The Copper
Legacy
Book One
Jennifer
Allis Provost
Genre: urban fantasy
Publisher: Spence City
Date of Publication: June 25, 2013
ISBN: 978-1939392022
ASIN: B00CXWC7JU
Number of pages: 248
Word Count: appx 80k
Cover Artist: Lisa Amowitz
Book
Description:
Sara had always been careful.
She never spoke of magic, never
associated with those suspected of handling magic, never thought of magic, and
never, ever, let anyone see her mark. After all, the last thing she wanted was
to end up missing, like her father and brother.
Then, a silver elf pushed his way into
Sara's dream, and her life became anything but ordinary.
Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/Ml9Q3WmSHBw
About the
Author:
Jennifer Allis Provost is a native New
Englander who lives in a sprawling colonial along with her beautiful and
precocious twins, a dog, two birds, three cats, and a wonderful husband who
never forgets to buy ice cream. As a child, she read anything and everything
she could get her hands on, including a set of encyclopedias, but fantasy was
always her favorite. She spends her days drinking vast amounts of coffee,
arguing with her computer, and avoiding any and all domestic behavior.
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jennallis
Twitter: @parthalan
Tour
giveaway details:
I will give away a prize pack including a
signed copy of Copper Girl, swag, and a necklace inspired by the token Micah
gives Sara.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
It seemed like a good
idea at the time.
My office, like most
modern offices, cranked the air conditioning down to Arctic proportions during
the summer months. Consequently, we workers arrived in the morning dressed in
sandals and sleeveless tops, donned heavy sweaters upon reaching our desks, and
ended up shivering by noon. Ironically, when our workday ended we were hit by a
wall of oppressive heat the moment we stepped outside the main doors. No, this
wasn’t a flawed system in the slightest.
That day, I wasn’t
having it. I had the grand idea of spending my lunch hour outside, away from
the icy wind stiffening my fingers and chilling my neck. After I unwound myself
from the afghan I kept in my desk (and only used in the summer months), I
gathered up my lunch and my phone and headed out for an impromptu picnic in my car.
What I hadn’t considered
was that the office runs the air conditioning so cold because it was, well, hot
outside. Very hot, in fact. So hot that the cheese was melting in my sandwich
and the lettuce looked like something that had washed ashore months, maybe even
years, ago. I was parked in the shade and had taken down my car’s convertible
top, but I still couldn’t manage to get comfortable. I’d already shed my
sandals and cardigan, which left me wearing my sundress and…
Dare I?
I glanced around the parking
lot of Real Estate Evaluation Services, the ‘go-to firm for all your commercial
real estate needs’, according to the brochures. No one, human or drone, was
taking a noontime stroll, and, by virtue of my being on the far side of the
lot, no cars were near mine. Most of my coworkers didn’t even have cars, so the
lot was rarely more than half-full. What was more, from where I sat, I couldn’t
even see the office.
I dared.
I took a deep breath and
channeled my inner wild woman, then leaned the seat back and slipped off my
panties. Removing that small bit of cotton made an incredible difference, and
the heat became somewhat bearable. Enjoyable, even. Was that a breeze?
Ignoring my decrepit
sandwich, I fully reclined the seat, set the alarm on my phone, and closed my
eyes. A nap. Now that would make today bearable.
Suddenly, he is there.
Here.
Kissing me, holding me.
I know I’m dreaming,
because he’s perfect. His lips are soft but insistent, his hands gentle. I
glide my fingers across his back, feeling thick cords of muscle, before sinking
my fingers into his hair. It’s superfine, like cobwebs, and when I crack an
eyelid, I learn that it’s silver. Not gray or white, but the elegant hue of
antique candlesticks and fine flatware.
Cool.
I squeeze my eyes shut
again, not wanting the dream to end any sooner than it has to. He kisses me
once more, and I can’t help melting against him. His hand travels up my leg, up
past my hip… shit! No panties!
I try twisting away, but
he already knows. I feel his mouth stretch into a smile, and he moves to nuzzle
my neck. “What’s your name?” he murmurs.
“Sara,” I reply.
“Yours?”
“Micah.” By now, his
hands have traveled to my waist, and he slides one around to stroke the small
of my back. “Why did you summon me, Sara?”
“I didn’t,” I protest.
“I don’t know how.” I would say more, but he nibbles a trail from my neck to my
shoulder, and pushes my dress to the side. As for me, I let him .
Micah raises his head,
and I get a good look at him for the first time. His eyes are large and dark
gray, like thunderheads, his features chiseled into warm caramel skin, and his
unruly mop of silver hair seems to float around his head. He wears an odd,
buff-colored leather shirt, made all the odder in this heat, and matching
leather pants and boots. Boots?
“You did summon me,” he
insists. “My Sara, you must tell me why.”
“Does it matter?” I ask.
I pull him back to me, kissing him with all the passion I’ve never felt with
anyone during my waking hours. Micah kisses me back, fingers deftly unbuttoning
my dress while his other hand rubs my lower back. I’ve never felt so free, so
alive as I do in Micah’s embrace, and I have no intention of rushing this. None
at all.
My phone screamed for
attention, thus ending the best dream that had ever been dreamed. Ever. I
fumbled to silence it, then shook myself back to reality. I still felt warm and
glowy from the dream, almost after-glowy. It wasn’t until I stretched and got
tangled in my clothing that I noticed anything was amiss.
The straps of my dress
had slid down around my elbows, and the dress itself was unbuttoned to my
waist. What’s more, my bra was all askew and a nipple was dangerously close to
freedom. I shot a quick glance around the parking lot as I fixed my clothing;
luckily, there was no one around, either of the human or robotic drone
persuasion. I hoped no one had gotten an eyeful of how I was apparently
fondling myself in my sleep.
Some dream. Soon enough,
I got the top half of my dress squared away and reached into the passenger
seat, only to come up empty. My panties were gone.
Great. Either one of my
coworkers had found me sleeping and stolen them, or a randy squirrel had
absconded with my delicates. Hoping for the latter, I stuffed my feet back into
my sandals and returned to the office and my ever-growing mountain of
paperwork.
Speaking of the mountain
there was a fresh sheaf of reports on my desk, ready for sorting. My title, if
it can be called that, is Quarterly Report Collator.
This impressive moniker
means that I have the ability—no, make that the responsibility—to place various
documents and reports in their proper order, usually alphabetically. I’ve even
been known to utilize ascending numbers when the occasion warrants, a feat
those who get paid far more than I do cannot seem to manage. As long as they
keep paying me, I’m fine with my place on the food chain, low though it may be.
It sure beats the alternative--a luxurious but caged life as a sellout
government shill, performing spells on command as if they were parlor tricks.
My family may have lost much, but we still have some pride left.
I dove right into the
heap of reports, for once appreciating the mindless work since it gave me the
mental space to dwell on my dream lover. Why would a man in my dream claim that
I’d summoned him? And what was with his getup? Micah had looked like he should
be playing the part of a swashbuckling hero in a trashy romance novel, not
hanging around in the parking lot of a midsized corporation specializing in
commercial real estate acquisitions and liquidations.
And his name: Micah. I
was certain that I’d never heard it before, which puzzled me. If I were going
to create a dream lover, wouldn’t I give him a regular name like Tom or Joe? A
name I was at least familiar with?
I swiveled in my chair
and called up my search engine. We are not, under any circumstances, supposed
to use this bit of technology that is standard issue with each and every one of
our ergonomically correct workstations. I’m not quite sure what the punishment
for internet usage is, but I’ve always imagined ninjas dropping out of the
ceiling and hauling me off to their lair. After enduring a mild torture
session, I’m given a cup of hot sake and sent on my way.
I could have waited
until I got home. I had a nicer computer and better, faster internet access
than the office does, but I couldn’t wait. Not while the image of Micah’s
thundercloud eyes still burned in my memory, inciting not-safe-for-work
thoughts.
I typed in Micah:
define, and the results page immediately listed a bunch of Biblical references.
Mmm, not exactly helpful. I clicked around for a while until I found one of
those sites that specialized in the meaning of names. It read thusly:
Micah ( mī ' kə ) he who
resembles God.
Huh. My dream man was
certainly attractive, but I didn’t know if I’d go so far as to call him a god.
Then I remembered that there was a type of stone called mica, which also seemed
like an unlikely source for me to pull a name from. In the midst of typing
mica: stone, I was interrupted.
“Hey, beautiful.”
I glanced up and saw
Floyd, the office sleaze, hovering at the edge of my cubicle. Better and
better. I clicked off the browser and nonchalantly swiveled away from the
keyboard. To throw the ninjas off my trail, of course. “You and Juliana heading
over to The Room tonight?” he asked.
The Room is a local
hangout, stocked with stale beer and watered-down liquor, not to mention a
floor that has never, ever been mopped. Not. Even. Once. But it’s cheap and
close to the office, so we all go. Since I started working at REES, I’ve been a
regular. “We haven’t discussed it.”
“Everyone’s going,”
Floyd pressed. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink. You like gin and tonic, right?”
I heaved the stack of
reports from my lap to my desk and uncrossed my legs, squarely planting my feet
in order to deliver the Keep Away From Me speech to Floyd yet again, when I
remembered my lack of undergarments. Quickly, I snatched my afghan from where
I’d tossed it before lunch and spread it across my lower body like a shield.
“Whatever,” I mumbled,
which Floyd counted as a victory.
“See you there,” he
drawled. I hate him.
I spent the rest of my
shift with my thighs clamped together, having mild anxiety attacks whenever I
stood. Or sat. Or reached for anything. Needless to say, by the end of the day I
was more than ready for something eye-wateringly alcoholic. Juliana, my best
friend and REES’s office manager, was game, as she usually was, and we made it
to The Room in time for happy hour. Normally, I feel like I’m in her shadow,
what with her long, dark hair, matching eyes, and the body of a pre-war pinup
girl, but tonight I didn’t care. Right about now, a little overshadowing was
just what the doctor ordered.
After a few bowls of
pretzels, and more than a few cocktails, I confessed my al fresco state, to
which Juliana and I clinked glasses and downed a few shots in honor of my
missing panties. Floyd, the scum, welshed on his promise of gin and tonic. I
really do hate him.
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