Saturday, 31 March 2018

Class Act Publishing Finale!

This has been a fun series. This week you will meet the last three from the growing roster of published authors of Class Act Books.

If you've missed the list, please check out the following links back to the start of this collection.

The most recent March 17th

Previous March 3rd

The beginning January 13th

**Class Act Books is currently open for manuscript submissions and are looking for finished and proofed novels or series in the genres of western, romance, and mystery/suspense, to be published in e-book and paperback. More information on manuscript submission can be found on their website at:

Toni V. Sweeney 

About the Author:

Toni V. Sweeney has lived 30 years in the South, a score in the Middle West, and a decade on the Pacific Coast and now she’s trying for her second 30 on the Great Plains. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Fine Art and a diploma in Graphic Art and also produces book videos. Since the publication of her first novel in 1989, Toni divides her time between writing SF/Fantasy under her own name and romances under her pseudonym Icy Snow Blackstone. Her novels have garnered awards from The National Writers Association, Preditors & Editors, The Maryland Writers Association, and The Paranormal Romance Guild. In March, 2013, she became publicity manager for Class Act Books. She is also on the review staff of the New York Journal of Books and the Paranormal Romance Guild.  Recently she was named a professional reader by  

More about Toni at: 

Amazon Author’s Page:

Twitter: @ToniVSweeney



Blurb for The Story of a Peace-Loving Man:


Allan McAllister is a Paxist, a believer in peace, forced by the United Terran Federation into military service to punish his treasonous kinsman. N’Sagar sh’en Singh is the daughter of a Felidan pride chief, one of the enemy, but there’s no hatred in her heart for the lone Terran marooned on her planet.


Thrown together, then torn from each other by the aftermath of a war neither wanted, their love will be a tragedy and a triumph as a man sworn to walk the road of Peace is made to follow the dictates of War and suffer its consequences.



Excerpt for The Story of a Peace-Loving Man:


He was in the line with all the others, dressed in his Federation-issue fatigues, duffel bag resting at his left ankle. The Sarge was going down the line, comparing names on the screen of his hand unit with the little holographic ID tags hanging around each recruit’s neck.

  He stopped when he came to Allan. “Well, well...who do we have here?”

  Thinking the man actually expected an answer, Allan replied, “Allan Malcolm McAllister, sir.”

  “Did I give you permission to speak?”

  “Well, no, sir. But I— ”

  “Then keep quiet, recruit!” He turned to the others. “Gentleman... ” Even that word was deliver with a modicum of irony Allan would learn was the Sarge’s normal speaking voice. Odd how Southern accents fitted themselves so well to that mode of delivery. “We have here the relative of a very famous personage, or infamous, I should say. Mr. McAllister is the nephew of… Why don’t you tell us, Mr. McAllister?”   When Allan didn’t answer, he leaned forward and went on in a stage whisper, “You may speak now, Mr. McAllister.”

  “Egan Rand.” Allan supplied the name very quietly.

  “What?” The DI cupped one hand to his ear, “What was that? I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “Egad Rand!” Allan answered, louder.

  “Egan Rand. That’s right. The traitor who thinks we should love the Felidans instead of killing them. Who wants the Federation to stop the war and welcome those murderous aliens with open arms.”

  “I don’t think that’s— ”

  “I don’t care what you think, McAllister! Isn’t your uncle a fugitive from Federation justice for preaching sedition by urging our young men not to enlist?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s a fugitive, but that’s not exactly—”

  “Well, then?”

  “If I could explain, sir.”

  “Oh, by all means, please. Explain.”

“No one knows why the Felidans attacked Ferris Alpha.  My uncle thinks we should find out the reason. Maybe the Felidans feel they were justified. H-he thinks if we know why they did it, maybe it can be resolved without a war…”

  “Well, now, that sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it?” That slow, deep accent fairly dripped sarcasm. “Love thy neighbor. Now, I know that’s what Christos taught, and it’s what each of you dewey-eyed innocents heard when your Mamas took you to church every Sunday, but in that Bible each of you were issued along with your LX-15, it also says, an eye for an eye and do unto others—” 

Spittle flew as the Sarge ranted. Allan blinked to keep from being struck in the eye by a globule. He forced himself not to flinch, didn’t dare dodge or reach up to wipe his face, just stood there, feeling the bit of wet trickle down his cheek.

“Quite frankly, I think that’s what we ought to do. We ought to take a couple of dirty laser bombs and drop ’em on Felida and wipe out all of those murderous bastards…” He broke off to survey the young faces a moment before continuing, his tone now mild in shocking contrast to his previous angry one. “But use of those type of weapons was banned at the Jovian Covention of 2120, so we’re going to do the next best thing. We’re going to use our gunboats to kill as many of ’em as possible. As for you…” He swung back to Allan. “As a little reminder to keep your mouth shut and not spread any of your uncle’s crap, drop and give me fifty!”

  “Fifty what, sir?” Allan didn’t move.

  “Are you smart-assing me, McAllister?”

“N-no sir. Fifty Credits? I-I don’t have that much cash—”

“Fifty push-ups you idiot! Now!”

  While the rest of the company marched off to the barracks, Allan flung himself to the ground and performed the requested callisthenics, calmly counted out by the corporal.


Buy links:



Tony-Paul de Vissage

A writer of French Huguenot extraction, one of Tony-Paul de Vissage's first movie memories is of being six years old, viewing the old Universal horror flick, Dracula's Daughter on television, and being scared sleepless—and he’s now paying back his very permissive parents by writing about the Undead. 

Shadow Lord, first novel in the Second Species series, was named one of the top ten horror novels of 2013 by Preditors & Editos Readers Choice Poll for that year.


Find out more about Tony-Paul at:

Twitter:  @tpvissage



Blurb for Shadow Lord:


Men call them vampires.  They call themselves aventurieri.  For generations, they hide in the mists of the Carpathians away from their human foes.

In 1794, everything changes… Their prince’s assassin is murdered. His son demands revenge.

Marek Strigoi’s quest for justice will take him from his Transylvanian homeland to the Hellfire clubs of Vienna, to the boudoir of a Parisian Marquise, but not even love will stop his vengeance.

Mrcea Ravagiu must die.

When both the hunter and the hunted are vampires, not even Hell will stand in the way!


Excerpt from Shadow Lord:

When Marek appeared, the girl was already dressed, braiding her hair before the cheval glass.

“You’re leaving?” He tried to hide his disappointment as he pushed the door shut.

“I must, my lord.” Her eyes met his in the mirror. “I’m certain Madame Lubos has already missed me.”

 “Do you want to go?” Marek came closer, his feet making no sound on the thick carpet. When she looked up to find him standing directly behind her, she appeared startled.

“Not really.” The gaze she turned on him was unhappy. “I'll probably get a beating for coming here.” She tried to look unconcerned. “Oh, well, it won’t be the first time.”

“What’s your name?” He touched her shoulders. Unconsciously, she leaned against him.

“Lily. Lily-Magda.”

“Don’t go, Lily-Magda.” He whispered the words into her ear, one arm going around her waist. “Stay here. With me.”

Madame’ll never let me stay, my lord, not even to be a servant to a ghidaj.”

“I don’t want you as a servant.” Recklessly, startling himself with the words, he went on, “I believe I love you, girl. Stay with me, my crimson lily.”

To his surprise she burst into tears. Marek was dismayed. Oracle, damn it. Am I to be accursed this night with crying women?

“Oh, master, since the moment I saw you standing in the gallery…I didn’t know who you were and when I found out…How could the ghidaj want someone like me? You did and now…” She put her hands to her face and began to sob louder.

“Does that mean yes?” Marek pulled her hands away.

She gave him a watery smile and nodded. Throwing his arms around her, he lifted her off the floor, swinging her in a tight circle. He kissed her again. Holding her body against his chest, he ran to the window, climbing upon the window seat.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

With one hand, he pushed the shutters open and stepped onto the sill. There was a soft rustle as his wings unfurled. Marek flung himself from the window, Lily clutched in his arms.

She struggled slightly, then her squeal was bitten off as she realized they weren’t falling to their deaths, but instead rising above the trees. Marek circled the courtyard, then climbed higher, the sweep of his wings pushing the air past them in loud gusts.

“Look, Lily.” He gestured, and she glanced at the scene far below them…the castel and the forest around it, and further on, the rough slopes of the mountains and the far-off peaks.

On the parapet of the castel they could see soldati walking the walls. One looked up, pointing, calling to another, and they raised their hands saluting, not the least surprised by seeing their ghidaj flying with a female in his arms.

Marek swooped lower, spinning in the air, acknowledging their homage as Lily laughed with delight.

“Oh, master, it’s so beautiful!”

“This is all Strigoi land, Lily. It’s mine, and it’ll be yours too, if you’ll stay with me.”

Circling above the tallest pine, he rose higher until they touched the first wisp of cloud hovering above the mountain peak, the shadows of the cliffs covering and hiding them.

“It’ll be summer soon,” he said. “When the nights are warmer, we’ll fly over the river and see our reflections in the water. It’s so clear you can see to the bottom when the moon’s full. The travertine in the currents reflects it like a mirror. Would you like that? Will you stay?”

“Oh, yes.” Her arms tightened around his neck.

Before them loomed the highest tower of the castle, its stones silvered in the moonlight. His wings bore them to the spire where the Strigoi banner, a sword cleaving the sun, waved in the night air. Around the emblem in blood-red script was embroidered the clan motto, In Fidelitas, Est Potentia…In Loyalty, There is Power.

Circling the tower, he kissed her with a quickening hunger, eagerly, desperately, even

as he tried to be restrained, trailing small bites across her throat. His wings caused the banner to flap wildly as if in a sudden storm, the words seeming to blink at them…     

     Fidelitas… Potentia….Loyalty…Power…



Robb T. White

Author’s Bio: 

Under the names Terry White, Robert White, and Robb T. White, Robert White has published dozens of crime, noir, and hardboiled short stories, and three hardboiled private-eye novels.  A lifelong reader of crime fiction, he published his first story in Gary Lovisi's Hardboiled magazine. Since then, he has published several dozen crime stories, and a collection of mainstream stories in 2013. An ebook crime novel, "Special Collections," won the New Rivers Electronic Book Competition in 2014. 
White was born, raised, and continues to live in Ashtabula, Ohio. 

More about Robb at:


Blurb for Dangerous Women:

Weaker sex?  Not hardly!

The female is definitely deadlier than the male.  Short stories about ladies who can hold their own.


Excerpt for Dangerous Women:


Be careful what you wish for, Regina.

Her mother’s words. Sometimes she could hear her mother’s voice in the house.

The Vindicator piece on Bodycomb’s death was two paragraphs.

He was found floating in Lake Milton, a popular summer resort area for fisherman seventeen miles east of Austintown just off the Interstate 80 overpass. Shot by a small-caliber weapon in the back of the head. The important information was in the second paragraph: Bodycomb, it noted, was running a dog-fighting network among three states: Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia for a loose-knit West Virginia crime family connected to the Pittsburgh LaRizzo family.

Damn you, Leo.

She was blowing through caution lights, ignoring the honking of cars, as she beelined for the office on Market.

Like a script from a cheap thriller, he was there, wearing the same clothes and unshaven, big jowls dark with stubble, pong of body odor in the overheated single room.

“You promised me full disclosure, total honesty,” she said.

She threw the paper across his desk.

“Here it is in case you missed it.”

Be calm, Regina, she told herself. She wasn’t going to lose her temper and a new job in that order.

“I did and I meant it, Baby,” Leo said.

He glanced at the paper sideways and pushed it back to her. He’d obviously read it.

“You asked me—no, you demanded I call somebody. I did,” he said.

He disgusted her with those wagging jowls and big stomach. She noticed his belt was undone and a patch of curly belly hair exposed.

Probably jerking off in here, the freak.

“I suppose you’ll tell me when the mood strikes.”

“I meant the second case—your next case,” Leo said. “Full disclosure, just like you want.”

Her indignation petered out at the prospect. “So tell me about it,” she said.

Bodycomb was moving in on Donnie Bracca’s territory with his dog-fighting, Leo said.

“He can kill all the dogs he wants in West Virginia,” Leo said. “But Donnie B. controls gambling around here.”

“Donnie Bracca was your real client all the time,” Baby said.

“It’s like this, kid. They don’t blow each other up in cars no more. Gentlemen’s agreements, all nice and polite. But rules have to be followed. Bodycomb went rogue.”

She bit back a retort: You mean, like your own father?

Leo went on, waxing large, a hopeless Mafioso lover, although a real mafia man, a made man, could see Leo couldn’t be trusted. But even the Aryan Brotherhood used outside associates to get things done. Leo could be useful if you couldn’t buy a cop or scare off an investigative reporter snooping in shady politics or business deals.

She didn’t feel bad about Bodycomb’s death. After all, she'd wanted to kill the guy herself.

“Damn it, Leo,” she said. “You should have told me this in the beginning.”Baby moved in the direction Bodycomb’s vehicle had taken. After A couple of hundred yards through meadow grass up to her knees, she stopped and listened. Moving on, she dodged stunted bushes that popped up out of nowhere to snag her clothing. The foliage grew less dense. She found the parallel ruts of the Road Runner’s tracks and kept moving, straining her eyes to see light ahead. If Bodycomb was hiding assets from his soon-to-be ex-wife, he was taking a lot of trouble over it.

After five minutes of faster walking in the grooves, she heard barking coming from the right. She saw the first glimmer of light in the distance. The terrain was sparse but small slopes refracted the light source so it appeared and disappeared with every rise of the ground. A single dog barking became two, then three and finally a pack. Beneath their howls, men’s voices.

When she got close enough to make out words, she lay flat on her belly and put the binoculars on a cluster of men beside a ramshackle barn surrounded by cages of dogs in the beds of trucks beside a squared string of light bulbs a dozen feet from the ground. It looked like a crude boxing ring for backyard brawlers.

Its purpose became clear in the next few minutes. It was a dog-fighting pit.

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Thank you Toni for telling us about your list of authors and for being part of the Scribbler.
And thank you to our readers for visiting.
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