Monday, September 12, 2016
Title: No Quarter: Dominium – Volume 1
Author: MJL Evans and GM O’Connor
Genre: Historical Fiction / Action Adventure
Volume 1 of 6 begins in 1689 Port Royal, Jamaica with Atia Crisp and her sister Livia shipwrecked and sold into slavery. They are separated and Atia is used as a pawn in a deadly card game at the Swiftsure Tavern until she is liberated by sugar merchant Capitaine la Roche. Hunted at every turn, they take refuge at Cherry Red’s Boutique and meet up with allies including the medication loving Dr. Strangewayes.
Against the political stage of 1689 Port Royal, Jamaica, the unswerving Atia Crisp is thrust into the world of bondage, violence, beauty and love. Shipwrecked and sold into slavery with her sister Livia, the pair are soon separated and Atia is used as a pawn in a card game. Captivated by her beauty, Atia is swiftly liberated by sugar merchant, Capitaine la Roche (also known as the pirate, Gator Gar), whose past is stained with blood and grief. La Roche works with a network of friends and allies including local strumpet, Cherry Banks, Theodore Binge the card shark and the kindly, medication loving Dr. Strangewayes. Soon Atia and la Roche are ushered away to safety after a mysterious outbreak of scarlet fever wreaks havoc on the city.
Within the luxuriant tropical confines of Dr. Strangewayes’s plantation at the foothills of the Blue Mountains, bonds of friendship are formed and the fierce love between Atia and Capitaine la Roche becomes absolute. Atia is reunited with her sister, piratical father and unexpected old friends. However, nowhere is safe as spies seek out both Atia and la Roche for the bounties on their heads. Neither of them can escape the shadows of their former lives and must rely on each other’s strengths for survival. Their journey leads them to an inevitable conflict that threatens their world, but inches them closer towards freedom.
No Quarter: Dominium – The Complete Series and No Quarter: Wenches – Volume 1
MJL EVANS wanted to be a writer since she was ten years old. Her motto - it’s never too late in life to get your act together and do something you really love. No Quarter: Dominium is her first book series and she currently writing the next, No Quarter: Wenches. Her sense of humor has been shaped by Monty Python, Black Adder and Red Dwarf, while her dramatic side has been influenced by independent/foreign movies.
You can connect with MJL Evans on Twitter at @artistmjlevans or email@example.com
GM O’CONNOR is a huge movie fan, writer and visual artist. No Quarter: Dominium is his first book series and he’s busy writing No Quarter: Wenches. A lover of sci-fi and history, half his brain lives in the 17th century while the other half sails perpetually through space. He hopes to one day bring the No Quarter Series to film and/or graphic novel format.
You can connect with GM O’Connor on Twitter at @gm_oconnor or firstname.lastname@example.org
Follow us on Twitter at: @noquarterseries
Email us at: email@example.com
Where to download:
The ship collided against the rocks of Folly Bay. The hull shattered, releasing a loud groan, akin to a wounded animal in the throes of a death blow. Frantic passengers spilled onto the main deck from the hold. They climbed over and pushed one another, until they were finally tossed side to side and slammed over the edge of the ship.
Atia was pelted by flying debris. Her eyes briefly opened to behold a mountain of water as it rolled upon them. There was no air, only the rushing garble of the tide. Water relentlessly filled her ears and nose. Her lips recoiled into her mouth and her teeth clamped upon them. The water receded and she gasped, simultaneously sucking in air and spewing brine.
The rail began to buckle. Before her was a dizzying display of lightning. A short distance away, the rocks flickered and shined. Someone scrambled upon them. She recognized her ma’s long hair. The ship’s bow, only a few feet away, approached fast. With a potent hit, the front of the ship broke apart and her ma was crushed beneath it. Passengers flew mid-air, some landing in the water, others splitting apart on the rocks.
Atia opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. The rail broke loose and she was propelled forward, catching a ride along the spindrift to the stony beach. She landed heavily, her arms still gripped around the broken barrier. The scream finally escaped her throat and she belted it across the landscape. After unhooking her arms, she rose slowly, vomiting mouthfuls of salt water.
Behind her, the ship continued to splinter under the pounding waves. Flames erupted from the hatches of the hold. Unfortunate souls hurled themselves off the vessel to extinguish their clothes, only to be caught in the grinding undertow of the current.
Capitaine la Roche gazed through the window of his cabin aboard La Lune. The morning sunshine cast an orange glow on the English city of Port Royal. It was a miracle they made it with the sails in tatters and wreckage spread all over the deck. He fell in and out of consciousness fused to the helm all night. Only when he saw blue sky with seabirds floating overhead had he realized that they survived. He remembered Martel releasing the rope and de Kreep helping him to his cabin. After suffering a headache and waves of nausea, la Roche woke hours later, almost recovered.
His bluish gray eyes studied the many fishing boats and Turtle Crawls, where the city’s turtle supply was farmed in two large pens. Four years it had been since he set foot here and everything appeared the same. He however was now in his forties, his dark hair marred by silver streaks and he bore many more scars.
He finished buttoning his shirt to conceal purple bruises on his torso from being pinned against the wheel. After slipping on a respectable dark blue jacket and black trousers, the finishing touch upon his head was a black wide-brimmed hat. The leather belt around his waist held a cutlass and a Spanish stiletto. It would only be a matter of time before people realized he was back. Known by many names, he was Gator Gar and El Capitaine when he raided the Spanish, le Sage to the buccaneers of Hispaniola, and La Salle when he was sent to England with Henry Morgan to be tried for piracy. He managed to keep his true identity secret; after all diligence was paramount, enemies were everywhere.
In his study, Dr. Strangewayes sat in an easy chair beside the window, writing notes in a leather-bound book. For a moment he looked up to see the silhouette of a witch on a broomstick glide by. His eyes opened widely and he continued note-taking. “Long term use of laudanum leads to hallucinations.” He put down the quill and massaged his eyes. “Time for sleep, old chum.” He set the book aside. “Come along, Boots.” A large marmalade cat napped, sprawled out across the width of the desk. “Oh, never mind.”
From the back door came three knocks. “Oh, shit.” The doctor reluctantly headed downstairs. After monitoring the events outside when mobs roamed the streets with torches, he feared he’d meet his end with a pitchfork. He passed by the examination room and down the hall to the back. He held up an oil lamp and opened the door cautiously.
The doctor paused, stretching for the appropriate words. “Well, I must say, this is a switch, you knocking on my door for a change.”
Vie stood there boldly, broomstick in hand.
“Are you quite well?” His gaze stumbled onto her pointy hat and costume. “My dear girl, if you get caught dressed like that, the best solicitor in the world couldn’t get you off.”
“You don’t know how right you are, Doctor.” She adjusted her hat.
Everyone reached for their weapons. La Roche pulled a stiletto from the leather sleeve attached to his belt. He flicked the gold sword to le Picard, who caught it and spun around to defend the flank. Martel was slow on the draw to get his sword, but improvised effectively by kicking a thug in the groin.
“Good timing,” la Roche said. “You are due for a raise, oui?”
“You should have stayed in your cave, Gator Gar. You ain’t getting outta here alive!” Al hissed.
“I should have killed you a long time ago, connard!”
The adversaries lunged for each other. Their hats spun to the floor and their blades deflected, lightly grazing each other’s flesh. La Roche slipped by his opponent to gain better footing. Al winced as a point pierced his thigh and he fell off balance toppling the table. That’s when Dogfish and Big Fred moved in, jabbing swords with le Picard and Martel. A barrage of blades chopped through the air. One cut la Roche’s arm. He dropped the stiletto and took out his cutlass. The three Frenchmen arranged themselves in a defensive triangle.
Fort James guarded the entrance to the inner harbor. Cannons lined three sides. On the top level, next to the flagpole, Acting Lieutenant Governor Dorcas Dewar strolled along with a silver walking stick, dressed in a lavish purple suit, feathered hat, and heavily polished buckle shoes. His companion Chief Judge Lord Lawrence Llewellyn was decked out in a finely woven long coat and feather trimmed tri-cornered hat. They walked around the slaves cleaning up storm debris.
Following them was the Governor’s advisor, Mason Sleemans, dressed in a dark doublet and matching trousers with a tri-cornered hat.
“Splendid idea, Larry! Splendid!” Dewar clasped his hands together.
“Seems the appropriate thing to do after a hurricane.”
Sleemans’s eyebrows pointed up. “Pretend to give a bloody damn?”
“Oh, you’re so right. For spirit at the very least. That’s politics for you, it’s all about the people.” Dewar shook his head. “Bloody sods!”
“My thoughts exactly, sir.” Llewellyn shook his pen, a newfangled invention nick-named the ‘Pepys’ pen, inspired by Samuel Pepys, cousin to the harbormaster. “Why won’t this work?” He tried to write on parchment.
“You turn it. The ink’s inside,” Sleemans explained
“Supplies may be short, so we may have to dip into the reserves just a bit.” Dewar lifted his thumb and forefinger.
“Of course, sir. No problem. The audit is my responsibility, after all.” Sleemans bowed, exhaustion permanently etched on his face.
Dewar paused. “A hurricane is a disaster and that’s what the disaster fund is for, right? We’ll call it the I Survived the Hurricane Ball.”
Llewellyn clapped childishly. “Excellent choice, your Grace!”
Dewar breathed deeply. “I love when you call me that.”
Sleemans glared at Llewellyn. “Shall we impose a curfew for the lower classes?”
“Absolutely!” Dewar clapped his hands together. “We don’t want the riffraff spoiling our fun.” He watched a pair of city officials emerge from the top of the stairs. “Here comes the I Want, I Want Brigade!” The city’s engineer, Bill Chitty, and Councilman White charged forth. “Councilmen, what is it?”
“Ya wanted the damage report, sir,” Chitty replied.
“Ah, of course. Let’s have it.”
“Thames Street to High Street from the King’s House to the Admiralty Court is flooded,” White said, clad in a white suite, with a white wig and an ivory walking stick. “My house as well. I’m thinking of renting out the basement as a bath house.”
“The bridge to the Palisadoes is out again,” Chitty added. “We’ll need to appropriate funds from the disaster bank for a new bridge – a proper bridge.”
Dewar shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, funds have already been appropriated.”
“What?” White demanded. “I haven’t seen anything about that. You better not be planning another ball at our expense!”
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