When I wrote the first book in the Dante Walker trilogy, I had no idea that Dante would speak directly to the reader in the opening pages. It wasn’t until I was done with copyedits and proofing, and ARCs were being prepped, that I had the idea. After all, I’d spoken for Dante entirely in THE COLLECTOR, and Dante Walker is one to speak for himself, whether he wants to be heard or not. So I approached my editor with the thought of including a letter from the soul collector, and she immediately embraced the concept. The next morning, I drafted the first letter from Dante which appeared in the final, printed version of THE COLLECTOR. Readers seemed to love it, and so I drafted a second one for the sequel, THE LIBERATOR. Now, with the release of the final book in the trilogy, THE WARRIOR, I wrote my last letter from Dante. This time, Dante’s words had a sharper edge. He’s been through a lot, after all, and is tired of the attacks on those he’s grown to care about. I hope you enjoy reading this final letter from Dante Walker, and the very first taste of this sexy,…

Fresh Pick for Tuesday, May 6th, 2014 is MIDNIGHT CROSSROAD by Charlaine Harris Harris is back with an all new story Midnight Texas Ace | May 2014 On Sale: May 6, 2014 320 pages | ISBN: 0425263150 | EAN: 9780425263150 Kindle: B00FKEYHM8 Hardcover / e-Book Add to Wish List Fantasy Urban, Paranormal Buy A Copy Amazon.com Kindle BN.com Powell’s Books Indiebound Midnight Crossroad by Charlaine Harris FIRST IN A NEW TRILOGY From Charlaine Harris, the bestselling author who created Sookie Stackhouse and her world of Bon Temps, Louisiana, comes a darker locale—populated by more strangers than friends. But then, that’s how the locals prefer it… Welcome to Midnight, Texas, a town with many boarded-up windows and few full-time inhabitants, located at the crossing of Witch Light Road and Davy Road. It’s a pretty standard dried-up western town. There’s a pawnshop (someone lives in the basement and is seen only at night). There’s a diner (people who are just passing through tend not to linger). And there’s new resident Manfred Bernardo, who thinks he’s found the perfect place to work in private (and who has secrets of his own). Stop at the one traffic light in town, and everything looks normal….

As a long-time renter, I often fantasized having my own garden; three seasons of bloom, a symphony of blossoms and butterflies. In winter, the snow would rest like lace on the dried stems and flowers. I did not allow the small discouragement, known as reality, to dissuade me from believing in my perfect garden. When my husband and I finally bought our little bungalow, I approached the garden with trowel in one hand, seed packets in the other, only to discover beneath the neat landscape, sheets of heavy plastic which, meant to foil weeds, would certainly deter my cottage garden, the one I had dreamt of for so long; foxgloves, hollyhocks, and herbs dropping their seeds to the ground in a perpetual rhythm of death and rebirth. My vision of sinking my (gloved) hands into the fertile earth was replaced by the sharp reality of scissors and shears, the sweat-inducing labor of removing heavy layers of mulch-covered plastic sheeting anchored to the ground by metal prongs. It took years to unearth all that plastic. I found an entire fern garden one spring; the fiddleheads in fetal curls unfurled their lovely fronds beneath the sun. The anemic bouquet of Black Eyed…