First Chapter: Dead Blood City By Jo Denning #FirstChapter #ChapterOne | Pump Up Your Book! :: Virtual Book Tours, Blog Tours & Book Publicity
Description: Title: Dead Blood City (Saoirse Reilly Series Book One) Author: Jo Denning Publisher: Leabhar & Fola Publishing House Pages: 333 Genre: Urban Fantasy Crime Thriller “Drowning might be like going to sleep. It would be nice to sleep forever – leave everything behind in the waking world.” Detective Saoirse Reilly commits to finding a missing…

# First Chapter: Dead Blood City By Jo Denning #FirstChapter #ChapterOne

Title: Dead Blood City (Saoirse Reilly Series Book One)
Author: Jo Denning
Publisher: Leabhar & Fola Publishing House
Pages: 333
Genre: Urban Fantasy Crime Thriller

“Drowning might be like going to sleep. It would be nice to sleep forever – leave everything behind in the waking world.”

Detective Saoirse Reilly commits to finding a missing child before dying by suicide. While investigating the kidnapping of Delaney Bascom, she is snared in the supernatural underbelly of Boston, Massachusetts. She will have to face her demons if she hopes to bring the girl home.

Reilly has the dubious support of Emrys Somerled, a forensic psychologist with a cellar full of secrets, and Domenico Alderisi, an impossibly youthful club owner with a bad habit. Meet these suspicious characters and more alongside Reilly as she begins to see the world for what it really is.

The blood moon is coming.

Will Reilly save the girl and find a reason to live?

Book Information

Release Date: January 21, 2021

Publisher: Leabhar & Fola Publishing House

Soft Cover: 979-8985167405; 333 pages; $14.99; E-Book, $3.99; Free Kindle Unlimited

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3mHuRSM

# Chapter One

### When Time Stands Still

“I don’t know what else you want to hear. I killed him. I’m not sorry, and I’m glad he’s dead. That’s all I’ve got, okay?”

My voice was a whip crack in the otherwise silent room. A hot flush prickled up my chest in stark contrast to my pale skin. I pressed my palms against the plush chair and dragged in a breath. My gaze fixed between the brows of the man seated across me, so I didn’t have to look him in the eye.

He was unfazed like always. His eyes burned through my skull, manicured fingers steepled under his chin. When he spoke, he used my given name like we were family. “Saoirse, we have discussed this.” His lilting brogue washed over me as he tried to lull me into compliance. “I ask you these questions only for your benefit. To support you in processing this unfortunate hazard of your work.”

“You mean the unfortunate hazard of my work where I shoot some guy eight times in the chest?”

I was being unfair and difficult and kind of a bitch. But maybe defiance and sarcasm would demonstrate my fitness for duty.

He clicked his tongue. “I want to help you, but you must be honest with me. I, for one, would feel much safer knowing you are supporting your fellows of the Boston Police Department. Help me help you to return to active duty.”

“Look, Doc. Doctor Somerled,” I amended at the quickly concealed annoyance in his hazel eyes. “I just…”

I stopped on a frustrated huff, running my hands over my face and through my auburn waves. Somerled stared down his aquiline nose at me. I tried to bring my eyes to his, but they skittered away at the last second.

Stalling, I surveyed the back office of his Beacon Hill brownstone. The room had one exterior door and a bay window. He was closest to both. The desk next to us was an impractical thing with a leather blotter over marble and spindled wooden legs. Painted floral designs twisted across the glossy mahogany surface. Knowing the good doctor, it cost more than my car. A throne-like chair sat behind it, all tufted red-brown leather and brass nailheads. Dark damask wallpaper caged me in—suffocating.

His thin lips parted, ending my reprieve. “Perhaps we should attempt the visualization exercise again.”

“I… don’t want to.”

All bluster withered away in a wave of sick panic. Hands on the chair, I grounded myself and gasped in a stilted breath.

I didn’t meet the doctor’s eyes. I couldn’t.

Instead, I stared down at my nails, gnawed to the quick. I said nothing more and stood to peruse the biggest bookshelves I’d ever seen outside of a library. It was just an excuse to put some distance between us.

The shelving was in the same style as his desk, with fussy trim and painted details. The one in the middle showcased a porcelain phrenology bust. His shelves were full but not cluttered.

Dr. Emrys Somerled, forensic psychologist, police consultant, and expert witness in whatever, wouldn’t consider allowing clutter anywhere within a three-mile radius of his esteemed person.

His collection was eccentric, made up of chunky, jewel-toned volumes spanning a variety of topics. One shelf was devoted to poetry and myth. The next held texts related to his field, including the most recent psychiatric diagnostic manual and several books about sociopathy and antisocial behavior. The third shelf contained antique tomes. Many of the spines were blank or marked with unfamiliar symbols. The first of the alphabetically filed texts was titled Arbatel de Magia Veterum. Farther down, I noted the leather-bound Sixth Book of Occult Philosophy.

What a totally normal and nonthreatening hobby.

Scattered around his extensive library were random objects the doctor himself would never refer to as knick-knacks—small statues, coins, crystal vases, the odd animal skull, and other things of bone. They were the types of trinkets my mother might offer to the faeries she believed tended her garden.

I made eye contact with the doctor and immediately regretted it. Nausea returned as his changeable amber eyes seared into mine. The words I planned to say fled from my mind. He offered no quarter.

“You were in quite a fragile state the last time we attempted imaginal exposure. I perhaps asked it of you too soon after the incident. It will likely be more effective now that you have the benefit of time and distance from the event.

“Avoidance is a safety-seeking behavior, a psychological defense mechanism, and certainly nothing of which to be ashamed. However, there is no further need to rely on this strategy, as you have several alternative coping options in place. To illustrate, you have done well with physical grounding on multiple occasions throughout our session.

“Saoirse,” he prompted, waiting for my eyes to meet his. “You are perfectly safe here. I will bring you back to me if you become overwhelmed.”

I didn’t feel safe around him. I never had, but I was usually packing a Glock 27. Somerled was good-looking, traditionally speaking, with slick blond hair and golden skin. It was natural considering the amount of money he must spend on his wardrobe, haircuts, and whatever else. His gilded exterior was reminiscent of the Turkish rug under our feet, stylish but excellent at camouflaging bloodstains.

God only knew what the man and his blood-red carpet were hiding in the cellar. There was something about how his eyes went flat and shark-like during interviews with suspects, like he was completely unaffected by their stories. It might be a coping

method for him, compartmentalizing everything behind a detached stare. But sometimes there would be this little spark.

There had been when he and Murph debriefed me after the shooting. Somerled watched me with a gleeful sheen in his eyes while I sat on the opposite side of a table at the District C-9 precinct. I was still covered in the blood of the Miller family, fists clenched in my lap to keep them from shaking.

He was a freak in more ways than one. Unlike everyone else I’d ever met, I never knew what he was thinking.

A handshake told everyone a little something. A firm grip communicated confidence. Too tight? They were overcompensating. But I saw more, not every time but most of the time.

I’m used to it now that I’m older. I don’t cringe and pull away like when I was a kid. Sometimes the visions were nice, like the kiss Chloe got after her blind date. Sometimes they were not so nice, like after McCormack’s ma died.

‘Vision’ was the word I used but it failed to accurately describe my experience. I heard myself sobbing. Salt and phlegm coated the back of my throat. I felt like I’d never be whole again.

Sometimes they were awful, like when I cuffed a man who beat his wife to death. I still wake from the occasional nightmare with the heat of blood spatter on my face and her screams ringing in my ears.

Touch was an unpleasant eventuality in my life. Sometimes, but not every time, my skin would come into contact with another’s, or with their blood or bile, and I would see scraps of memory. Bits and pieces of their past would sputter through my mind. I might learn their secrets or I might learn nothing. I might come away unscathed or they might leave a shard of themselves rattling around inside my brain.

I couldn’t control it and that was the scariest part.

The first time I remember doing it, I was in kindergarten. It was the first day of school. We were having ‘circle time’ or some shit. A kid tripped over their laces, landing on top of me. That time I saw something awful.

No one believed me. No one except my Uncle Liam.

But nothing like that ever happened with Somerled. He was a wild card. Touching him was peaceful in the way that drowning must be. It was frightening and beautiful at once, like a siren’s song.

He couldn’t be trusted, yet I had to spill my guts to him if I ever wanted to work again. Of course, if I told him what really happened, not being able to work would be the least of my problems.

What white room would I end up in, drugged out of my mind, if I told him about the visions?

It would be smart to refuse him and stuff that memory of the Millers deep down in the pit of my stomach forever.

“Sure.”

“Wonderful. I do appreciate this, Saoirse,” he said, like I’d agreed to drive him to the airport. “Sit. Close your eyes and picture yourself as you were on that day. It is the twenty-ninth of May. Detective Perez and yourself approach the Miller home. Tell me what happens next.”

It wasn’t a request.

***

Bastian and I were in his Challenger, a silver sedan with spindled chrome rims that I knew for a fact cost him a whole paycheck.

Even I knew it was a good-looking ride.

He was ragging me about my age. I turned thirty-four two days before, which probably did seem old compared to his twenty-eight years. It was a beautiful spring day, sunny and clear. I remembered strange details like how the sunlight cast over Bastian’s deep, dark skin. The planes of his face glistened like a panther’s fur in the daytime.

It was a Tuesday, of course. Fuck Tuesdays.

We pulled up to the Roxbury address to question Miles Miller of 2A about a stabbing death one week prior. The flat-faced building had a row of small, square windows and a fire escape. It was not unlike my apartment building in South End. A green lawn spanned the front walkway, overlooked by a single oak tree.

We ran into a woman babysitting her grandkids on the first level. Mrs. Dorinda Young bragged about her daughter who worked at Mass General and, eventually, volunteered the location of the Millers’ unit. She knew right where it was because they often argued so loud she couldn’t hear her shows.

Bastian and I walked through the tired building. The walls had been white once, but the paint had yellowed with age and cigarette smoke. We passed a wall of mailboxes with surnames crossed out and scribbled in, leaving behind illegible layers of ink. A scream cut through the silence as soon as we hit the stairs.

We didn’t need to speak.

Bastian and I sprinted upstairs with guns drawn. The door to 2A was open. Deja Miller lay in the doorway with both hands at her abdomen, trying to stymie the flow of blood from multiple stab wounds.

She looked right at me, her terror dragging me in. “Bri…”

Bastian knelt next to her, placing one large hand over hers and radioed for help. “This is Perez of India eight-four-oh. Code nine nine at six-oh-one Shawmut Ave. We need an ambulance!”

I went inside. The living room was clear.

A man’s voice, sinister despite the fondness of his tone, floated down the hall. I found them in a room that a glittery pink sign proclaimed was Bri’s Room Keep Out.

Inside, Miles Miller held a kitchen knife with one hand and his daughter’s neck with the other. “I love you, Bri. Love you and your mama so much. You know I love you. You forgive me…”

The girl just sobbed, beyond words. She looked at her father like she’d never met him.

“Mr. Miller,” I said, “we’re gonna figure this out, okay?”

I didn’t even believe myself and I guess he didn’t either.

His pupils were so black against the bright whites of his eyes. The silence was worse than anything he might have said. He stared back at me and I knew what he was going to do before he did.

Miller stuck the knife into Brianna’s soft belly, dragging the blade across as best he could before I fired. I hit him once in the shoulder. Another shot missed, ending up in the wall behind his head. He released his child, and she crumpled to the ground. He came at me.

I kept shooting until I ran out of bullets.

I rushed to Brianna’s side as he fell. At least, I think that was what happened. Time stood still.

It was like wading through the deep waters of the Atlantic, fighting the Gulf Stream current. Her red, red blood gushed out with each beat of her heart. I crushed my hands to her abdomen in some effort to make myself feel better because there was no fixing what he did to her. I wanted to say something to comfort her, but I was gone as soon as her blood hit my skin.

All I knew after that was her confusion and fear and agony. I went away for a while. I went away forever.

Bastian told me later the paramedics said I had some kind of panic attack. It was a typical response to a traumatic experience. I just nodded and went with it. Then he said some things meant to comfort me because, of the two of us, he’d always been the best at that.

Later—after Deja and Bri bled out at the scene, after Bastian and I went to the station, after I talked to Murph and Somerled and the union lawyer and fuck knows who else, after Miles Miller’s lung collapsed and his chest cavity overflowed with blood—we realized he made us while we were talking to Mrs. Young. He was checking his mail as she chatted about her daughter and grandkids. When he heard us asking about him, he panicked and made sure we would never separate him from his family.

Miller died the same way my uncle did. At least he didn’t leave anyone behind. I understood Miller’s thought process, not that it justified his actions. A cage of lies alienated both of us from the people we loved. No one wanted to be alone. I, too, felt the pain of separation and hoped to someday belong. But, unlike me, Miles Miller found a way out.

Murph took my gun, of course. I emptied my magazine into a living person. If he hadn’t taken it, I wouldn’t need to worry about guarding the secret of my visions from

Somerled or anyone else. I wouldn’t need to worry about being alone and unwanted. I’d never have to worry about anything ever again.

***

I stopped talking and realized I was still looking into Somerled’s eyes. My heart lurched in my chest. Hazel eyes glimmering with unsettling intensity, he leaned forward in his chair. I did my best to reel in my racing thoughts and control my breathing.

Somerled regarded me like a king does a supplicant or maybe the way God does an ant. “Carry on, Saoirse.”

I stuttered to life, blurting out the first words that came to mind. “If we got in there five- ten minutes earlier, it might’ve mattered. But I didn’t. I hate that I didn’t, but I accept it. Next time, I’ll be faster and… I’ll just- I’ll do better next time.”

“The burden of guilt you carry is threefold. The guilt of Deja Miller’s death. The guilt of failing to save young Brianna. And, finally, yes.” He raised his hand to silence me before I could dispute it. “You feel guilt for ending the life of Miles Miller.

“This simply means that you are human. Shame may seek to overwhelm us like the swell of the Irish Sea did Manannán’s Wave-Sweeper. But those same waters propelled his ship to ultimate success as Over-King of the Otherworld. Allow these feelings to carry you forward but do not be carried away by them. Let this be your motivation for personal growth.”

His metaphors were as obscure as ever. Praying the conversation would be over soon, I nodded in agreement.

“I will provide you with a referral for ongoing psychotherapy.” Somerled reached for a pad of paper on the desk. “And I will inform Captain Murphy that I find you in good form to return to duty.”

I tried to keep the shock off my face as he pulled an ostentatious pen from the breast pocket of his equally ostentatious suit. Somerled wrote a name and number in a flourishing script. Then he handed me the referral with a soft smile that made me want to smack him over the head with his ironic phrenology bust.

“This may sound trite, but it will get easier.” The doctor held the door for me with the courtly manners of someone with way more money than me. “There are three days until the eclipse, Saoirse. The blood moon represents rebirth. Set aside your fearful self-loathing, and you will overcome this.”

His flowery words were little comfort. A man like him could never understand me. Still, it would be unfair to pin the blame for Somerled’s less than helpful therapy session solely on him. Talking to him might alleviate my guilt if I could be honest. But that was my problem, wasn’t it? I couldn’t be honest with anyone. I’d always be alone, crushed underneath the weight of my secrets.

There was another option, of course, and each loss drove me closer. I’d held on for years but, after the Millers, it was getting harder and harder not to take it.

I stepped out of Somerled’s Victorian-styled office and back onto the streets of Boston, Massachusetts. My first order of business was to toss his crumpled-up referral into a barrel. Then I’d decide how to die.

About the Author

Jo Denning is the author of the Saoirse Reilly series. She has spent her career as a behavioral health therapist supporting kids and teens who struggle with addiction. Jo began writing supernatural crime thrillers as a way of processing the traumatic things she has seen and heard. Her characters may be supernatural but their stories, their fear, and their pain are real. So, too, are their triumphs over impossible odds.

When she’s not writing, Jo enjoys baking, drawing, and watching trashy reality TV. She makes her home somewhere in the contiguous United States with her husband, one fluffy cat, and one barely domesticated cat.

Her latest book is the urban fantasy crime thriller, Dead Blood City: Saoirse Reilly Series Book One.

You can visit her website at www.JoDenning.com or connect with her on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, Instagram, TikTok and BookBub.

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---Deborah Woehr, PROSPERITY: A GHOST STORY

❤️“Dorothy is a firecracker promoter. She is skilled at finding the most visible placements in promoting your book with unmatched enthusiasm.She is creatively talented and a wonderful person to have on your team.”
--Kathy Holmes Eckardt, REAL WOMEN WEAR RED

❤️“I invested in a three month virtual book tour with Pump Up Your Books promotions for my noir thriller, Moonlight Falls. Not only did the marketing campaign work wonders for spreading the word about the new novel, in the very last month, on the very last day of the tour, Moonlight Falls became an Amazon Kindle bestseller!”
–Vincent Zandri, MOONLIGHT FALLS and THE REMAINS

❤️“I’m so pleased every day when I look at Google Alerts and see our titles all around the blogosphere, so thanks for that!”
–-World Ahead Media

❤️“This has been a wonderful experience. Dorothy Thompson and her whole team are very committed to each author, take each author’s tour very seriously, and work towards maximum exposure in the right places. This is the best book promotion expenditure I’ve made in terms of return on investment. I highly recommend Pump Up Your Book Promotion.”
--Phyllis Zimbler Miller, MRS: LIEUTENANT

❤️"I used Pump Up Your Book promotions a few months ago for my novel, Nephilim. My publisher is a great person, but when it comes to promotions, she encourages authors to do that on their own. Enter Dorothy Thompson at Pump Up Your Book. I had 8 reviews of the book and was featured as a guest author every day of the week at various websites during the month that I used her company. Amazing! She secured everything for me which was really nice and I didn't have to do anything but write a few blogs or answer interview questions. I would use Pump Up Your Book again in a heart beat!"
--Mary Ann Loesch, NEPHILIM

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The Faithful, The Fearful & The Foolish: Living for God n Troubled Times by Luke Uebelher

### Question of the Day

How do you make sales happen for you?

A lot of hard work! I sponsor a lot of on line parties, festivals and contests. Book sales don’t magically happen, believe me. An author has to work hard to earn her readers. And then she has to work hard to keep them by giving them something they’ll enjoy reading. I try hard to make my books worth a reader’s time.

-- Sheila Roberts, Author of Winter at the Beach

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