Book 3 of the Treasure Chronicles
A young adult novel of romance and the paranormal set in a steampunk world.
An asylum patient has a cryptic vision: Clark will overthrow the presidency. She’s just insane…right?
When a clockwork lion kidnaps their daughter, Clark and Amethyst’s calm new life shatters. Hunting down the beast leads the Grishams and Treasures to a conspiracy not just against Clark, but also against the country.
The conspirators attacked their little girl. An offense like that can’t go ignored. With his old gang at his back, Clark is ready to take on an abandoned circus, dethroned royalty, a corrupt orphanage, and the presidency itself.
WICKED TREASURE is available now on Amazon from Curiosity Quills Press.
Check out early reviews on GoodReads!
Can’t wait to read the next installment in the Treasure Chronicles world? Check out the first chapter:
They washed her hair, so she knew it was coming: the next visit. The nurse shoved Samantha’s head beneath the water in the tin tub, the liquid already cold from the air, and she stayed still; if she fought, they might bind her wrists. Last time they did that, the linen ropes had cut her skin.
Droplets splashed over the edge as the middle-aged woman shoved her deeper, Samantha’s chin striking the bottom. Blood filled her mouth where her teeth had nipped her tongue. She fought to not gasp as the nurse pulled her up to drench her hair in lavender oil.
The gas lamps shone too bright in the ceiling. Yellow glows twirled around each other like macabre dancers. She could drift back into the soapy water and inhale; death would take her to join that dancing.
“Filthy nits,” the nurse mumbled as she yanked a silver comb through Samantha’s ginger curls. Oil splattered onto Samantha’s bare shoulders, pooling along her collarbone.
She could say the nits weren’t her fault. She could request regular bathing.
Samantha stared out the room’s lone barred window as tears stung her eyes. Each jerk of the comb snapped more hairs from her scalp, and the oil’s scent burned her lungs.
A bell rang from somewhere deep within the asylum, muffled by brick and wood. Two nurses laughed in the hallway. They all got to go home at the end of their shifts. They had families and houses.
Samantha could have pushed them into the tub until the final air bubbles burst past their lips.
The comb clattered onto the side table, where cosmetic products had been lined up on a silver tray like medical instruments. Her gums where they’d ripped out her molars ached at the thought. Whatever rich sod received her teeth better have taken care of them.
“Ugly thing.” The nurse jabbed pins into Samantha’s hair to keep her curls up. “Should shave your head, we should. Get rid of those nits and all this fussing. Get you a wig then. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, chit?”
If it kept away the suffering of bathtime, then yes.
“Rise.” Nurse Hairy Mole—the huge brown mole grew at the tip of her nose—slapped a ragged towel against Samantha’s frame. “We’ll put you in the sitting room this time. He didn’t like the parlor, said it was too cold. That man doesn’t like a thing.”
And Samantha didn’t like him.
Captain MacFarland gritted his teeth as he took the front concrete steps two at a time. The stone plaque beside the door matched well with the asylum’s cold interior.
Wade Asylum. The only institute in the northeast for the mentally unhinged.
He hummed under his breath to keep away morbid thoughts, and the bronze attendant opened the door for him with a nod that sent the machine’s gears grinding. They might think him off, bringing music into the darkness, but the walls tended to close in around him, as if he too might become strapped into one of the cribs.
He’d seen the cribs once when his friend had insisted they come to visit his wife. The cribs, Captain MacFarland understood, were reserved for those who fought confinement, and his friend’s wife had screamed as though a banshee had possessed her.
Come night, dreams of Wade Asylum plagued him, and she’d haunted the majority for the past year. He could still hear her shriek, “You only put me here so you could be with that slut!”
His friend had stroked his fingers across her arm, her wrists bound to the sides of the metal crib. “Of course. I’ll always love you, but you didn’t like my mistress. You’ll need to stay here until you can accept her. They’ll help you right your mind here.”
The woman had spit at him, one of her eyes swollen shut. No one had told them who had punched her.
Captain MacFarland hummed louder as he approached the mahogany front desk where a young nurse in a low-cut white bodice wrote in a journal.
“Hello, Captain MacFarland.” She closed the journal and clasped her hands atop the leather cover. “Always so punctual, aren’t you?” The girl bent forward to expose more of her pale bosom. The song faltered in his throat as he pictured hopping over the counter to push her against the wall. He could push up her skirt, he imagined her without bloomers, and take her there in the waiting room that smelled of lamp oil. Those pink-painted lips of hers would part in a gasp, and she might even bite his neck. He loved it when they bit.
“I pride myself on punctuality.” He pulled the brass pocket watch from his brown jacket to flash her the time, and she smiled enough to show her straight white teeth.
“I made sure to assign you the sitting room in her ward, Captain. I recall how much you loathed the parlor.”
How anyone could call that drafty room a parlor escaped him. “Wonderful. I was wondering, Miss Nurse, about how you would feel meeting over a meal this evening. We could talk more about what it’s like here at Wade.”
“Captain, yes! I get done here at six if that works.” She chewed on her fingernail before she tipped back in her seat, her bosom bouncing. “I’ll get an orderly to show you to the patient, sir.”
He leaned one arm on the desk and winked. “I’d like that.”
His pleasure diminished with each step as he followed the brass orderly, who moved on wheeled feet, toward Ward 8. The machine unlocked door after door, and sealed them behind, until he seemed he’d entered a box he could never escape. Bars covered the few windows; bare bricks replaced wooden paneling on the walls. Gas lamps flickered close to the ceilings.
The air adopted a damp, musty odor, mixed with medicine he didn’t recognize.
The orderly unlocked a final door and entered what he assumed counted as a sitting room. Unlike the parlor with a table and chairs, this space offered velveteen settees. Light shone through two windows across the chipped tile floor.
Samantha sat on the settee closest to the door. Iron cuffs fastened her ankles together, visible beneath her black velvet skirt. The material matched the collar of her purple brocade jacket.
“I see you’re wearing the clothes I sent.” He cleared his throat when it rasped, and he glanced at the orderly, but of course it couldn’t make judgments on what it overheard. By order of the government, the orderly who attended them had to have its recorder removed so the conversation wouldn’t leave.
Someone had painted her lips a too dark red. “You can take them with you when you leave. I never get to see them again.”
“What do you wear normally?” Captain MacFarland had always imagined the girl posing in them before a mirror whenever he departed. He chose the highest fashion for her to make her feel… well, like she wasn’t a mental patient.
“A shift.” Samantha shrugged. “We’re not allowed anything else, and it’s sewn on us, didn’t you know. If we had loose sleeves, we could strangle ourselves.”
Her matter of fact tone made him shudder. He dropped onto the settee across from her. The last time he’d sat beside her, she’d lunged toward his eyes, and the orderly had pinned her down while administering a sedative from those brass fingers. The trip had been wasted.
“Do you remember,” he murmured, “when you were a child and I brought you peppermint sticks?” He should have done that for her again. Her green eyes had always adopted a life then, rather than the bloodshot, bulging quality they possessed otherwise.
“Better than the toys. They took those away after you left.”
He coughed. “How are you, Samantha?” It seemed wrong to take what he wanted and leave. She deserved a social call; he knew he was her only visitor, and his boss only required one visit every two months.
“They don’t allow me to take lessons anymore now that I’m sixteen.”
Captain MacFarland winced. Her birthday had occurred earlier in the month. He should have given her more than the clothes, no matter they would vanish. A nurse probably commandeered them.
“What do you do with your days then?” When she was younger, before she realized what it meant to be in Wade Asylum, she would have chatted with him about nonsense, like shapes she spotted in the clouds. He could have told her about the upcoming date with the nurse, and she could have told colors looked best on him. Brown, he already knew, but hearing from her had always brightened him.
Then, she asked questions he couldn’t answer. She learned about life outside from the nurses. She came to hate him as her jailer.
Samantha tipped her head as if judging his query. He’d brought her a hat this time, and it slid cockeyed across her head. Sixteen… young lady now despite her frail frame. He was thankful he’d delivered the white blouse with the high lace collar, fastened with a cameo one of the nurses must have supplied; it fit with a more mature age.
“I’m drugged up,” she said. “They didn’t give me anything, because of you I suppose. This is Ward 8. I hear stuff, you know. Ward 9 is the toughest. Constant lockdown. Violent criminals. I’m just in the criminal wing.” She scowled, her yellow teeth crooked. “We can’t wander. Oh no, that would be too dangerous. We get ropes and medicine.”
Ropes and medicine. Bile burned his throat. It wouldn’t help if he voiced aloud his wish for a different life, one where his boss didn’t make her stay under lock and key. One where he didn’t have to venture into the sterile building to see her on a clockwork basis.
“I’m not crazy.” She’d said that at every visit since she turned ten. “I know why I’m here. Someday the doctor’s going to believe me.”
“Oh, sweetie.” The doctor could believe her all he wanted. Money kept him quiet and her confined, and so long as he kept getting his checks, he wouldn’t so much as whisper the truth in his sleep.
Her pale face hardened, and she stuck out her hands, the fingernails broken, blood caked under them. “Come get what you want.”
He pulled off his leather gloves and placed them in his jacket pockets. Something told him he’d be doing this for the rest of his life, and was only thirty-four. “Tell me what the country needs to know.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed through her mouth, the sound loud and harsh in the room where the only noise came from the tick-tock of the orderly’s body. He gripped her hands and interlaced their fingers, hoping it would lend her strength.
Perspiration dotted her skin despite the frigid winter air. Snowflakes stuck to the window glass. A trickle of blood seeped from her left nostrils and her teeth chattered. Her eyeballs rolled back in her head as her lids fluttered.
“Tell me what the country needs to know,” he repeated.
“Clark Grisham will overthrow the presidency.”
Jordan Elizabeth became obsessed with steampunk while working at a Victorian Fair. Since then, she’s read plenty of books and even organized a few steampunk outfits that she wears on a regular basis (unless that’s weird, in which case she only wears them within the sanctuary of her own home – not!). Jordan’s young adult novels include ESCAPE FROM WITCHWOOD HOLLOW, COGLING, TREASURE DARKLY, BORN OF TREASURE, RUNNERS AND RIDERS, GOAT CHILDREN, PATH TO OLD TALBOT, and VICTORIAN. WICKED TREASURE is her sixth novel with Curiosity Quills Press. Check out her website for bonus scenes and contests.
In honor of WICKED TREASURE, check out book one, TREASURE DARKLY, on sale now for 99 cents!
In the end, I only had five votes. And while I hate that this process is so tough, that speaks volumes about the quality of talent you guys possess.
There’s not a specific order to this list.
This query and intro read like a lyrical honky-tonk tale and once it got under my skin, there was nothing I could do. Perhaps it’s because I am from the south or the fact that Sherry Anne was born with a rabbit’s foot on her hip or that she crossed paths with a meddlin’ cocaine addled fiddle player – I’m honestly not sure. But this one spoke to me in a voice I’d never heard.
The query sold me on the premise, but the voice of Ebraham made me want to take a front seat and hear tales of hunting silver tongues and maybe be there when he meets with the queen. Maybe – she seems a bit … intimidating. There was a sense of tension and elegance that swept me away.
This voice had detached-cleverness that I thought was exceptionally cool. I love stories where futuristic technology goes horribly wrong and people have to fight to reclaim their lives – I do, but this isn’t that. This is a genetically-enhanced android super-assassin eating a bag of Cheetos and talking to his boss about not wanting to go to work. This is one existential crisis I don’t want to miss.
The premise of Natalie being forced to enter a Social Season (constructed to find wives, mistresses or servants) as a punishment for being found guilty of treason as a child hooked me. To hear Nicholas not want a wife because they would just follow him around and grovel at his feet made me laugh. And the promise of romantic tension told from dual POV with distinct voices sealed the deal.
The thought that Apollo is masquerading around in Portland, Maine as a research scientist struck me as such fun. But the voice of Apollo in the query as swearing off women of the mortal ilk and describing the way Demetria opened the bottle as if she were snapping the neck of a lab rat left me wanting more.
(If your baby isn’t on this list, please don’t feel like it’s a vote against you. It’s not. I’d become a #SonofaPitch shepherd and lead you all into the land of next round if I Katie would let me.)
I loved so much about all the stories I read… choosing was very tough. (not touch)
Don’t be a stranger.
Thank you all again for sharing your words.
I’m very excited to announce that the long awaited (and much anticipated!) third book of the Amazon Bestselling RAGNAROK PROPHESIES series has finally arrived! Join Arionna Jacobs and Dace Matthews as they race to stop the apocalypse in this intense and emotional series by A.K. Morgen.
Read on below for all the details, including a giveaway!
Who do you trust when betrayal threatens to destroy everything you hold dear?
When Arionna Jacobs fled town in a desperate bid to save Dace Matthews, she never expected the chaos she would leave in her wake. Now her closest friend is dead, and another is missing, forcing Ari to return to face the devastating consequences of her actions and the broken boy she left behind.
Her problems are only just beginning.
Even as her bond with Dace grows stronger, Arionna finds herself weakening when Freki’s cage shatters. Fighting the wolf for control is tearing her apart piece by piece. And at every turn, she finds that those she’s put her faith in aren’t who they seem, bringing her face to face with Sköll and Hati. As the depth of their betrayal is revealed, Freki spirals out of control, and Arionna must face her greatest fear: losing herself to the fierce wolf within.
The world balances on the edge of a blade, and one wrong move will destroy it all.
With few allies she can trust and little choice left, Arionna must decide between the lives of her friends and her own future with the alpha she loves. Will she be able to stand firm for the sake of the world, or will she falter in the face of defeat?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Prophesies series. She lives in the heart of Arkansas with her childhood
sweetheart/husband of thirteen years, and their six furry minions. When not
writing, she spends her time hiking, reading, volunteering, causing mischief,
and building a Spork army. Ayden graduated summa
cum laude with her Bachelor of Science degree in Criminal Justice and
Forensic Psychology in 2009 before going on to complete her graduate degree in CJ and Law. She currently puts her education to use in the social services and
Ayden also writes New Adult and contemporary romance under the penname Ayden K. Morgen.
Ahem, I don’t really blog as much as I used to. Mostly because it takes time. And often, I just don’t have that much to say. But the lack of sleep and an overindulgence in words have left me in a sentimental sort of mood. So, here I am, wanting to get a few things off my chest.
Returning to Son of a Pitch for the third time, triggered familiar issues. Twitter and WordPress wondered if my accounts had been hacked based on the influx of activity, I had a sleepless night due to all the fabulous phrasings, premises and plots floating around my brain, Blogger refused to allow me posting rights, and I was once again overcome with a deep gratitude and reverence for the writing community.
As in previous turns, I want to say how blown away I am by the wisdom, the wit, the talent, and the kindness of the authors on the SOAP team and our esteemed leader Katie. Being amongst their ranks for the week flatters me greatly. (I try to avoid their critiques during the round so I feel less influenced and intimidated– which is why sometimes my comments are totally unaligned 🙂 But I love reading through their thoughts near the end.)
The entries swept me off my feet this year… again. The creativity and passion that comes through in your words astounds me. Whether your writing career is counted in hours, years or tears, I’m honored and thankful you chose to share your words. Please don’t stop.
And never forget, this is your baby. Raise it how you want. You are in complete control of how you finish your work. The ideas/thoughts/suggestions and opinions put forth were all humbly offered. But they are yours to use or ignore. You are the master of your manuscript and it is better for that.
If you were helped a little or a lot this week, pay it forward. Be a CP or beta to a beginner, intermediate, or advanced writer. Your time is a gift and always appreciated. We all have a need to have our words heard at some time or another.
There are 51 entries and only twenty will advance. But all fifty-one walk away with feedback on their words. Winners every one. And each judge gets to cast five votes. Yeah, this go round, I promised Katie I wouldn’t whine about only having five. And I intend to honor that. It’s hard for me to narrow down the list because while all aren’t ready yet, a heck of a lot more than five are.
So – thank you all for throwing your hats in the ring and participating. You are courageous and talented and it has been my pleasure to read your words.
And lastly, I’d love to have all your books on my shelf and am certain that one day I will.
Category and Genre: YA Fiction
Word Count: 60,000
Amarea is a brat. You may love her, but be honest, she’s a brat. She thinks the world owes her something because she is sick. I guess the world does need to be nice to her, but doesn’t she need to be nice to the world?
She wants to control Joey. I mean she can communicate with him telepathically, so doesn’t that make him hers? Joey just wants to be Joey. I guess Amarea wants some sort of control in her world, really she has none. Cancer did that to her. Stripped her of everything she can control.
She wants friends, but doesn’t know how to be a friend. She wants to be liked, but doesn’t really like anyone.
She’s the hero of this book, because, well, you don’t know any better.
First 250 Words:
Amarea walked between her parents. Maybe that would make her less obvious. She noticed him across the courtyard, big brown eyes and messy brown hair. She blushed when she looked at him. She knew even the top of her skull would be pale pink; that’s the trouble with being a bald freak.
I’m not a bald freak, Amarea thought.
The boy searched the crowd. He found her eyes and stared at her.
Stop looking at me, she thought. The boy looked away.
After a stimulating twenty minutes of welcomes from the principal and assistant principals, students were corralled into their homerooms, girls on one side of the hallway, boys on the other. No one said anything to Amarea. She sat by herself in the corner. She could see people glancing back at her, whispering about her.
I’m not a freak, she thought as a girl carefully placed a piece of paper on Amarea’s desk. The paper contained her schedule and locker combination.
Amarea had trouble opening her locker. The boy had come to her rescue. The lock opened easily with his skillful touch.
“Thank you,” Amarea said. What a cutie, she thought.
“You’re welcome,” the boy said blushing. “Do you need help finding your classes?”
“That would be great,” she replied. She wondered if he was always this nice.
“Yes, I am,” he admitted.
“Are what?” Amarea asked.
“Always this nice,” he replied.
“Oh,” Amarea said. I wonder if I said that out loud, she thought.
“Yes, you did,” he said.
First 250 Words:
Title: Wacky Wednesday
The back of Taylor’s head has me mesmerized. Yeah, his face is way better, but since he’s sitting right in front of me, the back of his head works just fine. Those thick, chocolate brown locks, practically screaming for me to run my hand through, his ears poking out ever so slightly, that strong neck, the short, shaved hairs from his recent trim begging to be stroked, those solid shoulders in that grey-blue t-shirt—
I glare at my best friend, Hannah, beside me. She grins like an idiot and shakes her head. “You zoned out there.”
“Yeah.” I avert my gaze as Taylor turns to face us.
“What are you guys doing after school?” he asks.
“It’s Tuesday,” Hannah says, tapping her chin, “so, homework? Why? You have something awesome planned?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. Just thinking we could all hang out at the park or something.”
Yes! I give Hannah a look that I hope says it all. Because moments like this around Taylor get me all tongue tied. It’s not that I can’t talk to him, because we talk, usually about sports, but we can hold a conversation. It’s just these, Hey, let’s spontaneously hang out moments that get me all wound up.
Hannah’s sparkle in her eyes tells me she grasped my message. “Sure. We can meet you there at four.”
He winks at us and taps the snare drum. “Awesome.”
As he turns back around, I meet Hannah’s gaze and fan my face. She silently giggles at me.
After school, Hannah and I meet and head to my car. She wraps her arm around mine as she practically skips. “Do you think Taylor will invite Hayden?” She bounces on her toes. “I hope so.”
Title: Flying Close to the Ground
For 17 year-old Jessie Reilly, life moves very fast – in perfect ovals. She’s an apprentice jockey at the local racetrack. To Jessie, nothing beats the feeling of tearing around the track on a fiery horse, an experience she describes as “flying, only very close to the ground”.
But, as any pilot will tell you, flying close to the ground is a dangerous business. You have no margin for error and little chance of recovering if you make a mistake. And Jessie’s certainly under a lot of pressure. Her rivalry with an aggressive fellow apprentice, her efforts to maintain the sport’s low weight requirements, and the dangerous nature of horse racing challenge her at the track. Away from the track, Jessie dodges the concerns of her friends and family, tries to establish a relationship with her distant father, and struggles to balance school and racing.
Will Jessie be able to find her stride and stay in balance or will she lose control?
Category and Genre: NA Romance
Word Count: 80000
Collegiate champion, figure skater, Trace Hayward, is convinced there’s something wrong with her V-dar when she finds out she has fallen madly in love with the wrong man of her dreams. She thought the feelings of blissful love were mutual, until she walks in on him in bed with someone else—one of the running backs from his football team. Her heart is shattered into a million pieces.
After one night of binge drinking, transferring to another university is the only way Trace can escape the choice she made that night; the night that changed her life.
A new start free from destructive relationships is her plan—until she crashes into a hot-as-the-sun-hockey player while skating. Smoldering sparks heat every inch of her body when she takes one look at him, but Trace has no intention of opening her heart to another cocky a**hole athlete. And she has no problem expressing her explicit annoyance for him and his rude ice etiquette.
Captain of the hockey team, Dakota Andersen, gets everything he wants. He never has to work too hard for women, admiration, grades…women. But he wasn’t always such a player. He had the woman he thought he was going to love forever, until he loses her in a tragic accident. Dak can’t get past his responsibility for her death and he can’t forget his lost love—but he’s trying with every puck bunny
that comes his way. One-night stands of lust-filled sex keep his mind off the past and his heart protected. But when a feisty spitfire collides with him at the rink, the ice around his heart begins to crack.
Maybe Dak and Trace can help each other find a way to let go of their crushing pasts and open their hearts again. That is, if they don’t strangle each other first!
I am never going to fall in love again. It’s too…destructive, too fatal. That’s the most important thing I’ve learned in the past god-awful year of my life. It’s time to focus on my future sans sticky relationships that do nothing but screw you over—and not in a good way.
Close your eyes and imagine in your mind what you want your future to look like. I hear the voice of my therapist, Gail, encouraging me just as she has done a thousand times in the past. Huh, my therapist. Who would’ve thought at twenty-three I’d be saying those words! But my parents insisted I see her, so I reluctantly agreed. In the end I was glad I did.
I don’t see Gail anymore now that I’m at Bernard. But all the support I got from her and my family, in the past year, has gotten me to the point where I’m strong enough to stand on my own; figure things out for myself. Still, the thought of the warmth of Gail’s office and soothing scents of eucalyptus are comforting memories that cross my mind as I open my eyes and stare mindlessly across the shimmering expanse of ice.
Shivering, I focus on the mist of my breath as I blow out a big puff of air. This rink is cold—colder. Maybe it’s just my newfound, uncharacteristic fear making it seem like it is. The tons of championship hockey and figure skating banners that decorate the perimeter walls of the rink stand out in the glaring overhead lights.