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Destiny Box Set 1 (Books 1-3) by @LiviaQuinn is a Fall Into These Great Reads Pick #paranormal #para

Title: Destiny Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)

Author: Livia Quinn

Genre: Paranormal Romance

Book Blurb:

The new sheriff of Destiny, Jack Lang, was looking for a normal safe town to raise his daughter. Unfortunately, his new girlfriend isn’t—normal, that is. Nope, to say Tempe is different would be like saying Wolverine’s fingernails are long enough for a manicure. Things get complicated when Tempe needs Jack to help find her missing genie brother and her powers start to emerge. Jack has a lot to learn about Destiny. The Destiny Paramortals is a paranormal cozy mystery romance series (yes, it’s got all that!) with a recurring cast of characters who experience their coming of age as Paramortals. Get the first three books at a special price for the next couple days.


Mr. Jackson’s hands shook as he beat the envelope against the hood of my mail truck. The eighty-year old grouch stood around five-three, his body withered from arthritis and bad habits, cigarette stench wafting around him. He’d dyed his comb-over hair black and his beady eyes looked just about that color.

I sighed watching him stomp—well, in his case—gimp with attitude in my direction. He tried planting his feet in the thick grass, but rocked back and forth on his heels. Then he aimed is cane at me. It did make more impact than his wrinkly index finger.

Glaring, he said, “It’s not like it was when I worked for the Postal Service, the real one. We cared about our job. Now all you do is ride around in an air-conditioned truck and poke it in the box.”

I resent that. The last time I had air-conditioning was just before the Chevy turned over her second hundred thousand.

“Yet, here I am again getting mail that’s not even addressed to me! Like this.” He shook the envelope in his gnarled fingers. I looked up at the fast moving clouds. Then the sharp corner of an envelope hit my cheek. The old fart had thrown it at me.

I scrubbed my face with my hands trying to keep a lid on my temper. I overlook a lot of what Mr. Jackson does out of respect for his age and because he was a carrier for over forty years. “Mr. Jackson, I realize you’re frustrated, but you need to calm down.”

“Then stop giving me mail that isn’t mine!” he screamed his face going purple. He was about to blow a gasket. He started trembling violently as if he was about to have a seizure, and drifted forward over his cane.


I slammed the lever into park, kicking packages and mail out of my way, and shoved the door open with my foot. I didn’t remember grabbing my cell from over the visor, but as I knelt next to Mr. Jackson, I heard, “911” in my headset and realized I’d pushed the emergency button.

I leaned over. He wasn’t breathing. I tilted the his head back and began CPR.

“911. What is your emergency?” the voice requested in a monotone.

“One, two, three, four...Thomas Jackson, 26 Stony Drive. One, two, three, four… Blackwell subdivision...doing CPR.”

“I’m sending a unit. Stay on the line.”

I sped up the compressions on his frail chest praying I wouldn’t break anything.

The dispatcher said in her calm, almost bored voice, “ETA is eight minutes. Can you give me any information for the EMTs?”

Eight ... friggin’… minutes. “Mid-eighties ... He’s not breathing.” Seconds ticked off as I continued to pump his chest. I stopped, put my fingers to his mouth. Nothing.

“Oomph,” I sat back. He wasn’t going to make it. Unless… Maybe there was something I could do, but then I’d never actually attempted it. Usually it just happened when things got out of control. Well—not things—me.

Part of the problem was I’d be in clear sight of anyone looking this way from their front yard or driving down the street, but if I didn’t try something before the EMTs arrived, he was going to die. I looked around. It had to be now. I wondered if my little zapper would have enough zip.

Mr. Jackson’s tirade had miraculously not drawn any attention. The street was deserted except for squirrel who swished his tail madly and took off toward a large oak. At least he couldn’t tell.

Extending my hand out in front of me, palm up, I concentrated, willing the power inside me to obey. Nothing. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and whispered hopefully, “Come to me.”

Blast! I sounded like a bad vamp movie. Separating my index finger, the one with the tiny tattoo-like image on the tip, away from my other fingers, I turned it up toward the darkening sky.

The cells in my body began to vibrate. Like an energy solar panel, menori tapped the unstable air and focused it like a laser, accumulating until my head felt like it would explode.

The rumble beneath my feet was the only notice I had of the electric strike that rode straight up my legs, curling in my midsection and crawling swiftly along my right arm to produce my own version of a Fourth of July sparkler from my fingertip. Then the sparks changed. Brilliant bolts of crackling white light spit and sizzled in my palm, sending jagged streamers of hot blue fire ten feet into the air. I just gawked.

A car entering a nearby street freed me from the mesmerizing display. This was different from any of the charging I’d previously experienced. Bigger. Usually it just sorta replenished on its own. Panicked, I looked over my shoulder, and exhaled. So far so good.

Now what? I must command the fire in my hand to... to what? Before I could say, “Be gone,” or “Go thither,” the light subsided to a small crackly glow. This was it then.

Instinct took over. I knelt beside Mr. Jackson and placed my glowing index finger against his chest. With a single szzwaattt, I zapped him, right in the heart. His chest arched up only the barest of seconds as it met my magical defibrillator, then his body relaxed.

Momentarily deafened and somewhat addled as my faculties came back online, I groped for the pulse in his neck. For a second, I thought I’d failed. But then, his tired, smoke glutted organ started beating.

Thank the gods.

Only the slight whiff of burnt flesh remained on the wind. Drained of energy, I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead. That’s when I noticed the mark.

Zeus’ rechargeable bolts! That better be temporary.”

Centered on the spot where I’d zapped him, a pale image was forming. It looked like a pale, mini version of… well… me.

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What makes this book a must-read and/or what inspired you to write this story:

Tempe came to me on the mail route. Ever since moving to the south, my fear of storms has increased but telling her story, doing the research required to describe the storm elements she controls has turned that fear into a healthy respect. I love a sexy alpha hero who meets his Waterloo, and that’s what happens to Jack.


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Open internationally

Runs September 1 – 30

Drawing will be held on October 1.

Author Biography:

Livia moved from D.C. to Louisiana where the weather and culture of the region inspired her writing, including her storm faerie, Tempest Pomeroy and the Destiny Paramortals. She’s stored up fodder from her jobs as mail lady, salesperson, plant manager, business owner and professional singer to share with readers. Think of her as her characters’ biographer! On the bayou, she is protected from the alligators and bears by her husband and feisty Pomeranian, Dusty.

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