IFB is hosting the promo tour for Dale Ibitz
fantasy, Kiss Me Dead. See details
below:
Release date: May 28th 2014Publisher: Soul Mate Publishing
One curse…
Christian, a nineteen-year-old reaper-human hybrid enslaved
to the Other World to harvest souls, earns his freedom by making a bargain with
the Goddess of Death. As part of the bargain, he’s been cursed with the kiss of
death.
One kiss…
The only way Christian can break his curse is for an angel
to kiss him. Willingly. He finds Brooke, an nineteen-year-old descendant of a
Naphil whose destiny is to hunt rogue reapers. But she’s hiding, suffocating in
a semi-agoraphobic cocoon since witnessing a reaper steal her brother’s
soul.
Two destinies…
Christian has found the angel who can break his curse, and
the seduction begins. To break her phobia’s hold, Brooke embraces her angelic
role and makes it her mission to kill rogue reapers, trying to avenge her
brother’s murder. Christian can break his curse by kissing Brooke dead ... but
will she figure out his game and kill him first?
About the Author
Dale Ibitz was born in Oxford, Connecticut, grew up in the state of Washington, and then re-located back to Connecticut as an adult. Always a lover of books, she spent much of her childhood reading, visiting the library (her best friend’s mother was a librarian…how convenient), and writing. She majored in English at Central Connecticut State University, and while Dale holds a full-time day job where she’s immersed in the dry life of writing contracts, she’s been writing young adult fantasy and mid-grade contemporary for seventeen years (on the side, of course).
If you were to visit Dale’s house, you'd meet her husband,
2 kids, their dog Lea (most people simply refer to her as The Beast...and for
good reason), their kitten Luna (affectionately known as Loony Luna), a gaggle
of ducks, and a flock of hens ruled by a tyrannical rooster they call The
Stump, or Stumpy. How he got his name is a long story...maybe she’ll tell you
sometime.
Christian watched the dying girl and did
nothing.
He longed to do something—anything—to save her, but it wasn’t
his place, his calling, or his duty. His duty was to wait for her death, then
act.
Giltine, Goddess of Death, had branded the girl for death, the
mark on her cheek glowing like slick silver while wet moonlight clung to her
breasts. Her flailing arms and flooded gasps forced Christian’s eyes to close
and his hands to clamp over his ears.
Nothing could stop the sound of death.
He could taste the girl’s fear; blood-metallic, like pennies.
Even though he yearned to run, he wouldn’t. He would stay. He’d wait for her
death then reap as he was bound to do.
Inhaling, he closed his eyes, scenting Giltine’s addictive
poison, a sweet nectar reapers craved. He was a slave to her and to his
addiction, just as the girl was a slave to death. Neither could escape their
fate.
But no matter how many times he tried to abstain and break his
addiction, no matter how fervently he wished for death to claim him, to awake
and find Giltine’s mark glowing silver on his cheek, he would continue to
exist, if only to hunt for death.
The girl’s hands slapped the water. She slid deeper into the
shadowy lake. Pulse in his neck throbbing, he swallowed, trying to remain
detached and unemotional as a proper reaper should. Unfortunately, he was also
human. His humanity made him suffer.
As he edged closer to the water, sweat formed along his
hairline. The mark on the girl’s cheek shone brighter, sweeter. He licked his lips. It was almost
time.
Trembling with need, he rubbed his thumbs along his pants’
seams. He’d gone too long without a soul-hit, and cold rotted him from the
inside. The longing for poison that tightened his stomach also made his lips
twist in disgust. Not wanting to watch this beautiful girl die with hungry
anticipation, he turned his head away.
Water covered the girl’s mouth, sucking out one last, drowning
breath before consuming her nose and fear-glassed eyes. She sank below the
surface.
Christian sighed. It was done. The silence, however comforting,
didn’t dispel the echoes of the girl’s dying breath lingering inside his head.
He shuddered.
The girl’s stillness revived the nocturnal silence: the
grinding cheeps of tree frogs, an owl’s chirruping hoot. Wooden docks stretched
into the water like skeletal fingers. A red fox’s tail flashed. Not willing to
enter the water, he waited on the shore for the girl’s soul to emerge. The
spring lake water was snow-melt frigid, and he detested both the water and the
cold, as all his kind did.
Moments later, like dust motes in a sunbeam, the girl’s soul appeared.
Her skin shone with an ethereal glow, a result of Giltine’s poison, and her
hair hung in damp ringlets. He could almost taste the sweet poison, so
saccharine as to make his teeth ache.
He studied the drop of water that tickled the girl’s neck and
trailed between her breasts. To him, her soul appeared as alive as her living
form had been. He knew that once she crossed to the other side, the embodiment
of her physical being would dissipate and he’d no longer be able to see her,
feel her, smell her. Until then, however, she was real to
him.
Realizing he was staring, he bit his lip and focused on the
ground. The girl might be dead, might no longer care about decency or modesty,
but he believed in dying with dignity. He scooped up her
dress.
“Put it on.” His voice squeaked like an adolescent
boy’s.
The girl hesitated then took the dress. He averted his gaze
until she slipped it over her head. The dress was old, with a frayed hem and
torn collar. Most of the buttons were missing, and it barely covered her
nakedness. The loose flapper-style made her seem like a young girl, but he’d
seen her nude, and her figure suggested she was one or two years older than
him; maybe twenty-one.
Unable to stop himself, he slid a fingertip along her cheek,
the silver mark sweet and sticky like icing on a hot bun. When he licked his
finger, Giltine’s poison shot like bathtub gin down his throat and seared his
lungs. His sigh bordered on a groan.
“Who are you?” She was pretty, with cat-green eyes and hair he
was sure would lighten like honey when it
dried.
“Christian.”
He held still, watching her while sweat collected along his
back. Despite the aching need, and despite the small taste he’d just sampled,
he couldn’t take her soul completely. He had to wait until he took her to the
Void, and for her to make the decision to cross to the Other World. If he
didn’t follow the rules, there would be punishment.
Lines wrinkled her forehead. Her pain leaked fragile ribbons
that looped around his chest. His Other World senses allowed him just enough
information to lure her there, and he could taste the earthy flavor of her
confusion. Some might consider such knowledge cheating; Christian considered it
a means to an end.
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