Julie Ann Dawson's Blog, page 8

Excerpt: Blackmoore: A Novel

About the Book

“Within the secluded shelter of evergreens and cliffside that surrounds Bellingham Washington is South Hill, the city’s prominent old money neighborhood; filled with gracious Victorians and manor homes, over looking the fishing port of Fairhaven and the dark waters of Bellingham Bay.

17 year-old Trevor Blackmoore has lived here his entire life, shunned and feared, along with the rest of his clan by the snobbish and superstitious families that surround them; who regard the Blackmoores as the devil’s concubines. As a young clairvoyant dealing not only with the dark secrets of his family but also with his homosexuality; two things which have made him an outsider, he struggles to find normalcy.

Trevor’s life is made extremely difficult by his tormentors and former childhood friends Cheri Hannifin, Greg Sheer, and Christian Vasquez-three school gods of the prestigious Mariner High School.

When Christian suddenly returns to Trevor’s life, full of regret and a sudden need for something more, Trevor is unaware that he is walking into a devilish and dangerous trap concocted by Cheri and Greg, who have more in store for Trevor than simple revenge but a plot to ruin an unsuspecting Christian as well. This act sets off a chain of events that will fulfill the doomed prophecy of the Blackmoore family, who in their mysterious world, lined with voodoo and their dark and complicated Irish roots, are in grave danger.

A century’s old curse comes to an end, releasing an ancient and bloodthirsty evil, set out on destroying the family, and Trevor learns that he is at the center of it; realizing that he is all the stands between this darkness and his family’s survival.”

Excerpt

The sounds of slamming locker doors, painted green and yellow, and the inaudible conversation of teenagers filled the afternoon hall, revelling in the freedom of the weekend. More than a two- day break, it was a chance to escape pre-described rules and dictated behavior. It was a moment when kids could party; it was the marker of rebellion. The time of the week all teenagers waited for in anxious attention: it was finally Friday, and what was more, in two hours it would officially be Friday night.

Trevor Blackmoore made his way in awkward silence, moving between loitering bodies, trying desperately to avoid the snide glares from his peers, praying to make it to his bus before it left the school’s property.

The hall was littered with self-proclaimed Goths decked out in black velvet and leather, painted in gaudy eyeshadow and black lipstick. There were neo-hippies and new-ageists, clad in corduroy and Birkenstocks and smelling of patchouli oil. The butt-rockers in their jeans and band t-shirts, not caring about Pacific Northwest weather, glorifying in their long hair, seemingly stuck in the 1980s, though they were all just beginning to fill out their Huggies and Pampers back then.

All of these groups primarily associated together, taking up a series of round, dirt-brown lunch tables in the cafeteria, protecting and teasing one another, guarding against the socially elite and labeled conformists. Trevor knew which group he belonged to. He was aware of his status at Mariner High School; he knew what crowd took him in with open arms and which ones pushed him into the proverbial wayside, and it wasn’t the elitists. They called him names like fag and butt-rider, not caring that under his skin and beyond his silence there was feeling, raw teenage emotions just as validated and real as theirs — but in truth, why would they need to know that? When they were who they were, and Trevor was who he was. He kept his fair hands tucked in the front pockets of his faded sandblast American Eagle jeans. A studded belt of black leather fit loosely around his waist, and a pair of chunky black and red Pumas on his feet, the laces tied sparingly; his feet shuffling along the floor and scratching on the linoleum, the sound almost deafened entirely by the voices of teenagers.

His body was fit, muscles visible through his small navy polo, a patch reading “GAP” was stitched in red just above the left breast, his jaw well-defined, and a pair of dimples became visible whenever he smiled — and that smile of his was perfection.

A scattering of dim freckles ran across the bridge of his nose and under large hazel eyes, seemingly able to absorb the world and swallow everything in it whole. It was these eyes and sweet face that made him seem too soft. His hair, short and spiked, seemed to have the glow of a halo under the white luminescence of fluorescent light, the dark red still as sheer as it was in childhood. Have to get back to Jonathan. He was so close to the doors, the windows in the middle revealing the weather. It was cloudy, filled with hues of gray, but light from an invisible sun pierced through the clouds, casting bright golden light like showers on the brick of the school and the wet pavement.

The grass was mucky and damp, covering a courtyard hosting a wet and rusted anchor, salvaged from an old fishing boat back in Bellingham’s glorious cannery days.

The last hurdle for Trevor before reaching the outside was making it past the A-listers of Mariner High School, crowded around the locker of Christian Vasquez, the central god of Mariner. He played all of the sports available and won championship after championship for the school; he’d been Homecoming king every year for the past three years, and Trevor knew that if you were allowed to be in the Homecoming court your freshman year, Christian would have won it then too.

Trevor hated passing these people, hated that every time he came into their galaxy his stomach turned, hated how Christian made his palms sweat and his eyes weak, darting this way and that, unable to focus on one thing — hated it, but couldn’t control it.

Christian was gorgeous, one of only two Hispanics at Mariner, standing at a perfect six feet, large almond shaped black eyes contrasting with immaculate mocha flesh, a sheen of barely visible black hairs lining his arms. His lips were dark and like cushions, a patch of black hairs tucked under his bottom lip, trimmed with care, exemplifying his sexual luster.

He looked as if he had stepped right off the cover of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue, a nearly impossible feat for most teenage boys, but here Christian was, being just that. In fact, Abercrombie was pretty much the only thing you could find clothing his body; his sly grin made Trevor’s knees buckle.

There were others as he passed Christian’s throng, all of them looking like models. There was Cheri Hannifin, a perfect size two, standing at five feet six inches, her brown hair wrapped up in a bun, loose strands hanging down selectively in curly tendrils, a set of black chopsticks holding it in place.

Her petite body was clothed in a white dress shirt, the collar large and folded down, resting atop a tight black cardigan, the buttons just reaching to her chest, cupping her breasts. She wore a plaid skirt — the colors charcoal, red, and white — and a pair of black-and-gray diamond patterned knee-high socks, her feet encased in high-heeled Mary Janes, the black of the leather buffed and polished. She was maybe the most vicious person Trevor had ever known, though she hadn’t started out that way.

As he passed them, he watched the popular throng turn and look at him. Christian leaned against his locker, his right foot propped up behind him, a wry smile on his face, revealing perfect white teeth, his black eyes like two pools of dark waters, and it sent chills down Trevor’s spine.

“What are you looking at, fag?” Trevor met with the cold gaze of Cheri’s brown eyes, standing out against perfect milk skin, her black brows thin and plucked, her lids colored in black powder, her lips rouged in a red-brown. It was a color that made Trevor think of dried blood, and her cheeks were lightly pink with blush. But her voice was harsh and like a knife, not soft like one would suspect when looking at her. “Nothing, I’m just going….” He bowed his head and made his way to the doors, the crowd around him in perfect unison, matching their pitches of laughter. Trevor looked behind him, his eyes catching with Christian, a soft smile resting on his face.

He was not laughing; in fact, he never really did, but he still created an unease inside of Trevor Blackmoore, an unease that pushed him to nausea. The school bus was packed with noisy high school students, all of them taking up the seats in the back, forcing Trevor to the front of the bus. He hated the front of the bus, hated it because freshmen sat up there, hated it because it meant less of a chance of sitting on your own, and it meant possibly being spoken to by the bus driver.

The winter air made the stainless steel interior of the bus as cold as ice and the brown vinyl of the seats were almost equally as chilling, forcing Trevor to reach for the black hooded sweatshirt inside of his book bag, pulling it over his head quickly, shivering as soon as his body began to make its transition from cold to warm. He just wanted to get home. As the bus made its way out of the school’s cul-de-sac drive, pulling onto Bill McDonald Parkway, Trevor spied Christian Vasquez, Cheri Hannifin, and others in their group make their way to the parking lots, moving as if they owned the world, and standing out like they were glowing gods, gracing the world with their ethereal light. He lost sight of them as the bus made its way up towards Western, driving by crap-brown portables and the music hall, as well as the usual evergreens, so common to the Pacific Northwest.

He gained sight of them once more pulling out of the parking lot, pissed that they had to let the bus pass by before they could pull out. Christian, Cheri, and another girl were sitting in Christian’s blue Mustang convertible. Despite the cold the top was down, and behind them was the silver Camry of Greg Sheer, another member of the A-list and competitor/friend of Christian. They were friends because they had to be, but truly enemies underneath.

The worst of it for Trevor was that he had grown up with all of them, gone to the same elementary school, the same middle school, and now the same high school as the rest of them. In kindergarten they had all played together, gone to one another’s birthday parties, and played in each other’s yards. That was the world of South Hill, the eldest and most elitist part of Bellingham, where old money families fought to keep their standing against the new money invasion that bought land and built modern mansions in the Cliffside properties of Edgemoore, overlooking Bellingham Bay and parts of Fairhaven.

Fairhaven was the original town, founded by new arrivals, making a profit from their designed fishing port, not officially joining the town of Bellingham until the near end of the nineteenth century, though Bellingham had grown out of this little village.

Overlooking it all were the dominant Victorians, vestiges of what once was, and a perfect postcard of what it was still trying to be. The school bus turned up Knox Street and made its way up the winding hill past the Society for Photo-Optical Instrumentation Engineers: a building made up of perfectly formed geometric shapes, dominating a grassy knoll, made of a combination of stone and brown siding, the building itself conjuring all sorts of ideas in the deep recesses of a persons fevered imagination.

As Trevor neared his stop, positioned in front of the alley separating his home from the one next door, he could feel a soft murmur, like a mild vibration funneling in his body, stirring his soul and awakening him from his droll day. It pulled him from his lazy slouch and towards the bus door before it had even come to a halt; Jonathan was waiting for him.

“You have a good day!” the bus driver shouted out to him as he stepped off the bus, his feet tapping the wet pavement. The alley before him was long and silent, cast in blue shadow, the sun slowly setting beyond the bay. Its orange, red, and pink light lit the sky ablaze, though the clouds were still prominent, as if waiting for the sun to extinguish before it could take over the city completely and envelop it in its dark-puff arms, preparing to let down a shower of rain or possibly snow.

The soft whisper of his name forced Trevor back into the present. The light of day was fading fast, and his room was becoming darker by the minute, and Jonathan was growing desperate, commanding attention. The curtains were pushed open by male hands, visible in the dark; in fact, all of Jonathan was visible in the dark.

Poking out above the homes down the alley was the triangular arch of a large Queen Anne Victorian with wood siding painted plum, accentuated with powder-pink trim. Two large, red-bricked chimneys were visible, reaching out like a pair of lightning rods, their patches and crevices filled with rich green moss — the same state as every other chimney in coastal Washington. To the right of the lane was his home, its front lined by dominating maples, the yard groomed into perfect green. A dark flagstone path led to a mammoth, two-story federal-style manor, its siding as white as fresh clouds, the multi-frame windows accentuated with royal green shutters. Protecting the rooms from curious onlookers were rich green satin drapes, and the front door was accentuated with a pristine molding. Carved against the wood of the house were two faux pillars, seemingly to hold up an ornate decorative arch, and a set of four topiaries decorated the front of the house. Trevor felt that familiar pull and looked up, his eyes meeting with the second floor’s hall window, directly above the front door. He watched as the curtain parted and spied a faint male form blurring, staring down at him, coming in and out of visibility. Jonathan was calling. Inhaling a deep breath and drinking up the crisp, clean winter air tinged with sea salt from the nearby bay, Trevor closed his eyes for just a moment, extinguishing the thought of school and Christian. Allowing it to pass him as the air passed through his lungs and back out, exhaling through his passages and recycling into the atmosphere. Another tremor. Trevor Blackmoore made his way to the front door, inserting his key into the matching hole on the left, grasping the wrought- iron handle, and stared at his reflection in the window pane. He pushed the door open and stepped inside his home, looking behind him once more, looking upon the grim afternoon before turning and closing the door. He was home. The hall smelled of chrysanthemums and fresh juniper, most likely purchased down at the little garden shop in Fairhaven, a favorite place of his mother’s, who delighted in those brief moments when she could go out into the world and still keep in her seclusion. To his right was the formal living room, filled with sleek French and English furniture, many pieces formed from black leather or satin, sitting atop red and green antique rugs with ornate patterns over aged hardwood floors, the large space permeating with old world sophistication. It was suffocating in its own right.

Just beyond the room’s entrance was a sun room, added to the home in 1920, completed eight months later. This room was the entire length of the home — not a particularly spacious room, but due to its length it could fit as many as thirty people at one time. Its floor was made of flagstone, furniture of white wicker occupying the space. The large drawing room doors that separated this room from the living room were pushed wide open most of the time, only closing when his mother entered into one of her suffocating bouts of depression, forcing herself into such a state that it bordered on catatonic. Many people were afraid of her; not Trevor.

He knew his mother and understood her, understood her suffocation, suffocation brought on by strict religious fervor. She was in a chain of Irish Catholicism, unable to break free from it, though she hadn’t gone to church regularly in years. It seemed to Trevor that even though she was a devoted wife to his jerk of a stepfather, she truly was detached and cold, sometimes even unable to communicate with her own son.

To his left was the media room, filled with relaxed couches, a large television set hidden inside a chest made of cherry-wood, and with the simple press of a remote control the set would rise up from its secret compartment, ready to be viewed. Both of these rooms led to others within the house. To the back of the sitting room was a large office, occupied by his stepfather — though before his arrival it had been his mother’s ball room; in fact, it was constructed as such back in the 1880s.

When his stepfather moved in, the room was changed, truly killing his mother on the inside, but as with most things she kept quiet, opting rather for peace than for selfish banter of wants and haves.

Beyond the media room was a formal dining room dominated by a grand cherry-wood table, the chairs large and ornate, the tabletop itself always decorated with polished china and silver basins. The walls in the rest of the home were striped in red-and- white paper. It was like this even in the sun room, even in the office, but in the dining room the walls were covered in red satin, translucent patterns of moons and planets visible only in light. Just beyond the swinging wood door was a large gourmet kitchen, updated with modern utilities of stainless steel and a large island combination stove, the trash dispenser hidden discreetly within. Before Trevor now was the long narrow hall, paved in hardwood, draped by a long, green rug. Down the hall to his left was the stairwell, facing a narrow bookcase, spiralling its way up to the second floor where Jonathan waited. Trevor spied a wiry shadow move along the top floor, silently beckoning for him. He made his way to this now, though he was brought to a halt by the sudden call of his mother.

“Trevor!” Her voice was smoky and seductive; it was the voice of the great Kathryn Blackmoore. He pulled the doors open.

“Yes?” He found her in there, a Screwdriver held secure in her strong, pale hands — her drink of choice, and her long arms were folded around her thin waist. Her five-foot-nine body was clothed in a sleek, black spaghetti-strapped dress which was tight around her full breasts; a three-tiered pearl necklace rested in her cleavage. Her features were sharp and her eyes as pale blue as humanly possible, looking like ice. Her hair reached to her shoulders, a rich auburn layered by expensive hairdressers. Her entire form breathed sexuality, and this was further complimented by long legs strapped in a pair of Bellemar black stilettos by Michael Kors, spiking the floorboards; this was what made Kathryn Blackmoore Kathryn Blackmoore. “How was your day?” There it was, that voice, sultry and somewhat masculine; Trevor wished he sounded like that.

“Uneventful as usual….” She nodded and smirked, taking another drink from her glass.

“Let’s go out for dinner tonight!”

“Is Tom coming with us?” Kathryn shook her head and made her way towards him, placing her soft hands on his shirt, smoothing it out.

“Tom is in Virginia; he left thirty minutes ago.” He felt the pull within him, felt it as always. “Now, go change; someone’s been expecting you….” He looked at her, startled, but Kathryn Blackmoore only winked. She always knew so much, but how could she know of his friend upstairs? Trevor walked towards the living room, trying to shake off the strangeness of his mother. “And Trevor!”

“Uh-huh?”

“Close the door behind you.” He did.

Trevor bound the wood steps, winding up to the second floor, brushing past the large fern on the landing, hearing the house moan with life.

TWO

The last rays of light pierced through those familiar parted drapes, rich and green, the light like a beam, piercing the air of a particularly dim room, particles of dust visible in the bright intrusion, causing Trevor’s eyes to squint closed, the corners of the lids creased, lines running together. He hated reflecting on the school day, hated having to reflect on the people there — the same people that had played in his backyard all throughout childhood, those same people who now looked down on him and considered him to be nothing more than an infringement on their privileged world. He closed his eyes, ignoring the gentle brush of vibrating air, hot and somewhat moist, caressing his forehead. It was simply Jonathan, his childhood friend, the only one who continued to stay by his side, the only one to truly know Trevor inside and out. Like all things in one’s secret world, everything breathes the air of your own life. He drifted back into dreams: dreams made of memories, dreams of a time when Trevor belonged, dreams made strictly for childhood.

“… Three, two, one, ready or not, here I come!” Little Trevor Blackmoore opened his tiny lids, his delicate lashes fluttering like moths’ wings, adjusting to the bright summer light, standing in his back courtyard, the red flagstone reaching from one end to the other, leaving no room for grass. On the flagstone were two black wrought-iron benches and three sets of black wrought-iron tables, with four chairs each, decorated with tiny white candles inside little glass candle-holders, the Fourth of July party preparing to start.

Kathryn was inside of the house, most likely in the sun room chatting with friends, all of them with drinks in hand, laughing and speaking of adult things while their children played hide-and- seek in the back. Four maple trees reached out strategically in the back, no more than twenty feet in height, and strung about with Chinese lanterns; no doubt someone was hiding behind the trees.

Trevor was determined to catch one person in particular: Christian Vasquez, who always made it to home base, which was the carriage house along the road, now his mother’s secret place, a place that was secured with three padlocks, a place that Trevor had only seen once and could only vaguely remember.

It was a place that had smelled wonderfully and sat illuminated with firelight, a place of plaster eyes, and a place that filled him with fear and peace all at the same time. A strange combination that was often confusing, even now, even though he at this point was intimately aware of the mirrored world, the place of trance- words and things named Jonathan — the most familiar place in all the world.

‘I know where they are…’ he said to Trevor in the secret language of the mind, in the voice that only Trevor could hear, touching him with the flesh that only he could feel.

“Where’s Christian?” Trevor was scanning the courtyard, trying not to look conspicuous, wanting to be as nonchalant as possible, well aware of the danger of people knowing too much of him. He felt that vibratory hand graze his shoulder and grasp his arm, directing it to the appointed area just behind the drapery of Virginia creeper along the thin wood fence, slowly rotting away with erosion and the growing weight of the plant.

‘There….’ Trevor nodded casually and made his way between the trees, running lightly along the flagstone, his little tennis shoes tapping on the brick, seeing the others pop out of hiding. Cheri Hannifin brushed past him in her blue jumper and brown pigtails, giggling inanely to herself. Little Greg Sheer was not far behind, wearing a pair of jean shorts and a black t-shirt with the Batman emblem on the chest, his golden hair bright like the sun, and his blue eyes were not unlike his mother’s: steely and cool. But he could care less about either one of them. Trevor only wanted Christian, and with his specter’s help he was going to get him. The air smelled of the sea and barbequed meat from the back kitchen, as well as from the fire pits in the surrounding yards.

The collective clouds of smoke and the fragrance of charred flesh filled the warm summer air and carried itself on the cool breeze. Trevor crept behind the carriage house. “I found you, I found you!” he called repeatedly, his little index finger pointing at the little Hispanic boy crouched behind the green and rope-like plant.

A little smirk spread across his face, followed by a wink, and then he was off, both boys laughing as Christian made his way to home base, confident in his success and spotless hide-and-seek record. Trevor watched as the vibratory form of Jonathan moved in front of the little boy and stood his spectral ground, pulling energy from Trevor as well as the earth, making himself as firm as possible, causing Christian to run right into his phantom gut, bringing the little boy to a halt and not allowing him to move.

For a brief moment Trevor just stared, fearing that Jonathan would become visible to the others. Normally he looked like nothing more than the heat that vibrates from metal, looking wavy and somewhat like gas, but in this new solidity Trevor feared discovery. He realized rather quickly that no one could see him, so Trevor ran. “You’re it!” Trevor declared, placing his hand on Christian’s shoulder, causing the boy to look at him in brief disappointment, but like all things with children, this disappointment was passing. The four children continued to play, as other kids began to arrive. Trevor’s cousins and fellow classmates from Lowell Elementary arrived, ready to join the existing game or form a new one altogether. Trevor was wary of Jonathan’s presence, knowing that he wasn’t the only one who knew about spirits. In fact, it was a well-known thing in his family, and his cousins had their own strange secrets much like Trevor, but completely individual in their form.

The soft whisper of his name forced Trevor back into the present. The light of day was fading fast, and his room was becoming darker by the minute, and Jonathan was growing desperate, commanding attention. The curtains were pushed open by male hands, visible in the dark; in fact, all of Jonathan was visible in the dark.

Standing at a steady six feet and three inches, dressed in a tweed suit made of shadow, a strong face with prominent cheekbones stared out on the front lawn. Translucent white skin, like well-polished marble, big oval black eyes deep and endless, absorbing all of the light, his dark hair well-groomed, styled much like Trevor’s and making this specter, this familiar, look incredibly beautiful, sharing secret desires with Trevor Blackmoore, desires named sinful by any God-fearing human being. Thankfully Trevor had no fear of God; in fact, God was a foreign concept to Trevor.

‘You need to be dressed for dinner….’ His voice always seemed like a whisper, trailing off, and never with question. That was one of the things Trevor adored about Jonathan.

“I know.” Jonathan nodded and went to Trevor’s closet, pulling it open and removing a crisp white shirt and fine black slacks draped over a wood hanger, laying it before Trevor on his bed. The spirit went to his chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of white briefs and his black dress socks, laying them out atop the shirt and slacks.

Trevor stood and lifted his shirt from off his head, his nipples becoming erect at the moment of Jonathan’s touch, those spectral hands moving along his body, those ghost-lips upon his flesh, slowly moving down his chest, trailing along defined abs and pulling open his jeans. Trevor’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as his exposed body found its way back onto the mattress, indulging in the familiar routine.

Excerpt: Blade of the Destroyer

As part of our 2015 eFestival of Words Halloween Party, we are sharing excerpts from some horror, dark fantasy, and Halloween-themed books. Enjoy this excerpt of Blade of the Destroyer by author Andy Peloquin.

About the book

The Hunter of Voramis is the perfect assassin:

Ruthless, Unrelenting, Immortal.

Yet he is haunted by lost memories, bonded to a cursed dagger that feeds him power yet denies him peace of mind. Within him rages an unquenchable need for blood and death. When he accepts a contract to avenge the stolen innocence of a girl, the Hunter becomes the prey. The death of a seemingly random target sends him hurtling toward destruction, yet could his path also lead to the truth of his buried past?

Stalk the Author for Halloween!

http://andypeloquin.com/

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https://www.facebook.com/andyqpeloquin

https://twitter.com/AndyPeloquin

Excerpt

Eyes the color of night watched Lord Damuria’s body plunge to the forest floor. The wind seemed to hold the nobleman suspended in the air for a moment before slowly releasing his body to the grasping clutches of gravity.

The hard, dark face of the Hunter showed no sign of pity as the body landed with a loud thud at his feet.

It is no more than he deserves, he thought.

The Hunter had no idea why Lord Damuria deserved death, nor did he care. He had been paid, and that was all that mattered.

He felt no remorse as he watched the broken man fight for his last pitiful, agonizing breaths. Not given to mercy, the fear in Lord Damuria’s eyes meant nothing.

Soot and mud stained the nobleman’s robes, his bright crimson blood contrasting sharply with the white blond of his hair. Where Damuria’s hands had once been, only stumps remained. The Hunter’s broad-headed crossbow bolts had sliced through bone and tendon, severing the man’s hands at the wrist. The bolts were buried deep in the stone of the cliff, still stained with Damuria’s blood.

The nobleman struggled to speak, made difficult by the quarrel puncturing his lungs. The Hunter bent close to hear the whispered words.

“Do…it…you…bastard.” Lord Damuria’s eyes closed as he awaited the inevitable.

The Hunter moved with precision and speed, drawing the dagger from his belt and plunging it deep into the dying man’s chest. The thrust snapped ribs and sliced through smooth heart muscle. Damuria’s screams echoed in the silence of the forest, an eerie sound tinged with desperation and terror.

The screams of his victims always remained with him long after their deaths. They played over and over in his mind, accompanied by the vision of their dying faces.

Bright ruby light flared from the gem set in the hilt of the dagger, and power rushed through the blade. The Hunter gasped as the voice in his mind screamed its pleasure. The familiar pain flared along his back, but he was accustomed to it. This pain was the price he paid for the power.

This, he thought, reveling in the sensations flooding through him, this is why I do it.

A final shudder ran through the broken body before him, and the cries of agony faded into a gentle whisper. “Fucking…Hunter…” Damuria cursed with his dying breath.

Silence reigned in the forest, broken only by the sound of the wind whistling through the trees. After the thrill of the chase, the stillness hung like a weight on the Hunter’s mind. A tremble ran through his calloused hands as he gripped the worn hilt of the knife embedded in his latest kill, his long, lean muscles bulging in his effort to wrench the blade free. The knife was caught on the dead man’s ribs, and pulling it free required a surprising amount of effort, even with the Hunter’s immense strength.

Blood glistened on the blade, and the Hunter watched it soak into the steel. The bright red light leaking from the gem slowly dimmed, and the stone became translucent and colorless once more.

The dagger has been sated. He no longer heard the insistent voice in his head urging him to kill. It will remain silent, for now.

The Hunter sheathed his blade and stooped to kneel over the lifeless form of his prey. Placing one hand on the man’s head and the other on his now-silent heart, he bowed his head.

“May the Long Keeper take your body; your soul is forfeit,” the Hunter intoned. His voice was rich and deep with a hint of gravel. A hard voice, reciting a final ritual for fallen prey. A ritual from a past he could no longer remember.

He stared down at the broken body lying at his feet.

This one was surprisingly difficult to track down.

Green blood now oozed from the dead man’s severed wrists, staining the forest canopy a sickly color. The scent of poisoned flesh hung in the air—the effects of the venomous argam with which he coated the bolts, the Hunter knew.

A fit creature for the hunt. A sense of satisfaction flooded him. Another contract fulfilled.

He had killed all manner of men. Big men, little men, strong men, weak men. Cowards, and brave fools. Heroes, villains, rich men, beggars.

He was the Hunter, and all men were his prey.

Climbing to his feet, the Hunter turned his back on the corpse and strode toward the cliff. He climbed the craggy face with ease, taking care to avoid the blood-soaked rocks marking Lord Damuria’s fatal path. His powerful muscles made the ascent easy, and he soon stood at the top of the cliff, showing no signs of exhaustion.

The Hunter stared at the city sprawling across the plain and along the ocean’s edge.

Voramis. My city.

Thick walls towered high, the massive city gates open to allow the traffic to flow at a steady pace. Temple spires reached for the clouds, while the blocky Palace of Justice watched over the sprawling metropolis in its shadow. Upper Voramis, jewel of the city, straddled the hilltop upon which the city had been built, looking down protectively over Lower Voramis. To the west, the cloudy blue waters of the Endless Sea stretched farther than the eye could see.

The Hunter studied the position of the sun—already well into its descent toward the horizon. Night would have fallen by the time he reached Voramis. It was always easier to move through the city streets after dark; he wouldn’t attract undue attention—either from the Heresiarchs guarding the city gate, or from the gangs of thugs roaming the Merchant’s Quarter.

With a sigh for his road-weary feet, the Hunter began the long walk back to the city.

* * *

The streets of Lower Voramis came alive after dark. Light spilled from the numerous brothels, taverns, and gambling houses, along Reveler’s Lane, illuminating Voramis’ busiest and least-reputable thoroughfare. The Blackfall District served as the hub for every vice and crime created by men and women with more money than good sense.

Burly men wearing the uniform of hired muscle guarded the doors to their establishments with fierce pride, their watchful eyes never straying from the drunken revelers stumbling between alehouses and whorehouses in various stages of inebriation.

The working classes inhabiting the run-down districts spent their meager coin on drink, gambling, and cheap whores. Unwary visitors to the district often woke up with an aching head and an empty purse, not to mention a host of persistent diseases on body parts better kept free of infection.

The Hunter hated the Blackfall District, but his home in the Beggar’s Quarter lay on the far side of the city, leaving him no choice but to traverse it.

He groaned at his untimely ill-fortune as three drunken men stumbled from The Cock and Bull—an inn known for cheap beer and cheaper women—belting out a bawdy tune. Two of the lushes clung to each other for support, barely managing to keep their feet as they wended their unsteady way down Reveler’s Lane.

The third, a man with a forehead like a rock and a nose flattened by too many beatings, crushed his pewter tankard in his massive hands. His arms looked hewn from rock—a very hairy, very tattooed rock.

“And then me love, a lovely lass,” sang the two drunkards, their voices rising above the din of revelry around them, “she kissed me face, I poked her-“

“Won’t you two shut the frozen hell up?” their companion muttered. “Drunken idiots, ya can’t even get the song right!”

“You’re jush jealoush becaush ya don’t have me fine singin’ voice, Rifter,” one slurred at him.

“Oh, get stuffed, Emon,” Rifter said with a glare. “If ya weren’t so Minstrel-damned drunk, you’d know that ya sound worse than a pair of ruttin’ cats in a laundry press.”

“And that’sh why yer jealoush, Rifter,” said the second drunk. “Your shingin’ shoundsh like it’s coming from the Watcher’sh own arsehole.”

“Which is why, Eld,” Rifter snarled, “I know to keep me mouth shut instead of singin’ at the top of me lungs when I’ve had too many ales.”

Something about the tension in Rifter’s shoulders, coupled with the flattened nose, shouted of the man’s desire to fight. In an effort to avoid a confrontation, the Hunter slipped down a darkened side street and into an alley.

The Bloody Hand kept discipline in the Blackfall District, but they failed to maintain even a moderate standard of cleanliness. Just one street away from Reveler’s Lane, the stench of waste was such that the Hunter had to cover his face with his cloak to quell the urge to add the contents of his stomach to the filth. Men and women lay scattered in varying states of drunkenness and drug-induced stupor, many of them wallowing in their own filth. Debris and litter clogged the gutters, the refuse spilling out into the street.

Picking up his pace, the Hunter hurried through the streets, keeping his breaths shallow to avoid filling his lungs with the noxious air.

“Evenin’, gents.” A woman’s voice drifted from around the next corner. “Can I offer either of ye a good time? Only four bits, and I promise I’ll be gentle with ye.”

“What’sh a pretty lady like you,” a male voice hiccupped in her direction, “doin’ in a place like this?”

The Hunter’s heart sank as he recognized the voice of one of the three drunks he had tried to avoid. He was faced with a choice: backtrack and go around the men to avoid a fight, or walk past them and hope his ragged cloak would deflect their attention. With a shrug of resignation, he hunched his shoulders, bent his back, and began to shuffle forward, mimicking the slow gait of a tired old beggar.

The drunken attempts of the two lushes to accept the painted doxy’s invitation seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect.

The whore stared at them for a moment, as if weighing up her options, before waving them away dismissively. “The pair of ye’s looks too drunk to handle me. As for you, big boy,” she said, staring up at Rifter, “I reckon ye’ll split me right in half. And that’s with me on top, eh?” She patted his arm provocatively, but he pulled it away.

“I’m not much in the mood for company tonight, back-bedder,” Rifter spat.

Her face contorted, showing clear distaste at his words. “Well, I’ve no mind to bed any of ye,” she protested. “I’m sure it won’t be hard to find men of a far better stock than you sorry lot, anyways.”

Rifter’s expression darkened and he ground his teeth as he watched her mince away. He clenched his fists, his massive arms flexing in anger.

His gaze fell on the Hunter shambling toward him and a malicious gleam flashed in the man’s eyes. The other two men saw the Hunter as well, and a grin creased the face of the one called Emon.

“Let’s see if we can’t have a bit of fun, eh, Rifter?” he asked, chuckling softly as he pointed down the darkened alley in the direction of the Hunter.

Eld released his hold on Emon, and stumbled towards the harmless looking beggar.

“I say there, friend,” he said, struggling to imitate a member of the upper class, “it’s time for you to move out of the street and make way for your betters.” Emon clapped his hands on the Hunter’s shoulders and shoved hard.

The Hunter had no intention of allowing himself to be pushed into the filth of the gutter. From it rose the strong, repulsive odor of human refuse mixed with the gods-knew-what else, resulting in the type of stench that seeped into the pores of a man’s skin and reeked even after weeks of regular washing. He stood firm, and the drunken man sprawled into the muck.

Emon gagged as his mouth filled with the slime, and he retched—adding his vomit to the ordure staining his face. His companion, no less drunk, stared down at his friend for a long moment before reacting.

“Say there,” Eld protested, “that’s down…down…right rude of you, friend, to knock Emon over.”

The Hunter attempted to step around Emon’s fallen form, but Eld moved to block his way. Opting for retreat, the Hunter found the hulking form of Rifter cutting off his escape.

“My friend speaks the truth, wretch,” Rifter growled, his breath heavy with alcohol and anger. “You owe him an apology, and an imperial for his clothing.”

Emon’s clothing was clearly worth far less than an imperial—an entire year’s wages for a day laborer—but the Hunter could see Rifter was spoiling for a fight.

“Apologies, good sirs,” said the Hunter, adopting the quavering voice of an old man. “It was clumsy of me not to see where you were walking. Alas, I have naught to give you.”

“Nothing, beggar?” Rifter’s voice had a hard edge.

“No, good masters. A poor man like myself can barely scrounge together two bits, much less a whole imperial. Please, I beg you to let me pass, and the gods will bless you for your generosity.”

The Hunter attempted to move once more, but Rifter’s hand on his arm was firm, holding him in place. “If you don’t have an imperial to spare, beggar,” the big brute said, “we’ll just have to take what you have and be content.”

Rifter reached out to pull back the hood, but the Hunter twisted away, his speed clearly surprising the hulking Rifter. The big man had still managed to close his sausage fingers around the Hunter’s robe, ripping it from the beggar’s shoulders.

“Let’s see what this has to…” Rifter’s words trailed off in disbelief.

The Hunter straightened, his eyes now level with his enemy. Rifter frowned as he took in the features of the handsome face of the Hunter; the sculpted nose, high cheekbones, and strong chin were not the features of a penniless beggar. His dark hair, its color near-black in the dark alley, was pulled back into a tight tail. His unadorned leather armor, clearly worn and well-used, revealed a lean, lithe form.

The Hunter’s eyes, a color somehow darker than the starless night above, held no fear. He glared at Rifter with quiet calm, taking in the huge man’s features, and his expression showed nothing but contempt and resignation.

Rifter’s eyes dropped to the sword at the Hunter’s waist, and the Hunter knew the man’s dull mind was struggling to keep up. Only Heresiarchs were permitted to carry swords, but the Hunter cared little for the laws of the city.

“Hey,” shouted Emon from the ground, spitting foul muck and wiping black slime from his mouth, “he’s not old! What’s going on here?”

“Last chance,” the Hunter said in a voice filled with menace. “Walk away.”

In their befuddled state, Emon and Eld tried to comprehend the gravity of their situation. The Hunter saw the momentary flash of good sense in Rifter’s eyes, as his brain screamed for him to run away, but the anger in the big man caused it to go unheeded.

“Sorry, boyo,” Rifter said, lapsing back into his usual brogue. He bared his teeth in an evil grin and balled his enormous fists. “You’ve insulted me mates, and now it turns out you’ve got somethin’ valuable beneath that ratty cloak of yours.”

“You’ve been warned,” replied the Hunter, “and now you’ve seen my face.”

He stepped back as the foul-smelling Emon struggled to his feet. His hand dropped to the sword hanging from his belt, and he stared down into the drunk’s befuddled eyes.

“That’s mine now!” Emon stumbled forward and reached for the sword.

The Hunter stepped forward, the blade seeming to appear in his hand.

It took Emon’s befuddled brain a few seconds to register the fact that his hands were no longer attached to his arms. He didn’t even scream as he fell to his knees, blood spurting from the stumps of his forearms.

“Emon!” Eld lashed out with a wild swing at the Hunter, who took a single contemptuous step back to avoid the drunken blow.

Eld stumbled off balance, and before he could recover, the Hunter slammed the hard edge of his calloused hand into the soft tissue of Eld’s throat. Eld fell to the floor, clutching at his ruined windpipe.

Rifter had not moved in the seconds it had taken the Hunter to dispatch his friends. He remained rooted to the spot, eyes wide. A flicker of fear flashed through his befuddled mind.

“Two down, riend,” the Hunter rasped, his depthless eyes burning as he stared at Rifter.

The harsh voice wrenched the big man from his stupor, and rage bubbled in his chest. “You cunt-eating bastard,” Rifter growled at the dark figure. “You’ll pay for that.”

He carried no sword, but the long dagger he drew from his coat was razor sharp. His huge fists dwarfed the blade, and he wielded it with familiar ease.

Iron.

The Hunter’s eyes flicked to the dagger in Rifter’s hands for a second, and something akin to hesitance flashed across his dark, handsome face.

“Now let’s see how you fare, you dim-witted fuck,” Rifter said, his voice low and filled with rage.

The Hunter’s burning black eyes stared back at Rifter, locking gazes with the big man. Fear flashed through Rifter once more. He saw death written in the Hunter’s expression.

Rifter stepped forward, slashing with short, quick strokes meant to slice open the Hunter’s intestines. His attacks lacked sophistication, yet there was brute force behind the blade’s cruel edge.

The Hunter avoided Rifter’s attacks with ease, not even bothering to block the blows. A dagger appeared in his free hand. Longer than Rifter’s weapon, the blade had a single razor edge and a slight curve—perfect for both stabbing and slicing. A small, transparent gem was set into its hilt, and the stone caught the light of the moon in its facets. Something about it made Rifter hesitate for a moment, but that was more than enough.

In the time it took Rifter to swallow his terror, the Hunter’s sword cut him to shreds. Blood flowed from a gash in the big man’s neck, and he fell to his knees, grasping at the coils of his intestines spilling onto the streets.

“I warned you, friend,” the Hunter snarled, his voice quiet, “but you refused to heed. You are not my prey this night, yet you made the mistake of seeing my true face.”

He held up the wicked-looking dagger. “Your life is forfeit, but I leave your soul to the Long Keeper’s embrace.”

The Hunter slid the blade smoothly into its sheath and gripped his sword with both hands. Moonlight glinted off the flashing steel as the Hunter struck. Rifter’s blocky head fell from its place on the man’s sloped shoulders, landing in the muck alongside Emon’s bleeding body. His huge, decapitated torso slumped to the ground next to the convulsing figure of Eld, who somehow still lived, fighting for each breath.

The Hunter surveyed his handiwork without remorse. He stooped over the dying man, keeping well away from the iron dagger gripped uselessly in Rifter’s hand.

“May the Long Keeper have mercy on your soul, friend,” the Hunter whispered in the man’s ears.

Eld’s eyes closed, and his struggles weakened. The dying man voiced no protest as the Hunter wiped his long blade on his clothes.

Shaking his head in disgust at the foolishness of these men who had thought to accost him, the Hunter stooped, recovered his cloak, and donned the disguise of the old man once more.

With slow, measured steps, he shambled away, leaving death in the street behind him.

* * *

The Hunter tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. His blankets suffocated him, but chills shook his body when he kicked them off. He had no idea how much time had passed since he had climbed into bed. It could have been hours or days, but he cared little. The musty scent of unwashed bed linens hung thick in the air, ignored.

While he hunted, the thrill of the kill sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. He could stalk his quarry for days on end without sleep or food, as the inner voice urged him on.

Disgusting mortals, it would whisper in his thoughts. So weak, so easy to kill.

But once his prey lay dead at his feet, the absence of the voice echoed like a void in his head. The death of Lord Damuria had silenced the insistent chatter, filling his head with a numb, dull ache that pressed inward and muddled his thoughts.

The end of the hunt brought on a weariness that days of sleep could not ease. He would lie in bed, staring up into the darkness or idly watching the movement of the sun through his windows. He could sleep for days and wake up exhausted, or he wouldn’t sleep at all. He had no appetite; the power of the kill fed his body, yet it felt as if every death ate away another piece of his soul.

He tried to ignore the gnawing in his chest. His blade, Soulhunger, remained silent, the kill temporarily sating its bloodlust. He hated the silence more than anything else in the world. In these moments, his mind would replay memories of the hunt. The faces of his victims would float before him, their empty eyes accusing.

He absentmindedly watched dust motes dance in the rays of sun filtering through his window, all the while reliving the gruesome deaths at his hands.

As their lifeless faces danced through his head, he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, his thoughts filled with hate. He could discern irrationality from logic, but at times like this, he didn’t care. He despised every single one of the humans around him, and the voice in his head echoed his ire. He could ignore the voice and its hatred of humanity when he surrounded himself with others, but when alone, the hate bubbled within him like a cauldron of vitriol.

Hours passed, time moving at a snail’s pace yet flashing by in the space of a few heartbeats.

The light filtering through his window weakened, doing little to illuminate his bedroom. Peering outside, he saw the sun had begun its plunge into the Endless Sea. The ache in his head subsided, replaced by the voice whispering its renewed bloodlust.

Feed me, it said. Fighting the profound weariness tempting him to remain in bed, he forced himself to climb to his feet. He shook his head to clear the languor, to push back the gloom filling his mind.

It is enough. Time to get up.

His clothes lay piled on the floor, and he sorted through them in search of an unsoiled garment.

Let’s see what new victims await me in this new day, what sport I can find to distract myself from this aching.

Excerpt: Dead in the Water

This weekend, the eFestival of Words is hosting a little Halloween party on Facebook. As part of the festivities, we’re hosting book excerpts from horror, dark fantasy, and Halloween-themed ebooks.

About the Book

Nick Moore and Terry Banner investigate sleaze and mayhem for “The Investigators”… a website that’s been at the top of the Internet heap for several years. But reader interest has been sliding, and they’re desperate for a new scoop, something lurid and attention-grabbing. Something that will grab their readers by the throat and refuse to let them go.

Thompson Lake, a tiny town in New York’s Adirondack Mountains, seems to fill the bill. Seventeen people have died there under mysterious circumstances — a situation no one wants to talk about.

For good reason.

Welcome to Thompson Lake, Moore & Banner. It’s a great place to visit… but you might not get out alive.

Stalk the Author!

http://caroldavisauthor.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/caroldavisauthor

Twitter: @caroldficwriter

Excerpt

Terry came to a place she’d spotted the day before, when she and Nick had walked out to the two motels: the town’s small, and obviously very old, cemetery. It sat back from the road a little ways, bounded on all four sides by a wrought-iron fence broken by a simply latched gate over a narrow driveway and another ungated gap meant for visitors arriving on foot. Terry walked around to the latter entry point and stopped just beyond it, looking around at the collection of grave markers, some of them flanked by small flags and other tokens of service in the military. A few were decorated with cones of artificial flowers, others with the emblem of the local fire department, one with an elaborate bouquet of daisies.

One gravesite was easily visible from anywhere in the cemetery: a granite and marble monument rising four feet above the ground, maybe six feet wide, all of it elaborately carved and topped with the stone portrait of a stern, bearded man.

Unsurprisingly, it was labeled THOMPSON.

“Wanted to keep it low-key, huh?” Terry asked aloud, with a small snort.

She’d read a little bit about the town’s founding family in the pages of Lakeside View. Andrew Thompson, no great fan of being surrounded by other people, and suffering a number of after-effects from his service in the Civil War – including the loss of one leg below the knee – had come to the deep woods of the Adirondacks late in the 1870s and had set about building himself a house with a view of the water. He brought with him a long-suffering wife and two children, a similarly long-suffering housekeeper/maid/cook/nanny named Berry, and a deaf boy named Hal, all of whom lived in a canvas tent beset by every conceivable variety of wildlife for the two years it took Andy Thompson to complete a house he deemed suitable to move into.

He might well have been Thompson Lake’s first murder victim, if his wife had been even a single degree less long-suffering. The tent was stifling in summer, offered no protection from the cold in the winter, and by the end of the two years the various members of the Thompson family had been bitten by snakes half a dozen times, had lost a noticeable amount of their provisions to raccoons (as well as losing enough weight that they could all be referred to as “gaunt”), and had forgotten what it was like to bathe in hot water.

For all of that, Andrew Laine Thompson’s family – including the multi-talented Berry and the mostly silent Hal – loved him dearly.

Gradually, other families joined the Thompsons along the shore of the tiny lake Andrew had stumbled upon. The others kept their distance, allowing him his privacy and the peace and quiet he craved, but over the next decade or so, with his okay and the aid of his skill with a saw and a hammer, they built an entire town. They laid down roads, set up a fire department, a post office, and a one-room school, invited a doctor and a teacher to join them, and created a town charter.

Thompson Lake became, by all accounts, a good place to live.

But it hadn’t proved to be so for the Douglas girls, Robert Smith, Dick Baylor, Carol Forester, and the others, five of whom were buried in this very cemetery. Terry visited their graves one a time, pausing at each one to offer a moment of prayer – and hoping briefly that there wasn’t a story here at all, that those seventeen people had simply been the victims of bad luck and coincidence.

It was cool here in the shadow of the trees that surrounded the cemetery on three sides. Terry, on her knees at the burial site of the Douglas girls – the marker etched with both names, although Anna Douglas’s body had never been found – hugged her jacket more tightly around herself and tried not to shiver. Her head had begun to ache again, and she thought about returning to the diner to grab a quick meal in the company of the cheerful and generous Fran.

Somewhere, some distance away, someone was singing.

Terry recognized the song after a moment, an old standard from World War II, the kind of song that would stick in your head, cheerful and upbeat – the kind of song that was meant to improve the mood of people enduring years of conflict, deprivation and loss. She hummed a few bars of it softly as she climbed to her feet, feeling chilled almost to the bone. Coffee, she thought: a big mug of coffee was what she needed. Maybe some hot chocolate, if the diner had that on the menu.

A bolt of pain shot through her head, and for a moment she was sure she was going to vomit.

She glanced down at the Douglas girls’ grave, disoriented and nearly numb with cold, and thought about the scenes in all those old horror movies where the white, bony hand of someone long dead thrust up through the soil, fingers flailing, its only aim to seize the living and haul them down into the earth. Nothing like that was happening, of course; the soil over the grave was undisturbed, but Terry stumbled backward nonetheless, gasping for breath, certain she was no longer alone. Her mind was blank until she reached the narrow gap in the fence. She stopped there, grateful that the gap stood in a pool of warm sunlight, and hauled in air until her heart stopped thundering.

My God. Get a grip, would you?

There was no one in the cemetery. The dead hadn’t risen; no tattered, half-decomposed form was pursing her across the grass.

Off in the distance, someone was still singing about apple trees.

You’re not gonna tell Nick about this. He’ll laugh his ass off.

She was alone, save for a small bird perched on the top rail of the fence some fifteen feet away. The little creature watched her closely as she tried to calm herself. Just a bird, she thought, but its scrutiny unnerved her and her gorge rose, sending her tumbling to her knees so she could dry-heave into the stubby grass alongside the gate.

Excerpt: In A Season Of Dead Weather

Our Halloween festivities continue with an excerpt and a free book!

Available for free at Smashwords!

About the Book

In a season of dead weather, the mind clutches at reality; but what does it find instead? Madness, or monsters? Ghosts, or things more terrible than ghosts? Illusions, or invasions? Dreams, or the darkness at the end of all nightmares? One thing is clear: these are tales that echoes tell, in a season of dead weather.

The weird, the uncanny, the strange: these are the local conditions of dead weather.

And these are stories based on dreams and nightmares, on things barely glimpsed in the moonrise, on places perfectly normal by day but haunted by the light of winter stars.

Along with stories that appeared in “All Hallows” (edited by Barbara and Christopher Roden) and in the ROC anthology, “Alone on the Darkside” (edited by John Pelan) are tales that have never seen the light — but now, as daylight fades, the stories can be told.

Stalk the Author!

Author blog: http://markfullerdillon.blogspot.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mark.dillon.79230

Excerpt

From the short story “The Weight of its Awareness,” included in this collection

But now the park was different.

It was no longer empty: the lawn was crowded with tightly-grouped sculptures and statues. Some were formed of wrought iron, green or black; others of marble, salmon pink or white; and a few had been daubed with bold reds that gleamed in the angled sunlight of late afternoon.

For a moment he stood in surprise; then he stepped forward and turned to face the nearest group of statues. He peered at this tableau for what seemed a long frozen time, and felt a growing chill that had nothing to do with autumn.

Before him stood a man of white marble. Life-sized and life-like in all its details, it clutched at the air with hands on which every tendon stood out in ridges of extreme pain. Every tendon stood out on its neck as it reared backwards and screamed in silence at the sky. Its body was contorted with agony, surrounded and pressed in from all sides by three distorted creatures of black wrought iron: diseased unicorns the size of Clydesdales, emaciated, skeletal at many points, yet with slabs of muscle that bulged in brutal exertion as they crushed the man between their shoulders and chests, muscles that clenched like tree roots on their straining necks as they reached down with black teeth to tear at the screaming face.

Appalled, Mikhail turned away, and noticed that the pool was also different. The iridescent mosaic was gone, replaced by a sculpted representation of an undersea floor. In the clear, shallow water, a thick mass of weeds like dark green spears tipped with red lined the bottom of the pool, and partially entangled, partially concealed, lay the supine body of a dead man. Only the arched torso could be seen; that, and the lower part of the head, with its gaping mouth. The pale stone of the corpse had a vaguely greenish hue, a sickly green that looked too convincingly realistic — as realistic as the long jade form of a sea serpent, coiled in a choking circle around the corpse, and lurking in the weeds for another victim. From its head extended a long, backwards-leaning spike or spine, poisonously red and obviously deadly; its one visible eye peered up through the water with calm reptilian patience — directly, it seemed, at Mikhail.

The water trembled with sudden ripples: the wind seemed sharper, now, and much more cold.

He turned away, and nearly stumbled into the next tableau. Lean goatish figures of pale stone, tall as human beings and equally bipedal, with insane eyes rolled upwards in each socket, with yellow teeth gaping and shallow jaws red with slick paint, they crouched, lunged at each other with lowered horns or cloven hooves, fought with each other to grab a torn, flayed bundle that one of the creatures hugged to itself possessively with snarling greed: the mutilated body of a human child.

Mikhail hunched himself against the sight and turned away, but every space to right or left confronted him with some new atrocity in stone. And so he peered up instead at the crazed high rooftops of the partially concealed houses; he looked up and saw that every house had windows: from every gable and dormer, black panes glinted like the eyes of a waiting spider.

And then the wind faltered, and gave way to a throbbing silence.

In one angular bay window high above, a casement swung open.

Excerpt: Consuming Darkness

As part of our festivities for the eFestival of Words Halloween party, we’re bringing you excerpts from horror, dark fantasy, and Halloween-themed books from small press and indie authors all weekend!.

About the Book

Darkness. It’s the primary fear of small children, the playground of the corrupt, and a piece of it lives inside us all. This anthology of dark and horror fiction includes two previously published stories, a few that have been expanded by popular demand, and three that are brand new, written exclusively for this collection. Also featuring a story contribution by author Mark Gardner.

Several stories included touch on the theme of the innocence of childhood, and the betrayal of the adults meant to protect it. “Worse Than Witches”, the story of a precocious young girl who liked to cry wolf, is not for the squeamish. The fan favorite “Hungry” explores the innocent beginnings of a cannibal, while “In Memorium” touches on the not-so-innocent past of a would-be author.

Darkness pervades every part of life; if not swallowed, it will consume us all.

Stalk the Author!

https://adanramieblog.wordpress.com

Twitter: @AdanRamie

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/adan.ramie.7

Excerpt (from the short story Princess)

Vertigo. It swept over Shonna like a wave as she stared down at the happy park goers milling around below her, oblivious to her leaning over the edge of the tower, tears streaming down her face and her heart thumping hard.

This must be what it’s like to be the princess, she thought as the wind whipped her sand-colored peasant gown around her. She swiped at the black wig, even now careful not to smear the thick, red rouge on her cheeks, and readjusted her grip on the spire.

All I have to do is let go. Let go of the spire, let go of this job, and let go of this life. Her hands were sweaty, and her fingers threatened to slip, but she didn’t let go. They were all so blissfully unaware of what went on in the dirty bowels of the place, this magical fairyland on Earth; would they all choose it if they knew the horror that lived under the giant, domed heads of the beloved characters?

At first, she had thought it quaint that they were never out of costume. It was part of the mystique that she had grown up with, and it made the job all the more dreamlike. Then, one day, she felt it: it pulsed below them, convulsing, growing with each new arrival.

“Shonna, you don’t want to do this,” sang a voice from the balcony below her. It was Brad, one of the merry lads of the forest, still in character. “It’s dangerous, and it will frighten the guests. This move is not one of your best.” His voice was off-key from strain. His boss waited at the bottom of the tower, tapping one buckled shoe, his hands on his hips.

“I can’t do it anymore,” she said, and let her pinky and ring finger slip off the spire.

“Please!” he cried. He took a deep breath and plastered on his brightest fairytale smile. “Fair maiden, I implore,” he sang, clutching the front of his tunic at the chest. “Do not fret anymore. We will find a way to make this a better day!”

“Brad, lay off,” she grumbled. “If I hear another rhyme, I’m going to puke.”

He leaned in as close as he could get, lowered his voice, and dropped the singsong act. “Listen, honey. If you don’t get off this damn tower, we’re all going to be in deep doo-doo. We’re running out of girls.”

eFestival of Words Raffle!

Our weeklong Halloween party begins with a drawing to win a $25 Amazon gift certificate and a free download of the Blood Debts audiobook. To enter, follow @efestivalofword and participating authors on Twitter to earn entries.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Also all week, download a new crossword puzzle each day from the eFestival of Words website for the chance to score free ebooks!

eFestival of Words Halloween Party Schedule

Monday, October 26th

We start a drawing through Rafflecopter to win a $25 Amazon Gift Certificate and a free audiobook version of Blood Debts: Chronicles of Cambrea through audible.com. The drawing will run through October 30th, with the winner announced on the 31st.

Also starting on Monday, each day we will be sharing a new Horror/dark fantasy/Halloween book themed crossword puzzle. Crossword puzzles are crafted using words from participating authors’ books. Complete puzzles and turn them in to efestivalofwords@bardsandsages.com and win prizes all week!

Turn in any one completed puzzle: Win a free digital copy of Return of the Dead Men (and Women) Walking.

Turn in any two completed puzzles and get both the above book and a free digital copy of America the Horrific

Turn in three or more completed puzzles and be entered into a drawing to win signed print copies of In Our House: Tantalizing Tales of Terror by Peter A. Baslaskas or Soulmates by Kevin Wallis.

All entries must be completed and turned in no later than November 3rd to qualify. You must use the same email address for each entry to get proper credit. Free digital copies will be provided as a coupon code through Smashwords.com or Drivethrufiction.com.

Thursday, October 29th

The following authors will be hanging around throughout the day to answer questions about their books. Just post your questions and comments to the book’s promo post.

Adan Ramie

Derek Ailes

Kerry E.B. Black

Doug Goodman

Sheridan Bray

Mark Fuller Dillon

Carol Davis

Friday, October 30th

The following authors will be hanging around throughout the day to answer questions about their books. Just post your questions and comments to the book’s promo post.

S. M. Barrett

Andy Peloquin

Al Halsey

Michael C Romeo

Randy Speeg

Marcus James

Mixi J Applebottom

Saturday, October 31st

The following authors will be hanging around throughout the day to answer questions about their books. Just post your questions and comments to the book’s promo post.

R. L. Andrew

Lenora Mordant

Stephen Drivick

Monica A Kastle

Merry Freer

Jason R Mink

Guest Post by Guy T. Martland

Thrilled to welcome author Guy T. Martland to our little Sith universe today. Guy is the author of the novel Scion, published by Safkhet Publishing. He’s sharing some of the lessons he’s learned about one of my favorite topics: Worldbuilding.

Author Guy Martland

About the Book

The aliens from your nightmares are coming. The colonies of Earth are next. And it looks like nothing can stop them.

A blue star, a dying friend, a kidnap and the dusty contents of an old room: Septimus Esterhazy’s life is about to change. As he blows cobwebs from the manual of an old spacecraft, hidden for decades, a Pandora’s box creaks open.

Little does he know that the universe’s very nature is being threatened by a powerful alien race. Nor does he know that he is somehow involved with why the Wraith, destroyers of worlds, are coming.

The self-proclaimed ‘Protectors of the Known Universe’, the Sassrit, are trying to do everything they can to thwart a Wraith attack. But time is running out and resources are stretched.

A Sassrit agent, one of the shapeshifting Jarthiala, is recruited to help. The path he follows leads to the doorstep of a planet called D, an Earth colony, above which a blue star hangs, its light reflected in the eyes of Septimus below.

This is a journey which will change Septimus Esterhazy forever. It will make him question his nature. He will uncover secrets about his family that have lain dormant for years. And it will test the loyalty of those closest to him.

But first he has to watch his best friend die.

Guest Post: What I’ve learnt about Worldbuilding

Creating a world which your characters inhabit is an important part of writing any fiction, whether it is SFF or ‘regular’ fiction. But writing SFF makes this harder in one important respect – the amount of information you have to convey, imparting your ideas of this other world, can cause problems. I’m by no means an expert at this stuff – I learned most of it the hard way when writing my SF novel ‘The Scion’ and the (never-to-be-published) novels I wrote prior to this. But here’s my two pence/cents:

Don’t info dump

We’ve all seen this in fiction. And when I write now, I still have to keep this in check. You throw in some characters, get them to start doing things and then suddenly the description of your beautiful world takes over. But this causes a big problem. Firstly, it stunts the pace of your piece. And secondly, you can lose you readers – expecting a reader to stop engaging with your characters and take on loads of descriptive detail, no matter how it relates to the plot, is a big ask. So it is important to drip feed this where possible. But this can be harder than you think.

Suspending belief

It is a given that for SFF, particularly Space Opera and Fantasy, you have to suspend your belief. Bombarding readers with a whole load of exposition can puncture that bubble you are trying to create. The ideas won’t wash and your balloon-like creatures which dwell in the upper reaches of a gas giant will deflate, to then be consumed by the roaring storm of ionic particles beneath. This point is of course related to the info dump. But the madder your scenario, the more this becomes important.

A believable world

You have to know your world. And this means everything about it. Recently I presented a piece of fiction to the Milford Writers’ conference and one of the group said of my piece: ‘I want to know more about the world, I want to know about their social system, their agriculture.’ I thought this was a bit crazy at first, but she was right. You have to know all the details. If you can believe it, then your readers will.

The devil in the details

So think about your world. Live it! Think about its climate, its atmosphere, its geography, transport systems, economy, political systems and religions. Consider its history. How do the natives communicate? Are the physical laws the same? For example with the latter question, this might just mean altering the gravity a bit; but if you do that it will have a knock on effect on everything else…

And it is probably best to think about these things when you outline your plot. Or at least early on when you start building your world. I didn’t when I wrote The Scion and then had to change timelines, communication devices and so on. Which was a challenge.

One thing which I did find helpful was drawing up a crude map of the planet D, where much of the action in the book happens. Now, I am rubbish at drawing, so this was pretty crude. (It was a far cry from Tolkien’s efforts, that’s for sure.) But it helped enormously and when I threw my characters into the map, they danced around like dice in a casino.

An old notebook containing a map of the planet D which I drew when writing The Scion.

The law of everything

So, to paraphrase Le Guin: You need to know everything. But you don’t need to tell everything. Your reader won’t necessarily want to know all the intricate details of a lesser family’s heraldic crest, or the particulars of the agricultural drainage system of a world. But if you know that, it will inform the rest of your book. It will give it heft, gravitas. Your world will be bigger than the book. (And if people ask you questions about the agriculture, you won’t feel an idiot for not having thought about it!)

Listen to your characters

Finally – listen to your characters. Give them freedom to roam through your imagination. Make your world work for them and they will reward you. This is where they live. And don’t forget, no matter how wonderful your world is, it is your characters which make the story. Not the other way around.

Book Review: Theodora: Actress, Empress, Saint

David Potter’s Theodora: Actress, Empress, Saint is a mesmerizing biography of one of history’s most influential, and most wrongfully-maligned, women leaders. Much of the previous scholarship on Theodora relied on the works of her contemporaries, who were often more inspired by personal and political vendettas than truth. Potter’s research moves pass the direct works of her contemporaries and takes advantage of a great deal of new scholarship on the Byzantine Empire. The end result is a rich, detailed, and nuanced look at the Empress.

Potter work shines a light on how Theodora established her influence and used it to enact progressive reforms, particularly for women. It is under Theodora and Justinian’s reign that women are truly first seen as full citizens deserving of rights and not just the property of their fathers or husbands. The many religious and civil reforms established were revolutionary in the time period.

Like many historical works, Theodora does assume some baseline knowledge about the region from the reader. However, Potter does a fine job of articulating complex points in an approachable manner. Even if a reader only has a casual interest in ancient history, there are very few points in the book where one would be lost. Overall, Theodora is a wonderful addition to our collective knowledge of both the time period and the amazing woman who influenced it.

Reviewer Note: Review copy obtained through NetGalley

Book Review: Varney the Vampire (Dover Publications)

Varney the Vampire is a Victorian-era gothic serial that was first published from 1845-1847 in what was known as the “penny dreadful” format. Authorship of the original work is still a matter of some debate; though most acknowledge James Malcolm Rymer or Thomas Peckett Prest (or possibly both) as the actual author(s). Varney is considered by many the original vampire story on which all others are built. Varney didn’t play to the vampire horror tropes. It created them. By modern standards, the narrative is woefully inconsistent, poorly edited, and occasionally (all right, more than occasionally) downright soap opera. But it is important to appreciate Varney in relation to the time it was written. It was a surprisingly revolutionary work.

These Dover Publications editions are not a retelling or a revision. These are reproductions of the original text with all of the warts. While this edition does reproduce some of the original art, not all of the art is included. It is important to note that the actual penny dreadful serial ran well over two hundred chapters. I can understand why the publishers made the decision to limit the number of images included. Even breaking the serial into Parts One and Two, as Dover has done here, still results in two huge books without all the images. It is important for readers to understand what they are getting. This is not a modernized retelling of the original story. It is the original text, in Victorian English, with all the grammar and spelling errors and plot holes included.

My review copy was a PDF of the print book. While the pages are high resolution, because they are reproductions of the original work the text itself is at times hard to read due to inconsistencies in the original source material. I cannot speak for mobi or epub versions of this book; though I have to image formatting them was a nightmare!

I’m glad Dover Publications took the time to restore Varney the Vampire for its historic and literary value. Those of us that are book buffs appreciate the care required to restore a classic like this. But casual readers are going to struggle with trying to actually read the text and may not really appreciate the story because of it.

Reviewer Note: I obtained a copy of the work through NetGalley.