“Branded Trilogy” By Kat Flannery
Blog Tour
Oct. 1, 2017 – Oct. 7, 2017
Three stories in one great box set!
BLURB:
In a time where race and difference are a threat and innocence holds no ground…
Will courage, honor and love be enough?
“Engrossing, enchanting and suspenseful!”
“The blend of historical background and emotional, paranormal-tinged romance is beautifully executed and delicately wrought throughout.”
Available to purchase at
LAKOTA HONOR, BOOK 1
Can the innocence and love of a girl turn a killer into an honest man?
"Loved this book! Can't wait to read the rest of the series!"
"LAKOTA HONOR takes readers on a heart-wrenching journey following the lives of a tenacious young woman and a dangerous tortured man."
Kat gracefully weaves the complexities of a flawed 1800s community with the simplicity of two people searching for truth and redemption."
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
Colorado Mountains, 1880
The blade slicing his throat
made no sound, but the dead body hitting the ground did. With no time to stop,
he hurried through the dark tunnel until he reached the ladder leading out of
the shaft.
He’d been two hundred feet below ground for
ten days, with no food and little water. Weak and woozy, he stared up the
ladder. He’d have to climb it and it wasn’t going to be easy. He wiped the
bloody blade on his torn pants and placed it between his teeth. Scraped
knuckles and unwashed hands gripped the wooden rung.
The earth swayed. He closed
his eyes and forced the spinning in his head to cease. One thin bronzed leg
lifted and came down wobbly. He waited until his leg stopped shaking before he
climbed another rung. Each step caused pain, but was paired with determination.
He made it to the top faster than he’d thought he would. The sky was black and
the air was cool, but fresh. Thank goodness it was fresh.
He took two long breaths before he emerged
from the hole. The smell from below ground still lingered in his nostrils;
unwashed bodies, feces and mangy rats. His stomach pitched. He tugged at the
rope around his hands. There had been no time to chew the thick bands around
his wrists when he’d planned his escape. It was better to run than crawl, and
he chewed through the strips that bound his feet instead. There would be time
to free his wrists later.
He pressed his body against
the mountain and inched toward the shack. He frowned. A guard stood at the entrance
to where they were. The blade from the knife pinched his lip, cutting the thin
skin and he tasted blood. He needed to get in there. He needed to say goodbye.
He needed to make a promise.
The tower bell rang mercilessly. There was no
time left. He pushed away from the rocky wall, dropped the knife from his mouth
into his bound hands, aimed and threw it. The dagger dug into the man’s chest.
He ran over, pulled the blade from the guard and quickly slid it across his
throat. The guard bled out in seconds.
He tapped the barred window
on the north side of the dilapidated shack. The time seemed to stretch. He
glanced at the large house not fifty yards from where he stood. He would come
back, and he would kill the bastard inside.
He tapped again, harder this
time, and heard the weak steps of those like him shuffling from inside. The
window slid open, and a small hand slipped out.
“Toksha ake—I shall see you
again,” he whispered in Lakota.
The hand squeezed his once,
twice and on the third time held tight before it let go and disappeared inside
the room.
A tear slipped from his dark
eyes, and his hand, still on the window sill, balled into a fist. He swallowed
past the sob and felt the burn in his throat. His chest ached for what he was
leaving behind. He would survive, and he would return.
Men shouted to his right, and
he crouched down low. He took one last look around and fled into the cover of
the forest.
BLOOD CURSE, BOOK 2
“Captivating characters, stunning plot twists, and tense action scenes make BLOOD CURSE impossible to put down!”
"A richly-woven tale of early America and gypsy lore."
"Tragedy and unwavering perseverance fill this wonderful tale to a surprise ending."
Excerpt
“Upon mine death for the
blood ye have shed,
every daughter born to ye
shall die before it draws breath, to which ye will know pain and worse, I cast
unto ye mine blood curse.” ~ Vadoma
PROLOGUE
The moon
hurled shades of green and grey across the starless black sky. Waves rolled up
onto the docks rocking the boats tied there. The water pooled around his booted
feet as he walked briskly along the wooden boards. The air reeked of fish and
sea, and he tucked his chin into the raggedy coat inhaling the stale garment.
One hand in the pocket fingered a piece of rope while the other pulled open the
door to The Cat House, a brothel on the docks.
Men of all
kinds sat at the tables. Smoke, laughter and mugs clinked together. He ignored
them all to take a seat at the table in the corner.
“Can you
guarantee this to be done?”
“Of course.”
“You must
kill him and bring the child to me.”
“Consider it
done.”
He shook his
head. “You must make sure he no longer breathes.”
“Indeed.”
“Do not be
fooled. He is tough and knows his way around a sword.”
“I am not
concerned.”
He nodded and
slid a brown package tied with twine across the table to the broad-shouldered
man on the other side.
Long slender
fingers reached out and picked up the package.
“A name?”
“Kade
Walker.”
CHAPTER ONE
Appalachian Mountains,
Virginia 1723
Pril
Peddler lifted the green shawl from her trunk and wrapped it around her bare
arms. The change in seasons brought a damp chill to the morning air, and the
heavy woolen wrap kept her warm. She peeked at the small face huddled under the
blankets at the back of the wagon. The charm above the child swayed on the
string Pril had hung it from. A dull ache hummed in her chest when she thought
of the horrific loss her clan had been dealt.
The
evil was near, and she’d need to work another spell to keep them safe. Late for
counsel with her brother, Galius, she kissed the soft cheek of her daughter
before heading to the door.
Hand
up, she shaded her eyes from the bright sun as she stepped from the back of the
vardo. She pulled the heavy burlap curtain down to close the opening and walked
toward Galius.
“Your
steps are light this morning, Sister. One would think you did not want to be
heard,” Galius said as he stirred the coffee beans inside the metal pot.
Tension
twisted her gut. He was right; she did not want this counsel. She did not know
what to say. She let the flicker of merriment in her brother’s eyes wash over
her relaxing the muscles in her shoulders.
“My
step is the same.” She poked him with her finger trying to ease her own nerves
and his as well.
His
lips lifted as if to smile, and she held her breath. It’d been weeks since he
smiled. Pril’s heart ached, and her lips trembled.
He
held up the bubbling pot. “Would you like a cup?”
She inhaled the aroma of strong coffee
beans and nodded taking a seat on a wooden stump by the fire.
He
handed her a cup and sat down across from her.
The
wood crackled, and sparks jumped from the heat onto the ground in front of her.
She tipped her chin concentrating on what to say next. Ever since the murder of
her niece, she’d not been able to hold a conversation with either of her
brothers without offering apologies. This morning was no different. She could
not look Galius in the eyes and see the anguish and sorrow within them.
The
Monroes had come again.
They’d never be safe.
She
blinked away the tears hovering against her thick lashes. Tsura was asleep in
her wagon, while another was lost to them forever. The door of her brother’s
wagon creaked open and Milosh’s wife, Magda, stepped out. Black circles settled
around her sunken eyes, and Pril felt the stab in her chest once more. Long
brown hair fell untied down the woman’s back. The black clothes she’d put on
weeks ago hung on her body unchanged and wrinkled from sleep. Milosh came from
behind their wagon, a jar of honey in his hand. Pril stood when Galius’ large
hand grabbed her wrist.
“They
are not wanting to see you today, Sister.”
She
heard the regret in his voice, swallowed past the guilt in her own throat and
nodded. Milosh hadn’t spoken a single word to her since the death of his child.
He blamed her, and it was clear so did Magda.
“I…I’m
so sorry, Galius.”
He
didn’t reply right away, and without seeing it, she knew he had wiped the tears
from his eyes. “Alexandra’s death is not your fault.”
The
words were spoken because they needed to be. Gypsies stayed together no matter
what. They were family. There was no truth to his words, and Pril knew it.
“Are
you going after them?” she asked.
“I
hold no power, no spells flow from my lips. I am strong, yes, but they are
stronger.” He stared at her, his eyes pleading. “We need the pendant.”
Guilt
thickened her tongue; the gritty residue clung to her lips and tasted bitter.
The
talisman had been in their family for generations, blessed by each new Chuvani.
Vadoma had promised her the pendant before she died, but Pril never saw it, and
there had been no time to search for the jewel when they fled.
“Without
the pendant we cannot break the curse. We cannot protect our people.”
She
knew this. They all knew this, but no one had a clue as to where the talisman
was. She’d tried to call an image forward, to make a finding spell, but nothing
worked.
“We
have lost one of our own. Our clan is frightened. They have lost faith. We
cannot fight the Monroes. We have neither the numbers nor the skill.” He took a
long drink of his coffee. “And neither do you.”
She
glanced at him.
“I
know you, Sister. You’re planning to take Tsura.”
Pril
sighed. She did not know what else to do. The Monroes were coming for her
child. Alexandra had died because of that. Milosh and Magda hated her.
“Running
is not going to change anything.”
“It
will save lives. It will…help Milosh and Magda to heal.”
“No,
it will not. Running will get you and Tsura killed and that is all.”
“How
can you look at me when you know what I’ve brought to our family, when you know
that this is all because of me?”
Galius
blew out a long breath that moved his thick beard from his lips. She watched
through tear filled eyes as his bottom lip quivered.
“Vadoma
put this burden on you. For that, we do not judge.”
Their
sister had died a vile death. She’d betrayed their clan and had hung while
being burned. Pril ached for her sister’s guidance and counsel. She yearned to
know that what she was doing was right.
“We
had a plan, and up until Alexandra’s death it worked. We will rethink and come
up with something better—stronger.”
The
plan was simple. Dress the girls as boys, and the Monroes wouldn’t find them.
But someone had figured out Alexandra was a girl. Someone had told the Monroes.
They came for her, stealing the precious child in the middle of the night. The
morning two weeks before, as the clan frantically searched for her, a harrowing
scream Pril would never forget echoed across the land. Milosh found his
daughter’s body by the river, her neck broken.
She
raised a shaky hand to her mouth so she wouldn’t let out the sob she held against
her lips.
“I
have enough for one more protection spell.” She lied; her forehead ached
because of it.
He
glanced at her, his eyes showing no emotion. “You will concoct another.”
“I
cannot.”
He
frowned.
“The
spell has the oil Vadoma blessed. Without it, Tsura is at the mercy of the
Monroes and so are we.”
Galius
pumped his large hands into tight fists. “Surly you can think of another?”
“I
cannot. Vadoma placed the blood curse. It is only with the blessed oil that I
am able to create the spell to keep danger away. The oil is almost gone.”
He
worked his jaw. “That gypsy whore—
She held up her hand to stop him from
blaspheming their sister. It wasn’t right. It brought evil to curse your own,
and Pril would have none of it.
“Our
sister had her reasons. Leave it be.”
“Reasons?
She betrayed us. Left us with a curse we cannot break and wealthy plantation
owners hunting our very hides—killing our children!”
She
hung her head unable to look at him. What could she say? He was right. Her very
niece had died but thirteen days ago.
“Where
is the book?”
Throat
tight and dry, she refused to meet his gaze. The book held her mother’s spells.
Only she knew where it was, and unlike the pendant, she’d not lose it.
“I
have it safely tucked away.”
“Is
there no spell for what we need?”
“The
child is not of my blood. I cannot protect her or the others like she can.”
Tsura
was Vadoma’s child, but Pril raised the girl as her own.
“And
she is gone.”
“Has
been nigh on four years.”
Galius’
face softened. He placed his hand on her shoulder. “I need to speak with
Milosh. We may have to move again, once he’s healed.” He gave her a light
squeeze and walked away.
Pril
watched through hooded lids as Galius moved toward Milosh. The two shook hands and
embraced. She longed to be enfolded in Milosh’s arms, forgiven of all her
transgressions.
She
wiped at the tear on her cheek. He’d not consider it, for he despised her.
Magda placed her head on her husband’s shoulder. Their love was strong, and she
prayed it would get them through their grief.
She
brought the cup to her lips and sipped the now cold coffee. Memories of a time
when life was simpler brushed her mind. There were no worries. No threat of the
Monroes hanging over them. They were free. Now, they never stayed in one town
longer than a month. The Peddlers wandered the land, searching for a safe haven
where they could raise their children.
The
rustle from the other wagons brought her head up, and she watched as the rest
of the clan rose for the day. Sisters Sabella and Sorina exited their vardo and
smiled at her from across the yard. The two girls joined them a few years ago
when the Monroes had attacked their family, burning the wagons and killing most
of them. Both unwed and beautiful, they were very good at creating new balms and
potions to sell at the markets. Sorina enjoyed living with the clan, and she
loved to visit with the others, while Sabella never spoke and preferred to
remain alone.
She
lifted her hand and waved. She liked the sisters and had shared dinner with
them many times.
Her
brothers knew the truth about Pril’s child, and had made a pact to never speak
a word of it to anyone. She, on the other hand, was finding it difficult not to
tell the others. Each time they hid the children, packed in the middle of the
night, or took turns guarding the camp she felt the stab of guilt twist in her
heart.
“Mama?”
Pril
turned, mug still in hand, and gazed at her daughter. Black corkscrew curls
fell around her plump cheeks and clung to her pink lips. She wondered what her
hair would look like grown out, and knew if the Monroes did not stop their
relentless hunt, she’d never see the day.
There
were days when Pril herself forgot, only ever seeing her child in long pants,
cotton shirt and a cap. But in the evenings when the moon was bright, she
cherished the mother-and-daughter moments they had in their wagon. Pril told
her daughter made up fairytales of Kings and Queens. She’d allow Tsura to play
with her dolls and try on the lovely dresses Pril had secretly made for her.
She
held out her hand, and watched as Tsura ran to her. At four she didn’t understand
how to use her gifts, which sometimes resulted in accidents. But it wasn’t the
mishaps that had her worried. It was the mixture of good and evil within the
girl that she feared.
“Oh,
my sweet. What has you up and out of the vardo already?”
Tsura’s
green eyes locked with hers. “I had a bad dream.”
Pril
straightened. Dreams were the way her people saw future, or past. Tsura had
them often. She took the girl’s hand and led her back to their wagon. She
smiled at those they passed on the way. Her shoulders straight, she remained
the same not to draw anyone near. Once inside the wagon, she closed the flap,
and waited a few minutes before she sat on the bed beside her daughter.
“What
did you see?” she asked.
“Blood,
Mama. Lots of blood.”
She
squeezed the blanket on the bed to stop her hands from shaking. “Whose blood?”
The
child shook her head, black curls bounced up and down. “I do not know.”
Pril
pulled her daughter close and kissed the top of her head. Tsura went very still,
and her tiny body grew hot. She sat back and gently placed Tsura away from her.
Past lessons had taught her well.
“Sweetheart,
are you okay?”
Beads
of sweat formed at Tsura’s hairline to drip down her forehead and cheeks.
She
was careful not to touch her and placed a hand beside her daughter’s instead.
The heat from the girl’s flesh warmed her hand, and the wagon grew hot.
“Tsura,
look at mama.”
Green
eyes that showed a red rim around the color stared up at her, and Pril wished
she could do more to help her child. When Tsura got like this, Pril knew she
couldn’t control what her body was doing. She wanted nothing more than to help
her daughter learn how to use her gifts, but with Vadoma gone she would have to
learn alongside Tsura.
“Mama?”
She
smiled watching as the redness left Tsura’s cheeks, and she reached out to sweep
back the wet curls hanging in the girl’s eyes.
“I’m
sorry.” Tsura hung her head.
She
pulled the girl into a tight hug, her body still hot, but Pril didn’t care.
“You are learning,” she said.
She
felt the nod against her chest and squeezed her tighter. Thankful once more
that she was safe. “What were your thoughts?”
“I
was angry.”
“How
come?”
Green
eyes peered through black lashes. “Because Alexandra’s gone.”
She
ran her finger along her daughter’s round cheek. She pushed aside the guilt
pressing against her soul. “We are all very sad.”
“I’ve
seen the man who stole her.”
Pril
waited until her heart resumed its normal pace and asked, “You saw him?”
She
nodded.
“What
did he look like?”
“He
was a negro.”
That
was odd. The Monroes always sent a well-dressed aristocrat to do their dirty
work. Were they enlisting the help of their plantation workers now? That would
explain why none of the Peddlers spotted the well-dressed killer. The Monroes
had sent a slave.
“But,
mama?”
“Yes,
dearest?”
“The
man did not kill her. He tried, but he could not do it.”
“How
did Alexandra die?”
“I
do not know.”
Pril
pulled her close. If Alexandra hadn’t been killed by the slave, then who had
taken her life?
“And
mama?” Tsura whispered. “They killed him.”
Pril
ran her palms down the front of her skirt as uneasiness settled deep in her
stomach and turned the soup she’d eaten for dinner. The Monroes were near once
more. She’d not done the protection spell over them all, the one she’d said
countless times before to protect Tsura and the others from harm. She used the
oil on Tsura, thinking she’d concoct a different spell for the others—but she’d
forgotten, and now Alexandra was gone.
She
hung her head. How could I have been so
foolish? I am the reason my niece lies within the cold ground. There was
nothing she could do to stop the desolation as it crawled up her spine and
curved her back. Life was precious—even more so when it was a young one. It was
any wonder Milosh blamed her so. The shame covered her and blurred her sight as
tears washed her cheeks. She’d been selfish when she should have rationed the
oil and cast the spell—strengthened the charms.
She pulled the jars from the shelf. Rosemary,
bark, and the remnants of the oil her sister had blessed. The jar was empty,
except for the thin layer that clung to the glass walls.
Pril
did not receive the gifts her sister had. Vadoma had been the firstborn daughter
to Imelda, the enchantress. Their mother had been very strong in her magick,
aiding those in need with potions and spells. Pril held no such power. Her only
gift the counting of the spells. She could not move things, throw a beam, or
have seeing dreams. She was useless.
She
blew out a breath and stared at the last of the oil. There was enough to strengthen
the charm, but not cast a full protection spell. She’d known this when she used
the oil for Tsura a month ago. But now that her niece was gone, the act of what
she’d done came down upon her, weighing on her heavily. She leaned into the
counter and pressed her fingers to her temple massaging the strained blood
vessels.
She
took the jar and stepped outside into the darkness. The clan asleep for the
night, she went to Mortimer, her Ox, tied behind the vardo.
“Hello,
my friend.” She stroked his rough fur. “I need but one drop this time.”
The
ox turned his head toward her and bowed.
She
smiled.
“Good
boy.”
Quickly,
she slid the needle along his neck enough to produce one drop of blood. She
held the jar next to Mortimer’s neck watching as the blood ran into the glass
mug and mixed with the oil. She dipped her finger into the mixture and ran it
along the scratch.
“For
the gift thou hast given, receive mine with love.” She watched as the wound
healed.
Inside
the vardo, she stoked the fire in the small cook stove and placed an empty pot
on the burner. She pinched the rosemary, a symbol of Vadoma, and dropped it
into the jar of oil to swirl with the spice. She watched as it mixed together
with the oil and blood. Next she took the bark from the forest and dropped it
into the pot. The bark sparked. She poured the mixture of oil, blood and
rosemary into the pot listening as it bubbled and hissed.
“Protect mine child from the evil that hunts.
Keep her spirit hidden to their wants.”
The
liquid evaporated into a cloud of smoke, and she watched as it drifted over the
child to settle on top of her sleeping form.
SACRED LEGACY, BOOK 3
“SACRED LEGACY will immerse you in a harrowing journey of anger and bitterness that only love and forgiveness can heal.”
“A compelling love story you can't put down.”
“A riveting story line fueled by the passions and angst of many characters…a smashingly powerful crescendo to an already-powerful story.”
Excerpt
CHAPTER
ONE
Jamestown,
Virginia, July 1740
Tsura Harris
lifted the hem of her green skirt and stepped up onto the wooden plank. She
clutched her reticule in her right hand and reached for the rope with her left.
The planked bridge swayed as the boat rocked against the seas. She stared at
the water below. White-capped waves crashed along the ship’s hull, rocking the
boat. She inhaled, forced her chin up, and took another step. She walked the
short distance to the boardwalk, releasing the breath she’d held when her boot
touched land. She planted both feet upon the wooden dock and set her shoulders,
but the reminder of why she was here intensified the weight upon her chest.
Despair was her shadow, and it was with her today.
“Sister!”
Her brother’s
deep, masculine shout came from above.
She shaded
her eyes from the hot afternoon sun and peered up at him. His stature always
shocked her. Micah Walker was six foot with broad shoulders and strong arms, a
spitting image of their father, Kade. His white shirt gaped open to show the
tanned skin beneath, a sign of too many days out on the water. Long blond hair
waved in the breeze. Her handsome brother had his pick of the ladies, but still
hadn’t settled down. It was a shame. She knew he wanted children and a wife of
his own, but his heart belonged to the sea and time would lend him those favors
only when he was ready.
“You must
wait,” he called and raced past his men carrying crates of goods onto the
wharf.
She placed
her bag onto the wooden walk and clasped her gloved hands together.
He reached
her, his cheeks glowing and dark eyes lit with mischief. Before she could
discourage him, he picked her up and swung her around. Her boots kicked the
bag, knocking it over, as his strong arms held her tight.
Micah had always
been affectionate. He never shied away from holding her hand, kissing her
cheek, or teasing her like a brother would. He’d come to her side when she
needed him the most. When her life had fallen apart, and she couldn’t see past
her own misery to pick herself up. He had carried her, and she loved him for
it.
“You cannot
go off without wishing me well.” He smiled down at her.
“If you would
simply release me, I’d be able to make it so,” she retorted. He was the only
one, aside from her mother and father, who she allowed to touch her.
“Very well,
nit.” He set her in front of him. The nickname he used for her was one of
endearment and came from her pestering him as a child.
“Thank you.”
She smoothed her skirt before bringing her eyes to meet his.
“You do not
need to do this.”
She glanced
away unable to stare at him any longer.
“Come sail
with me.”
She shook her
head. The urge to leave caused her legs to shake. She couldn’t be around him
any longer. His cheerful disposition haunted her and made her think of things
she’d rather forget.
“I know you
don’t want to speak of this, but—”
“No, Micah.”
“Tsura, you
need to forgive—”
“Forgiveness
is not within my heart.”
“It surely
is.”
She shook her
head, careful not to release the many pins holding her thick corkscrew curls in
a loose chignon.
“It is in all
of us.”
She glared at
her brother.
“Do not speak
to me of forgiveness, brother. My heart is cold to it.”
His dark eyes
watered, and she knew her words had hurt him, but she didn’t care. It was
better this way—it was easier.
“Will you not
reconsider?”
“No.”
“Please stay.
I will protect you.”
Protection
was not what she needed. She could care less if she died. It’d be a relief from
the constant pain she felt each day.
“I should’ve
taken you to mother and father.”
“Do not speak
to them of my presence here.”
“They will
understand.”
“Not one
word.”
Micah sighed.
“As you wish.”
“I must go.”
Anger pressed on her spine, and she straightened.
His shoulders
dropped.
“Be safe.
Trust no one.”
She nodded.
About The Author
Kat Flannery’s love of history shows in her novels. She is an avid reader of historical, suspense, paranormal, and romance. She has her Certificate in Freelance and Business Writing.
A member of many writing groups, Kat enjoys promoting other authors on her blog. Kat loves to teach writing classes and give back to other aspiring authors. She volunteers her time at the local library facilitating their writing group. She’s been published in numerous periodicals throughout her career
Her debut novel CHASING CLOVERS has been an Amazon Top 100 Paid bestseller twice. LAKOTA HONOR, BLOOD CURSE, and SACRED LEGACY (Branded Trilogy) are Kat’s three award-winning novels and HAZARDOUS UNIONS is Kat’s first novella. Kat is currently hard at work on her next series, THE MONTGOMERY SISTERS.
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