On tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club — The Old Dragon’s Head by Justin Newland #HistoricalFiction #TheCoffeePotBookClub #BlogTour @cathiedunn

 You have to check out this excerpt from The Old Dragon’s Head by Justin Newland. Thank you to The Coffee Pot Book Club for inviting me to be a part of this tour.

The Old Dragon’s Head
By Justin Newland

The Great Wall of China may be constructed of stone and packed earth, but it is home to a supernatural beast – the Old Dragon. Both wall and dragon protect China’s northern borders from Mongol incursion. Just beyond the fortress of Shanhaiguan, the far eastern end of the wall protrudes into the Bohai Sea – that’s the Old Dragon’s Head.

Bolin, a young man working on the Old Dragon’s Head, suffers visions of ghosts. The local seer suspects that he has yin-yang eyes and other supernatural gifts. Bolin’s fief lord, the Prince of Yan, rebels against his nephew, the Jianwen Emperor. In the bitter war of succession, the Mongols hold the balance of power. While the victor might win the battle on earth, China’s Dragon Throne can only be earned with a Mandate from Heaven – and the support of the Old Dragon.

In every era, a man endowed with the powers of heaven – the Dragon Master – is born. Only he can summon the Old Dragon, providing he possesses the dragon pearl. It’s the year 1402, and neither the Old Dragon, the dragon pearl, nor the Dragon Master, has been seen for twenty years.  

Bolin’s journey of self-discovery is mirrored by that of old China, as both endeavour to come of age. When Bolin accepts his destiny as the Dragon Master, heaven sends a third coming of age – for humanity itself. But are any of them ready for what is rising in the east? 

Luli’s Po Office was across the road from his house on Fuyuan Street. Healer, seer and geomancer, her intercession on the Laolongtou, when she had prevented them from harming the gulls, reminded him of just how high her reputation was in these parts. 

He found himself walking across Fuyuan Street. What was he doing? Was he really going to seek her help? A magpie hopped along her threshold and then flew off, pursued by his mate. A pair of black and white birds: that was a good sign. He fingered his yin-yang coin charm; the black side with a white dot in the middle and a white side with a black dot in the middle. Yin and yang. The Tao had spoken to him. The magpies were a good omen: he was on the right path. 

Luli opened the door, bowed and showed him in. The last time he’d entered her Po Office was when, as a youngster, he had played with Ru. Despite that, the familiar fresh smell of camphor wood wafted over him. Boxes and scrolls in one corner, crates in another, the shop was more or less as he remembered it. The pawned items were neatly labelled in small pigeonholes towards the back of the store. The room emanated a mysterious serenity, a sense of everything in its place and a place for everything. Bolin liked that. In a world of tumult and upheaval, such order, any order, was a welcome restraint. 

“Master Bolin,” Luli said, wearing a long-sleeved turquoise gown. “You’ve come. What can I do for you?”

Was she expecting him? She had the foresight of yin-yang eyes, so perhaps she was. “Please, I need your help,” he muttered. 

“Go on,” Luli replied. 

 “I’m frightened, Luli. It started with headaches, then strange dreams. Now I’m seeing and hearing strange things,” he admitted. There, he already felt better. 

“What kind of things?”

 

“Dream visions, terrible things, they are so real, I wake up in a cold sweat. And there’s a hand clasped around my throat. I hear a man’s voice.”

“What does he say?”

“Phrases like ‘release me’ and ‘help me.’ I was convinced there was a demon inside me. Dong tried to exorcise it, but when it didn’t work, he told me I wasn’t possessed.”

“Did he?” Luli said, pacing the floor like a tigress. “I think I know what is happening to you.” 

“You do? What is it? Tell me,” he blurted out. 

“Can you show me your birthmark?” Luli asked. 

“What? Why? I don’t understand.” 

“You know I am the custodian of gifts and bequests left by my deceased customers – the soul donors. Some leave letters for their soul receiver. I’ve an inkling one of them is for you.” 

“What’s that to do with my birthmark?” he asked, unmasking his exasperation.

“Please,” she replied. “Bear with me.” 

“All right, it’s here,” he said, standing and lifting the lower part of his robe. “There, that squidgy mark above my right ankle.”

“Hah! See! It looks like a reptile; a salamander, possibly a dragon. Let me see if I have a match to it,” Luli said, searching the rows of boxes.

“A match? What are you talking about?”

“I’m the keeper of the Po Office, the house of restless souls,” she said, as her hands moved with swift dexterity along the rows of boxes and packets. “When a person dies, their Po or soul leaves their body and searches for another body to enter – the body of a baby about to be born. Along with the soul, the birthmark of the deceased also transfers to the newborn. It’s the distinguishing mark, the link between the two people, the soul donor and the soul receiver. When the soul donor leaves a gift or envelope for me to pass on to their soul receiver, they draw two things on it: the shape of their birthmark and where it appears on their person.”

“Fascinating,” he said. Dong had told him of the Taoist belief in the transmigration of souls. But to actually read correspondence from the donor of his soul, that was extraordinary and the last thing he had expected from this visit.  

“Hah! Here it is!” Luli cried with an air of triumph and held up an envelope. “Yes. There’s a match, both in shape and position. This gives me immense satisfaction. I am a connection between two complete strangers whose lives overlapped simply because they shared the same soul and one of them is standing right in front of me. This letter is written by the hand of the person who donated their soul to you.”

“Are you sure?” He could barely believe it. The envelope she handed him felt like the most precious thing he’d ever received. In a way, it was. 

“Yes, I am,” Luli encouraged him. “And please, you can open it.” 

Hand shaking, he broke the wax seal. 

“Who is it from?” Luli asked.  

“How would I know that?” He shrugged. 

“Look on the inside of the envelope. The sender should have inscribed his name there.”

He looked. It was blank. 

“There’s no inscription.”

“Let me see,” Luli said, examining the envelope. “I always insist that the donor mark their name on the inside of the envelope. Oh dear, you’re right. There’s nothing. Only this note.”  

“Let me have it,” he insisted. Incredible, his soul donor had left him a note. His heart pounding with anticipation and he read:

 

Doesn't this book sound amazing?! If you would like to grab yourself a copy then head over to your favourite online bookstore - Here!

Justin Newland

JUSTIN NEWLAND is an author of historical fantasy and secret history thrillers – that’s history with a supernatural twist. His historical novels feature known events and real people from the past, which are re-told and examined through the lens of the supernatural.

His novels speculate on the human condition and explore the fundamental questions of our existence. As a species, as Homo sapiens sapiens – that’s man the twice-wise – how are we doing so far? Where is mankind’s spiritual home? What does it look or feel like? Would we recognise it if we saw it?

Undeterred by the award of a Doctorate in Mathematics from Imperial College, London, he found his way to the creative keyboard and conceived his debut novel, The Genes of Isis (Matador, 2018), an epic fantasy set under Ancient Egyptian skies. 

Next came the supernatural thriller, The Old Dragon’s Head (Matador, 2018), set in Ming Dynasty China. 

His third novel, The Coronation (Matador, 2019), speculates on the genesis of the most important event of the modern world – the Industrial Revolution. 

His fourth, The Abdication (Matador, 2021), is a supernatural thriller in which a young woman confronts her faith in a higher purpose and what it means to abdicate that faith.

His stories add a touch of the supernatural to history and deal with the themes of war, religion, evolution and the human’s place in the universe.

He was born three days before the end of 1953 and lives with his partner in plain sight of the Mendip Hills in Somerset, England.

 

Social Media Links:

Website• Facebook • LinkedIn • Instagram • Amazon Author Page • Goodreads

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On tour with The Coffee Pot Book Club — A Turbulent Peace by Paul Walker #HistoricalFiction #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub @PWalkerauthor @cathiedunn

 You have to check out this excerpt from A Turbulent Peace by Paul Walker. Thank you to The Coffee Pot Book Club for inviting me to be a part of this tour.

A Turbulent Peace

By Paul Walker

January 1919. 

Following the armistice, Mary Kiten, a volunteer nurse in northern France, is ready to return home to England when she receives a surprise telegram requesting that she report to Paris. The call comes from her Uncle Arthur, a security chief at the Peace Conference.

Within minutes of arriving at the Majestic Hotel in Paris, Mary hears a commotion in the street outside. A man has been shot and killed. She is horrified to earn that the victim is her uncle. The police report the attack as a chance robbery by a known thief, who is tracked down and killed resisting arrest.

Mary is not convinced. Circumstances and the gunshot wound do not indicate theft as a motive. A scribbled address on Arthur’s notepad leads to her discovery of another body, a Russian Bolshevik. She suspects her uncle, and the Russian, were murdered by the same hand.

To investigate further, Mary takes a position working for the British Treasury, headed by J M Keynes.

But Mary soon finds herself in the backstreets of Paris and the criminal underworld.

What she discovers will threaten the foundations of the congress. 

Le Pistolet Fumant was an odd name for a restaurant located only a few yards from the Champs Elysees. Some may have considered it strangely appropriate to the subject of our intended conversation. The interior was warm, welcoming and tempting. A subdued light gave an intimate air to an arrangement of ornate tables and chairs cosseted with a flush of maroon velvet trimmed with gold. The only concession to its intriguing name was a pair of ancient muskets hung on the wall facing our entrance. The rich smells wafting from waiters’ trays and filtering through kitchen doors teased my senses and banished all other thoughts as we studied our menus in silence. 

Visser had decided. He folded his menu and placed it on the table. He said, ‘Would you consider me too forward if I suggested we use each other’s Christian names instead of the “Mr” and “Miss” from now on?’

‘Not at all.’ I was surprised and pleased he had asked. ‘I would be happy to be called Mary or Maria.’

‘And I am plain Adam with no variant or nickname, I’m afraid.’

We smiled, then I quickly returned to the menu as a waiter approached. Our orders given, both of us seemed to be waiting for the other to initiate a resumption of unfinished conversation from the Astoria.

Eventually, he said, ‘Tell me more about the attack on Keynes and how you came to be following him that night.’

‘Oh, we haven’t finished with the enquiries into Arthur’s murder, have we?’

‘No, but there is no more to be done until I have made a few enquiries. Sazanov heads the most influential of the anti-Bolshevik groups in Paris, but there are others. I need to gather information on the current activities of all of them.’

‘Who would have that information?’

‘I have the SIS dossiers we used for briefing before our assignments in Eastern Europe. The French intelligence service should be able to help, but the Americans will probably have the most detailed information.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Colonel House’s assistant, and the information she offered was helpful but brief and incomplete.’

‘It’s Lansing and his entourage who have the data I need.’

‘Excuse my ignorance, but who is Lansing?’

‘He is Wilson’s Secretary of State, although Wilson doesn’t appear to have much faith in him. Lansing is fiercely anti-Bolshevik and opposed all contact with them. I am assured he holds current and voluminous files on all the parties fighting against Lenin, Trotsky and the Red Army.’ 

I supposed it made sense, but I had an uneasy feeling I was being side-lined. I related the story of my first visit to Bar Felix with Keynes, the retrieval of his notebook, my suspicions aroused by the scheming in street doorways and a sudden realisation of a possible entrapment with a camera. He heard me patiently and without interrupting while we were served with our aperitifs. Finally, I paused my narrative to tackle the mussels we had both ordered. 

‘Tell me, Mary,’ he said, wiping his fingers on a napkin, ‘were you and Major Parkes surprised at the attackers’ use of weapons? You knew a trap had been laid.’

‘I didn’t anticipate weapons would be used in anger for the entrapment. I imagined threats would have been sufficient if needed.’ I paused, remembering the shock of the gunshot. ‘Put it down to my naivety. I should have explained more to Major Parkes, then he would have been prepared. But… we were rushed… there wasn’t time.’ I shook my head to dismiss images of John’s wound. ‘No, please ignore those excuses. It was my fault. I was too eager to scupper their plans. I didn’t think it through properly.’

I was half expecting him to protest that I was blameless and say words to ease my conscience, but he didn’t. He didn’t react at all. I wasn’t sure if he approved of my actions or thought I was foolish. His expression told me nothing. The mussels were finished. Delicious. I dabbed my lips with the napkin, then continued to recount the Keynes incident and its aftermath. 

Doesn't this book sound amazing! If you would like to grab your copy you can do so over on Amazon and get this, it is free to read if you subscribe to #KindleUnlimited. What are you waiting for - add this book to your to-read list TODAY!!!

Paul Walker

Paul lives in a village 30 miles north of London where he is a full-time writer of fiction and part-time director of an education trust. His writing in a posh garden shed is regularly disrupted by children, a growing number of grandchildren and several dogs.

Paul writes historical fiction. The William Constable series of historical thrillers is based around real characters and events in the late sixteenth century. The first two books in the series – “State of Treason” and “A Necessary Killing”, were published in 2019. The third book, titled “The Queen’s Devil”, was published in the summer of 2020.

Travel forward a few hundred years from Tudor England to January 1919 in Paris and the setting for Paul’s latest book, “A Turbulent Peace”. The focus of the World is on the Peace Conference after WW1 armistice. Add a dash of Spanish Flu, the fallout from the Russian Revolution, and you have a background primed for intrigue as nations strive for territory, power and money. 

Social Media Links:
Website, Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, Amazon Author Page, Goodreads 

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"Grief is the price we pay for love." Elizabeth II 1926- 2022

 

Thank you for all that you did. You will never be forgotten.