Rockstar Tours: ONE GIRL IN ALL THE WORLD (Kendare Blake), Excerpt & Giveaway! ~US ONLY

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the ONE GIRL IN ALL THE WORLD by Kendare Blake Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out
my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Title: ONE GIRL IN ALL THE WORLD (In Every
Generation #2)

Author: Kendare Blake

Pub. Date: January 31, 2023

Publisher: Disney-Hyperion

Formats: Hardcover, eBook, audiobook

Pages: 352

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/ONE-GIRL-IN-ALL-THE-WORLD

“A worthy successor to the
Slayer stories.” ―Booklist (starred review for In Every Generation)

Into every generation, a slayer is born. One girl in all the world . . .
sort of.

Frankie Rosenberg is the world’s first slayer-witch, but she doesn’t have that
slay-life balance figured out just yet. She’s still reeling from the deadly
explosion at the anual slayer retreat―and new evidence that some slayers may
have survived. And while she’s defeated her first Big Bad, Frankie soon
realizes it was just a warm-up act. Bigger, badder forces of evil are just
getting started.

The Hellmouth has been reawakened and its calling old friends home. Portals are
opening between Sunnydale and other dimensions. And the Scooby Gang has too
many demons to contend with―real, metaphorical, and sometimes absurdly hot.

Then an oracle warns of a new foe on its way: the Darkness. Could this be what
attacked the slayers? And is it coming for Frankie?

New York Times best-selling author Kendare Blake takes readers
back to the demon capital of the world in this sequel to In Every
Generation.

Grab book 1 IN EVERY GENERTAION now!

Excerpt:

PROLOGUE

The woman cut a slim silhouette against the sunset as she walked  along the deserted highway. It was a long walk on the way to  nowhere: this particular road had been bypassed and blocked-off— she’d slipped past two very broken down ‘road closed’ signs—and  ended on the edge of what was briefly the great Sunnydale sinkhole.  Of course that sinkhole didn’t last; it was quickly shored up with dirt  to become the shiny New Sunnydale with a much lower elevation. 

It was a long walk but she wasn’t tired, she was a slayer, after all,  it took a lot more than cooling desert and flat asphalt to wear her  out—but she was weary. Weary in her bones, weary in her soul. She  adjusted the bag on her shoulders and kept going, until she reached  the spot where their bus had stopped after they’d defeated the First.  Where Buffy had gotten out and looked over the destruction. Where  she had started making plans for all of their futures. 

The woman kicked pebbles and watched them roll down the hill,  now a nice, sloping incline rather than a sheer dropoff into hell, and  frowned at New Sunnydale glittering below. All of those people, living like nothing had happened. Sinkhole? What sinkhole? I’m sure that collapse was just a one time thing. No reason to waste all this  prime California real estate. 

She scowled down from beneath her hood. They were idiots, all  of them. Optimistic idiots. The entire place was cursed; she felt it the  moment she portaled in. The wrongness. The wicked current, pulsing  through the soil. The . . . hellmouth residue, getting all over everything. She knew she had a slayer’s senses, but there was no way that  regular people didn’t feel it. That much seeping evil left a mark. It  weaved through a person. It became a part of them, so much so that  the whole damn citizenry had evacuated before it all went down,  without having to be told. They just knew. 

But people were people, and they’d rebuilt it anyway. Just like  people had rebuilt the Overlook Hotel. Or the ones who kept on  building houses on top of old cemeteries without moving the bodies  first. Those were just movies, sure, but the rebuilding was realistic.  When it came to their own destruction, humans were predictably  industrious. So New Sunnydale had risen from the ashes. And then  the red witch had returned to watch over it, and give birth to her  little abomination. 

The woman swallowed. It felt foolish to even set one foot on that  unstable ground, but she did it, one foot after the other, down and  down and down, through shrubs and young trees, past silent bull dozers and construction equipment—because even after eighteen  years the city was still a work-in-progress—until she reached the  street. From there she let her slayer sense guide her, but even if she  hadn’t had it she would have known the way to the hellmouth by following the school signs. In grand Sunnydale tradition, the idiots had  built the high school again, right on top. 

When she reached it she stood outside, staring down the brick  and the stark white walls, the flowering vines with their blossoms  closed for the night. New Sunnydale High School was clean and crisp, lit by so many streetlights that it was a challenge to find shadows to  slip into. I am not evil at all, it declared. But it was lying. She broke in through a back door near the sports field—and by  ‘broke in’ she meant opened an unlocked door without permission— and made her way to the basement. 

And to the hellmouth. 

Being so close to it sent goosebumps up and down the backs of her  arms. It made her want to run away. It made her want to scream.  And even though there was no definitive marking, no X-marks-the hellmouth, she knew just where it was. And it felt like it knew just  where she was, too. 

Before she could hesitate, she walked to it and took off her pack,  then reached inside to pull out a large, glowing orb. It was bright and  almost pretty, the green swirled through with flecks of blue like bits  of glitter on a sea of thick paint. It looked a little like a bowling ball,  if bowling balls could throb, and it cast the entire space in a strange,  ethereal green. Not terribly stealthy. After a moment of deliberation,  she grabbed a fire blanket off of a shelf, and used it to cover the orb  before setting it down on top of the hellmouth. 

She let go of it gently, expecting it to roll. But it stuck. So firmly  and so fast she wondered if she’d have been able to pick it up again,  not that she bothered to try. That’s where it belonged, after all. A  nice, welcome back present for the hellmouth. Something to draw its  favorite demons, like a demon magnet, or a demon beacon. 

It would give the new slayer something to do, anyway. The woman stood. 

“Phase one, commenced,” she said, before tugging her hood down  lower and slipping out of the school the same way she came in.

Part one

SUNNYDALE :

THE DEMON DESTINATION

CHAPTER ONE

The Vampire Welcoming Committee

New Sunnydale Cemetery was a pretty nice meeting place. Green. Spacious. Bordered and dotted with leafy trees that  whispered in the dark. White stone pavilions had been  erected here and there, to serve as a housing for flowering vines,  and the hedges were full and well-groomed, planted in rows and  groves so as to create corners and private spaces. For mourning,  or picnics—concealing crouching demons or what have you. The  point is, some landscape designer had an absolute field day with  the place, and the end result was more akin to a park than a resting  place for the dead.

It didn’t suit the vampire at all. He sniffed, and caught the faint  perfume of roses. He narrowed his yellow eyes but the white marble  benches only stood out brighter beneath the light of the waxing  crescent moon. He’d only just arrived in town after catching the  number twenty-nine bus up from Phoenix, long hours of being a  sun-fearing lump underneath a fire blanket, of bored kids running  up and down the aisles, of bathroom stops and the sound of plastic wrappers being torn off of gas station snack foods. Gas station snack foods made the blood nice and greasy. Once the sun went  down he’d considered popping up and eating the whole bus. But  then he’d have had to drive the rest of the way, and he was still  better on a horse than a stick shift. Besides, he wanted to save his  appetite for Sunnydale.

Sunnydale, California. Mother of the hellmouth. Cradle of  monsters. A town that had seen more carnage than a stack of scary  movies. It had been dormant for decades, languishing under the  protection of the slayers, and the red-haired witch who broke the  world. But lately Sunnydale—or more accurately, the hellmouth  that dwelled beneath it—had started to pulse, and the ears and  snouts of demons everywhere turned again toward the heartbeat.  The hellmouth was calling. Begging its children to tear away the  facade of the city: the palm trees and street fairs, the coffee shops  on every corner—and let it show its true, wicked face.

The slayers were gone, whisked away, right off the earth; killed  in an explosion said some, or by a massive spell, said others. No  fewer than five demon doomsday cults had tried to take credit, but  the vampire didn’t care one way or another who was responsible.  He only cared that they were dead, and Sunnydale was his for the  taking.

He paused at a fresh grave and placed his hand against the  loosely packed soil, listening for another vampire waking below.  He could use a local to show him the ins and outs. In all his hundred years of afterlife he’d never been to Sunnydale. He preferred to  spend his time in the southwest where he’d been turned. He liked  to lure tour groups out to the ghost towns. Then he would set the  corpses up in the ruins of an old saloon, like mannequins, to con fuse whatever poor sap eventually found them. By his count, he’d  killed four thousand, two hundred and nineteen people. More than  that, actually, because it had taken him a few years to start counting, marking each with a notch in the holster of his six-shooter, which  gradually became notches in a belt: first brown leather, then black,  now some clever new leather made from the skins of cactuses. He’d  buried belts filled with notches all over the territories of Nevada,  and Arizona, down into western Texas. But the cactus belt was new.  Notch-free. And he planned to fill it with notches for Sunnydale  townsfolk.

But the legendary city of the hellmouth was falling short of the  stories. The streets he’d walked through on the way from the bus  station were too clean, marked by engraved paving stones and made  bright by solar lights. And now the cemetery—with its new, straight  headstones and demure, marble grave markers. From somewhere  not far off he heard the soft gurgling of a fountain, and frowned.

Where were the rowdy demon bars? The demon gambling that  went on until near dawn, bloodthirsty creatures around a card table  racking up huge debts of kittens? Where were the cracked, spider filled crypts? Where were the foolish teenagers, making out in cars,  begging for their throats to be ripped out?

And then, as if she’d heard his wish, there came a voice through  the darkness. A girl’s voice, from several rows of graves over. A soft  glow emanated from that direction, too, as if from candles, and  he licked his fangs. The little idiot was in the graveyard holding a  seance. Humans were a useless lot—useless in his time, and in the  century between it seemed they’d only gotten worse—but he did  appreciate their constant fascination with the great beyond.

He crept through the graves, savoring the increasing nearness  of the kill, the glimpses of her in the space between the headstones.  Oh but she was a pretty thing. Long, black hair, straight as a horse’s  tail. Big, brown eyes made warm by the candlelight. And dark, red  lips. She wore a collar, too, the kind a mean dog might wear, with  silver studs and a buckle. That struck him as odd, but he didn’t waste much time considering the fashion choices of his dinner.  And she wasn’t alone! His mouth watered as his second course  came into view: a fine-looking Black lad sitting across from her in  the grass, holding a candle and trying not to get burned by the wax.  They didn’t look like they belonged much together; his buttoned  shirt was pressed like a good mama would have done it, and his  eyes behind the lenses of his glasses were focused and calm while  the girl’s were restless and narrowed.

He would eat the girl first. He saw her first, after all, and it  would be kind of fun watching the calm leave the boy’s carefully  composed expression. He wondered if the boy would run. Or if he  would try to fight back. He would probably freeze like a frightened  deer, and simply wait for his turn.

The vampire crouched, ready to spring. He was so focused on his  meal that he failed to notice the other girl running swiftly toward  him through the cemetery. She leapt up onto the headstone beside  him, and caught him totally by surprise with a flying back kick.

“Hi!” Frankie said, trying to keep her voice perky and semi welcoming as the vamp rolled upright in the grass. “Where ya from?”

His only response was a growl, and he got to his feet in one  smooth motion, a twist as graceful as a gymnast off a mat. So graceful that Frankie made a mental note to practice it later with Spike.  The vampire brushed imagined dirt off of his finely cut black suit,  and the moonlight caught on the silver of his rather large and intricately designed belt buckle. It looked like a snake, intertwined with  a . . . what did they call those western ropes? A lariat. It looked like  a snake entwined with a lariat.

“That is a really nice belt buckle,” Frankie said, and pointed  with the tip of her stake.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he said, and she wrinkled her nose at his accent. “You’ll be adorning the belt it’s attached to momentarily.  The first notch, right about here—” he tapped the space just left of  the buckle.

“Seems like a waste of good leather. Marking it up like that,”  she said, and to her surprise he straightened and looked down at  it with a shrug.

“You know, I actually don’t know whether it’ll suit for notching. It’s some newfangled kind of leather, made from cactus skins.” Frankie lowered her stake. “Really?” Her eyes widened. It looked  just like high quality leather. “That is such a cool eco-alternative!” “Frankie.”

The vampire looked over the headstones at Hailey and Sigmund,  who had stood, still holding their candles.

“Get that stake back up,” Hailey said. “Eco-friendly or not, the  vamp must be dusted.”

“I know,” said Frankie. “But it seems like such a waste, to let  the belt go poof with the rest of him. Think I can wrestle it off him  first? Or maybe I can steal it with magic.”

“I don’t think your telekinesis is fine-tuned enough to unbuckle  a belt and tug it through several belt loops,” said Sigmund. “And it’s  an unnecessary risk.”

“I agree,” said Hailey, “But if you can, I wouldn’t mind having  that belt buckle. It’s kind of badass.”

“What is happening here?” the vampire asked. The girl with  the messy red bun on the top of her head carried a stake. And she  kicked harder than his old pistol.

“I’m sorry,” said Frankie. “You’re right. This is supposed to be  about you. So as I was saying, where ya from?”

“Did you come by bus or by car?” Sigmund asked, setting down  his candle and picking up his cloth-bound journal. “By train? By  cargo plane perhaps?”

The vampire looked from Frankie to Sigmund and back again.  Then he reached out and grabbed Frankie by the shoulders, and  threw her over three rows of graves. She landed in the grass, but  not before bouncing off the headstone of one Michael Truman,  1958–2021.

“Ow,” she groaned. “Why don’t they make headstones softer?” “Padded headstones,” said Hailey. “Definitely something to  consider. Watch out on your right!”

The vampire pulled her up by the arm and she tried to smile  as she looked into his fangy face, buying herself a moment to  remember their next survey question. But before it came to her, he  backhanded her across the jaw and sent her sailing. At least this  time she missed the graves when she landed. The vamp leapt on  her again and she thought she heard him mutter something about  a little lady with no manners before she rolled backward and drove  her heels into his chin, throwing him in a backward flip. He got up  with a snarl—much less gracefully this time—and just as she was  about to jump in with a fast kick-punch-spinning kick combination  that Spike had demonstrated on her last week, the vampire was  tackled by a blur of muscle and Sunnydale Razorbacks letter jacket. “Dammit, Jake!”

“I got him!” Jake cried, as the vampire twisted free. “Er, I don’t  got him. But I’ll get him!” He threw a punch. The vampire ducked  it, and sniffed.

“You smell like a werewolf,” he said. “What are you doing, fighting with these people?”

“Werewolves are people, too, bro,” Jake replied, and landed his  punch this time, sending the vampire reeling.

“Jake,” Sigmund called. “The census!”

“Oh right.” Jake turned back to the vamp. “So, where’s that  accent from? El Paso?” The vampire sprang, and Jake went down underneath the weight. “He’s surprisingly strong,” Jake groaned.  “So he must be old . . . I’d say at least fifty, maybe over a hundred!” Sigmund jotted it down in his notebook just as Frankie drove  her stake through the vampire’s back, and into the heart. He reared up in surprise and she had just enough time to gaze  at the cactus-leather belt longingly before he, and it, exploded in a  cloud of dust.

“Sorry,” she said as Jake coughed through the cloud. “I just, saw  my opening.”

“He didn’t seem the talkative type anyway,” said Hailey. “I  doubt you would have gotten much info even if you’d parried for  an hour.” She prodded Sigmund fondly in the chest. “So much for  tonight’s entry in the Sunnydale Vampire Census.”

“Perhaps this is a waste of time.” Sigmund adjusted his glasses  on his nose, and even though he insisted that he had no demon  powers from the Sage demon side of his family tree, Frankie  thought she heard a snarl behind his sigh.

“No way, babe, this is a really good idea.” Hailey slipped her  arm around his shoulder. “Gathering data on where the demons  are coming from will be totally useful in determining the reach  of the hellmouth.” They’d started tracking demons at the first of  the year, and so far, the farthest came from western Montana.  Most were coming up from LA and Las Vegas. Nothing really  from the Midwest, which had made Sigmund postulate that perhaps the hellmouth in Sunnydale was respecting the territory of  the hellmouth in Ohio, though Frankie couldn’t imagine that hell mouths had a code of ethics.

Frankie wiped the point of her stake clean against the leg of her  jeans and tucked it into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt. “Well, he definitely had an accent. And I think I heard him call  me, ‘little lady’.”

“What a condescending pig,” Hailey joked. “But no seriously,  what a condescending pig.”

“I really wish I could’ve gotten that cactus belt. I mean, how  cool is that? Plant belts.” She eyed Hailey’s black studded choker.  Maybe she could get her a cactus-leather choker for her birthday!  If Hailey ever told her when her birthday was. Getting personal  details from Hailey was like pulling teeth sometimes.

“I was trying to hold him up so you could steal it,” said Jake.  “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Frankie clapped a bit of vampire dust off the chest  of his jacket and he smiled. He was tired though, she could tell;  he’d met up with them in the cemetery after lacrosse practice. And  he was rusty: more lacrosse practice meant fewer patrols and less  training. They hadn’t seen much of him since the start of February,  when the season started. He might be scarce until at least May,  longer if they made the playoffs, which was highly unlikely given  their badness. Frankie had never been so grateful for the Sunnydale  Razorback’s lack of sports ability. She missed Jake. She needed him  around.

“Can we go home now?” Jake asked, yawning. “I have an early  captain’s meeting before school.”

“And you have an early Scooby meeting after that,” said Frankie. Jake groaned. “Can we move it to our free period? Isn’t that why  your mom mojoed our schedules to match?”

“Fine, whiner, I’ll text Spike.” Hailey slipped her arm through  Sigmund’s and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so glad you decided  not to go out for lacrosse. At least one of our demons has his priori ties straight.”

Sigmund smiled happily. “Jake has to have a sports-slay balance. He did warn us.”

“I did.” Jake gave Sigmund a nod, like he was touched that  Sigmund remembered.

“Well, what should we mark this vampire down as?” Sigmund  asked. He reopened his journal. “If we had to guess. Even a region,  might be helpful.”

“Arizona,” Hailey said after a moment of contemplation.  “Tombstone, Arizona.”

“That’s a pretty specific guess,” said Sigmund, writing it down. “Well, he just seemed like such a cowboy. And in that black  suit? Like a gentleman cowboy. Like Doc Holliday.” Her eyes widened. “You don’t think he WAS Doc Holliday?”

“I hope not,” Frankie said as she led them out of the cemetery.  “If he was, he was too easy to take down.”

Sigmund chuckled, and she tugged down the edge of his note pad to read what he had written:

February 9-the night Frankie the vampire slayer slayed Doc  Holliday. 

“Sigmund,” she mock-scolded. “You know that’s how rumors  get started.”

But Hailey only laughed. “You mean that’s how legends get  started.”

About Kendare Blake:

Kendare Blake is the New
York Times bestselling author of several novels and short stories. Her work
is sort of dark, always violent, and features passages describing food from
when she writes while hungry. She was born in July in Seoul, South Korea, but
doesn’t speak a lick of Korean, as she was packed off at a very early age to
her adoptive parents in the United States. That might be just an excuse,
though, as she is pretty bad at learning foreign languages. She lives and
writes in Gig Harbor, Washington, with her husband, their cat son Tyrion
Cattister, red Doberman dog son Obi-Dog Kenobi, rottie mix dog daughter Agent
Scully, and naked Sphynx cat son Armpit McGee.

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Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of ONE GIRL IN ALL THE WORLD, US Only.

Ends February 21^st, midnight EST.

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