Sorry for the delay in posting this folks. I know some of you have been waiting for it. I have experienced some technical problems (high levels of daftness).
To celebrate the Blog Tour of her latest book, Stealing Phoenix (read my review here), British author Joss Stirling has released a full extract of one of the first chapters in the book!
Unfortunately, I have already harassed the poor women for an interview (read it here) as well as reviewed her two books in the Benedict Brothers series - that is my affectionate name for it - (read my review of the first book, Finding Sky, here) and released two exclusive 'Stealing Phoenix' teasers (read them here and here) so she won't be coming here during her tour. :-( However... You can enjoy this fab extract instead!
I highly recommend both her books and here is one of the reasons why:
" Reminding myself to keep focused on the job, I eased my way nearer to the boy. I could now see him in profile: he had the kind of face you saw in girls’ magazines next to some model as gorgeous as him. He had got the whole deal in the genetic department: chiselled nose, casual-cut ink-black hair that looked good no matter how rumpled it was, dark brows, cheek bones to die for; I couldn’t see his eyes because he was wearing shades but I would bet they were huge and a soulful chocolate brown—oh yeah, he was too good to be true and I hated him for it.
I caught myself before I glowered at him, surprised by my response to the guy. Why was I reacting that way? I didn’t normally feel anything for my victims, apart from a twinge of guilt that I’d singled them out. I always tried to find people who wouldn’t notice the loss that much, a bit like Robin Hood. I enjoyed outwitting my rich targets, but I didn’t want to think anyone really suffered from what I did. The Sheriff of Nottingham had his ill-gotten taxes; these days people had insurance from big multi-nationals, and they were the ones who really ripped off the poor. It wasn’t as if I were like them, robbing widows and orphans, was it? They got compensation eventually. At least that was what I told myself as I planned how to pick his pocket. This job was a bit different as I was acting under orders; it was fairly rare for me to be asked to steal from a particular mark, but I was relieved the target looked like the sort to be insured up to the eyebrows. Neither he nor I had chosen this so it wasn’t rational to turn against him. He’d done nothing to earn it but stand there, looking so sorted, clean and kind of centred whereas I was such a hopeless mess.
The guide wittered on about how the seating had been constructed to be removable. As if I cared about Olympic legacy; I was never convinced I’d see next month, let alone ten years away. A plane rumbled overhead on the Heathrow flight path scarring the summer sky with its white trail. As the boy looked up, I made my move.
Reach for their mental patterns . . .
They were whirring away like so many beautiful kaleidoscopes, ever shifting. Then . . .
I stopped time."