• Fiona McIntosh: Voyager Author of the Month

    Fiona McIntosh was born and raised in Sussex in the UK, but also spent early childhood years in West Africa. She left a PR career in London to travel and settled in Australia in 1980. She has since roamed the world working for her own travel publishing company, which she runs with her husband. She lives in Adelaide with her husband and twin sons. Her website is at www.fionamcintosh.com.

    Her latest book, The Scrivener's Tale, is a stand-alone and takes us back to the world of Morgravia from her very first series, The Quickening:


    About The Scrivener's Tale:

    In the bookshops and cafes of present-day Paris, ex-psychologist Gabe Figaret is trying to put his shattered life back together. When another doctor, Reynard, asks him to help with a delusional female patient, Gabe is reluctant... until he meets her. At first Gabe thinks the woman, Angelina, is merely terrified of Reynard, but he quickly discovers she is not quite what she seems.

    As his relationship with Angelina deepens, Gabe's life in Paris becomes increasingly unstable. He senses a presence watching and following every move he makes, and yet he finds Angelina increasingly irresistible.

    When Angelina tells Gabe he must kill her and flee to a place she calls Morgravia, he is horrified. But then Angelina shows him that the cathedral he has dreamt about since childhood is real and exists in Morgravia.

    A special 10th Anniversary edition of her first fantasy book, Myrren's Gift, will be released in December!

     

     

Sneak Peek: Paul Garretty

Check out this excerpt from The Seventh Wave by new Voyager author Paul Garretty … especially if you like darkness and grit!

PRELUDE
The aftertaste of fear.
It’d been the title track from his first platinum album. Back then he didn’t know what the hell it’d meant; he’d just sung what they handed him and sucked up the success. Now its metallic bitterness coated his tongue so thickly he could barely swallow.
He hawked and spat through the limo’s open window.
Damn head cold.
He inhaled and drew power down into his abdomen just like they’d told him. Immediately the cold symptoms subsided.
‘Nearly there, Mr D,’ the driver said over his shoulder.
‘Yeah, right,’ Double D said, wishing he could snort a quick line, but they’d been adamant about that. No drugs. Not even booze and the Club had the chits on him to force the issue.
A million. How the frig had I hocked up a million to them? The last album was supposed to have fixed it, but it had bombed — ‘hype without the spike’ had been the kindest review.
Now he was being sent out to do PPAs (privatepersonal-appearances) like some ‘He used to be …’
What the hell! Who would know if I had a quick heart-starter to get me past this head cold?
Double D squished himself into the corner so the driver couldn’t see what he was doing and pulled a silver hip flask from his inside jacket pocket. Halfway to his mouth his hand froze. Icy tendrils slid beneath his shirt and clawed their way up his back.
No! Not again. How could they know what I’m doing?
How did they know anything?
He mouthed a protective incantation. The snaky coldness paused, hovering, as if it were listening from the hollow space at the back of his neck. When he’d finished the incantation it slid in anyway, spreading throughout his head like spilt black ink, causing him to cry out as the pain blossomed.
He sobbed and threw the flask out the window.
‘All right! It’s gone. It’s gone! Just stop it.’
Read on

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