Author Name: Pamela DuMond
Title: The Messenger (Mortal Beloved, Book One)
Release date: April 2012
Age Group: Young Adult
Genre: Fantasy, Romance, Sci-Fi, Historical Fiction
Infinity. Life. Death. Rebirth. Some souls are meant to be together, but pursuing true love can be dangerous and often deadly. When sixteen-year-old Madeline falls in love with Samuel, a boy who lives hundreds of years before she is even born, she will risk her very existence to be with him.
Madeline’s from present day Chicago when she is pushed onto the train tracks, and accidentally time travels to a bloody war between the Natives and the colonists. She falls in love with a Native boy, Samuel. But, she’s living in the body of a colonial girl and their romance is a crime that carries harsh punishments.
Madeline discovers that she is meant to be a Messenger, a traveler who if properly trained, can slip through time's fabric at will. The Medicine Woman mentors her. But Madeline doesn't fit in this world. She’s different from the other colonists. Rumors of witchcraft and spying arise. Deadly Hunters, dark-souled predators as well as skilled time travelers, crave Madeline's powers. Can Madeline find the way back to her future? And will that future include her one true love, Samuel?
THE MESSENGER EXCERPT
One day he asked me to teach him the yoga warriors. So I did.
“Watch me,” I said and took a Warrior One pose. And yes I was fully dressed this time.
“I am watching.” He massaged Nathan the horse’s neck, shoulder and leg. “Have you seen a stronger warrior, Nathan?”
I willed myself not to blush. “Do you really want to learn this?” I asked.
“Then come over here and do what I’m doing.”
He did but his alignment was awful. His knees weren’t lined up, his hips were definitely off.
“No.” I tapped Samuel’s knee with my finger. “Bend your front knee so it lines up directly over your ankle,” I said. “Otherwise if you practice poor form for any length of time you will totally screw up your knee. Then you might need arthroscopic surgery or something.”
“No surgery.” He shook his head. “I heard that is torture.”
“Arthroscopic surgery’s not that bad.”
“The father of my friend got shot during a battle. The doctor performed surgery. Cut off his leg to save him,” he said.
I winced. “That’s awful. How long was he in the hospital?”
“The doctor took his leg on the battlefield. He still screams at night when he hears the sawing sounds in his head.”
I think my blood pressure plummeted and I probably turned deadly white as Samuel grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Show me more Warriors.”
“I don’t know.” I felt a little queasy. “Maybe I should go.” Go back to the clattering of el trains, TV, movies, the Internet, my school, friends and family. Back to modern times where they did surgeries in hospitals.
He placed my hand on top of his knee. “Stay. Show me.”
I felt the muscles in his leg. He was so strong. He placed a finger under my chin and tilted it up so I looked into his eyes. He was beautiful. His cheekbones were high, his eyelashes jet black and long, his nose regal and his lips full. I was doomed.
Back at home a guy as hot as Samuel would never be interested in me. He might say, “Hey,” to me at a club if he knew I was a friend with Chaka, whose parents were music mogul gods. But he’d quickly move on and start checking out the models that were at all the events for schmoozing reasons. Then I’d never see or talk to that guy again.
Samuel put his hand on my cheek. “Where are you?” he asked.
“I was just thinking about my home,” I said.
“What about your home?”
“I really miss it. Is that crazy?” I asked.
“No. The Endicotts were good people,” he replied.
“Not the Endicotts.” I flashed to those first moments I woke up on that blood soaked ground surrounded by all the colonists who had been slaughtered. Which was also the first moment I laid eyes on Samuel as he surveyed the scene, me, and then disappeared into the woods with Tobias.
“You are not Abigail, are you?” Samuel asked.
Dang. There was no way I’d be answering his question.
“Warrior Two.” I pulled away from him. “Stretch your back leg behind you and turn your heel slightly in.”
I reached down and adjusted his heel. “Now extend this arm.” I tapped his left arm. Amazing sensations flooded my body. I felt like I’d downed a shot of honesty mixed with a chaser of courage.
It was coming through Samuel to me. Why wasn’t I meeting his magical soul back in Chicago? I was increasingly overwhelmed by desires to be with him for real. (Note to Self: Not the best idea to fall for a guy who lives 300 plus years before you were born.)
“What do you want me to do now?” he asked.
I was still holding onto his arm. Oops. My hand flew off him. “Sorry!” What did I want him to do? Be real for me, I thought. Do not vanish, don’t disappear.
“Abigail was never nice to me. She kept to herself, had secrets she did not share,” Samuel said.
I covered a cough. “Maybe she changed. I mean, I changed. Stretch your arm toward, um, the door and your other arm in the opposite direction,” I said. “Toward me.”
He did. “Do us both a favor. Tell me your real name?” He asked while he mastered a perfect Warrior Two pose. Strong, fierce, sexy. The only thing left for him to perfect the pose was—
“Right,” I said. “Turn your head and face out over your front arm.”
“Show me.” He closed his eyes and waited.
Samuel was in an almost perfect lunge. How was it possible that this mysterious guy and I could have this chemistry, this connection? Perhaps I was the only one feeling it. Maybe he was just meant to be a friend or a mentor, or worst-case scenario, temporary, like Brett.
“Breathe, Samuel.” I placed my hands on each side of his beautiful face and turned it toward me. Nathan the horse whinnied and stomped his foot. “Open your eyes. You’re new to yoga. You don’t want to fall.”
His blinked his eyes open. Our faces were inches apart. “Sometimes falling can be a good thing.”
“I promise you.” He took my hands in his and put them on his chest on top of his heart. “I promise you I will tell no one. I will keep your secret. Tell me your real name and where you are from.”
A few seconds passed but they might as well have been hours as my heartbeat drummed in my ears. “My name is Madeline Blackford,” I said. “Madeline Abigail Blackford from Chicago. Illinois. Over three hundred years in the future.” I ripped my hands from his and ran out the door.
*** Giveaway: The author is giving away (1) print copy of THE MESSENGER to US addresses. Open International giveaway is (5) eBook copies of THE MESSENGER***
You can check out the rest of the stops on the tour at the links below.