Jen Printy’s My Soul Immortal Tour

Jen Printy’s My Soul Immortal Tour!

 

Hi Jen, anything you want to say before we get started?
Hello, Cait. Thank you so much for being part of the My Soul Immortal blog tour. I’m so happy to be here.

How’d you come up with the title?
My editor and publisher came up with My Soul Immortal. The title I had picked out was overused. We wanted something fresh and new. I love the title. It fits the book perfectly.

Tell us a little bit about the book.
Jack’s immortality is exposed when he prevents a liquor store heist, forcing him to flee to protect his secret—a secret not even he understands. But when he meets Leah Winters—a mirror image of his decades-lost love, Lydia—his very soul is laid bare. He begins to question his sanity. Is she real, and if so, what does that mean for Jack and his secret?

Jack’s not the only mystery man in town. A stranger named Artagan hints at knowledge Jack is desperate to possess. But can he trust Artagan, or does the dark newcomer harbor deadly secrets of his own?

As Jack’s bond with Leah grows, so does the danger to her life. Jack must discover just how much he is willing to risk in order to save the woman he already lost once.

How’d you come up with the plot?
The plot started with thoughts about déjà vu and reincarnation. What if lovers bumped into each other in a next life? Would they recognize one another? What if one remembered and the other did not? From there, it quickly flowed into a pair of characters, one being immortal.

Where does the story take place? Does the setting have any significance to you?
Most of the story takes place in Portland, Maine. I chose this setting for a couple of reasons. One, the city has a rich history and it’s a good mixture of new and old. A lot like the hero of the story. Secondly, it’s a city I know inside and out. I live about 20 minutes outside of Portland, and we go there often.

Describe your hero/heroine.
Jack is 170 years old immortal, frozen at age 20. He’s originally from Victorian England. At the beginning of the book, you find out that he was in love a long time ago with a girl named Lydia. She died in 1864, and he has never gotten over the loss.

Leah is an 18-year-old art student with a few secrets of her own. She has a strong sense of herself and is the forever optimist.

What is the one physical trait that would pull your reader into loving your hero/heroine?
Jack is a handsome guy—well-built and forever 20. He has a tattoo across his chest that reads “Foi apporte la force” (Faith brings strength).

Leah has striking emerald-green eyes, long blonde hair, and a contagious smile.

What is one personality trait that would pull your reader into loving them?
Jack has old-style manners—opening doors, bowing, and standing when a woman gets up to leave. He’s tried to break free of them, but hints of them remain.

Leah’s forever optimism. She has a strong faith that things will turn out for the good.

What are your characters’ names? Do they have pet names for each other?
Jack Hammond and Leah Winters. Jack calls Leah “love.”

Was there anyone that you based your characters on?
Me, I guess.
I’m a jumbled mix of all my main characters. I have moments of Jack’s self-doubt. I tend to see situations from a positive view like Leah. And like Artagan, I keep my feelings and thoughts close. Most people don’t know what I’m really thinking.

If you looked in the hero/heroine’s trashcan in their family room, living room, den, whichever one you want to pick, but not the bathroom, kitchen, or laundry room, what interesting tidbit would you find?
For Jack, other than the normal receipts and empty beer bottles, not much. He keeps very few personal possessions. Travel light is his motto. He never knows when someone might discovered his secret, and he’ll have to flee.

In Leah’s trashcan, you’d find used art supplies, mostly paint tubes, and crumpled balls of drawing paper.

Look at your character’s feet. Describe what you see there. Does he wear dress shoes, gym shoes, or none at all? Is he in socks that are ratty and full of holes? Or is he wearing a pair of blue and gold slippers knitted by his grandmother?
Jack would be wearing a black chucks and white socks with a hole or two in the heel or toes.

Leah loves her flats, anything artsy and funky. Unless it’s raining, then she’s wearing her favor pair of pink canvas high-tops.

On a day off, what would your character be doing? Watching TV, shopping, hanging out with friends, etc.?
Jack’s hidden away in his apartment with a good book that he’s probably read one hundred times, or at the local pub having a beer.

Leah’s at the beach with friends, enjoying the warm sunny day.

Would you give some of your favorite quotes?
“Pain is as reliable as gravity, but Death never keeps his appointments.” —Jack
“Every hero gets the girl, and every villain gets to die. I envy them all.” —Jack
“Times haven’t changed all that much. Every woman still longs for her own Mr. Darcy.” —Jack
“Are you ready to stop holding on to the past and start living yet?” —Leah
“The voice in your head, sometimes that’s me.” —Artagan

Now a little about you. What is your most treasured possession?
One of my most treasured possessions is a collection of books by Kate Douglas Wiggin, one of my father favorite authors. As a kid, my dad and I use to go to antique book stories searching for them. After he died, his collection passed to me.

When and where were you the happiest?
There’s this small island up the coast of Maine, a piece of heaven. I’ve spent a few weeks there every summer since I was a kid. It’s so peaceful there. The place always renews my spirit.

What do you dislike most?
People who are judgmental.

What is your greatest fear?
Like most moms, for something bad to happen to my kids.

Which talent would you most like to have?
We always want what we don’t have, don’t we? LOL. I wish I had a good singing voice. Not like Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey, just a good enough to sing karaoke without embarrassing myself.

What is your motto?
I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

Links:
website: http://jenprinty.weebly.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JenPrintyAuthor
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/jenprinty/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7821912.Jen_Printy
Publisher: Red Adept Publishing

Excerpt from your book:
PROLOGUE

I stare at the dull-black barrel of the 9mm pointed at my chest. My gaze shifts to my assailant’s face. His eyes narrow, and his mouth thins for an instant before curving into a smirk.

My grip tightens on the cardboard handle, causing the beer bottles to clink together. There’s no way this idiot is going to cost me my Prize Old Ale. It’s the store’s last six-pack, and who knows when I’ll get more? To the ordinary Joe, this might seem like a foolish thing to be concerned about, especially at a time like this. But it’s the good stuff, a taste of England, and the only enjoyment I have left.

I raise my free hand and keep my voice soft, as though coaxing a feral animal. “Let’s calm down. You don’t want to do something you’ll regret.”

The man’s glare slides to the name embroidered above the left pocket of my navy-blue shirt, and he curses. “Jack, huh? Figures. Now you listen to me. I’m in charge here, kid. Remember that!” The weapon jerks to the rhythm of his words, and his eyes, although wild, are committed to finishing what he started. I recognize that look. This man cannot be reasoned with.

Usually, I’m the only customer in here at this godforsaken hour of the night. But tonight, Mae, the elderly lady who lives in the apartment above Irene’s Liquor, must have decided she required self-medication to soothe her nightmares again—a plight I sympathize with. I’ve carried her groceries upstairs enough times to know her fondness for Jameson and her propensity for using the spirits as a sleeping aid. Unfortunately, she came into the store at the same time the man pulled his gun. Luckily for her, he didn’t shoot, but her thready, asthmatic gasp must’ve made him think she was about to scream for help. He smacked her across her temple as easily as flicking a light switch. And I, of course, unable to mind my own business, stepped in to defend her.

A low moan rises from Mae, now sprawled on the dirty linoleum floor, and drags my attention from the man. Her faded pink and yellow housecoat is spattered with drying blood. Crimson trickles from the gash on her temple. Her eyes are closed, but her chest rises and falls at a steady pace. Still breathing. But for how long? Anger builds deep in my chest, and on cue, the sensation of icy pins and needles shoots down my spine. I drag in a deep, ragged breath.

When my scowl meets his stare, the man squares his shoulders, his nostrils flare, and the gun wobbles. I brace myself in anticipation of the pain. Despite having never been shot before, I’m pretty sure this is going to sting like hell. I find myself wondering if a bullet speeding through my chest might grab his attention, and even though I shouldn’t allow it to, a sense of hope sprouts.

I gesture at the elderly clerk cowering by the register, and he hunches out of sight. The gunman swings his weapon toward the counter. “Old man, are you deaf or stupid? Stand up!”

With his attention diverted, I set my beer out of harm’s way on a shelf behind me. I take advantage of the would-be thief’s distraction and lunge.

The gun swings back. A shot rings out. Another follows.

Each impact knocks every wisp of air from my lungs. I stumble, clutching my abdomen, and struggle for a single breath. The pain feels like two red-hot pokers—blunt ones, at that—being shoved through my insides. The bullets speed through flesh and organs. Spasms quake throughout my body and slam me backward into the shelving. The shelf teeters then collapses, taking me down with it. Glass shatters, and the beer’s sweet aroma rises from the shards.

I shove myself up from the wreckage. A mixture of surprise and confusion streaks across the gunman’s face, wiping away his triumphant smile. Before he can act, I haul back my arm. A gratifying grunt spews out of him as my fist slams into his nose. Cartilage crunches, and he staggers backward, cupping his face with his hand. I wrench the gun from his loosening grip then smack the butt hard against his skull.

“You don’t hit ladies,” I say and glance down at the broken bottles at my feet. “And that was the last sixer of Prize, dammit!” I let my finger inch toward the trigger. I can’t help but think how easy—perhaps even noble—it would be to rid the world of this scum. Instead, I rein in my instinct and lift the gun over my shoulder. With a restrained swing, I slam the gun against the man’s temple.

The man slumps to his knees, disoriented. I walk around him, place the sole of my boot in the middle of his back, and apply pressure. With a rush of breath, he falls to the floor. After tucking the gun into my waistband, I pull his arms behind him and use the nylon twine from a nearby advertising banner to restrain them. He doesn’t struggle; actually, he doesn’t move at all while I loop the string around his wrists twice and yank it tight, finishing off the tether with a double-constrictor knot. Once his hands are secure, I fold his right leg behind his back and repeat the process then give the twine one last tug, surveying the restraint. All the while, the old clerk frantically blabbers the Lord’s Prayer from behind the counter.

The gunman moans, and a silent sigh of relief steals through my lips. He’ll have a whopper of a headache, but he’ll live.

The heat of adrenaline that pumped through my veins slips away, leaving a sharp pain in my gut. I press my hand to my stomach, and a warm stickiness seeps around my fingers. I shake my head to clear the wooziness, and my eyes flick to the door. Hope withers when I don’t see him.

“Another no show,” I grumble. “Unreliable son of a—”

I stagger forward, my boots sliding in the remains of my beer. The shards of glass and ruddy brown liquid froth around my feet. Nothing worth salvaging. I huff in disgust. Losing the beer pisses me off, sure, but not as much as his failing to show. Again.

I kneel to examine Mae. The bleeding has stopped, and her breathing is strong and steady. She whimpers something incoherent.

“Shhh,” I say, wiping a loose strand of white hair from her face.

“Is she okay? I’ve called 9-1-1. Should be here soon,” the clerk says from behind me.

Dammit. I hobble to the register, slam the gun on the stained counter, and duck out of the store into the darkness.

The clerk calls after me. His astonished babble fades away with a swing of the door, only to be replaced by distant sirens.

Safety is five blocks away. Each step brings a new fire of radiating pain. Despite this, I keep a steady pace. The pangs dull my sight, narrowing it to a blurry tunnel, and I frequently melt into the shadows to listen to my surroundings. The slightest sound—the yap of a dog or the honk of a horn—makes me flinch.

At the second intersection, three people pass. A tall, black-haired man escorts his two female companions, a wiry arm around each, his hands low, just above the hems of their skimpy minidresses. I’m a sight to behold. My shirt is bathed in blood, and my jeans are stained with paths of dark scarlet. I lean against a building and pretend to vomit in an attempt to hide the gore. Without warning, the prickle—ancient and fresh, familiar and terrifying—stirs again and quickly blazes into an icy burn that surges up my neck. I’ve felt the sensation too many times to count—every time I hunger to take a life other than my own. I grit my teeth against the cold. My rigid fingers grasp at crumbling brick and mortar. Each helps me gulp back the craving.

The trio’s steps quicken, and the man’s baritone laughter echoes. They hustle out of sight, taking the wintry sensation with them. How haven’t I realized how close to the surface my monstrous need lurks? I have to get my ass home.

Once I reach Seventy-Fourth Street, I slip into the alley behind a rundown apartment complex. The air is damp and cool. No light invades the confined space. I relax a bit when I catch sight of the gray building. Hellhole, sweet hellhole.

I scale the back of the apartment building one step at a time. The fire escape complains with moans and rasps, and so does my body. Every movement brings a new wave of pain, making me groan. I slide into my apartment through my unlocked bathroom window, yank the shade closed, and flick on the light.

I lean against the sink and breathe deeply. My hands grip the porcelain basin, and a young man no more than twenty looks back at me from the mirror. No external scars to remind me of what I’ve been through. My only blemish is the one I was born with—a sickle-shaped birthmark above my left eye. I see the same disheveled, sable hair of my youth, without an ounce of gray. My wide, square jaw and angular features have no wrinkles even though I’m nearly the ripe old age of one hundred seventy. The vacant blue eyes prove what I already know. I lost my heart a long time ago, buried it too deep. “Forever blessed. What a joke.”

After splashing frigid water on my face, I strip off my blood-soaked shirt and hunch my back to examine my wounds in the mirror. The jagged holes have begun to heal—two entrances and one exit. I rub my hand along my spine, finding the skin hot to the touch. I press against the hard, pea-sized protrusion under the surface about a third of the way up my back, and I grimace. But I can’t do anything about the bullet now. No time.

I wonder how long it’ll be until the shooting makes the news. Any normal guy would be bleeding out in the gutter after taking two bullets to the abdomen. If I’m found healed and healthy, I’ll become a sideshow freak and live out the rest of my existence Lord knows where.

I tug on a T-shirt and exchange my blood-splattered jeans for a clean pair, then I begin shoving my few belongings into a shabby black duffel.

“If he’d just shown up tonight, I wouldn’t have to deal with this crap right now.” I thrust another handful of dirty socks into the bag.

This isn’t the first time Death has let me down. He’s stood me up many times—stabbed through the heart and bleeding to death in a pool of my own blood, sitting on the rocky bottom of a lake until every breath left my body—the list goes on. Pain is as reliable as gravity, but Death never keeps his appointments. If he did, I would be enjoying the good life in paradise, with Lydia.

At the thought of her, the ever-present ache grows as if talons are ripping away pieces of my heart. Somehow, it keeps its endless rhythm. I know all too well that some wounds cannot heal. Instead, they remain open and raw. Having someone important torn away is bound to leave a hole. I gulp a deep breath, and anxiety winds into a ball in my stomach. Memories leak in behind my eyes, calling to me, but I groan and wrench my head to the side, ruthlessly shoving them back. I don’t have time for an episode right now; I still have one task left to do. I stretch a yellowed map along the flaky gray walls and pin thumbtacks into each curled corner. No one will notice, let alone care about, the holes in the poorly treated drywall.

I step back and kiss the dart I swiped from a pub in York back in 1918 on the day my sister died and I decided to quit England for good. Since then, the old dart’s become a talisman of sorts. “Where are we going this time, old friend?”

With a flick of my wrist, the dart glides through the air and sticks into the map with a thud. Just my luck. It landed in the damn Atlantic Ocean. Not caring where I end up, I pick the closest city. Portland, Maine. Bloody marvelous. Still muttering under my breath about the annoyances of moving, I roll up the map and thrust it into the black duffel. I zip the bag and sling the strap over my shoulder, almost forgetting my knapsack as I walk out of the apartment and into the graffiti-tagged hallway.

The staircase is empty, so I punt the duffle down each flight of stairs to rid myself of some of the frustration. It somersaults and rolls down the steps without objection. At the bottom, I fling the bag onto my shoulder. Taking in a deep breath, I open the door and slink into the night, being careful to look up and down the sidewalk. No police, no sirens, no nothing. On the dark, lonely street, I secure the knapsack to the backseat of my old Triumph Bonneville with a couple bungees. After I slip the strap of the duffel over my head and shoulder, I climb onto the bike. I wriggle around, trying to find the most comfortable position. Although no longer painful, my back is tender, and the bag’s weight is a persistent reminder. I give up on comfort and turn the ignition. The motorcycle rumbles to life. I head out of Los Angeles and onto the open road.

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