Category Archives: Historical Fiction Books

$.99 Alternate Historic Fiction Spotlight: The Value of Equality by Cristie M. Locsin

Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Alternate Historic Fiction/Lovestory

Value of Equality

Release Date: 6/12/2017

In 1969, the powerful hacenderos in the province of Azusa had been known to create political leaders. The hacenderos’ desires to keep their land and abolish the rebels groom Mayor Karlos Vasquez to enter the world of national politics. Daria Hernandez, Señor Enrique Hernandez’s daughter, paved the way for the ambitious and idealistic Mayor Vasquez. The mayor’s false beliefs and the people’s weariness ended democracy and tore the country apart, leading to a new form of government. The Value of Equality is the second book of a trilogy.

Buy this book now for $.99 at:

buy1._V192207739_ amazon uk buy button 3


“Today we mark a new era in our beloved republic. We are no longer a nation of inequality. Today we establish a new government. I present to the world the People’s Republic of the Philippines.”

About the Author:

My interest in writing started at an early age as my father is an avid writer. I hold a degree in Journalism and was a reporter for various local ethnic newspaper. When I became a mom, I took a break and became and advocate for children with special needs. My passion for writing never left me and finally I wrote my first book The Value of Equality. The book depicts the story of hacienderos and political makers. This is the first book of a trilogy.


Historical Crime Fiction: The Tender Herb: A Murder in Mughal India by Lexie Conyngham

Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Genres: Historical Crime Fiction, Scottish, Georgian, Early 19th. Century


1812 – Recovering in Naples from the intrigues of Scottish politics, Charles Murray is drawn further afield by urgent news of an old servant in distant Mughal India. Going to the aid of one woman, he finds another and is pursued by a third. But that is no recipe for an easy life, and with imperial spies on the streets of Delhi, Murray must investigate the murder that brought him to the East, and redeem himself in his own eyes.

The Tender Herb is the sixth in the Murray of Letho series.


Mary was in trouble.

The words, echoing like gunshots, had been bouncing around Henry Robbins’ head since the letter had arrived in Edinburgh – well, since it had reached him in Queen Street, a few days later. Mary was in trouble, and everything since had been a scramble, a rush, as near a panic as Robbins ever came, to think of and prepare for the best way of extracting her.

Part of the problem, even with hurrying, was that the letter had taken ten months to arrive. That was not a bad time for letters from inland India, but it still mocked his urgency. Then, even when the ship had arrived in Leith, he had not been there to collect the letter, had not even been expecting it. Patie, the groom next door, had happened to be at Leith waiting for a horse and had picked up the letter from a shilpit manservant who was trying to see the contents against a watery sun. He had delivered it triumphantly to Robbins and had then hung around for nearly an hour, clearly wearing to find out what was in it. Robbins, however, was impervious to Patie’s hint-dropping blather, and Patie eventually left unrewarded, except by a tankard of very good ale.

Robbins did not touch the ale. Instead, he waited until he had heard the mews gate close behind Patie, and then, alone in the big blue-green kitchen, he broke the seal and drew a breath.

Mary’s handwriting, as sharp and black as her extraordinary triangular eyebrows, strode forcefully across the cover, undeterred by whatever horrors the letter had seen on its travels through the Presidencies of the Honourable East India Company. She had left Edinburgh for India with her new husband, Aeneas Maclachlan, in the autumn of 1810, so this must have been written almost as soon as she had arrived. Robbins, losing in the one woman a fellow servant and a friend, had done his best to forget all about her: he had not expected a correspondence. Now that it was here, he was almost reluctant to open it.

Since he had, and had read the determined lines inside, he had scarcely paused to eat or sleep. In the course of a day or two, he had visited Simpson, his master’s man of business; he had written to his master’s estate in Letho to summon a servant to replace him in the Edinburgh house, and he had called on his master’s oldest friend in the Old Town, seeking information and advice, and receiving it. Finally, he walked down the hill to Leith, and purchased himself a passage – not to India, but to Italy. Then he went back to Queen Street, to pack.


‘I don’t care if you have to turn Hindoo, Daniel: you’ll still marry the girl.’

Daniel, his usual confidence somewhat diminished in the face of his master’s anger, stood looking sheepish in a pool of hot July sunlight. Murray had opened one of the tall wooden shutters, hoping for a breath of air to drift in from the rose-pink Neapolitan piazza, but even in his shirtsleeves he felt stifled. Daniel was wearing his usual thick coat and, irritatingly, did not even seem to be sweating. Daniel had adapted to the Neapolitan life very well – perhaps a little too well, to judge by the present situation.

‘When is the child due?’ Murray asked reluctantly.

‘In October, she reckons, sir.’

‘Then you haven’t much time, have you? You’d better find an accommodating priest.’ Murray rose and stalked over to the window, wishing Daniel had announced his unplanned breeding in a colder season. He stood with his back to the hot light, and studied his manservant. The room about them was solid, spare and a little severe, old white walls, stone floor and wooden furniture anciently dark. Daniel was a contrast, though: young, cheerful and daft. The trouble was – well, there were several troubles, for the girl so inconveniently expecting Daniel’s child was also Murray’s cook – the trouble was that you could not help liking Daniel. He was even becoming quite a competent servant, and given a few decades might make a reasonable husband and father. ‘Do you love the girl?’ he asked in the end.

He half-expected Daniel to shrug, to look bewildered as he searched for some meaning in Murray’s words, but instead an expression of determination came over his healthy face.

‘I do, sir,’ he announced. Murray nodded.

‘Then try Father Piero at Santa Croce – I hear he is a kindly man. You’d better go now, Daniel. Wait – is the girl keeping well?’

‘Aye, sir,’ Daniel beamed suddenly. ‘She’s blooming like – like a morning glory!’

‘My, Daniel,’ Murray remarked drily. ‘Off you go before you start writing poetry.’ He turned back to the window, and his sharp intake of breath stopped Daniel in his tracks.

‘What’s the matter, sir?’

‘You’ll never believe who’s just appeared in the street,’ said Murray, a worried frown on his face. Daniel’s eyebrows asked the question for him. ‘It’s Robbins,’ announced Murray, ‘unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s Henry Robbins.’

Buy this book now at:


Amazon Kindle

Amazon Paperback

Amazon UK

Amazon UK Paperback

About The Author:

Lexie Conyngham is a historian living in North-East Scotland and has been writing stories since she knew people did. When she can escape from teaching, she divides her time between writing, gardening and knitting.

Author Links:



Prehistoric Fiction: Daughter of the Goddess Lands by Sandra Saidak

Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Genres:  Prehistoric Fiction


Daughter of the Goddess Lands is the unforgettable saga of Kalie, a courageous young heroine born into the untamed beauty of prehistoric Europe.
Kalie’s peaceful life is shattered when a brutal attack by horsemen from the east leave her scarred in body and soul. As the sole survivor of the assault, Kalie makes her way home, and warns her people to prepare for the invasion that she knows is coming. But the goddess-worshiping farmers of her home have no concept of battle, and dismiss Kalie’s warning.
When the marauders strike again, they cut a swath of destruction and death that prove too late the truth of Kalie’s words. Then Haraak, the leader of the invaders, demands a tribute of gold, grain and women in exchange for sparing her village. Yet it is in Harak’s cruel show of power that Kalie sees a chance to save her people–and gain revenge for herself.
Kalie leads a group of volunteers to infiltrate the horseman’s society, and then destroy them from within. Once she is among them, Kalie uses her skill as a storyteller, and her knowledge of healing to penetrate the horsemen’s inner circle and to discover the secrets that could lead to their destruction.
But Kalie discovers that price of revenge is high, and that a quest for vengeance can become a journey of healing and redemption.

See the Book Trailer On Youtube

Buy this book now at:



Excerpt (from Ch. 12):

But what does he mean?” asked a young woman, whose plaintive tone reminded Kalie of a sheep. “People cannot be owned! Women or men, it makes no difference. Can’t you just explain that to him?”

Kalie sighed, tired of answering the same question, no matter how many different ways it was phrased.

“Well?” demanded the man seated next to the speaker, his arm around her. The meeting was being held in the largest shrine in Riverford, much larger than the one Kalie had met them in the night before. Perhaps eight hands of people were crowded inside, with several times that number waiting anxiously in the courtyard outside.

Kalie looked at the young couple, afraid that if she tried to explain yet again, she would say something that she would regret.

She was spared having to answer by Maris. “Whether we like it or not,” the ancient healer said in a voice that belied her age, “we have been called to deal with people who are entirely different from any we have ever encountered. Or imagined. Kalie has explained this notion of ‘slavery’ to us. Refusing to believe it will not change the fact that it is.”

“I will gladly hand over the gold and cloth,” said Yelene. “Even weapons of copper, though I shudder to think of those tools in the hands of such creatures. And as for food, I say give them our honey and wine and every bit of seed grain we have. All of that can be replaced! But I cannot give them human beings! I cannot ask any one of us to even consider such a sacrifice.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Kalie knew it was now or never.

“There may be a way,” she began. “Yelene is right when she said that material wealth can be replaced. But now that these beastmen know of us—of great wealth in the west, held by people who know nothing of war—they will return, and in greater numbers. If the lands of the Goddess are to survive, I believe that the answer lies within Haraak’s demand for slaves.”

There was a roar of protest, but Yelene silenced it with a glance. “How?”

“What I am going to suggest will sound like madness—and it may very well be.” She faltered, suddenly unsure of how to continue.

“It’s all right, child,” said Maris. “The words are in you. Just let them out.” She whispered to the apprentice beside her, and the young woman brought Kalie a cup of something steaming. Kalie thanked her and sipped carefully. A rich, flowery tea greeted her tongue, and while she was trying to guess the ingredients, inspiration struck.

“There is a story I learned while I lived with the healers at Hot Springs.” Kalie’s voice took on the cadence of a storyteller. “Far in the north, where the snow never melts, there lives a bear that is pure white. When it stands on two legs, it is the height of three men, and no spear or arrow made by the hand of man can kill it. But the people who share this bear’s domain have developed an unusual weapon, for such times as when a bear ravages a village, or when hunger makes the people desperate.

“They take a ball of fat, softened by fire, and into it they slide a double bladed knife, folded together, and held in place by the fat as it hardens. They then leave the ball by whatever water source the bear drinks from. The bear usually swallows the ball whole, and goes on his way.”

“And when the fat melts inside his stomach…” Maris took up the story. “The knife springs open and kills the bear—from the inside.”

“A rather cruel way to hunt,” said Yelene.

“Killing is often cruel,” said a man across the room. “As much as we might seek to make it otherwise. But when threatened, all creatures will use whatever means are available to be the one who survives, even if another must die.”

Yelene fixed Kalie with a piercing gaze. “What do you have in mind, child?”

“Haraak has demanded slaves. I say we should give him slaves. Women, willing to sacrifice their lives to save our world from his. We will be the knife swallowed by the bear. We will destroy their world—from within.”


About the Author:

Sandra Saidak is a high school English teacher by day, author by night. Her hobbies include reading, dancing, attending science fiction conventions, researching prehistory, and maintaining an active fantasy life (but she warns that this last one could lead to dangerous habits such as writing). Sandra lives in San Jose with her husband Tom, daughters Heather and Melissa, and two cats.

Sandra’s prehistoric fiction series, Kalie’s Journey began with the novel, Daughter of theGoddess Lands, an epic set in the late Neolithic Age, and published in November 2011 by Uffington Horse Press. Book 2 of the series, Shadow of the Horsemen, was released in July of 2012. Book 3, Keepers of theAncient Wisdom will be released later this year. Stories set in the Kalie universe can be found in Sandra’s short story collection, In the Balance and inthe stand alone novella, Oathbreaker’s Daughter.

Sandra loves to hear from her readers, so feel free to post a comment on her Author’s Page, or her website at


Author Links:



Historical Fantasy Feature and Interview: Order of the Blood: The Unofficial Chronicles of John Grissom by Page Zaplendam @pagezaplendam

Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Historical Fantasy – Paranormal – Speculative Fiction


If Regency England had an XFiles, this would be it! In this rollicking historical vampire adventure, set against the backdrop of the Napoleonic war, an unlikely trio decodes letters, survives vampire-proof dungeons, and attends masked balls in order to save the country they love.

Bacteriologist John Grissom isn’t your ordinary vampire. Saddled with inexplicable deficiencies and struggling to maintain his humanity in the face of incredible temptations, he is intent on finding a cure. But when he stumbles upon a vast conspiracy lead by peer of the realm and vampire lord, the Earl of Waite, as a true son of England he can’t just leave well enough alone.

He acquires surprising allies in his lovely assistant, Henrietta Isherwood, and Prussian vampire hunter, Gerhardt Van Helsing. Together the three of them take on the challenge of saving England from Waite’s mad schemes. But Lord Waite and his small army of vampires don’t suffer any of the defects of John’s turning. If the members of Bow Street’s newly created Odd Crimes Division can’t prevail, Waite’s greater strength and speed could place England at the mercy of Napoleon and give victory to the Order of the Blood.

“Reads like an episode of Penny Dreadful.” – William, Goodreads giveaway winner

“I was sorry to see the story end I can’t wait for sequels.” Leslie Sholly, blogger,

“I’m going to have to read [the sequel] to see what is in store for this intriguing character Zapledam has created.” Laura Pearl, author of Erin’s Ring

“I admire the way the author used a vampire story (without being repulsive) to tell an exciting tale with real substance, one that makes readers ponder moral truths and, in particular, to consider what really makes a monster.” Therese Heckencamp, author of Frozen Footprints

Free on Kindle Unlimited!

buy1._V192207739_ amazon uk buy button 3


The door opened and the butler stepped in before John could make his reply. He nodded to Waite before the earl turned away to greet his new guests.

“Mr. Francis Isherwood and Miss Isherwood.”

John was surprised to see the same elderly doctor who had attended the meeting at Mr. Palmer’s the night previous. A flicker of recognition passed over his features as the introductions were made. Miss Isherwood, too, recognized him as a faint blush and increased pulse indicated. All three men turned toward her in concern, but John noticed the earl’s nostrils flaring, a feral look taking over his features.

“Miss Isherwood. A pleasure to meet you. Are you quite well?” John asked, determined to remind the earl that the young woman was a guest in his home with her father present. He didn’t know enough about Waite to say whether the man would attack her, but he wouldn’t put it past him to do so.

Her eyes connected with his. A hidden message – recognition of his efforts? – lay in their dark depths. Her gaze fell to his hand which still held hers and he became aware of those yet watching.

“Yes, of course. I am just over-heated,” she said. She snapped open her fan and began fluttering it in the direction of her face as if to support the assertion.

“I am overjoyed you were able to bring your daughter, Mr. Isherwood. She will bring a welcome note of gentility and civilized rapport to the table tonight.” John watched both Waite and Miss Isherwood as the smooth compliment came from the earl’s mouth.

Mr. Isherwood, impatient with the talk of his daughter’s supposed merits, nodded and pulled away from the earl.

“Starting early, today, aren’t we, milord?” Isherwood asked with a wave to the cigar in Waite’s hand.

“My apologies, my dear Miss Isherwood,” Lord Waite said before stubbing out the cigar in a glass tray. “I would never had taken the liberty had I realized you were –“

“Oh no,” she interrupted him with a laugh. “Father is just being cantankerous. In fact, I am fairly sure if you don’t offer him one of your cigars, he may expire from desire any moment now.”

Mr. Isherwood raised his gaze from his intent study of the cigars to rest it on his daughter.

“T’would be a blessing, I tell you, if I could expire.”

“Father, I beg you will preserve my sensibilities. A happy discussion of your death is quite more than I could bear at the moment. And am I correct in imagining his lordship wouldn’t appreciate a fainting damsel on his carpet?”

Lord Waite nodded from his position by the fire.

John kept silence throughout the exchange. He was amazed at Waite’s pretense at politeness, and Miss Isherwood’s seeming indifference to the danger she was in. She could not possibly be relying on her father’s ability to defend her in the face of such a menace. But perhaps she was relying on his being a peer of the realm and expecting guests in a matter of moments? Or perhaps she was not fully aware of the danger Waite posed.

Youtube Book Trailer:

About the Author:


Page Zaplendam is an author of post-apocalyptic fiction and historical fantasy. She enjoys writing historically influenced fiction with a modern bent. Other interests include survival skills, hand lettering, and entrepreneurship. She doesn’t believe vampires exist or that the world will end tomorrow, but has been known to be wrong before. Interested parties can find her on twitter, FB, or on her website: Be sure to sign up for her newsletter on the website for the latest news on releases, exclusive fiction for fans, and other goodies.

Website l Facebook l Twitter l Goodreads


Thanks for doing an interview! Are you currently working on a book? Will this be your next release? My next release, due for Spring of 2017, is a novella that stands as a spacer between book 1 and 2 in The Unofficial Chronicles of John Grissom series. Its working title is The Egyptian Elixir, but we’ll see if that sticks. Anyone who is a fan of mad scientist v vampire fiction should get a kick out of it.

What do you enjoy most about writing? For me the challenge of writing, and what makes it enjoyable, is being able to convey a story that was in my head, that I am enjoying and getting others to enjoy it as well. That’s why it just thrills me to the core to hear that people have read and loved my book.

Which of your characters is your personal favorite? Least favorite? Why? I think most any writer would say that their personal favorite is the hero, because if he isn’t, that will bleed through in the writing (and maybe readers will be thinking, hey this side character is way cooler, the book should’ve been about him!) So, to be honest, I’m a little eensy-weensy bit in love with my hero. I love a good time-travel and he’s like what it would like if a modern man grew up with Regency era morals and was turned into a vampire. Hard to imagine, I know, which is why I think millennials especially will enjoy Order of the Blood.

My least favorite is the villain, Lord Waite. He’s just not a nice person. He has his reasons for doing what he does, and they are autocratic, arrogant, just bleh. He’s definitely not someone I’d ever want to have to sit down to dinner with. At certain times I really feel for John Grissom because it takes a lot of courage to stand against someone who is that intimidating, who knows exactly how dangerous he is and is willing to use that for nefarious ends.

So far, what has been your favorite scene to write? I’m a romantic at heart, so my favorite scene had to be the dungeon scene just because it was such a challenge to get inside their heads and express what the intensity of what they were feeling and to do so in such a way that it was true to the historical mores of the time. Intimacy on any level was reserved for married couples, so to even have them in the same room the way they are… her reputation would likely have been ruined if word of it was ever publicized. It made for a really thrilling writing experience. And my readers seem to gravitate toward that part as a favorite as well, so I think I might have hit on something there.

What lessons have you learned since becoming a writer? Do you have any tips for new writers? Write something you would enjoy reading. Write often and hone your craft. One can’t write a well-written novel without having put in the time and effort. It just doesn’t happen.

Do you have any extras you’d like to share, like a teaser about an upcoming new release,  a summary of a deleted scene, or a teaser about a surprising plot twist or character? I can tell all my fans that I am currently working on becoming a hybrid author with a different, post-apocalyptic new dark age series. Between that and working on The Hellhound of Derbyshire (Book 2 in The Unofficial Chronicles) and marketing for Order of the Blood, it’s been some busy evenings. But I’m very excited at the prospect of possibly going hybrid.

Now it’s time to get to know you! What are some of your favorite books to read?
I am actually a big fan of Ryk Brown’s Frontier’s Saga and Lindsey Buroker’s Emperor’s Edge Series and her Rust and Relics series. Both of them are indie authors that are incredibly popular, and extremely prolific in their writing. I am green with envy at the amount of really entertaining writing they are able to get out in front of the public.

Is there a book that you have read that you feel has made a big impact on your life? Why? I had to think about this one. There are sooo many good books out there that I just love, especially among the classics. But I think I have to hand it to Little House on the Prairie (don’t laugh!) – among a few others (Hatchet, My Side of the Mountain) – for my love of going back to the land, homesteading, doing it/making it yourself, being independent, and learning survival skills. Those are books that I read when I was very young, but I think it’s because of that that they had such a big impact.

Can readers find you at any live events, such as book signings or conventions? I plan on attending a few events in 2017, possibly some book readings locally. I will let fans know in my newsletter, FB page, and website.

If you had to sum up your life as a writer in ten words, what would you say? Waiting for my 50s to be able to be prolific. :) (Right now, my only writing time is in the evening so I’m never writing as much as I’d like.)

Do you have anything else you’d like to share with readers? I have a monthly newsletter that I’ll start to publish once I hit 20 subscribers. If you subscribe, you’ll receive all the latest info on giveaways, new releases, and exclusive fiction set in the Unofficial Chronicles world, right to your inbox – no need to seek me out.

Book Feature and Author Interview: The Devil’s Due: A Thriller by L.D. Beyer @LDBeyer

Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Thriller, Historic Thriller, Historic Fiction


A country at war. A man on the run. A woman left behind. Can an innocent man ever go home?

Guilty of a crime he didn’t commit, IRA soldier Frank Kelleher flees through the streets of war-torn Ireland with both the British and the Irish Republican Army trying to put a bullet in his head. He makes his way to America under an assumed name and with a forged passport, as the war in Ireland rages on. Settling in a new land, he finds he can’t let go of his past. Haunted by the fiancée he was forced to leave behind, by the deaths of three friends at his own hand, and by the country he was forced to abandon, Frank struggles to make his way in 1920s New York.

As much as he can’t let go of Ireland, he finds that Ireland can’t let go of him—and his past has a way of finding him, thousands of miles and an ocean away. He dreams of going home, but knows that it could get him killed. Then an anonymous letter brings news about his fiancée Kathleen and he realizes that he no longer has a choice. A cease-fire is declared and Frank sails home with dreams of finding Kathleen, putting his past behind him, and starting a new life.

When he arrives, he learns that the Ireland he was hoping to find—a united people finally free—was only a dream. With British soldiers withdrawing, long-standing feuds resurface, and Ireland is pushed to the brink of civil war. As tensions mount, he also learns that his sins will not be easily forgiven, and that he and Kathleen will never be safe until he clears his name.

If the looming war doesn’t kill him, trying to right the wrongs of his past just might.

It’s like Ken Follett and Steve Berry joined forces. If you want a thrilling ride through Irish history, you’ll love this book!

Best Selling Author L.D. Beyer delivers a suspenseful drama that will “…push him to the top of the heap of contemporary thriller/historic fiction writers.

Free on Kindle Unlimited!

buy1._V192207739_ amazon uk buy button 3


Chapter One

County Limerick, Ireland

December 1920

It was such an odd thought for a man about to die, but, still, it filled my head. Will I hear the gun? Will I feel the bullet? I stared at the floor of the barn, the dirt soaked with my own blood. The earth was cold against my cheek, and I could hear the pitter-patter of rain on the roof. God pissin’ on us again. Only in Ireland. The light of the oil lamps danced a waltz across the wall and, in the flickering light, I saw a pair of boots, then trousers. Nothing more, but I knew it was Billy. One of my eyes was already swollen shut, and I couldn’t lift my head from the dirt to see the rest of him. I didn’t have to; those were Billy’s boots.

“Fuckin’ traitor!”

I raised my hand, as if that would stop him, but still the boot slammed into my ribs. I heard a cry, no longer sure if it was me lying on the ground or if I was a spectator watching some poor soul being beaten. Choking, I spit out more blood and tried to catch my breath, but the boot came again. Through one eye, I saw the feet, the legs, dancing with the light, then the flash of Billy’s boot striking me in the chest, the stomach, the arms. I heard the thuds, felt my body jump, each kick like a bolt of lightning, agonizing bolts of pain coursing through my body. Unseen hands began to pull me down into the darkness. Yet still I wondered. Will I hear the gun? Will I feel it? Probably not, I thought. A bright flash then, what? Nothing? Blackness? I sighed and waited for the bullet, wondering how I would know when it finally came.

There would be no Jesus waiting for me on the other side, that was for sure. No Mary, no saints, no choir of angels. Good Irish Catholic lad that I was, I had done enough in my short life to know that heaven wasn’t in the cards. Not for me, anyway. My head exploded in a flash of colors, and the darkness beckoned me. Probably just the darkness, I decided. Maybe that wasn’t so bad.

It was strange, but I wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of death, certainly. Billy had beaten that out of me. I wasn’t afraid of hell either. Despite all that I had done—and what happened two days ago was sure to seal my fate—I wasn’t sure I believed in the Church’s view of hell. Seven hundred years of oppression under the British was hell enough. Eternal damnation, I suspected, was in the here and now, in the pains and tragedies of everyday life. And, surely, I was in pain. Billy had seen to that. Pain and regret were all I felt now.

I suppose any man about to die has regrets, and I had my share. A sudden sadness overwhelmed me. I would never see Kathleen again.

I don’t know how long I lay there with Billy kicking me, cursing me, calling me a spy, a traitor. It didn’t matter what I said; he would never believe me. At some point I stopped feeling the kicks, stopped feeling the pain, and surrendered to the darkness. Maybe I was already dead and didn’t know it.

Then from the shadows, I felt a hand on my face, surprisingly gentle, brushing the hair out of my eyes. Kathleen? Then a hiss.

“Oh Jesus, Frank! What has he done to you?”


Hands grabbed me below the arms and lifted me up. I heard a grunt, then a curse—Liam’s voice. My head spinning, I tried to stand but couldn’t. It took a moment to realize that my hands and feet were still strapped to the chair. I felt something pulling then pushing, hands on my sides again—Liam? A jolt of pain shot through me. Shaking with spasms, I hissed and coughed up more blood. Surely, I thought, I had a few broken ribs thanks to Billy’s boot. I squinted through the tears and blood; there was Liam, his own eyes wet. What was he doing here? Had they sent him—my closest friend—to put the bullet in me?

My head hung limp, then I felt Liam’s gentle hands on my chin. Through one eye, I watched as he dipped the cloth in the pail and began to wipe my face. I gasped when he got to my nose. Liam pulled the cloth away, stared at it for a second, his own face a grimace. In the flickering light, the cloth was dark red, stained by my own blood. Liam shook his head and dropped it in the pail.

“Do you want some water, Frank?”

Not waiting for an answer, he held the cup to my cracked and swollen lips. I coughed again and most of the water ran down my neck to join the blood on my shirt. The little I drank tasted of copper.

“Jesus, Liam,” I hissed. “Is it a bath you’re giving me or a drink?”

Liam just shook his head.

“I thought you were one of us, Frank.”

I coughed again and squinted through the pain. “I am, Liam.” I coughed once more, my voice hoarse. “I am.”

He shook his head again, and I could see the pain in his eyes.

“That’s not what they’re saying, Frank. Three of our boys dead…” His voice trailed off, his eyes telling me what he couldn’t say. How could you do it, Frank?

“And now the British have our names,” he continued, choking on the words. He sighed and wiped his eyes. “They’ll hunt us down. Is that what you want?” His eyes pleaded with me, and I knew what he wanted to say but couldn’t. Do you want to see me with a bullet in my head too, Frank?

“Liam…” I coughed again—a spasm—bright, hot pain slicing through me.

He shook his head sadly. “You were one of us, Frank.” There was a hurt in his eyes that matched my own. How could you betray me? his eyes seemed to ask. He sighed, dipped the cloth in the pail, then wiped my nose again. “I thought you were one of us…”


He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “For the love of God, Frank! He’s going to kill you anyway. You know that. Why don’t you tell him what he wants?” He sniffed then turned away and wiped his eyes. “I can’t watch this anymore.”

“I didn’t do it, Liam.”

He stared at me for a moment then leaned close again. “Ah, Jesus, Frank. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter. You know that. If they suspect you’re an informant, you’re an informant.”

He was right, but still I protested.

“I swear on my father’s grave, I didn’t do it, Liam.”

“But you’re the only one still alive.”

A small doubt, but his eyes, like his words, told me it was hopeless. If Liam didn’t believe me, Billy and the others surely wouldn’t. And why should they? It was supposed to be a simple operation. But something had gone wrong—terribly wrong—and now here I was, waiting for the bullet. Better that it would be coming from one of my own than from the fuckin’ British. For some reason, that made me feel better.

“I know, Liam,” I wheezed. “I know. But I didn’t do it.”

Liam shook his head, unsure what to do.

“Did you write your letter?” he finally asked, choking on the words.

My letter. My last chance to speak to Kathleen, to tell her in my own words what had happened. Billy hadn’t given me the chance, though.

“Just tell Kathleen I love her.” I looked up into my friend’s eyes. “You’ll do that for me won’t you, Liam?”

He nodded slowly. “Aye.” He paused, his eyes telling me there was more. “And your mam?”

My mam. What could I say to a woman I hadn’t spoken to in three years. Would she even care?

Suddenly, there were shouts from outside, and I flinched at the sharp crack of a rifle. This was followed by two more, then shouting again. What was happening? I tried to piece it together. I knew what it was, I told myself, but the answer seemed to be lost in the clouds in my head. I stared up at Liam. Before I could ask, the clatter of a machine gun filled the air.

“Oh, Jesus!” Liam screamed. “It’s the Tans!”

The clouds suddenly vanished. The Black and Tans! The fear came flooding back, and I forgot about the pain of Billy’s boot. For the last year, the scourge of the British army, wearing their mismatched uniforms, had sacked and looted our towns and terrorized our people. Ex-servicemen, soldiers who had seen time on the Western front—and many who had seen the inside of a British jail—they had been sent to supplement the ranks of the Peelers, the Royal Irish Constabulary. These were war-hardened men, more than one of whom had been languishing in prison for one crime or another. And now, Britain had cleaned out their jails and sent their criminals to be our police. In April, they had gone on a rampage in Limerick; in December, they’d burnt the city of Cork.

“Liam!” I pleaded.

Before he could answer, bullets tore through the windows of the barn, chipping stone, ripping into the wood. The cows and sheep screeched, slamming into the cart and threatening to finish what Billy had started. I saw the flash above, heard the tinkle, shards of glass raining down on me. Seconds later the hay was on fire. One of the oil lamps had been hit, I realized. Liam slammed into me, and I howled in pain when I landed back on the blood-soaked dirt. He was screaming as he clawed at the ropes that bound my hands. The fire raged as chips and splinters flew. Soon the sparks hit the ceiling and the thatch began to smolder, the sheep and cows shrieking all the while.

“Come on, Frank!” Liam screamed as he struggled with the ropes that held me.

I felt his arms pulling, dragging me through the dirt to the cow door in the back. He kicked it open, peeked outside, then pulled me through.

“For fuck’s sake, Frank! I’ll not be dragging you the whole way! Get up! Run!”

I struggled to my feet, the emotion and adrenaline masking the pain. I limped after Liam across the field, scrambled over the stone wall, falling once and crying out in pain. But somehow, I got up and kept going. Behind me, the guns went silent, but the screech of the animals, the shouts and the sounds of motorcars carried across the fields. I lost sight of Liam, knowing he’d done his part in setting me free. I was on my own.

I stumbled but kept running, unsure where to go, just wanting to get away. But I couldn’t run all night, not with broken ribs and the life nearly beat out of me.

As the sounds died behind me, I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. Hands on my knees, I looked back across the field, expecting to see British soldiers, or worse, Billy. But in the darkness I saw nothing. I turned again then hesitated. As I debated what to do, where I could hide, I realized there was one thing I had to do first.

About the Author:


L.D. Beyer is a reformed corporate drone who, after twenty-five years of missed family events, one day rose up and reclaimed his soul. Before he escaped, his career primarily involved relocating his family every few years—so much so that his children began to secretly suspect that he was really in the Witness Protection Program. He has yet to set the record straight.

Beyer is the author of three novels, two of which are part of the Matthew Richter Thriller Series. His first book, In Sheep’s Clothing, was published in 2015 and reached the #1 spot on three separate Amazon bestseller lists. His third novel, The Devil’s Due, is a standalone novel, an historical thriller set in Ireland during the 1920’s.

Beyer is an avid reader and, although he primarily reads thrillers, his reading list is somewhat eclectic. You’re more likely to find him with his nose in a good book than sitting in front of the TV.

Beyer lives in Michigan with his wife and three children. In addition to writing and reading, he enjoys cooking, hiking, biking, working out, and the occasional glass of wine.

To get an email whenever the author releases a new title and be the first to hear about new promotions, sign up for the newsletter at

Website l Facebook l Book on Goodreads l Goodreads Author Page l Instagram l Tumblr l Google+ l Pinterest


Thanks for doing an interview! Could you tell our readers a little bit about your writing journey?

We are a product of our environment. I am an avid reader of thrillers and suspense novels, from authors like David Baldacci, Steve Berry, Michael Connolly, Mike Lawson and Brad Thor. My first novel, In Sheep’s Clothing, is a political thriller and I’m certain that it was influenced by the works of these and many other fine authors. But in many subtle ways, it was also influenced by my own experiences: the places I’ve lived, the events that took place, both in the broader world and in my own back yard.

This is my journey.

As a young child, one of my most vivid memories is moving every few years to a new town, to a new house, as my father climbed the corporate ladder. Little did I realize at the time that my own life would follow a similar path.

By rights, I could call myself a southern boy, but that wouldn’t be accurate. I was born in Georgia and a few years later, we moved to Louisiana. My early child years were during the 1960s, a turbulent time for America dominated by the struggle for racial equality and the Civil Rights movement; the growing threat of the Soviet Union, both in the race to the moon and in the race to bear arms; civil unrest and riots in Watts and Newark, and later, at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago; and by the war raging in South East Asia.

The decade was marred by the growing body count in Vietnam and by the assassinations of President Kennedy, his brother, Robert, and Dr. Martin Luther King. The British invaded, Beatle Mania swept the nation and while we listened to Rock and Roll, we watched Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon. With the exception of the moon landing, it wasn’t until I was much older that I learned of many of the events that had occurred during what I had viewed as my carefree childhood years. Still, the events of the 1960s, in many subtle ways, would have an effect on me.

By the end of the decade, my father’s job took us to Pennsylvania and as the 1970s began, we relocated again, this time to New Jersey. The turbulence continued with the still-unexplained shooting of innocent students at Kent State, the Watergate Scandal and the resignation of a president, and the final withdrawal of troops from Vietnam. All three would weigh heavily on the nation for years to come. Oil embargoes left us waiting on long gas lines, the Beatles broke up and Elvis, after a long public struggle to escape his personal demons, finally did.

Life moved on and, even in the midst of a rash of kidnappings and hijackings, technology leapt forward with the introduction of microprocessors and computer chips, VCRs and floppy disks, and the start-up of something Bill Gates called Microsoft. As the decade ended, a peanut farmer from my birth state became president and his only notable accomplishment was brokering a peace accord between Israeli and Egypt. Meanwhile, students in neighboring Iran stormed the US embassy and took Americans hostage.

Despite having moved so many times as a young child, most of my childhood was spent in the Garden State, less than an hour from New York City. My life consisted of Little League baseball in the spring, Pee Wee football in the fall, summers at the town pool and winters sleigh riding. On Thanksgiving Day, we stood on 34th Street in Manhattan and watched the parade in front of Macy’s. On July 4th, we watched the fireworks over the East River.

Outside of school, life was trouble free and I spent many hours biking around town, hiking, playing in the streams near our house and building forts in the woods. In high school, my athletic pursuits switched to soccer and ice hockey. Long gone was my thick, southern accent.

I attended college in New York during the 1980’s, which began somewhat prophetically when a group of kids my own age defeated the seemingly unstoppable Olympic Ice Hockey Team from the former Soviet Union, ending their twenty-year Gold Medal streak. Suddenly, there was a renewed pride in America ending the collective funk from Vietnam, Nixon’s disgraced presidency and the stagflation of the Carter years.

For me, nothing exemplified America’s renewed strength better than President Ronald Reagan, who shortly after he took office, defied an assassin’s bullet and, despite being seriously wounded, walked into the hospital unassisted. Reagan survived and, several years later, challenged the Soviet Union again, not to hockey this time, rather to tear down a wall in Berlin. By the end of the decade, the wall, symbolic of the Iron Curtain, did fall, and with it, one by one, the communist governments in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union as well.

As I began a career in accounting and finance, writing was far from my mind. Although I had written a short story or two in both high school and college, earning praise and publication in school anthologies, I never thought of myself as a writer. It wasn’t until many years later that I began to wonder whether something was missing from my life.

I met my wife shortly after college. Strangely enough, we had attended the same school but it wasn’t until a Halloween party several years later that we finally met. We married and not only worked full time in our respective careers, but we both attended Grad school at night as well. Starting a family was put off, but kids soon joined us and while my wife doted on them, I continued my journey up the corporate ladder.

Our journey took us from New York to Michigan to Illinois, then back to Michigan again. One day, after we had been in our house for about a year, my youngest, in his third house in four years, asked if it was time to move again. Little did he or I know at the time, but, several years later, we did, this time to Mexico.

We lived in an old colonial city several hours north of Mexico City where we met many fantastic people and enjoyed the country and the culture in a way that a tourist never could. Although Mexico was, and still is, embroiled in a war with drug cartels, and security has become a growing concern, it was a wonderful experience for me, my wife and my three children. Three years later we were back in Michigan again and, by this time, I was a senior executive for a Fortune 500 company.

I was living the American dream: wonderful wife, great kids, nice house, rewarding career. Still, when I thought about my life, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something I needed to do, a creative urge I needed to explore. In my chosen field, accounting and finance, bouts of creativity are usually followed by a prison sentence. I don’t look good in prison stripes, or so I kept telling myself, so one day, I decided it was time to do something different. With the support of my family, I began writing.

It has been a long, rambling journey full of many unexpected twists and turns while the broader events of the world seemed to unfold on their own around me. All of this somehow found its way from the dark recesses of my brain to the pages of my book. I hope you enjoy the read.

How many books do you currently have published?

I have 3 books published. In Sheep’s Clothing and An Eye For An Eye are the first two books in the Matthew Richter Thriller Series. The Devil’s Due is a stand-alone thriller set in Ireland in the early 1920’s.

What has been your favorite book to write so far? Why?

It would have to be The Devil’s Due because the story is based loosely on a family legend about my grandfather who served in the Irish Republican Army during the War for Independence. Growing up, I heard the stories of how he had been forced to flee Ireland with a false passport because both the British and his own comrades in the IRA had put bounties on his head. Like most legends, I’m sure this one grew over time and with each retelling, especially when my Irish uncles were drinking! To gather information for the book, I spent some time in Limerick and Dublin, meeting with researchers and historians. I was happy to learn that while my grandfather had indeed served in the IRA, the circumstances surrounding his decision to emigrate after the war were not quite as dramatic as the legend would have you believe. Exaggerated or not, though, I always thought the legend made for a great story line!

Are you currently working on a book? Will this be your next release?

Yes, I’m currently working on the next book in the Matthew Richter Thriller series. It’s tentatively titled The Deadliest of Sins and will hopefully be released in the spring of 2017.

What do you enjoy most about writing?

There’s something cathartic about writing. Writing is a journey and the journey has its own rewards. It’s really cool to start with a blank page and watch as the story unfolds, sometimes taking twists and turns I never expected. I know that sounds like I’m not in control when I write but after giving them a nudge, the characters and the plot tend to evolve on their own and go in directions I never envisioned when I first began typing. As a writer, I’m finally getting a chance to be creative, something I was not really able to do during my more traditional life.

Do you ever get writer’s block? If so, how do you deal with it?

I think all writers do from time to time. What usually works for me is to step away from the keyboard for a while. I’ll go out for a walk, ride my bike, go to the gym, chop some wood—physical activity has a great way of unleashing creative thought. Other times, I’ll even pick up a book and lose myself for a while. This usually clears my head and when I sit back down, the creative juices start to flow again. Other times, my block is more due to the fact that I don’t know a subject matter as well as I should so I can’t write with authority. My character is left standing in the intersection, unsure which direction to go and the only solution is research. What does the inside of the White House look like? What is it like to work in a foreign embassy? What is the science behind a polygraph? Even if I never use what I learn during my research, stepping away from the keyboard for a while is crucial. Trying to force the words onto the page has never worked for me. Like fine wine, a good story takes time.

Have you ever had one of your characters to take a twist you weren’t expecting and surprise you?

Absolutely. In a sense, writing is as much a journey for the characters as it is for the author and for the readers. It surprised me at first but I discovered that the characters, like the plot itself, seem to develop and evolve over time and in ways that I never imagined when I first sat down and started typing. More than once, I’ve found myself reflecting on something a character just did and thinking that I hadn’t envisioned that this particular character would do something like that when I first created him or her a dozen chapters earlier. Sometimes, a minor character created for one scene and one purpose comes back to play a much more prominent role later on. The characters and the plot seem to go in directions that only they can choose and often I’m left following along.

Which of your characters is your personal favorite? Why?

That would have to be Matthew Richter. He’s the protagonist of my first two books. He’s the unassuming hero. Saddled with some personal baggage, he nonetheless rises to the occasion during times of crisis. With a keen sense of right vs. wrong, he selflessly puts himself at risk to save others. I have a third book in the Richter series coming out spring of 2017.

So far, what has been your favorite scene to write?

That would have to be the prologue of In Sheep’s Clothing. In a few short pages it captures how corrupting power can be, what it can do to those who have it, those who want it and those who vow to protect it.

What lessons have you learned since becoming a writer? Do you have any tips for new writers?

The advice I heard most often when I started writing was to write every day, for as long as you can, even if it’s only for fifteen minutes. While I’ll admit that I don’t always follow that advice, like any skill, writing takes practice and you will become better over time. The second thing is to read everything you can within your genre or chosen field. Learn how different writers approach their craft and along the way you’ll learn what an intriguing protagonist, a compelling plot, or engaging dialogue look and sound like. It’s also good to network with other writers. We tend to think alike and, even if it’s to commiserate on the rapid changes taking place within the publishing industry, writers tend to be very supportive of each other. At the same time, I would learn as much as I could about publishing, whether it’s traditional or self-publishing. Most importantly: get feedback. Find a handful of people who will give you objective advice about your writing. You can’t get better unless you know where you need to improve. Finally, hang on to the dream! Perseverance is as much a part of being a writer as a computer and a dictionary are!

If you were to recommend your books to a stranger, which book would you advise them to start with? Why?

In Sheep’s Clothing. This was my first book and is the first of the Matthew Richter Thriller series. I’m currently working on the third installment. Personally, I like series. I enjoy seeing how the character develops and evolves overtime. And, particularly for Thrillers, I’m swept along for the ride as they face new challenges and find themselves once again facing life or death threats.

Now it’s time to get to know you! What are some of your favorite books to read?

I love thriller and suspense novels–medical thrillers, legal thrillers, historic thrillers, political thrillers—particularly ones that are full of intrigue and have a lot of action and adventure. Brad Meltzer, Vince Flynn, Steve Berry, David Baldacci, Brad Thor—these are some of my favorite writers and they are a great source of inspiration. When I read, I want to escape and to live vicariously through the characters, even if only for a short while. I want to root for the good guy and hate the bad guy. And if the tension is just right, I keep turning the pages because I need to know what happens next. This is the journey I hope to take readers on with my books!

But I’m also an eclectic reader. I devoured the Harry Potter series after my wife and children could not stop talking about them. Currently, I’m part way through George R.R. Martin’s Game of Throne series. To me, if the book is gripping, then it doesn’t matter what the genre is.

What about television shows? Movies?

I’ll admit that I had pretty much given up on TV a while back but two shows have me hooked. One is Madam Secretary, which has been around for several seasons, and the other, Dedicated Survivor, is brand new this season. Not surprisingly, these are very much like the Thrillers I enjoy: full of intrigue. From a comedy perspective, I enjoy Tim Allen’s Last Man Standing.

Is there a book that you have read that you feel has made a big impact on your life? Why?

More than one particular book, I would say there are several authors who have influenced my thinking, my creativity and by extension, my life. The first would have to be Dr. Seuss. Having read Seuss as a child and then, years later, reading Seuss again to all three of my children—over and over again, over the span of some dozen years—I can’t help but marvel at his brilliance. Seuss is poetic, colorful, sparks the imagination, and almost always has a lesson buried inside.

From a non-fiction standpoint, my new favorite author is Malcom Gladwell. Gladwell does a brilliant job helping us understand why some people succeed and others don’t in Outliers, and how new ideas, trends and products “catch on” in Tipping Point. If you want a good read that will challenge your thinking, pick up Gladwell. Every author, regardless of genre, should read Gladwell. You’ll find some great nuggets on what it takes to succeed!

If you had to sum up your life as a writer in ten words, what would you say?

Each story patiently awaits the perfect writer to tell it.