Good Monday Morning!

It's time for another edition of....

This morning's image is another free image (desktop theme) from Zimbio

Interesting image, don't you think? I hope it stirs some imagination.... (notice the arms reaching up for her...? Cool...)

Have a great week!!

Friday, August 24, 2012

I Believe by Lawrence Martin

Publisher: Lawrence Martin
Pages: 148

From the Cover:

Erin Slade is young, happy, and in love with a man who is her own Prince Charming. Their wedding was truly a dream come true, and everything is simply wonderful...

...until the dream starts slowly turning into a nightmare. Erin finds herself trapped in a web of deceit, lies, treachery, and pain. She discovers a murderous scheme by pure accident, and tries to make just the right move when she is desperately trying to win the deadly game.

'I Believe' is a novel by Lawrence Martin, and it traps you from the very first page, making you crave for more until you read the very last word. Buckle up -- you are in for a wild ride!

I Believe is about a young women alone in the world that thinks she finds love, but soon discovers the man she married is not in any way shape or form who she thought he was.

Erin, our young heroin is pulled into a web of lies, and danger, that include murderous plots, and she must find her way out to become a strong and independent women, but can she??

Read it and see! I thought this book was a good read, would have like to have seen a little more depth on the characters, but use your imagination a little, it is still a very good read!

Review by Tanya Roberts

4.5 Fairy Kisses for this reader

Tanya received this book from the author for review. All opinions expressed are her own.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Promo~Dead Mann Running by Stefan Petrucha

From one of my favorite authors, Stefan Petrucha, the second addition to the Hessius Mann Novels, Dead Mann Running - the zombied detective stirs to life and into action once again!

Publisher: Roc
Pages: 352

(Release Date: September 4, 2012)

EXCERPT (from Stefan Petrucha's Website)

REBIRTH sounds great, doesn’t it? Sounds like hope, possibility, spring. Nope. It’s more like that poet T.S. Eliot said, April is the cruellest month.

Not that the rest of the year’s much better. Take November for instance. Take it on a boring night as a fat rain fell, the drops thick and icy cold, but too lazy to turn to snow. I was slumped in my ratty recliner, getting ready to watch Nell Parker, a dead stripper I’d had an unusual relationship with, on the tube. Sure, I could’ve shut it off, but there’s nothing like seeing the face of someone you want to forget every day on TV. 

She’d gotten the gig partly as blowback for the Chak Registration Act; chakz, short for charqui, or dried meat, being the preferred term for us zombie-types. Thanks to an undead-riot caused by a pal of mine, an awful lot of livebloods died. Jane and Joe average didn’t like that much, so some pretty Draconian laws were passed. As a nod to the bleeding hearts worried about chak rights, a “good” dead person was given a talk show. 

Nell was better than good, she was perfect—smart, pampered, and nothing missing. Her skin was white and silky smooth, not the usual rough gray, her black hair straight and shiny. Oh, they had to work at it. I read the studio was kept below sixty to ensure rot didn’t set in. But best of all, Nell was also the only chak with eye color, green, no doubt to match her benefactor’s last name, he being billionaire pervert Colby Green. He and his powerful buddies loved chakz any way they could.
Despite the fact that TV was a definite step-up from pole dancing at Green’s private orgies, Nell
never seemed to appreciate it. She tried to look harmless, knowing that the whole point was to show that all chakz weren’t a threat, but there was always a hint of disdain in those emerald eyes. It made me feel like she was looking at me. 

The show itself was bullshit, fluff designed to make LBs feel better about imprisoning us. Not that I blame them for that. If a chak gets too depressed, they go feral. That’s kind of like going postal, but only if George Romero directed it. Thanks to the new laws, any chak who could speak or write had to take a monthly emotional stability test. Pass, and you’re free to enjoy your second-class citizenship for another month. Fail, and they put you in a concentration camp until you do go feral. Then they safely destroy you. They’re not clear on how they do the destroying. No one likes watching sausages getting made, or burned. 

On the plus side, we all get free cell phones. Not that many of us know how to use them. In theory, they can be used to track us if we go AWOL. In reality, the guard, a volunteer group composed mostly of testosterone types who used to spend their weekends chopping us up with machetes, is charged with chak control, and they don’t like sharing with local law enforcement. It’s moot in my neck of the woods. Fort Hammer doesn’t have the equipment to track anything. All in all, not so much Big Brother as his big, dumb, inbred cousin. 

To be fair to Nell, she tried to branch out. She’d done a series of interviews with no less than ChemBet’s head of R & D, Travis Maruta, the man who made zombies real. A mousy guy you wouldn’t think had it in him to swat a bug, let alone change the world, he went on about how hard he and his wife Rebecca were working to improve the human race even more. 

The way I heard it, Rebecca was a second-rate chemist, but a first-rate dominatrix. She’d gotten Travis into some kinky shit that made Colby Green look like a virgin. I doubted either of them gave a damn about anything except getting each other off. 
But there are lies, and then there are damned lies. The former would be something no one believes, like if I were to say Nell Parker meant nothing to me. The latter would be a whopper, like my execution. When that needle pierced my soft pink skin, I thought at least nothing worse could happen. It wasn’t the first time I was wrong, but it was the last time my skin was soft or pink. 

When DNA evidence threw out my conviction, I was subjected to ChemBet’s patented, self- perpetuating, neo-magical, electrostatic Radical Invigoration Procedure, RIP, for short. I came back with dry skin, brittle bones, sixty percent of my IQ, and none of my photographic memory. And they said I was one of the lucky ones.

Now my memory’s like an old dog without a leash. It either lies around doing nothing, or winds up eating things it shouldn’t. When I thought Nell betrayed me by going back to Green, it reminded me of what an angry guy I’d been when I was alive. After that, I started thinking she was better off without me. I contented myself with stalking her on TV, but that night, she came on without the fake smile and barely able to speak. 

“Dr. Travis Maruta,” she finally managed, “was found dead yesterday in his ChemBet laboratory, apparently from a self-administered overdose of an unknown substance. It was November twelfth, the eighth anniversary of his invention of the RIP...” 

Some chakz would find the news satisfying; others say that real death was too good for him. Some would be too decayed to have an opinion. Me, I was thinking, Suicide? Maybe the whiny son of a bitch finally realized what he did. 

Big picture, I couldn’t care less. Sure, I wished he’d killed himself before he came up with the RIP, but blaming Maruta for my problems was like blaming Henry Ford for car accidents. When they switched from Nell to a “real” newscaster, I got bored, turned the set off, and took to watching the shadows on the floor. 
I was doing a pretty good job thinking nothing, when a knock came at the door. Answering was Misty’s job, my assistant, but she was out with Officer Chester O’Donnell, a boy toy she’d met while I was in jail. When the knock came again, I remembered it might mean money, and that was in short supply. Business, never booming, had gone downhill since the camps opened. Mostly, I’d get some chak hoping I could help him or her cheat on their next test, which I couldn’t. Misty ran a little memory class that made more than I did, and she hated charging.

But, seeing as how you never know, I shambled into our so-called reception area. The bottom half of the door wobbled from a third rap. 

“Who is it?” I asked.

No answer, but the next knock came faster. With a grunt, I opened the door.

No one was there. Not even a raven squawking
nevermore. A cold, wet gust of wind slapped my
face and set a loose bit of cheek-skin wobbling. I should’ve had Misty sew it, but the cold weather, while it helped me keep, made me lazy, like a reptile. At least the building was rotting faster than I was. The three story walk-up lost half a wall last week. The rooms across the hall were no longer habitable. A chak or two downstairs were the only other occupants. You get what you pay for, and the landlord stopped charging rent when the building was condemned. 

I started thinking the knock was a loose board about to fall, but didn’t see any new leaks. And then I looked down. 

Six inches from my feet sat a weathered briefcase, cracked and dented as my loafers. But that wasn’t the first thing I noticed. That’d be the hand gripping the handle. As usual, an arm was attached, but after that, nothing. No head, shoulders, knees, or toes, just briefcase, hand, and arm.
There’s a knock-knock joke in there somewhere, but I don’t know what it is.

As I stared, the hand let go of the case, raised its fingers and wobbled the tips as if feeling the
empty air. It regripped the handle and squirmed, stub first, dragging itself and the case inside. It crawled through the front room and into my office, leaving a thin trail on the floor. I thought it was oozing the gray stuff chakz have on their insides, but a closer look told me it was rainwater mixed with street grit. 

At the center of the office floor, it stopped, like it was expecting me to join it. 

I wondered if I’d fallen asleep in the chair. Chakz are tough to kill. Knife wounds, gunshots, even the loss of a limb or two, won’t stop us, but our pieces, unless it’s the head, don’t generally get around on their own. Still, I’d seen a walking skeleton and a laughing skull, so I didn’t think it impossible. There was a lot about the radical invigoration process no one knew for sure. 

I stuck my head out and looked down the hall, in case it was some joker with a remote. Livebloods don’t bother with me, and the only chak I knew warped enough to pull something like this was Jonesey, and he’d been shipped off to the camps after failing his last test, stupid bastard. We tried to help him study. Well, Misty did, I wasn’t speaking to him on account of he was the one who caused the riot. Maybe, like Nell, he was better off. He’d already gone feral once, until I slapped him out of it. You can do that sometimes. 

Other than the wind, and the rain pouring from the gaping ceiling holes to the mottled floor, there was nothing. No second arm, no torso, no legs or head that’d fallen behind. 

I closed the door and turned back, half expecting my guest to be gone. It wasn’t. It was still there, rapping its fingers on the case like an impatient salesman. 

Comfortable that it wasn’t going to bite, I stepped closer for a better look. Its skin didn’t look chak-gray, but my sense of color isn’t great at night. It wasn’t thin. It had muscles, legit, not baby- smooth like a bodybuilder’s. The fingers had less character, but they were thick, rugged. A workingman’s arm, if I had to guess. It kinda reminded me of my father’s arm, a thought that added 
to the scene’s dreamlike feel.

Christ, I hadn’t thought about Larry Mann in ages. I wouldn’t say he was a violent man. If I did, I

was afraid he’d hit me. But that was crazy. The arm couldn’t be his. Its fingers were intact. Dad lost the top halves of four digits when he fell into a circular saw. He was so drunk he didn’t even notice they were gone until he reached the hospital. 

The rest of him left us about a year after that. Mom tried to lie about it. He’d been a drill sergeant, so she told me he’d signed up for Special Ops, but I saw the papers marked dishonorable discharge. I figured he was out on the streets somewhere, missing his fingers more than he missed us.

Whatever. The arm wasn’t in any position to say who it belonged to, or what it wanted. Maybe if I got it a pen? I stepped behind my desk and pulled open the top drawer. Outside, the hiss of wheels on wet asphalt mixed with the rushing rain. 

I don’t know how the arm could’ve heard it, maybe it felt the vibrations, but like a demented cross between snake and monkey, it let go of the case, righted itself at the elbow, sprang to my desk and bounded over to the windowsill. The fingers felt frantically along the glass, down to the wood. It was trying to open it, to get away. 

“Wait!” I shouted. Like it could hear me. What could I follow that up with?
Don’t jump! You’ve got so much to live for! 

I tried to grab it, but it punched a pane, shattering the glass and a good chunk of rotten wood. With a rubbery twitch, it tumbled into the gray. I snatched at the air. The wind sent bullets of rain into my face. I leaned out of the hole it’d left and looked down at wet trash, a rusted Dumpster, and puddles.

THROUGH the broken window, I heard a warm, familiar chuckle. It was Misty, laughing good-naturedly at a taxi driver’s joke before closing the passenger door. Chester had sent her home by cab again. 

November wind and water bitch-slapped the unpaid bills on my desk. The briefcase sat on the floor like a lottery ticket begging to be scratched. Whatever was in it might solve my money troubles. There could be a reward for returning it. But something told me to stay away, not even think about it.
Tough luck about the thinking. When I was ripped they gave me a new set of clothes and a pamphlet. The clothes didn’t fit and the pamphlet wasn’t good for much, but it did warn that chak bodies could be unpredictable. My left knee, for instance, shivered without warning. Lately, it was thinking I couldn’t control. The tired wheels turned in my homicide detective head, but I had no idea how to put the brakes on. 

When Misty walked in half a minute later, I was back in my chair. She looked good; meat on her bones, verve in her movements. She was a world away from the starving addict who used to think she could pass for a chak. But everything comes with a price. In this case, it was her increasingly annoying optimism. 

Hair and clothes damp, she shook the rain from her umbrella. “What am I going to do with you?” she said when she saw me. The smile on her face kept her from looking disapproving. “You’ve been sitting there feeling sorry for yourself since I left, haven’t you? Moping.”
“Mostly. How was the date? Bowling again?”

She leaned the umbrella against the wall and worked the buttons on her thrift store
overcoat. “Don’t change the subject. If it wasn’t for you passing that test, I swear I’d be sleeping with that sledgehammer next to my cot again, waiting for you to go rabid.” 


“Don’t tell me what word to use. You think there’s a difference?”

“My mouth can’t foam. And don’t you tell me you trust that government questionnaire. Not after they took Jonesey.”

Her face went a little sad. She’d liked Jonesey, too. “You said yourself he tried to eat

you in an alley.” “He got better.” 

“You’re also the one who told me once they go, it’s only a matter of time.” “Something I heard on TV.”

“Watching your girlfriend again? The one you won’t speak to even though she gotyou out of jail?”

“I heard that a long time ago.
Good Morning Fort Hammer, I think.”

She hung the coat on a stand and came closer, which didn’t take much. My office,

the front room, the half bath, and the walk-in supply closet she used as a bedroom would all fit in a stretch limo. 

She gave me a somber once-over. “Your memory’s getting better.” “Because you drill me every day.”
She slapped my shoulder. “Every
other day. You know that.”
“It’s a fucking game, Misty. Passing doesn’t make me safe any more than failing made Jonesey dangerous. Look how many idiots get driver’s licenses. That’s a test, ain’t it?” 

“You are one big dead baby, Hessius Mann. I’m trying to hold on to hope here, that’s what keeps it from happening, right? Or do you enjoy acting like a piece of furniture? I can’t even feel comfortable going out with Chester for a few hours with you...” Her voice trailed off. 

She had more energy and I was getting slower. We’d become a bad combination. That much was obvious even to me. 

“About the boy toy, I’ve been meaning to tell you...” 

“He has a name,” she said. In a huff, she turned her back, walked off and grabbed a towel.

“So do I. He ever use it, or is he still calling me it?” 

I was trying to be nice, but couldn’t manage it. I could say chakz have trouble with emotions, but really, I was being an asshole. 

“He’s working on it. It’d help if you’d talk to him. Even nod at him.” 

I could see from a mirror that she’d scrunched her face, sending rainwater from her hair down her cheeks, into the towel. The smile she came in with was gone. Great, now I’d ruined her evening. 

I raised a hand to slow her down. “That’s what I’m trying to say. I think I misjudged you two. I mean, I thought he needed sex and you needed a favor. Maybe that’s how it started, but, it doesn’t look that way anymore. You’re still going to meetings, and more often than not, you look... happy.” 
The smile came back in a flash. I didn’t know whether to feel good or bad about it. “So I have your permission to date him now, Dad?”

“No, but he’s got a salary and a real place. If you wanted to leave...”

When she turned back I finally noticed that the ice green blouse she wore looked

new. She wasn’t unhappy again, but she was serious. “And what would happen to you if I did? We’re in this together, remember? How can I think about moving out when all you ever do is... what the fuck happened to the window?” 

I was wondering when she’d notice.

“Oh, that. An arm punched its way out.”

“Your desk is soaked.” She rushed toward it with the towel and nearly tripped over

the briefcase. “And what the hell is this?”

A few drops of rain fell from her to the case.

“The arm dropped it off before it jumped out the window.”

She laughed, and then stopped. “Seriously? Have you been drinking?
Can you drink?”

“I can go through the motions.”

She looked back down at the case. “What’s in it?”

“Don’t know.”

“You didn’t open it?

“If I did, I’d know.”

She lifted the case and plopped it on my desk, mushing a few soggy bills in the

process. “What if it’s a job, something to work on? Better yet, something that pays.” Before I could answer, she flipped the latches.
“Misty, don’t...”

It opened easily. Whatever was inside bathed her in a quiet blue light.

“Fine. Have it your way, Pandora. What’s in it?”

She twisted the case away. “You want to see, get off your leathery ass.”

“Misty...” I groaned and shifted, planning to get up. I wasn’t fast enough. She

picked up the case and headed toward the front room.

“Now you have to walk for it. Shamble for me, zombie-man.”

“Don’t play with that thing! What if it’s poison? Remember the nerve gas?” She

stopped. “And if there’s any fingerprints, you’re ruining them.”

Gently, she put it back on the desk where I could see. Inside, it was mostly foam, the

edges stained a sickly brown from the dirt and water that’d seeped in. In the center were two glass vials, each nearly filled with a clear, bluish liquid. The streetlight outside the window had given them the glow. We stood there staring like we were watching an interesting movie. 

Misty broke the silence. “You really think it could be poison?” 

“Doesn’t matter what I think. It is what it is. Best guess? Drugs. Drugs is always a good guess. A stash swiped off a dealer by a stupid chak who didn’t get away in one piece.” 

“Wasn’t there a chak living down the block that was just a head, torso and arm?”

I prodded the foam. “No arms. One leg. Vernon Gray. They took him to the camps a month ago after he tried to fill out the test with his foot.” 

She gave me a look. I knew what it meant. “Yeah, I remember some things.” “So, what’re you going to do about it?” 
“Me? Not a damn thing. Cops would never come here, but you could call Chester. Then it’ll be the police’s problem.

Her eyes narrowed.

“What? You want me to taste it?”

“You’re a detective. You could try, you know,

“I am! Handing it over to the cops is the smart move! Stop being so damn cheery and
get realistic. It’s a briefcase with two glass vials. What else am I supposed to detect? I could yank the foam out and see if there’s anything underneath it, but if the blue stuff is dangerous some of it could get loose.” 

She crossed her arms. “That case was brought to you for some reason. Are you really going to just give it away?” 

“Why not? If a bullet’s got your name on it, does that mean you shouldn’t duck?” She turned away. “Have it your way. I’ll call Chester.”

We were stuck in a stupid dance, but I didn’t know how to get out of it. I didn’t want

to drag her down, but I didn’t want her dragging me up.

As she went into the front room to get her cell, I couldn’t help looking at the vials

again. Unmarked, clear glass, real thick. Could be from a high security lab or a dollar store. Damn.
A frigid blast turned me back to the window. I grabbed the towel she’d left on the desk, balled it up and stuffed it into the broken pane. The effort gave me a view of the roof across the alley.
Something moved.

It was probably a shadow, but I shuddered just the same. If I were the melodramatic
type, I’d say it looked more like a figure that’d been watching, and now it’d seen enough. After all, an arm had just brought me a present. Who knew what else was out there tonight? 


“...a must-read for urban fantasy fans.”
Starred review from Publishers Weekly

Visit the Dead Mann Running web page. BUY Dead Mann Running from Amazon BUY Dead Mann Running from B&N 

Dead Mann Running will be a must read for me. Hessius Mann has become one of my favorite detectives.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Monday Morning Flash Fiction Challenge, Week 106

Good Monday Evening!

Sorry this is late, and I missed last week altogether due to lack of internet connectibility. Last week my husband attended a conference where the hotel was supposed to offer high speed internet in the guest rooms. Guess what? They didn't. They did offer internet access for an additional $50 for two day increments. I had to pass, just on principle alone. When the website says internet is included in your stay, charging an additional $50 is highway robbery. We won't be staying there again. As for today, I've felt like crap, actually worse than crap... I feel like I've been scraped off the bottom of someone's shoe. I guess that would still be crappy.

Anyway, it's time for our flash image, again, another free image.

Another desktop theme, but so beautiful, and so many possibilities.

Have a great week, I'm going to lay back down. :)

Monday, August 6, 2012

Monday Morning Flash Fiction Challenge, Week 105 (The Late Edition)

I hate it when a post doesn't post when it's supposed to... Grrr... Unfortunately, it's usually operator error.. O_o

So without further delay, it's time for the Monday Morning Flash Fiction Challenge!

This week's image is another desktop theme, but it's freaking awesome!!

I love it!! Going to try to write for this one!

It's kind of a "I am Legend" feel, I hope everyone likes it. It's also very different from our usually heroine themed flash images.

The rules remain the same, 350 words and post a response on Friday.

Have a great week!

Ciao bella!!

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Perpetual Light by Jordan K. Rose

Publisher: Crescent Moon Press
Pages: 286

(Released: February 26, 2012)

From the Cover:

Fate is cruel. Especially when the one you've sworn to love for all eternity, the very soul who changed your destiny, is the last person you should trust.

After more than three hundred years of running, Lucia Dicomano must make a choice.
Forced to take her place as a Pharo of Redemption, the divine slayer needs to master her forgotten powers. Lucia turns to Vittorio, the one vampire she's failed to deliver from eternal damnation. But overcoming smoldering remnants of love, lust and anger aren't their only obstacles.

Samuel, who may know Lucia better than she knows herself, hunts her with a fervor stoked by a thousand years of vengeful hatred. His plan-capture and enslave the weakened Pharo then take control of her elusive power.

Can Lucia trust Vittorio long enough to reclaim her powers? Or will she have no choice but to kill him and battle Samuel alone?

Lucia has been alive more lifetimes than she can remember, only she doesn't know it. In this lifetime, she's Lucia, the designer, but for all time, she's a Pharo of Redemption. Only she can bring the lost to the light. Her dreams, in reality, are nothing more than remembrances from the past, some purely pleasant, others outlandish nightmares to drive any sane person crazy. One constant in and out of her dreams, and real life, is Vittorio. He's the one true love of her life, and potentially, her deadliest enemy. Because, she wants him, it the bottom of her soul, he's the one who breathes life into her body. He's also one of the lost and must be brought to the light, and to do so, he must die.

Vittorio was ripped away from his cherished life that he shared with Lucia by a creature who turned him, possessing him, body and soul. He hates the killing, the blood, the madness. Only Lucia can save him from his cursed existence, and from himself. The search for her is the only reason he keeps going. And, when he finds her, he refuses to let her go, even if she is sworn to bring the lost to the light. But, first, he was teach her everything she needs to know to defeat Samuel. It is Samuel who has stolen her away, time and time again, and Vittorio refused to lose to him and his minions again. He will keep Lucia, or die trying.

Perpetual Light by Jordan K. Rose is a different twisted on the vampire love story. One that traverses the lines of time. Lucia and Vittorio's story starts three centuries ago when she is the daughter of the local vintner and he is a laborer on her father's vineyard. They marry, ready to start a wonderful life when Vittorio is torn from their happy existence and plunged into the world of death and destruction. Kerina steals the life from his body, turning him into a blood-drinker. It forces Lucia into her destiny as a Pharo of Redemption, bringing the lost into the light and the Abyss. Through all of her lifetimes, Vittorio has searched for and finally, his goal is in sight when Samuel raises his ugly head in a bid for the same soul, Lucia. It is Vittorio's goal to keep them both alive until Lucia realizes her full powers and Samuel is removed, one way or another. But, Lucia must bring the lost, even if she doesn't want to, she's bound by a power greater than herself.

Perpetual Light is a new twist in the vampire genre, one where the vampires may exist in the daylight, but not very well, their beauty becomes less and they're more vulnerable. Vittorio has created a small family for himself, but only forsaking those who would have died with his assistance. Lucia has a hard time forgiving him this, but everyone needs companionship, and she can hardly deny him his. Her jealous of other women though makes her realize another important fact, she wants Vittorio for herself, and only her. And there in lays the conundrum, how can she have what she has sworn to kill?
Perpetual Light is a fast, exciting read, taking place in the quite vineyards of Italy's past to the present day streets of Rhode Island. The evil Samuel would like to drain Lucia dry and claim her for himself, but Vittorio is having none of that, Samuel will meet the light, if it's the last thing he does. As a reader, I'm always on the look for something in the vampire genre to read, my first love, and Jordan K. Rose delivers that difference in Perpetual Light. It's one not to be missed by vampire lovers everywhere.

Five out of Five Fairy kisses for this reader and lover of the vampire genre.

I met the lovely Jordan K. Rose at RT2012 this Spring, (and yes, she really is lovely) where she offered me a copy of her book to review. So glad she did! All opinions expressed are my own.

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