Author Maegan Beaumont has become an absolute favorite of mine since I read her first book Carved in Darkness last year. It has been an honor to read, review and help promote her follow up book, Sacrificial Muse - I
hope this tour intrigues you enough that you will pick up her books and
give them a read!
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Posts, Author Interviews and more, so please check them all out (schedule at bottom of page) - and of course, be sure to enter the fabulous giveaway!
Fade to Black
A few months after I signed with my agent, I flew to Chicago for his agency’s
annual client conference. It was my first time attending, having only been
picked up officially that August, so I was a bit out of my depth. I was in a
strange city full of complete strangers. I had absolutely no idea where I was
going or who I was going with. If you know me at all then, you know that these
are things that usually send me into a tailspin… but I maintained. I kept
it together. I did not hide in my hotel room until it was time to check out.
I was very proud.
As we were waiting for the train to take us into the city
for dinner, I listened to people talk—“Hi, I’m blah, blah. Blah, blah has been my agent for 2 years.”
“Oh, I know you. My name is blah, blah. I’m with blah, blah.”
(not trying to be disrespectful—just don’t want to use
names… or maybe I just don't remember them.)
“So, what's your name and who are you with?”
It took me a few seconds before I realized someone was
talking to me.
“Ah… My name is Maegan Beaumont and I’ve been with Chip for
a few months.”
I sounded like I was introducing myself at an AA meeting,
but I managed to get the words out without any nervous stuttering.
Again—I was very proud.
Suddenly, the young woman standing in front of me whirled
around and after a few seconds of scrutiny, said, “You’re Maegan Beaumont?”
Oh. God. What did I do? The juvenile delinquent in me was screaming—No. No you are not.
Deny, deny, DENY!!
“Yes…?”
She smiled. “I joined the agency the same week Chip
received your manuscript and it was the first thing he gave me to read. I
couldn’t get past the first five pages. I still think about it,” she said. “I’m
pretty sure it scarred me for life.”
I didn’t know what to say. What did that mean? Was it
really that bad? Before I could say anything, she saved me from imploding.
“Oh, no. It was really, really good… but it was too intense
for me,” she said. “Most writers have this fade
to black moment where they
choose to leave the rest of a graphic scene to the reader’s imagination. I kept
reading your work, waiting for the fade to black… but it kept going. I kept
reading, waiting for it. Fade to black… I kept thinking, when is it going to fade to black? Fade to black. Dear God—FADE
TO BLACK!!” She mimed
flipping through pages, her eyes as wide dinner plates.
She stopped and smiled at me. “I took it back to Chip and
said, “It’s really, really good and really, really disturbing. Here you go—you should
read it. And now you’re here.”
I had no idea what to say—again. I felt like an apology was
in order but I swore to myself a long time ago that I’d never apologize for
anything that I’d written. Maybe I should offer to pay for her therapy…
She turned out to be the one person I really connected with
in Chicago. We split a pizza and she admitted that I was nothing like what she
expected. I took it as a compliment. We really didn’t talk about my work again
(although, she did ask me if my husband was afraid to go to sleep around me...)
but her reaction has stuck with me. Nearly two years later and I still think
about it.
Fade to Black.
I’ve tried writing that way but it felt… almost like a lie.
What I’d put on paper was not what I really wanted to say—the problem was, what
I really wanted to say was pretty freakin’
disturbing. I was worried what my family would think. I was worried how, if it
was ever read by the general public, I’d be regarded (remember, nice girls
don’t write about torture…). Would the parents of my children’s friends think
I’m a depraved lunatic and keep their kids away from mine?
I was afraid of offending someone. I was afraid of
disappointing everyone. I was afraid of what people would think.
I was afraid.
But you can’t write with fear—not if you want write with
honesty and passion and all the things that make a book worth reading. Good
writing isn’t always pretty or pleasant. It isn’t about what people want to
hear. It’s about what you have to say. As soon as I realized that, I was able
to let go of all that worry and doubt and just write. Instead of fading to
black, I kept the lights on. I threw open the doors and windows and wrote.
And what I wrote scared me. Not the actual content… but it
scared me that the words came from me so easily. That I was able to go there without any real effort at all. I
felt the strong desire to delete it off the page before anyone else saw it. I
didn’t. I considered cutting it from the book. I didn’t do that either. I’ve
come to recognize that feeling this way is a sign that I’ve written something
that will affect people. And if we’re not affecting people with our words, then
what’s the point?
Truth is, there’ll always be people who will be offended.
There will be some who are disappointed or disturbed by the things I write. Who
will see me differently. Who will build pre-conceived notions about what I’m really like. And as much as I wish it weren’t
so, I can’t let any of that dictate what I write. I’ll go crazy if I do…
So write what you want. Say what you need to say, in the
most honest way possible. Don't let fear or doubt decide what you put on paper.
You deserve better than that, and so does your reader.
Fade to black. Or not...
It's totally up to you.
Title: Sacrificial Muse
Author: Maegan Beaumont
Release Date: July 8th 2014
Publisher: Midnight Ink
Add to Goodreads
Read my review here
Sabrina opened the red envelope and saw one word...
Mox. Soon.
After learning the identity of the serial killer behind her 83 horrific
days of rape and torture, Sabrina Vaughn has suffered more physical and
emotional wounds than she can handle. Despite reeling with pain both old
and new, Sabrina is given a second chance as a San Francisco homicide
detective. But as reporters dog her every step and hordes of mail pour
into her office -- from supporters and nutjobs alike--Sabrina falls
deeper into a pit of humiliation and anxiety. When nine red roses
repeatedly show up on her desk, followed by an ominous red envelope
addressed to Calliope, Sabrina realizes that a new killer is targeting
her. She is his chosen muse, and the Fates require sacrifice.
“Are you hurt?”
Eight months gone and that’s all he had? It was a stupid thing to say
and the look she gave him told him so. Michael shifted in his boots, forcing
himself to meet her gaze directly.
“You really shouldn’t be here,” she said, her expression carefully schooled
into a look so passive she made the Dalai Lama look like a rage-drunk lunatic.
He’d seen that expression before—it was usually followed by a severe
ass-kicking.
Still, he pushed her, hating the panicked edge he heard in his voice.
“Answer me—are you hurt?”
Sabrina tossed the gun onto the bed. Another bad sign. The last time
she’d disarmed herself in front of him she’d rabbit-punched his kidneys so hard
he’d pissed blood for three days. “No,” she said, crossing the room, her
confident stride interrupted by a slight limp she tried hard to hide. Each
footfall that brought her closer felt like a kick in the gut—a reminder of just
how much his need for revenge had cost her. She reached past him to yank the
curtains closed, letting her
gaze drop to the envelope in his hand. “You went through my jacket.”
“Sure did. Who’s Calliope?”
Her eyes narrowed just a bit, enough for him to know he was pushing it.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you that reading other peoples’ mail is rude?”
He shrugged. “Nope. She was too busy fishing me out of the drunk tank
and nursing me through withdrawal to sweat the small stuff. Who’s Calliope?”
“I am,” she said, going for the envelope in his hand.
He’d been afraid of that. He held it out of reach. “What does it say?”
Her hand snapped out and latched onto the envelope and pulled but he
held on. “Coming here was stupid.”
“I know… and I’m getting a bit tired of repeating myself.”
She pulled again, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t usually come
written in Latin, on handmade paper.”
“Nothing or not, it’s got nothing
to do with you.” She pulled again. This time he let her take it, suddenly very
much aware all that stood between them was ten inches of space and a bath
towel.
He shifted his gaze to the pile of clothes she’d left on the floor.
“There’s blood on your jacket. Are you sure you’re okay?”
She shook her head. “It’s not mine,” she said without offering further
explanation, stepping around him to get to the other side of the bed. There,
she picked up her SIG and stowed it in its holster before dropping it on the
nightstand, the envelope along with it. “You didn’t come here to do a welfare
check, O’Shea,” she said over her shoulder, giving him a side view of her face
and neck as she rifled through the duffle on the bed before pulling out a
flimsy wad of black fabric. “So, what do you want?”
Great question. One he didn’t have a ready answer for. Especially when
what he wanted and what he was allowed to have were two completely different
things. He took a mental step back, distancing himself from her and the messy
tangle of emotion seeing her brought up. “I need to talk to you about—”
He’d seen her naked before. Spent six weeks in this very room watching
every move she made and he’d done it with an almost Zen-like level of
detachment. He’d viewed her in parts—torso, shoulders, legs, back—she’d been a
promise he’d made. A means to an end. Nothing more.
This time, when she dropped the towel, he didn’t see parts—he saw her and it was enough to stop him cold.
“Jesus,” he hissed, averting his eyes
to the lamp on the table next to her.
“You came here to talk to me about Jesus?” she said as she wound her
long wet hair into a bun, tucking its tail into the coil to hold it in place.
Somehow, with her hair up, she seemed even more naked.
Her tone drew his attention and he found himself looking at her again.
“No,” he said, nailing his gaze to hers. “I want to talk to you about Jaxon
Croft,” his tone harder than he intended.
She stepped into a pair of shorts, if you could call them that,
smoothing them over her hips before she reached for the second wad of fabric
and shook it out. Her full breasts swayed gently, drawing his attention for a
split second before he looked away. He could see her movements in his
peripheral as she gathered up what he hoped to God was a shirt and pulled it
over her head.
“Croft? What about him?” she said, drawing his attention again. This
time she was clothed and settled on the bed, cross-legged, using the towel to
squeeze excess water from her hair.
“He was in Jessup a few weeks ago, asking questions about me. And you.”
he said, coming around the side of the bed to stand in front of her.
“I know,” she said, giving him a quick glance. “It started the day after
I woke up in the hospital.” She arched an eyebrow at him, giving him a cynical
smile. “He’s very… persistent.”
“He follows you?”
She leaned over and reached into her duffle, pulling out a comb.
“Everywhere I go,” she said as she ran the comb through her long hair.
He felt something ugly crawl around inside his chest. Something
impulsive and ruthless. Something that’d lead him to put two in the back of
Croft’s head without a moment’s hesitation if he let it go unchecked. “Has he
approached you?”
She stopped combing. “Approach? Has Croft approached me?” She shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”
Something about her tone stiffened the back of his neck. “What did he
say to you?”
“Oh, you know—blah, blah, blah,
I’m blackmailing you—blah, blah, blah.” She
said it so nonchalantly that it took him a second to comprehend what she was
saying.
“Is Croft why you’re here instead of home?”
She stared at him for a moment as if trying to decide how much of her
life was his business and he was suddenly sure she’d tell him to mind his own.
Instead she looked away, down at something on the nightstand. The note card
he’d found in her jacket pocket. She shrugged. “Val asked me to leave,” she
said, finally looking at him again. “Things have been… difficult for us since
I’ve been back.” She said it like she’d been on a business trip instead of
abducted and shot by her own brother. “But the situation with Croft certainly
isn’t doing me any favors.”
“What does he want?”
She shrugged. “You. He’s got this silly idea that I know your deep, dark
secrets and he’s given me thirty-six hours to decide who I’m going to throw
under the bus—you or Strickland.” Despite her blasé attitude, he could see it.
She was scared and pissed off—a dangerous combination where Sabrina was
concerned.
“I don’t understand. What did Strickland do?”
She gave him a sad smile. “The usual. He trusted me.”
He jammed his hands into his pockets while fighting to keep from looking
away. “So… which one of us is getting run over?” Strickland was her partner.
He’d stuck it out, risked his career to help her. He’d been there for her in
ways that he never had been and never could be. It was simple: Strickland had
earned her loyalty and he hadn’t.
“Neither of you. Croft gave me thirty-six hours to make up my mind.
That’s all the time I need to make things right.”
It took him a moment to realize what she was saying. Whatever her plan
was, it ended with her in the lions’ den. He shook his head. “No. I won’t let
you.”
“Really? And just how are you going to stop me, O’Shea?” She chuckled a
bit. “You can’t. Not without exposing yourself.”
He said nothing, forcing his expression to remain neutral but the look
on Sabrina’s face told him that she knew him better than he’d hoped.
“You can’t kill him.”
He met her gaze, surprised by the level of urgency he found there. It’d
never occurred to him that she might actually care about what happened to
Croft. The thought made fighting his ugly impulses harder than he would’ve
imagined. “I’m pretty sure I can.”
She swiped a hand over her face before looking up at him. “If Croft
turns up dead, I’m the first person who’s gonna get looked at. I have a
perceived history of killing people who test my patience, remember?”
He remembered. The last time they were together, bodies started dropping
and it was Sabrina who took the heat for it. Not something he’d be willing to
risk again unless it was absolutely unavoidable. “Thirty-six hours? Why so
long?” he said, lowering himself to the bed, cutting her a long look. “He’s got
to know you’d find a way to wriggle off the hook.”
“My guess? He’s hoping I use
the time to call in the cavalry. Which is why your being here isn’t just a
colossal waste of time, it also wasn’t your smarted move ever.” She set the
comb aside and unfolded her legs, drawing her knees to her chest to prop her
chin against them. “You should’ve phoned this one in, O’Shea. Or better yet,
just trusted me to keep my mouth shut.”
He sighed, running a rough hand over the top of his head. “I need to
know what he knows. How much he’s been able to dig up on me. If FSS has sprung
a leak, I need to find it before Livingston Shaw does.” Because if Croft could
connect him to Sabrina, so could the person feeding him information. If Shaw
found out about Croft and his source, she was as good as dead. Or worse—much
worse.
Sabrina shrugged. “He’s not much of a sharer when it comes to you. All
he’s told me is you’re not someone worth protecting.”
Whatever Croft was, whatever he really wanted with him, the man was
honest. He stared at her for a long moment, unsure of what to say. Finally he
cleared his throat.
“They never are, you know.”
“Never what?” she said, tipping
her face to rest her cheek against her knee.
“My moves. They’re never smart when you’re involved.” He fought the urge
to look away from her, focusing on the way her long lashes brushed against the
pale skin of her leg. “You have a way of making me do the stupidest things.”
Sabrina gave him a rueful smile. “I’d say I’m sorry but it’d be a lie,
considering one of those stupid moves saved my life,” she said, skewering him
with a dark blue gaze that caused his heart to pound, fast and uneven, against his
chest. “I know it was you that day in the woods, not Carson. You promised you’d
find a way back to me and you did. You saved me.”
Her words gnawed at him, razor-sharp teeth that sank in a bit deeper
every time he breathed. On impulse, he reached over and wrapped a hand around
her ankle to pull her leg flat against the bed. The movement revealed the scar
he’d only caught a glimpse of so far, a raised, silver-dollar sized knot of
hard tissue punched into the top of her thigh, a long-line incision running through
the middle of it. The bullet must’ve shattered and they’d had to operate—
The second she realized what he was looking at, she tried to jerk her
leg back but he held on, keeping it straight.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, running a slow hand up the length of her leg
until it was parallel with her hip, skimming his fingers along the raised lump
of rigid flesh. It was red, warm to the touch, as if it’d happened weeks ago
instead of months. He imagined Wade standing over her, pulling the trigger. The
terror and hopelessness she must’ve felt but would never admit to. “Whatever I
did, it wasn’t enough.” It never was.
He let his fingers glide, finding smooth skin as he traced a
feather-light touch along the inside of her thigh. He could feel a slight
tremble, a quivering in her muscle along with a sharp intake of breath, soft
and slow as she let it out. She dropped a hand to cover his where he touched
her and for a second he was unsure if she would pull him closer or push him
away.
“Michael, I—”
He forced himself to stop, leaning forward until his forehead rested
against hers, relishing the feel of her breath against his face for a moment
before he pulled his hand from under hers and stood. “I should go.” He shoved
his hands into his pockets, not at all surprised when her face fell into its
usually guarded expression. “I’m staying across the hall, won’t be here for more
than a few days. I’ll try to stay out of your way and I’ll try my damnedest not
to kill Croft while I’m here.” He felt his mouth quirk a bit.
“Is that a promise?”
He didn’t answer; just let his gaze drift to the note card on the
nightstand beside her. Was it from a guy she was seeing? Probably that cop who
had a thing for her, what was his name? Nickels. He’d looked like the kind of
douche who’d write love letters in Latin. Just remembering his name was enough
to make him homicidal.
But what did he expect? He’d left her and the cop hadn’t. It didn’t
matter that he hadn’t had a choice or that he’d wished every second of every
day that things could be different. The fact was, they weren’t and they never
would be. She’d moved on—it wasn’t her fault he couldn’t do the same.
He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the bitter lump that’d settled
there. “Goodnight,” he said, forcing himself to finally turn and walk out the
door.
From Sacrificial Muse by Maegan Beaumont. © 2014 by Maegan Beaumont. Used by permission from Midnight Ink Books, www.midnightinkbooks.com.
~~~~~
Book #1
Published
May 8th 2013
by Midnight Ink
Add to Goodreads
Past horrors bleed into a present day nightmare
Fifteen
years ago, a psychotic killer abducted seventeen year old Melissa
Walker. For 83 days she was raped and tortured before being left for
dead in a deserted church yard... But she was still alive.
Melissa
begins a new life as homicide inspector, Sabrina Vaughn. With a new
face and a new name, it's her job to hunt down murderers and it's a job
she does very well.
When Michael O'Shea, a childhood
acquaintance with a suspicious past, suddenly finds her, he brings to
life the nightmare Sabrina has long since buried.
Believing that
his sister was recently murdered by the same monster who attacked
Sabrina, Michael is dead set on getting his revenge--using Sabrina as
bait.
Maegan Beaumont is the author of CARVED IN DARKNESS, the first book in
the Sabrina Vaughn thriller series (Available through Midnight Ink,
spring 2013). A native Phoenician, Maegan’s stories are meant to make
you wonder what the guy standing in front of you in the Starbucks line
has locked in his basement, and feel a strong desire to sleep with the
light on.
When she isn’t busy fulfilling her duties as Domestic Goddess
for her high school sweetheart turned husband, Joe, and their four
children, she is locked in her office with her computer, her coffee pot
and her Rhodesian Ridgeback, and one true love, Jade.
SACRIFICIAL
MUSE BLOG TOUR
July 3rd – 17th
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