Blog Tour with Review: The Day Tripper by James Goodhand

The right guy, the right place, the wrong time.

THE DAY TRIPPER by JAMES GOODHAND

Series: n/a

Publication date: March 19, 2024

Published by: HQ Mira

Genre: time travel, sci-fi

 

SYNOPSIS

It’s 1995, and Alex Dean has it a spot at Cambridge University next year, the love of an amazing woman named Holly and all the time in the world ahead of him. That is until a brutal encounter with a ghost from his past sees him beaten, battered and almost drowning in the Thames. 

He wakes the next day to find he’s in a messy, derelict room he’s never seen before, in grimy clothes he doesn’t recognize, with no idea of how he got there. A glimpse in the mirror tells him he’s older—much older—and has been living a hard life, his features ravaged by time and poor decisions. He snatches a newspaper and finds it’s 2010—fifteen years since the fight. 

After finally drifting off to sleep, Alex wakes the following morning to find it’s now 2019, another nine years later. But the next day, it’s 1999. Never knowing which day is coming, he begins to piece together what happens in his life after that fateful night by the river. 

But what exactly is going on? Why does his life look nothing like he thought it would? What about Cambridge, and Holly? In this page-turning adventure, Alex must navigate his way through the years to learn that small actions have untold impact. And that might be all he needs to save the people he loves and, equally importantly, himself.

Purchase your copy now!

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EXCERPT

SEPTEMBER 6, 1995 | AGE 20

   It’s three-deep at the bar, and I get my order in seconds before they ring for time. I double up: a JD and Coke each and two beers to take with us. The lights are up and the music’s gone quiet as I weave the tray through the punters. Standing in the doorway out to the terrace, I am disorientated. There must be fifty tables outside between here and the river and it’s still packed out, darker and smokier than ever. I search the crowd but can’t see Holly.

   I negotiate my way down to the water’s edge. She’s maybe ten tables away, oblivious, a ciggie poised skyward in her fingers like she’s posing for Vettriano. I smirk, enjoy my good fortune again.

   “Excuse me, good gentlemen,” I say to a group of four in my path, voice cocky with booze and lust. They shuffle over, not breaking from their conversation. The resulting gap between their circle and the edge of the path isn’t wide enough—a careless elbow would send the tray of drinks into the river, possibly me with them.

   “If you don’t mind, guys?” I lay a palm on the forearm of the bloke with his back to me. Their circle opens out and he turns side-on, ushering me past. “Nice one,” I say, glancing at him as I pass.

I look back at the ground. There’s a delay in my brain processing who it is I’m walking past. There’s a moment in which it seems that we’ll just carry on, pretend like we don’t know each other.

   The air thickens. Time slows. I stop, a step past him. Look again.    Razor-sharp short back and sides, hooded eyes, lopsided mouth.    Preppy. It’s a face I catch myself imagining sometimes, never for long. A waking nightmare. Not that my imagination does it justice. Not even close, I now realize.

   His recognition of me unfolds in slow motion. Perhaps like me, alcohol has dulled his synapses, delayed the inevitable shift of mode.

Blake Benfield. There have been times in the past when just hearing that name in my head has stopped me dead, left me incapable.

How long since we last ran into each other? I was sixteen—best part of four years, then. Feels so recent. Our paths crossing has always been inevitable; we grew up barely a mile apart. He spat at me that last time, called me faggot cunt. The many times before that I’d just legged it, hidden from his fury and his hatred. But you get too old to do that.

This crowded place seems so quiet now. Like there’s cotton wool stuffed in my ears. The two bottles tip over on my trembling tray, foam splattering to the ground. One rolls over the edge and shatters on the concrete. People turn.

   How long have we stood here, him glaring at me, me unable to hold his stare? Saying nothing. A few seconds? Feels longer.

   There’s the smell of burned-out house in my nose. The sound of his whisper in my ears that I try to drown out.

   Don’t think about it. Do not think about that day. 

   Why do I shake? I’m a fucking grown man. Why am I shaking?

   He takes a half step closer to me.

   I once told him I was sorry. It was years ago—when I was still a kid.       I was sorry. Does he remember?

   I spin around. Where’s Holly? She must be watching this.

There’s no more delay. There is, of course, nothing for me and this bloke to say to each other. We have ventured into each other’s space, and that brings with it a remembering. And, as we always have, we must deal with that in our own way.

   His knuckles graze my chin. I stumble backward and the tray falls to the ground. His swing is off, though; there is no pain. Not even surprise. We definitely have an audience now.

   My response is pure instinct: palms raised, lean away. Easy now.

I don’t want to fight this man. I want to go back thirty seconds, walk a different route, have this night back for myself.

   Blake closes the gap, my weakness an invitation. His second punch crashes into my ear like a swinging girder. My brain slaps side to side in my skull. Vision sways. My head boils, a cool trickle from my eardrum.

   Where is Holly? Panic grips. I can’t just stand here and take this.

My eyes flit to our audience. He swings again, this time with his left. But I see it coming, dodge. He stumbles.

   I drive my weight, shoulder first, into his ribs. He goes over, sprawled among the spilled drinks and shattered glass.

   On all fours, he stares up at me. I’m perfectly positioned. I could kick him square in the face. End this right now. Why don’t I do it? Why can’t I bring myself to do it? I’d rather turn my back and cry than kick his head in.

   He glares up at me. Why do I pity him? Why am I so uncomfortable towering over him like this? It’s like the positions we’ve always held have been reversed. The power is mine.

   I let him find his feet.

   He’s up and level with me again. He glares like a bloodthirsty dog, wipes his nose on the sleeve of his polo shirt. If we were alone, maybe I’d run. But with people watching, with Holly watching, that’s no option.

   My punch lands perfectly. His jaws scissor against each other. For a second his head floats, eyes rolling.

   I realize my error too late. I should’ve followed up when I had the chance. One punch is only enough in the movies, everyone knows that. His hands are on the collar of my shirt, cloth tearing as he holds firm. His forehead slams into the bridge of my nose like a sledgehammer. My face is suddenly and totally numb. I drop to the ground. A ruby-red stain spreads fast through the jewels of broken glass around me.

He shouts above me. Every filthy word I’ve long come to expect. Something soft disperses against my head. Spit.

   The neck of the Stella bottle I dropped lies on the ground. Inches away. Blood gurgles in my mouth as I take a deep breath. I launch like a sprinter. Leading with the dagger of green glass, I’m aiming straight at his face and closing fast.

   Blake backs into a table, stumbles, hands slow to cover his face. His eyes widen, abject fear. But this is no time to be derailed.

   I see it too late. No time to react. One of Blake’s friends windmilling a table ashtray. The side of my skull cracks like thunder.

   The ground feels like a cushion, drawing me in and bouncing me back. My vision finds enough order in time to see the sole of boot accelerating toward me, like a cartoon piano from the sky.

   There is no pain. Just a sense of floating in space.

   Time passes. More blows land.

   The surface of the Thames billows like a black satin sheet as it rises toward me. There’s no fear. Is that Holly I can hear calling my name? It’s so distant, so hard to tell.

   The river gathers me in like it’s here to take care of me.

   Cool water spears my lungs like sharpened icicles. I sink forever.

A low hum builds in my ears. Lights fades to nothing.

   And I sleep.

NOVEMBER 30, 2010 | AGE 35

   My head throbs. It doesn’t matter if I open or close my eyes, the pain worsens either way. My mouth is like dust. Joints and muscles lie seized.

   Last night is a blank. I hate that. I look above me. Focusing is excruciating. The ceiling is browny cream, textured in spikes like a Christmas cake. An unshaded bulb swings in the draft, the filament shivering. It’s really cold in here.

   Where the fucking hell am I?

Excerpted from THE DAY TRIPPER by James Goodhand. Copyright © 2024 by James Goodhand. Published by MIRA Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.

Praise for The Day Tripper:

“Witty and wise, The Day Tripper had me pulling for Alex through all of his mixed-up days. James Goodhand brings a fun, fresh voice to the time travel genre in this gem of a novel. I loved it!”

—Shelby Van Pelt, New York Times bestselling author of Remarkably Bright Creatures 

“The Day Tripper is absolutely astonishing, from first page to last. Warm, clever, hopeful, and superbly written. James Goodhand is a brilliant storyteller at the top of his game. I adored it.”

—Stuart Turton, Sunday Times bestselling author of The 7 ½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

“The Day Tripper is a brilliantly-written exploration of the choices we make every day, and how those choices shape the people we become. It blew my mind and broke my heart, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I finished it!”

—Gareth Brown, author of The Book of Doors

"A page-turner."

—Booklist

“Goodhand’s debut is a compelling look at the way decisions, good and bad, build up over time to create a life.”

—Library Journal

“A powerful, poignant twist on the time travel story that had me gripped right from the start.”

—Bobby Palmer, Sunday Times bestselling author of Isaac and the Egg

“I adored The Day Tripper. Utterly original, moving, and so brilliantly crafted.”

—Louisa Reid, author of The Poet

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James Goodhand has written two YA novels. His YA debut, Last Lesson, was called "a powerfully charged study in empathy," by the Financial Times. This is his adult debut. He lives in England with his wife and young son. 

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REVIEW

The Day Tripper by James Goodhand
My rating: 3 of 5 stars


I'm a big time travel fiction fan, so of course when I came across The Day Tripper, it immediately appealed to me. This is a new-to-me author so I didn't know what to expect with the writing style. From page one, the story is told disassembled and jumbled back together in non-lineal order. We are experiencing the disorientation right along with Alex as he slips from one moment to another in his life. It did take some getting used to, which caused my reading pace to lag for a time.

If you've read the synopsis, you get the general idea: Alex Dean suddenly finds himself waking up every day at different points in the timeline of his life. It all seemed to start after a near-fatal assault he experienced in the mid 90s. After this day, life as he knew it was gone. It's certainly intriguing to think about seeing the effects things make on your life almost instantaneously. For most, collections of bad decisions and actions can take years to manifest into dire consequences. Alex sees his life destroyed before he even knows the cause.

Much of the first half is pretty grim and depressing. I can't say that I was a big fan of Alex as his alcoholism, bad choices with his girlfriend Holly, and his broken family comes to light. He's a damaged man who was deeply influenced by his father's emotional abuse, and his murky relationship with Blake Benfield as a troubled kid. None of the details come out until much later in the book, but we do know that there are significant events in his past that are driving his bad choices. Typically, in a normal, linear storyline, you get the backstory of the character fairly early and that helps you understand them better and empathize with them. That is very hard to do when you're reading things so out of order and trying to make sense of what is even happening and how.

Since my last memory, since the fight, has time 

really passed? What have I missed? 

What of Cambridge? What of Holly?

Alex is drowning in the current of his bad decisions from one moment to the next. Homelessness, alcoholism, prison time, rejection and shame from his parents, loss of the love of his life, and a short, failed marriage are things that he sees jumping through time in his life. He is desperate to find out what is happening to him, but more importantly, if he could alter anything and return to the promising life he once had. His one beacon of hope is a strange man that he encounters by the name of Dr. P.H. (Paul) Defrates. Paul seems to know quite a bit about his personal situation but isn't very willing to share any answers with him. He does explain Einstein's theory of time: how each moment in time is happening simultaneously rather than in individual, chronographic order. Alex seems to be viewing his life in a way that others can't because of an aberration that occurred. It's imperative that he finds out what jarred him into this new reality so he can try to repair his broken life.

Once Alex starts to face some hard truths about himself, he begins to make changes in his impulsive and unhealthy actions. This is when the "updates" start to occur and he finally believes that there may be a way to escape his doomed fate. In the end, the story is an uplifting one because Alex goes through a considerable amount of growth and is able to identify how he was his own worst enemy. He wants to make a difference in his own life as well as others'. He learns to express his pain, reach out for help, and share his gratitude and love with those that mean the most to him. In doing this, he gradually starts to heal-and the effects are clearly evident. Many people have regrets in life as they get older. Who doesn't wish that they could turn back time and do things a little differently? This story is an intriguing play on that idea, which fortunately ends with a lot of introspection in a positive light. While I didn't necessarily care for the main character for much of the book, I do appreciate the journey he went on and seeing the character development along the way. It was executed in a way that was a bit more dismal and gritty for my taste, but worthwhile if you hang on until the end.

“Change, Alex, comes about from a commitment 

to making a difference. To deviating from the path of history.” 

“Walking into the headwind.” 

“Exactly!”

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Blog Tour with Excerpt: Vampire Weekend by Mike Chen

Being a vampire is far from glamorous...but it can be pretty punk rock.

VAMPIRE WEEKEND by MIKE CHEN

Series: n/a

Publication date: January 31, 2023

Published by: HQ/Mira

Genre: sci-fi, PNR

 

SYNOPSIS

Everything you've heard about vampires is a lie. They can't fly. No murders allowed (the community hates that). And turning into a bat? Completely ridiculous. In fact, vampire life is really just a lot of blood bags and night jobs. For Louise Chao, it's also lonely, since she swore off family ages ago.

At least she's gone to decades of punk rock shows. And if she can join a band of her own (while keeping her...situation under wraps), maybe she'll finally feel like she belongs, too.

Then a long-lost teenage relative shows up at her door. Whether it's Ian's love of music or his bad attitude, for the first time in ages, Louise feels a connection.

But as Ian uncovers Louise's true identity, things get dangerous--especially when he asks her for the ultimate favor. One that goes beyond just family...one that might just change everything vampires know about life and death forever.

Purchase your copy now!

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Excerpt

CHAPTER 2 

     VAMPIRE POWER MYTH #2: We can bite into anything. 

     In movies, veins pop like a balloon hitting a nail. But in reality? Kids constantly bonk into sharp objects and get light scrapes. Construction workers work around nails and metal, but somehow buildings go up without anyone bleeding out. I worked in a hospital, so I saw this firsthand. 

     In practical terms, biting someone for blood was not easy. Newly turned vampires don’t exactly have functional teeth. A gradual sharpening takes place over the course of a week, but we’re not the instant kill machine from movies. 

     The so-called “vampire attacks” in the news? Sounded like algorithm-driven clickbait to me. And that was exactly how I thought about it—or didn’t think about it—when I got to work. 

Because today was a blood day. And blood days were literally life and death for me. 

Not that I gave off that vibe. Instead, I went about my business, pushing my janitorial cart into the blood bank of San Francisco General Hospital. The automatic door shut behind me, my cart’s squeaking wheels announcing my arrival to Sam, the department’s night manager, and some staffer who looked more on break than actually working. They leaned over a monitor, attention pulled away by whatever was on the screen. Which worked to my benefit.

     Some vampires worked with blood volunteers—usually fetishists who gladly let someone feed off them, likely thinking it was a kink or a new obscure fad diet rather than real vampire sustenance. That still involved the wholly unhygienic and socially awkward process of drinking from a live human. Underground dealers also existed, pumping blood from their arms into a bottle for an in-person transaction.

     Me? I went with blood bag theft.

     Which, to be fair, I held zero guilt over. Did you know that hospitals waste about 25 percent of blood bags every year? Thus, my weekly pickup during my janitorial rounds hardly made a dent. It all fell within the normal range of lost, misplaced, or expired. In fact, the managers viewed me as helpful for bringing the soon-to-expire bags to disposal. If some happened to make it into my backpack along the way, no one was the wiser.

     This, of course, assumed that there were actually blood bags to take.

     Today, the usual inventory of expiring blood bags was empty.

As in, nothing on the shelves. Nothing to deliver. Nothing to steal.

Nothing to feed from.

In fact, even the main storage units for in-date blood bags appeared low.

Any stress from the Copper Beach audition evaporated, as things do when food sources suddenly disappear.

     I paused the music on my phone and pulled the earbuds out. Some things required a little more professional behavior. I began scouring the other storage possibilities when I overheard the words the vampire community feared the most.

     “I swear, it’s a vampire.”

     Eric constantly preached that if humans did discover us, racists would find new reasons to fearmonger, while scientists would capture us for all sorts of poking and prodding. Given that we’d all managed to abide by this for centuries, it seemed like a pretty good suggestion to follow.

     My hands squeezed the cart’s handle tighter as I listened.

     “That’s ridiculous,” Sam said, shaking his head.

     “No, think about it.” The man turned, the tag on his scrubs revealing the name Turner. “After everything we know about viruses these days, who would actually drink blood? Only vampires.”

     “Okay, look,” Sam said, rubbing his cleft chin. “You’re assuming someone drank this guy’s blood—”

     “Police said he’s missing about ten ounces of blood. Same as the other two attacks.”

     “Alright. Let’s assume someone—or something—drank ten ounces from that poor guy. They said his neck looked chewed, dozens of stitches needed. If you’re gonna believe something ridiculous, go with a werewolf.”

     Suddenly, that headline didn’t seem like simple clickbait. Ten ounces. Roughly the same amount my body needed daily, though half that offered cranky survival. So that was the typical amount a vampire needed to sustain until the next feeding. And the chewed neck like a werewolf bite? That was a real concern, not because werewolves were real (they’re not), but because biting into a human was not easy.

In theory, you first had to properly locate the carotid artery, then make sure it was easily accessible by positioning the head and neck the right way. Then you needed a well-placed bite—millimeters of accuracy here, from an angle where things are hard to see. I challenge any human to try and bite precisely into a piece of Red Vines stuck on a loaf of sourdough to gauge its difficulty. This was in addition to the fangs’ fairly mediocre ability to puncture.

     Biting humans was messy. Factor in an especially scared nondonor human and tools to make the process smoother and, well, the result could easily be mistaken for werewolves.

     With the hospital’s blood shortage, their conversation ratcheted my anxiety enough for me to mutter,      “Oh shit.”

     That little phrase pulled Sam and Turner away from the screen. Their desk chairs creaked as they turned my way, the headline—San Francisco’s Latest “Vampire Attack” Victim Stable In Hospital—now clearly visible on their monitor.

     If there was a fixer working in the community, they weren’t doing a great job.

     “Oh, hi, Louise,” Sam said. “Need anything?”

     Blood bags. A safe community, one without rogue vampires possibly revealing ourselves to humans.   While I was at it, someone to play in a band with—human or vampire—though right now neither seemed to be working out.

     “No pickups today,” I managed as I pushed the cart through. “What pickups?” Sam asked, his thick eyebrows furrowing. “Expiring blood to pick up on second Fridays. You know,” I said, switching to a very bad generic European accent, “because I’m a vampire and I need to drink it instead of biting people on the neck.” That joke always worked, but doubly so today. Both men laughed, and I almost held up claw hands for emphasis. But no, that joke belonged only to me and Marshall. “I knew it,” Sam said, “you’re the vampire attacker.” “I thought you suspected a werewolf,” Turner said, an Irish lilt to his gravelly voice. “Sorry, boys. It’s a little more boring than that. Management tallies these and I don’t want to piss them off.” That was a lie; I knew they didn’t because otherwise I’d never get away with my theft.

“Right, right. Let me go check in on that.” Sam stood and went to the computer on the far desk, his leg catching his chair enough to kick it over a foot. “You’re right, our last delivery was low. Must not be as many donors. There’s a note saying this might be a thing for a few weeks but it doesn’t say why.”

     Just like that, my food supply went from “comfortably fed” to “empty.”

     “Cool, cool, no worries,” I said despite the onslaught of emerging worries. I built my whole life around a job that provided blood—and that dried up? Maybe in a parallel universe, I might have my own recording studio with session time paid in blood bags. But here?

     I loaded my email as soon as I stepped into the hallway. My fingers mashed over the virtual keys, autocorrect pulling all the wrong words and constantly changing blood to brood, which I supposed was fitting for a vampire. The message went to the local Red Cross chapter’s volunteer manager, a request for shifts as a Volunteer Transportation Specialist.

     Basically, someone who drove donated blood around.

     I’d actually trained for the role when I was in between hospital gigs, but never took any actual shifts since most of them were during the day—which wasn’t impossible with proper precautions, but still uncomfortable, and required a lot of extra effort, in addition to messing up my sleep cycle. Circadian rhythm still applied to vampire life.

     But this was different. If the supply saw shortages, I’d need alternatives just like the early days when I first started and had no clue what I was doing.

     Which really wasn’t my fault. Because no guidebook existed for this life, and the woman who made me only came around a few times to check on me before disappearing forever. Despite the physical transformation to vampiredom creating several months of fuzzy memories, I still clearly pictured her during that last visit: a tall, pale woman with long brown hair in peak late-70s punk styling.

     She’d brought weekly bottles, introduced me to a few Southern California sources for no-questions-asked back-alley blood, gave a very uncomfortable primer on feeding off farm animals in emergencies and offered a very dramatic lecture on the importance of not revealing ourselves to humans in any way. Yet, all of those came during surprise drop-ins and sudden departures, and even her final visit was nothing more than a quick hello before “You’ll figure the rest out. You’ll be fine.”

     In fact, she never bothered to tell me her name. Or maybe she did and I just forgot it in my fugue state. Whatever the case, I’d have to rely on those lessons now, to ride out any shortages. I spent the rest of my shift trying to recall how many bags remained in my fridge, and how best to ration them. Hours came and went, a low-level panic setting my night to fast-forward all the way until I stepped into an empty parking garage.

     Then my phone buzzed. Multiple buzzes, actually. Though I hoped it was something about the Red Cross volunteer gig, that seemed impossible, given the late hour. No, a quick look showed another text from Eric. And this time, I bothered to read it.

     I’ve received a few notes tonight about tomorrow evening’s agenda. I share your concerns, but there is a plan to address this. Nothing is more important than the health and safety of our community.

Something was definitely up. A blood shortage, someone attacking humans in the wild, texts about “health and safety.” A second message loaded up, words pushing the first message off the screen.

If you want to learn more, please come to the event. In the meantime, I encourage you all to download our new community app to stream the discussion. Do NOT discuss the media’s ‘vampire attack’ headlines with anyone, not even jokingly. Blood will be served. Reply to RSVP for in person attendance.

Did I want to learn more? Of course. Did I want an app that both invaded my privacy and knew I was a vampire? No. Did I want to get involved with the vampire community?

     Not really. Especially given my history with Eric. But I needed blood, and this was a source, however fleeting.

     Besides, maybe Eric had forgotten about our last encounter. Still, I refused to download his stupid app.    On principle.

     Count me in, I typed in a reply text, complete with a little white lie. By the way, I had trouble downloading the app. Maybe later.

     On most work nights, I came home just before dawn, changed from scrubs to sweats, let my dog out, and drank blood. Today, that last part remained a sticking point. Lola greeted me as usual, a pitter-patter that told me she needed a potty break. I left the back door ajar for her to go into the small backyard, then checked my blood bag supply in the fridge.

     If I’d been more responsible, thorough, careful, and whatever other descriptions my parents threw at me decades ago, I’d have a managed stockpile. Instead, three bags remained, a supply for about four or five days. I could stretch it to a week, though I’d be a grouchy, tired mess. After that? Movie vampires went on killing rampages when they needed blood, but in reality, it meant fatigue and delirium.

     And if that went on long enough? Death by starvation.

     No wonder someone got desperate enough to bite humans.

     I grabbed a mug from the cabinet, white ceramic with a faded photo of a white schnauzer printed on it; Aunt Laura’s old teacup, now used for blood. Mostly empty shelves stared back at me from the fridge, daring me to make a choice.

     Did I take one now? Did I really need to drink or could I wait?

     Lola returned from the backyard, hopping over the threshold with her short corgi legs, and her nails clacked on the floor as she ignored my mood and waddled past. The jingling of her collar faded as she went down the hall, and I told myself to do the smart thing. I shut the fridge door and left Aunt Laura’s mug on the counter, then followed my dog.

     Light flooded the space in my music room as I flipped the wall switch, illuminating everything from the guitars hanging on the walls to the drum kit and keyboard rig sitting in opposite corners. But no dog waited for me. Instead, her collar jingled from across the hall.

     The bedroom.

     The hour or so before bed normally saw me noodling on a guitar, playing with different pedal effects combinations or trying to work out a lingering melody while Lola stayed at my feet. But as I stood between the two rooms, a crushing fatigue washed over me, something that I knew had nothing to do with appetite.

     I peeked in on Lola, the hallway light showing enough that I could see she’d skipped the circular dog bed on the floor to leap straight onto my spot. Usually she’d wait till I fell asleep to pull that off, and perhaps she took advantage of my vulnerable state today. She stretched her little legs into the air, then craned her neck to look at me with ears up, yawning before settling back down.

     Maybe she just knew what I needed today.

     Instead of going back into my music room, I stepped inside and shut the door, leaving the bedroom in a complete UV protected blackout state as I crawled under soft sheets. I stayed still, the quiet silence of a moment without vampires, without humans, without blood shortages, just a happy corgi resting against my stomach and worries in my head.

Excerpted from Vampire Weekend by Mike Chen, Copyright © 2023 by Mike Chen. 

Published by MIRA Books. 

Praise for Vampire Weekend:

“A love letter to the power of music, this thoughtful, humorous exploration of what constitutes living versus mere survival sees Chen (Light Years from Home) at the top of his game.” —Publishers Weekly starred review


"A propulsive, poignant ode to vampire mythos, human connection, and the enduring power of punk rock.” —Sarah Kuhn, author of Heroine Complex


"Mike Chen is at his best here, with a sharp-as-fangs reinvention of the vampire mythos centered on the power of family, born and chosen, and, of course, punk rock. This book will sink its teeth right into your heart." —Gwenda Bond, New York Times bestselling author


"Never getting old sucks! Mike Chen's Vampire Weekend is a kicky homage to punk rock and a delightful exploration of what it means to be 'other,' teaching us that while vampire blood helps, true healing comes from family and forgiveness." —Sierra Godfrey, author of A Very Typical Family


"Fresh, intelligent, and darkly funny, Vampire Weekend is my favorite vampire novel since Interview With The Vampire." —Stina Leicht, author of Persephone Station

“Vampire Weekend rocks. It’s a fanged love song to punk, guitars, and vampires, and it shines with hope and humor. I loved every beat.” —New York Times Bestselling Author Chloe Neill

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mike Chen is a lifelong writer, from crafting fan fiction as a child to somehow getting paid for words as an adult. He has contributed to major geek websites (The Mary Sue, The Portalist, Tor) and covered the NHL for mainstream media outlets. A member of SFWA and Codex Writers, Mike lives in the Bay Area, where he can be found playing video games and watching Doctor Who with his wife, daughter, and rescue animals. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram: @mikechenwriter

You can find her on:

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Review: The Shadows of London by Nick Jones

A time traveler's work is never done.

THE SHADOWS OF LONDON by NICK JONES

Series: Joseph Bridgeman #2

Publication date: June 1, 2021

Published by: Blackstone Publishing

Genre: sci-fi, time travel

 

SYNOPSIS

Likable antiques dealer Joseph Bridgeman is back in the present and dreaming of a quiet life. But when a mysterious and enigmatic time traveler arrives in his shop, Joe learns that his first trip was just the beginning and this time, the rules of the game have changed.

Blackmailed into accepting a new mission, Joe is flung back to 1960s London where he comes face-to-face with a ruthless gangster and witnesses the brutal murder of an innocent woman. Joe knows better than most that death can be reversed and the final chapter is sometimes where the story actually begins. Emotionally involved, he has no choice but to act, and quickly. With the help of Vinny, his vinyl-loving sidekick, Joe once again sets out to change the course of history. Sounds simple enough ... but when it comes to time travel, nothing is ever as it seems. Who is the old time traveler working for? And who decides what can and can't be changed? In a thrilling twist, Joe discovers that the victim is critically important to the future and what starts out as a straightforward mission soon becomes a race to unravel a mystery--one that threatens the very timeline he fought so hard to protect. Joe must dig deeper than ever, master his newfound skills, and save the woman before the past catches up with him for good.

Turns out time doesn't heal after all. It just adds salt.

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Praise for The Shadows of London:

''A time traveler ready to settle into a new home and a new reality is convinced to return to the past to prevent a gang murder ... Travels to the past drive the plot, but it's the complexity of the present that makes this book worth spending time with.'' --Kirkus Reviews

''In the Joseph Bridgeman series you find yourself smack-dab in the middle of a time-traveling thriller mash-up written with a vividness that both enthralls and inspires.'' --Thrillerfix

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nick Jones was born in Stratford-Upon-Avon, Warwickshire in 1972. He is the author of the Downstream Diaries, a series of novels that tell the story of an average Joe, who discovers he can time travel. It's autobiographical. He lives in his writing shed in the U.K. and can usually be found surrounded by notes and scribbling on a large white board.

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REVIEW

The Shadows of London by Nick Jones
My rating: 4 of 5 stars


After reading and loving And Then She Vanished, I knew I had no other option but to continue with this exciting time travel series. I'm a huge fan of the genre, but unfortunately, it's been difficult for me to find a lot of quality series to enjoy. The first book in the series was my first read by the author Nick Jones, and I was very impressed with his skill in creating a detailed, suspenseful, and flawless plot. With time travel stories it's very easy for plot holes to occur, but once again he managed to wrote a seamless story that my analytical mind could not find fault with. Book one was centered around the protagonist Joseph Bridgeman discovering his abilities and using them to save his sister. The Shadows of London focused on the aftermath of the events in book one as well as a new time traveling adventure in 1960s London. He's still the same lovable guy that appeared previously-Joe couldn't have asked for a more loyal friend to support him as he navigates his new life and mission.

Joseph was desperate to save his sister Amy who disappeared when he was a teenager. Her disappearance was the catalyst that destroyed the happy life his family once knew. He always believed that if he could just rewind time and change history that everything would be perfect again. It seemed that it would be at first. Then he realized that altering time has consequences. Changed events change the trajectory of people's life, people's personality, and so many other small things.

    All these huge changes and it’s sometimes the smallest details 

that are the hardest to get your head around.

When Joseph changed history, his family consequently lived a happy life free of tragedy. After jumping back to present time he replaced the version of himself that lived that happy life with his parents and sister. This is something that he finds difficult to accept-that he virtually erased who he calls "Other Joe." It's hard to imagine the guilt you would feel erasing someone from existence. Even if it's yourself and you still exist in another version. Rather than jumping into the perfect life, Joseph must now learn to adjust to his altered reality. Other Joe was adventurous, wealthy, self-absorbed, and athletic. Joseph is none of those things and now must walk in his new shoes convincingly.

    We all rode the same train until I was fourteen, 

and then the track split violently in two.

I enjoyed discovering the many various changes along with him. One of the most interesting developments for me was how he altered his relationship with the love interest Alexia. At the end of book one, he discovers that Alexia has no memory of the developing relationship they once shared. Instead of sharing a budding romance, she now can't stand the sight of him. He must discover what caused her animosity and hopefully make amends to form a new relationship. I was rooting for him to make things right once again because even though his sister was returned to him, he lost the woman who was just starting to mean something very special to him. His friend Mark did not make an appearance in this new installment, but his best friend Vinny returned to make Joe's new mission a little bit lighter. You couldn't ask for a more loyal and fun sidekick than Vinny, and he brings some much needed levity to some life or death situations.

There is new pivotal character introduced by the name of William P. Brown. (side note: I couldn't help but wonder if his name was a nod to Doc Brown from Back to the Future.) Bill is a man with intentions that you can't quite pin down. He forces Joe's hand in time time traveling once again and randomly pops up to give him advice and guidance. Joe despises him with a passion for entangling him in a mess that he wants no part of, but not everything is always black and white. Sometimes things must be done for the greater good. The question is, who will benefit if Joe manages to save Lucy in the 60s? Will it alter his own future for the worse either way?

Nick Jones did a great job setting the scene in the past for the reader. The clothing, language, and London's sights and sounds were all there in vivid detail. When Joe travels, he has new tools and knowledge to guide him on his path. He's not quite as green as he used to be, and there isn't that fear underlying his jumps because he has a better control over how and when to go home. That may have affected the level of suspense somewhat for me, but I did enjoy seeing Joe gain his new skills. He even got to enjoy himself a little in the past, more so than the first time when he was terrified that he wouldn't be able to get home.

The end sets us up a little bit with what's to come. After another successful read, I'm really looking forward to continuing on to see where the news twists lead Joseph Bridgerton. There are still plenty of questions unanswered-especially in relation to Amy in the past and future. She seems to be a troubled person and she didn't get a huge amount of page time in this installment, so I look forward to discovering some of her secrets. If you're like me, and you love a time travel book with plenty of twists and turns, there's a good chance you will love this series! I'm solidly hooked now and there's no looking back.

    “The future is in the past,” Vinny says conspiratorially, 

“and it’s waiting to be rewritten.”

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Blog Tour with Excerpt: The Mirror Man by Jane Gilmartin

Meet Jeremiah Adams. There are two of him.

THE MIRROR MAN by JANE GILMARTIN

Series: Standalone

Publication Date: October 20, 2020 

Genre: science fiction, suspense, thriller
Publisher: Mira

Purchase:
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Synopsis

The offer is too tempting: be part of a scientific breakthrough, step out of his life for a year, and be paid hugely for it. When ViGen Pharmaceuticals asks Jeremiah to be part of an illegal cloning experiment, he sees it as a break from an existence he feels disconnected from. No one will know he’s been replaced—not the son who ignores him, not his increasingly distant wife—since a revolutionary drug called Meld can transfer his consciousness and memories to his copy.

From a luxurious apartment, he watches the clone navigate his day-to-day life. But soon Jeremiah discovers that examining himself from an outsider’s perspective isn’t what he thought it would be, and he watches in horror as “his” life spirals out of control. ViGen needs the experiment to succeed—they won’t call it off, and are prepared to remove any obstacle. With his family in danger, Jeremiah needs to finally find the courage to face himself head-on.

EXCERPT

Charles Scott glared down at him with a glint in his green eyes that felt like a warning, and Jeremiah replayed in his head the man’s ambiguous threat during their first meeting several weeks before.

“You now know as much about this project as anyone else involved,” he’d said. “It wouldn’t do to have too many people walking around with this kind of information. Our investors have a tendency to get nervous.”

Although Scott had quickly followed that remark with the matter of Jeremiah’s substantial compensation, there was no mistaking the implication: the moment he’d been told about the cloning project Jeremiah was already in. That first meeting hadn’t been an invitation so much as an orientation, and the contract he’d later signed had been a formality, at best. And the entire thing had done nothing but gain momentum from that moment on.

Dr. Pike continued to affix the wires to Jeremiah’s head. Jeremiah focused on the man’s gleaming black hair and the deep brown of his sure, professional hands, and he struggled to remember the allure of the $10 million payout he’d get at the end of the whole thing. That kind of money could fix a lot of problems. It would change things. The prospect of that fortune had been enough to make him turn away from principles he thought were unshakable. Every man has his price, he supposed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he also acknowledged the real temptation of a twelve-month sabbatical from his own life. It had seduced him every bit as much as the money had. Maybe more. Between a job that had already begun to make him question his own morals, and a marriage that felt increasingly more like a lie, stress was eating him alive. And into his lap fell a chance to just walk away from all of it—without consequence and without blame. A free pass. He could simply walk away without anyone even knowing he was gone. There isn’t a man alive, he told himself, who would have refused. Despite the ethical question, despite that human cloning was illegal the world over, it would have tempted anyone.

Dr. Pike injected the clone with Meld and then turned wordlessly to Jeremiah with the second syringe poised above his left shoulder.

Jeremiah closed his eyes and rolled up his sleeve.

After the initial stab of the needle, he felt nothing. Which is not to say he didn’t feel anything; he literally felt nothing. Seconds after the injection, he became aware of a total emptiness, like a towering black wave that threatened to sink him into an immeasurable void. The experience was unlike anything he’d ever known. He imagined an astronaut suddenly untethered from his ship, floating helplessly into unending darkness. Without thinking, he immediately felt his body recoil. His mind screamed against it.

I’m dying!

From impossibly far away, he heard Dr. Pike say something about a heart rate and felt the slight pressure of a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t see anything of the hospital room anymore. He was drowning in the blackness. His chest felt suddenly constricted. He fought just to find his breath.

“This is all perfectly normal, Mr. Adams. You have nothing to worry about. Concentrate on the sound of my voice. Nod if you can hear me.”

With considerable effort, Jeremiah managed what he hoped was a nod of his head. He was suddenly gripped by the alarming certainty that if he couldn’t communicate somehow, he’d be lost—swept away forever.

“Good. Good. Listen to my voice. It will keep you grounded.” Pike still sounded far away, but Jeremiah nodded again and struggled to focus. “What you are experiencing is to be expected. Do you remember when you took the Meld with Dr. Young? Do you remember the way you could feel her thoughts for the first few minutes?”

He nodded. It had been an unnerving thing to perceive her consciousness mixing with his like that. Flashes from her mind—odd, alien things like the feel of a blister on the back of her right heel, the familiar gleam in the eye of an old man he’d never seen—had swirled into the very structure of his own mind and fought for a place to settle. He had railed against that, too, and she had grounded him by flashing a penlight in his face, making him focus on that while the Meld took effect. Afterward, once he had sunk in, it had been easier.

“This is no different than what you experienced then,” Pike said. “This time, though, you are connected to an empty mind. There’s nothing there. But the more you resist, the longer this will take. You need to relax, Mr. Adams. Give in to it.”

Jeremiah nodded again and then shook his head with as much grit as he could muster. How does one give in to this? He didn’t think he could do it.

“Once your thoughts begin transferring into the mind of the clone it will be easier for you,” Pike urged. “Focus on a memory, as I suggested. Something vivid. It will help to fill that void you’re experiencing now. It will give you something to hang on to.”

Without the benefit of his full faculties, Jeremiah had little choice but to grab the last thing he’d been thinking about—his initial conversation with Charles Scott, the day all of this began.

He’d been surprised when he’d received an invitation to lunch from ViMed’s head of Engineering. The man was an icon in the science world, and although he’d quoted him a hundred times for the company, Jeremiah had never actually met him. He’d been intrigued enough to accept the invitation, especially when Scott had told him it involved a “proposition that could make him a very wealthy man.”

Flashes of that encounter and snatches of conversation now flitted through his mind like so many fireflies. He fought to catch them.

“We’ve been watching you, Mr. Adams.”

“All we ask is one year of your life. Isn’t that worth $10 million?”

“We can do this. The science exists. And with Meld, the clone will even share your thought patterns… Your own mother won’t know the difference.”

“This is sanctioned by powerful people—we have millions in secret federal backing. There are billions more in eventual funding… There’s no need to be so suspicious, Mr. Adams.”

From somewhere far away, Jeremiah heard Dr. Pike repeating his name. He had been so engulfed in his efforts to hold on to the memory that he’d almost forgotten where he was. As soon as he realized it, the void loomed again in his mind.

“Mr. Adams,” Pike said, “you’ve got to listen to me. The clone cannot pick up on any memory of the experiment. What you’re thinking about is not going to help. You need to think about something else, some memory that won’t be filtered. His mind is still empty.”

Jeremiah panicked. He couldn’t think. And now that he wasn’t focused on anything, the blackness began to take over again, creeping closer and threatening to swallow him. He fought for breath.

“Relax, Mr. Adams,” Pike said. “Think about your job here at ViMed. Remember something the clone can actually use. Something he’ll need to know.”

He felt a dull jab at his shoulder.

“This should help. I’ve given you a mild sedative. Take a few deep breaths. Concentrate on your breathing.”

With everything in him, Jeremiah tried to turn his mind away from the void that seemed to be all around him. He inhaled deeply and tried to focus on the rise of his own chest. Exhaled, and he felt his chest fall.

“Very good, Mr. Adams. Very good. Pulse is returning to normal. Deep breaths. Now, think about a typical day at work. Something ordinary and mundane.”

Inhale. Exhale. After a moment, Jeremiah began to relax and, as the sedative took hold, he found he could let his mind wander without the frantic thought that he’d never get it back. An oddly comforting fog seemed to expand in front of him, pushing the blackness away slightly, and Jeremiah retreated into it.

He began to think about the morning of the Meld fiasco—the day the New Jersey housewife had killed herself. The press had been circling. He’d arrived at his office with a terse mandate from his superiors to “get these fuckers off our back” and no idea how to accomplish that. It hadn’t been lost on him that not a single soul seemed bothered enough to stop and feel sorry about it, and he’d taken a quick moment behind his office door to offer silent condolences. It wasn’t thirty seconds before someone had come knocking, pushing him to get something done.

Weeks before, he’d heard talk of Meld being used to detect brain activity in a sixteen-year-old football player who had been comatose for nearly six months. Time to cash in. He tracked down the doctor somewhere in Delaware and the man started gushing about Meld, calling it “magical,” “a godsend” and “the most important medical advance of a generation.”

“After so many weeks,” he said, “the parents were hopeless.”

Meld was a last resort before pulling the plug, and it gave them the first clear signs of neural activity in the boy.

“Not only was he aware and awake in there, but he was cognizant of everything that was going on around him—including the fact that his parents were losing hope. He even heard them talking about funeral arrangements at one point. The kid was scared, terrified. He was begging for his life in there. That’s what I saw when I took the Meld with him. Meld absolutely saved his life. There is no doubt in my mind.”

Jeremiah had almost smiled. It was pure gold. A few hours later, the story was in the hands of every major news outlet, and that doctor was spending his fifteen minutes of fame touting Meld as “a medical miracle.”

Jeremiah focused on that now. Maybe Meld did have some silver lining, after all, he thought. Maybe it was miraculous.

Praise for The Mirror Man:

"A remarkable debut...Great concept and brilliantly executed."

-- "John Marrs, internationally bestselling author"

"A story that is both profound and artfully contained. Claustrophobic and disturbingly intimate. Simply brilliant."

-- "Sylvain Neuvel, author of the Themis Files trilogy"

"An incredible debut, fascinating in concept with characters that grip you from the get-go. A timely and touching novel."

-- "Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author"

"Part Twilight Zone episode and part medical thriller, The Mirror Man seamlessly weaves together clones and family for a fascinating story about the lies we tell ourselves--and what we might do with second chances. Tense, poignant, and frequently funny, Gilmartin's debut waxes lyrical on the human condition while racing to an unforgettable finish."

-- "Mike Chen, author of Here and Now and Then"

About the Author

Jane Gilmartin has been a news reporter and editor for several small weeklies and enjoyed a brief but exciting stint as a rock journalist. A bucket list review just before she turned 50 set her on the path to fiction writing. Also crossed off that bucket list: An accidental singing career, attending a Star Trek convention, and getting a hug from David Bowie. She lives in Massachusetts with a human family, an elderly cat and a very good dog.

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