Spotlight on Ink In The Blood (Kim Smejkal), Excerpt, Plus Giveaway! ~ (US Only)

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Today we're excited to spotlight Ink In The Blood by Kim Smejkal.

 Read on for more about Kim and her book, an excerpt, plus a giveaway! 

 

 

 

Meet Kim Smejkal!

    

Kim Smejkal lives with her family on Vancouver Island in Canada, which means she's often lost in the woods or wandering a beach. She writes dark fantasy for young adults and not-so-young adults, always with a touch of magic.  

 

Website * Twitter * Facebook * Instagram

 


 

 

Meet Ink In The Blood!

A lush, dark YA fantasy debut that weaves together tattoo magic, faith, and eccentric theater in a world where lies are currency and ink is a weapon, perfect for fans of Leigh Bardugo and Kendare Blake.

Celia Sand and her best friend, Anya Burtoni, are inklings for the esteemed religion of Profeta. Using magic, they tattoo followers with beautiful images that represent the Divine’s will and guide the actions of the recipients. It’s considered a noble calling, but ten years into their servitude Celia and Anya know the truth: Profeta is built on lies, the tattooed orders strip away freedom, and the revered temple is actually a brutal, torturous prison.

Their opportunity to escape arrives with the Rabble Mob, a traveling theater troupe. Using their inkling abilities for performance instead of propaganda, Celia and Anya are content for the first time . . . until they realize who followed them. The Divine they never believed in is very real, very angry, and determined to use Celia, Anya, and the Rabble Mob’s now-infamous stage to spread her deceitful influence even further.

To protect their new family from the wrath of a malicious deity and the zealots who work in her name, Celia and Anya must unmask the biggest lie of all—Profeta itself.

 

 

AmazonB & N * Indiebound

 

 

 

 

 

~ Excerpt ~

 

Excerpt from INK IN THE BLOOD © 2020 by Jeannette Kim Smejkal. Reproduced by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. All rights reserved.



Another question mark bloomed on Celia’s forearm, bigger and bolder than the others. The ink unfurled in an oily black stretched-out tentacle, wrist to elbow, the dot on the bottom a furious splatter. An hour ago Celia had still tried to hide Anya’s messages by tugging her shirtsleeve down. An hour ago she’d still cared that she was in a busy shisha lounge, surrounded by people who might notice the strangeness of Divine tattoos appearing, then vanishing, on her skin.

But lovely absinthe made cares like that disappear.

Celia pressed her finger to the angry splotch on the bottom. I’d tell you where I am, Anny, if only I knew!  Her gaze drifted over the haphazard collection of empty glasses on the table in front of her. “Huzzah, absinthe.”

The rest of the room was alive with clusters of pretty people doing flirty things: enjoying their drinks and smoke, unwinding after a long day of doing whatever it was normal people did all day. Shimmering tenors, as individual as fingerprints and much more visible, shone around each body. Tenors were usually the boldest thing about a person’s look, but there in the lounge their glint and vibrancy blended in the fog of shisha smoke that swirled from the colorful hookahs. Glasses clinked, laughter swelled, and everything fluttered: colorful sleeves, loose pants, long hair, light from a hundred candles, jingly jewelry hanging from ears and wrists and necks.

With her black everything— short hair, suspenders, tie, top hat, attitude — Celia stuck out like a monochrome stain amid all the color and life. Judging by the lounge owner’s fluency in scowls, they’d finally noticed.

Not bothering to right her awkward sprawl, Celia smiled as they approached.

Or maybe it wasn’t a smile, but a frown.

Whichever way was up. Whichever way was down. “Time to move on,” they said, their voice a deep baritone.

No, time to take a hostage. Pulling the hookah to the floor, Celia clamped the large bowl between her legs and hugged tight around its neck. They wouldn’t muscle her out with so much expensive blown glass at risk. “A few more blasts, good soul,” she said, jiggling the mouthpiece in her hand and then putting it to her lips.

The smoke trapped in the bowl tasted like all the people who’d touched the pipe that day, swirling together. Dia, how long had she been sitting there, doing nothing but staring?

The owner raised their caterpillar eyebrows as Celia struggled to hold in a violent cough. “You’ve had the green fairy; you’ve had some shisha. Now out you go, Lalita.”

A flush crept up Celia’s neck. Fragile bird, my nimble little ass. A few people had turned their attention toward the stand-off, and as Celia hugged her hookah tighter, the lounge owner’s lips formed a grim line. “Here, hire a gondola and get home.”

As they dropped her own kropi back on the table— each copper coin etched with the creepy four-faced image of the Divine — the edge of a black tattoo peeked out from under their sleeve. Both reminders of “home,” the place no amount of absinthe could erase. Their big hands found her armpits. They lifted her up, an arm wrapped around her waist, and eased her out of the lounge.

On the wet street, mist replaced pink smoke, darkness replaced candlelight, gray streets replaced warmth and color. Someone shouted nonsense or poetry from a nearby balcony, their voice echoing in the night. As they rambled about a love gone wrong, (or perhaps their cat was missing?), Celia considered transforming the lament into a duet. Woe to the inklings who cannot escape! Mumble, mumble, rhymes with escape . . .

Another voice interrupted. “Cece!”

Anya. That same angry friend who’d messaged Celia all night. A twinge of guilt flared to life, and Celia stifled the urge to dart back into the lounge.

As she strode toward Celia and the owner of the lounge, Anya’s black hair lapped at her shoulders in tidy waves, her midnight-blue top hat perched perfectly straight. A buttoned-up trench coat flared out behind her thighs, and her umbrella doubled as a walking stick, tapping a rhythm into the cobblestones. Anya looked perfectly composed. Then, and always.

Long and low, Anya muttered “Dia . . .” under her breath as she approached. The lounge owner startled at the curse, dropped Celia’s arm, and took a step back, reacting as if Celia was the devil Anya had just named. Their look of shock was quickly replaced by one of anger and youth these days . . . no respect. They turned and stalked back into their bar, violently brushing the stain of blasphemers off their coats as they went. If Celia’s loitering hadn’t banned her from coming back, Anya’s curse just had.

Stifling a smirk, Celia bowed. “My love, my love, you’ve found me. The smoke was pink tonight. The shisha was happy.” She swore the smoke changed color depending on the shisha’s mood, logic be damned.

Anya steered her away, but they made it only around the first corner before Celia grabbed the nearest wall and painted her boots with a swirl of green fairy absinthe. Huh, looks exactly the same coming up as going down. She knocked her feet against the brick wall and wondered if someone would lick it later, grateful for a free drink.

Anya rubbed Celia’s back, her words tight despite the calm- ing gesture. “You’re a disgusting creature, Celia Sand.”

That wasn’t news. Groaning, she pushed away from the wall and prepared herself for the lecture.

The air around Anya flickered in an aura of red hues. Everyone projected a tenor — an oscillating personal spectrum of gender in myriad colors. Tenors showed something infinite about a person and gave it over to concrete, manageable language: He, They, She, or No Thanks to Any of That. There were as many tenors as people in the world, and Anya’s tenor burned so familiar that Celia would have recognized it in a crowd of thousands. She knew Anya better than she knew herself, which meant that even before meeting Anya’s gaze, Celia knew she’d find a withering stare.

“You’re almost at the docks,” Anya said, grinding her teeth so the sound crunched its way up Celia’s spine.

Celia blinked in surprise — and a fair bit of pride— that she’d made it so far from the temple without remembering any of it. That explained the stronger than usual stench of fish.

“I know you got my messages,” Anya said. “Why did you ignore them?”

“I didn’t have my quill?” Celia ventured.

Inklings always had a quill. Usually many. One day Celia and Anya would wake up to find the raven feather fused to their fingers.

More horrible grinding, Anya’s whole jaw working hard until her nostrils flared with a deliberate exhale. About the big- gest tantrum Anya was capable of throwing.

But no lecture came. Instead, “You have to get back.”

It took a moment for Celia to process Anya’s words. “What? Another one?” Her mind sputtered. She’d assumed that after the afternoon she’d had, she wouldn’t be missed for a while. She should have known better.

Anya nodded, and Celia’s cloud of guilt blossomed into a wild thing, growing heavier as Anya turned tender: tucking Celia’s hair behind her ears, straightening her top hat (a losing battle), and adjusting her blouse.

“Vomit everywhere,” Anya whispered. She wiped her fingers on the bricks beside them, her frustration fading away to sighs. She wrapped an arm around Celia’s smaller shoulders and squeezed. “You can’t keep doing this to me, Cece. When it’s over, when you’re okay, I need to know.” Only a short lecture, then. A familiar one.

Celia stared blankly, ignoring the occasional claps of arguments or drunken laughter assaulting her on the otherwise dead streets. The buildings were tightly pressed together and built upward, competing for space amid a crisscross of canals and bridges. More gondolas than rickshaws ferried the few people still about. So much water everywhere: it fell endlessly from the sky, was constantly underfoot, and . . .

Earlier that day, the temple had punished Celia with water. Cleansing, they called it: only a little, strategically poured, but enough to perfectly mimic drowning. The stories said that the Divine had drowned a millennium ago, which somehow justified repeating the horror on misbehaving inklings.

The punishment itself didn’t last long. A few minutes after she’d stood up from the wooden floor, soaking and gasping, Celia could have found Anya and told her it was over. She should have. But it wasn’t the first time she’d experienced that particular punishment, and it wouldn’t be the last, so what if the point was that she was never okay?

Celia took Anya’s hand and laced their fingers together, squinting into the creeping fog swirling over the canal and searching for a wayward gondolier for hire. If she could stretch her gaze around corners and westward, away from the Lassina Sea that hemmed them in, the stagnant Asuran canal must eventually find a real river. Far beyond the masses of build- ings, docks, and mold, the land would gradually lift around her. Eventually they would leave the sogginess of Illinia behind and enter Kinallen, with its famous plateaus and spectacular hills. She tried to imagine it — crisp, dry air, bright sunshine, green cliffs, a country so breathtaking poets wrote songs about it—but it was like trying to savor a slice of ripe, rare apricot on your tongue while standing at the gallows.

The temple had more work for her: another Divine tattoo to complete, another person’s life to affect. If she took too long to answer the summons, she just might end the night as she’d started it: on a wooden plank floor with water pouring down her nose and throat, breaking off breath.

Woe to the inklings who cannot escape . . .

The prow of a dilapidated gondola broke through the thick gray fog — all peeling red paint, rotten wood, and ragged gondolier at the helm to match. His tenor flickered in silver hues, its natural brilliance dulled by the heavy air. Celia raised her arm to him. “Does anything rhyme with escape?” she asked Anya.

Taking poetic license, Anya came up with quite a list as she stepped onto the boat: “Scrape, reshape, agape, agitate.”

She helped Celia in, continuing, “Translate, mistake, urinate, charade . . .” as the gondola sailed off into the mist.

Any of Anya’s words could have fit into the next line.

 

 

Ink In The Blood

By: Kim Smejkal

Publisher: HMH Teen

Release Date: February 11th, 2020

 

 

 

 

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS*

5 winners will receive 1 finished copy and 1 sheet of INK IN THE BLOOD temporary tattoos ~ (US Only)

 

*Click the Rafflecopter link below to enter the giveaway*   

 

 

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Featured Review: Skipping Forward (Bethany Wicker)
Waiting On Wednesday ~ January 22nd, 2020

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Comments 10

Already Registered? Login Here
Brittany Colpitts on Monday, 27 January 2020 12:46

Not sure why this books is giving me the same vibes as House of Salt and Sorrows , but I'm here for it!!

0
Not sure why this books is giving me the same vibes as House of Salt and Sorrows , but I'm here for it!!
Candice Gigous on Friday, 31 January 2020 05:39

The cover is unique. The synopsis is very intriguing. I am excited about this one,.

0
The cover is unique. The synopsis is very intriguing. I am excited about this one,.
Alex Colpitts on Thursday, 06 February 2020 08:20

Love this cover, sounds great

0
Love this cover, sounds great
Kate Merolla on Saturday, 08 February 2020 20:53

This is a darkly beautiful cover!
The synopsis introduces a richly imagined fantasy world, with a compelling cast of characters and plotline.

0
This is a darkly beautiful cover! The synopsis introduces a richly imagined fantasy world, with a compelling cast of characters and plotline.
Debra Branigan on Sunday, 09 February 2020 10:03

The cover is perfect for this storyline which sounds so unique and compelling. Thanks for sharing. Best wishes to the author on this one.

0
The cover is perfect for this storyline which sounds so unique and compelling. Thanks for sharing. Best wishes to the author on this one.
Jeana Kwiecinski on Tuesday, 11 February 2020 11:09

This story sounds amazing! What a beautiful setting that I need to get lost in. Can't wait to read this!

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This story sounds amazing! What a beautiful setting that I need to get lost in. Can't wait to read this!
Abigail Lowry on Friday, 14 February 2020 14:04

This book looks amazing; I can’t wait to read!

0
This book looks amazing; I can’t wait to read!
Danielle Hammelef on Sunday, 16 February 2020 17:55

The cover is a work of art. The synopsis sounds unique and exciting.

0
The cover is a work of art. The synopsis sounds unique and exciting.
Colleen on Monday, 17 February 2020 13:03

This sounds exciting to read!! Love the cover. I really want to read this!!!! ?

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This sounds exciting to read!! Love the cover. I really want to read this!!!! ?
Lily M. on Tuesday, 18 February 2020 03:29

Magic tattoos, that sounds interesting

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Magic tattoos, that sounds interesting :)

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