Showing posts with label Horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Horror. Show all posts

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Available Now: Unleashing the Pack by David J O'Brien

UNLEASHING THE PACK
Silver Nights Trilogy, #3
David J. O'Brien

$5.99

BUY HERE
(99c throuhg 24 September)
One man's monster is another man's role model—Patrick has been leading his werewolf pack for five years. He's perfected his abilities at leash, and all seems easy for the pack to slip through the full moons of the city, unseen into the future. Once he's navigated some issues concerning the most recent additions, he's ready to hand the leash to Conor, next in line, and settle down with his mate, Cora.

However, a new challenge confronts him and the pack when an Eastern European organised crime gang recognise them as the survivors of some ancient foes from the Carpathians. Paul recognises, in his turn, that this gang are monsters much more fearsome than mere Mafiosos. 

For Paul and Patrick and the rest of the Wilkez, the time has come to unleash their violence, to use their power to shield the clan. But can they do it without drawing the attention of the police and bringing even greater destruction upon them?

10% of the author's royalties will be donated to WWF, the World Wildlife Fund.

• • •

Patrick McHew strolled along a quiet street at sunset. A spring shower had cleared the air and left small puddles on the uneven pavement. Strings of horse chestnut petals lay along the gutters. The old trees standing up out of the concrete and asphalt shed no perfume into the coming night, but Patrick yet smelled the fallen flowers among the other scents emanating from the street.

He passed a kid of ten or twelve cycling around in circles on a BMX. A block away a young man in his twenties lingered on a corner. He watched Patrick approach, then turned away. An unspoken agreement had been reached. Patrick strolled past as if the man was as much a part of the street furniture as a lamppost or traffic sign.

Further on, a small group of teenagers leaned against the railings of a small park. Two of them pushed themselves from the railings and stood in the middle of the sidewalk. The other three stayed where they were, but stared fixedly at Patrick as he neared. Patrick instantly saw they were different. They dressed in the same kind of clothes—pants hanging down just as far—but these teens were from the suburbs. While the drug dealers and local street kids let Patrick and his friends pass through their territory the same way they let the trains and buses pass, these kids wanted to interact negatively.

Released to the city on the pretence of going to the cinema or some such legitimate pursuit, he surmised, their parents never discovered they found violence more diverting than the movies. These thugs always picked on weaker people and those in smaller groups, so they never went home with bruises.

Tonight they would.

The farthest one shifted his stance and took out his cell phone. Still leaning against the railings, he started to film the proceedings. Another annoying trend among the youth; posting their exploits on the Internet, even when those exploits were beating up other kids or stealing hats from strangers.

"What's goin' on?" one of the two blocking his way asked.

Patrick kept walking. He was now ten feet away and quickened his pace.

"You walkin' on my street?"

"You got to pay the toll," the other added.

Patrick shook his head, wondering where they'd got that line. It sounded like a bad eighties movie. The nearest two thugs let him pass without speaking; they wanted to surround him.

"You talkin' to me?" Patrick asked the nearest teen, imitating DeNiro. Before waiting for a reply, he lashed out. The heel of his palm slammed sideways against the teen's nose, shattering it in a spray of blood. The thug doubled over, holding his gushing face and cursing.

Patrick kept walking, lengthening his stride.

The others stared at their injured companion for a second, too shocked to react. The thug with the phone spun on his heel to follow Patrick as he passed by, his mouth agape.

When Patrick was already five yards away, they began to run after him.

"You'll fuckin' pay for that," one shouted.

Patrick began to jog, then broke into a run.

As he skirted around the block, he yipped loudly. The pursuing teens took this as a cry of fear. They started yelling, breaking into sprints after him.

Patrick looked behind and laughed. He ran fifty yards down the next street and then cut into an alleyway, the gang of youths at his heels.

As he passed by a dumpster, Patrick saw two men standing behind it. He pulled up short. Above him, on a fire escape, another five men stood.

One of these dropped to the ground behind Patrick.

Patrick turned around. The figures at the dumpster stepped out of the shadows. They smiled at Patrick.

He grinned back. "Say hello to my new friends."

The teens thundered into the alley and came to a halt when they saw Patrick had stopped.

When they saw the men step out from behind the dumpster they spread out, ready for a fight.

Then the other four figures dropped from the fire escape, landed light as cats on the asphalt.

It was five against eight, now.

The youths looked at one another and in unspoken agreement began to back out of the alley. Behind them, however, two more shadows materialised into the shapes of men, and slowly approached.

Patrick glanced right and left at the men now standing beside him; his own gang, his pack.

• • •

David J O'Brien was born and raised in Dun Laoghaire, Ireland. He studied environmental biology and later studied deer biology for his PhD, at University College Dublin. Instead of pursuing his life-long interest in wolves and predator-prey interactions, after completing his doctorate, he taught English in Madrid, Spain, for four years while his girlfriend finished her doctorate in molecular biology. They married and moved to Boston, USA, so his wife could pursue her career and David decided that teaching was a vocation he was happy to continue. After seven great years teaching Biology at Boston's Cathedral High School and Zoology at Bridgewater State College, he returned to Spain three years ago so his wife could set up her new research group in her hometown of Pamplona shortly before their daughter was born. He currently teaches English and science in Pamplona in addition to writing and looking after his children.

David has loved writing since his teens. He began with poetry and had one of his first poems published in Cadenza, a small Dublin poetry magazine at the age of fourteen. Since then several more have been published in journals and anthologies such as Albatross, The Tennessee State Poetry League, Poems of Nature and various anthologies of Forward Press imprint in Britain. He began writing fiction soon after and wrote the novella that would later become Leaving The Pack at the age of seventeen. Though his academic writing took precedence for a number of years, and he is still involved in deer biology and management, he kept writing other things in his spare time and has always dreamt of one day being able to do it full time. While living in Madrid, he wrote some non-fiction articles for the magazine Hot English and while in Boston for the newspaper Dig.

An avid wildlife enthusiast and ecologist, much of David's non-academic writing, especially poetry, is inspired by wildlife and science, and he sometimes seeks to describe the science behind the supernatural.

His Young Adult paranormal novel The Soul of Adam Short and children's novel, Peter and the Little People. He has also published three novellas under the pseudonym JD Martins.

Find David Online:

Website - http://davidjmobrien.wordpress.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/DavidJMOBrien
YouTube - http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCIIUO91SFG-Kq0tKnWd7RAg
Google+ - https://plus.google.com/u/0/+DavidOBrienauthor
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/OBrien_David



Wednesday, 15 March 2017

Available Now: Leading the Pack by David J O'Brien

LEADING THE PACK
Silver Nights Trilogy, #2
David J. O'Brien

$5.99

BUY HERE
(99c/99p through Sunday 19 March)
Alphas aren't elected; they're self-selected.

Life has been good since Paul McHew left his werewolf pack twenty years ago and married Susan. Patrick is the eldest of their four children and feels the pull of the full moon earlier than his father had.

Patrick itches for the city, but things have changed since his father's time. The economy is booming and everyone has a smart phone. But in a post 9-11 world, where security cameras abound, everyone is being watched.

Patrick must make the city streets his own as the eldest of a new generation. To do that, he must learn to control his own impulses, and those of his pack mates, if he hopes to become their leader.

Encountering a potential mate and facing a definite rival, can Patrick be the alpha everyone expects him to be?

• • •

The man watched the hare graze calmly across the closely-cropped paddock. In the silver light of the full moon, he saw its nose twitch as it scented the wind. Crouching low, he stalked closer.

Off to the left, cattle snuffled; somewhere beyond he heard the click of a deer stepping on a dry twig in the woods. Right of the hare, a badger dug for worms and grubs. He ignored them. He could not easily take down a cow alone. The bull would make it difficult, would come to the cow’s defence, and the herd would mill about him. While he could avoid their horns, he would not be able to suffocate the cow, or bleed it out unaided.

And the man did not want company; not that kind.

The hare would be sufficient to satiate his hunger. For now.

His quarry just ahead, its eyes reflecting the bright moonlight, the man crept forward. His long hair swept over his forehead, closing off much of his peripheral vision. Though naked, the thick hair that covered his chest and extended over his back and shoulders insulated him from the breeze.

He felt the soft grass stems between his toes, digging into them for a greater grip on the soil beneath.

The hare turned away from him. The vision that might have helped warn it of the naked human’s approach was at its weakest, and the man took advantage of that.

He pounced.

The next thing he was aware of was kneeling on the ground, the dead animal in his hands. Its neck was broken, its ribs crushed. A small trickle of blood dripped from its nostrils.

The man could not remember how it happened. It had taken place too quickly for him to have time to think about it, for it to register in his consciousness.

There was only action; automatic and reflexive.

The hand and the body, were, indeed, quicker than the eye. The information had reached his brain, but not the part involved in conscious thought. It looped through the cerebellum and brain stem back to his muscles as they powered him forward upon the unsuspecting animal.

Only when the body’s work was complete and the prey caught, did the brain once more return to the luxury of thinking, allowing the man to surmise the events. He had run four yards faster than his thoughts could keep up and grabbed the animal as it started to flee. He’d dived upon it and pinned it to the ground with the full weight of his body. Death had been instantaneous.

The man lifted himself up and held the limp animal by the ears. He exposed the throat. With his two left canines he ripped a hole through the soft skin. Blood started to drip. He put the opening to his mouth and sucked up the flowing liquid. Then he lifted the body up over his head and raised his mouth to drink it all, taking the legs between his fingers and pulling, to push the blood through the limbs and torso.

When the corpse ceased dripping, he put his fingers through the hole and ripped off the head, tossing it aside. Then he pulled the skin back off the muscles in one piece. The animal skinned, he bit into the muscular back legs and tore off strips of raw meat. Barely chewing, he swallowed hard on the flesh and walked through the paddock under the moonlight.

He caught the scent of the cattle and deer on the wind and, coming from the other side of a hill, heard the neigh of a horse, then a long, drawn out howl. He grinned to himself. The blood still on his lips dripped to his chin.
The animal consumed and his stomach filled, the man wondered what to do now that particular desire had been satiated.

A voice whispered to him.

• • •


David J O'Brien was born and raised in Dun Laoghaire, Ireland. He studied environmental biology and later studied deer biology for his PhD, at University College Dublin. Instead of pursuing his life-long interest in wolves and predator-prey interactions, after completing his doctorate, he taught English in Madrid, Spain, for four years while his girlfriend finished her doctorate in molecular biology. They married and moved to Boston, USA, so his wife could pursue her career and David decided that teaching was a vocation he was happy to continue. After seven great years teaching Biology at Boston's Cathedral High School and Zoology at Bridgewater State College, he returned to Spain three years ago so his wife could set up her new research group in her hometown of Pamplona shortly before their daughter was born. He currently teaches English and science in Pamplona in addition to writing and looking after his children.

David has loved writing since his teens. He began with poetry and had one of his first poems published in Cadenza, a small Dublin poetry magazine at the age of fourteen. Since then several more have been published in journals and anthologies such as Albatross, The Tennessee State Poetry League, Poems of Nature and various anthologies of Forward Press imprint in Britain. He began writing fiction soon after and wrote the novella that would later become Leaving The Pack at the age of seventeen. Though his academic writing took precedence for a number of years, and he is still involved in deer biology and management, he kept writing other things in his spare time and has always dreamt of one day being able to do it full time. While living in Madrid, he wrote some non-fiction articles for the magazine Hot English and while in Boston for the newspaper Dig.

An avid wildlife enthusiast and ecologist, much of David's non-academic writing, especially poetry, is inspired by wildlife and science, and he sometimes seeks to describe the science behind the supernatural.

His Young Adult paranormal novel The Soul of Adam Short and children's novel, Peter and the Little People. He has also published three novellas under the pseudonym JD Martins.

Find David Online:

Website - http://davidjmobrien.wordpress.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/DavidJMOBrien
YouTube - http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCIIUO91SFG-Kq0tKnWd7RAg
Google+ - https://plus.google.com/u/0/+DavidOBrienauthor
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/OBrien_David



Wednesday, 24 August 2016

Available Now: The Color of Gothic by Joel Q. Aaron

THE COLOR OF GOTHIC
Joel Q. Aaron

Length: Novel
Genre: Paranormal Western

Price: $4.99 (99c/99p through 28 August)

BUY HERE

Convicted murderer, Jonathan Blair, conditionally trades his death sentence for a job as a court-appointed bounty hunter to bring in the members of his former gang—dead or alive. Now, only two weeks remain to find the man who killed his family. If he fails, the gallows await instead of a pardon.

Blair locates the gang member in the Rocky Mountain coal mining town of Gothic, along with a growing number of dead miners with bloodless neck wounds. The fearful townspeople turn to folklore to explain the gruesome slayings. Blair uncovers the truth behind the mysterious deaths. Demons.

An angel, seemingly more foe than friend, pushes him toward a never ending clash between good and evil. The town’s survival depends on Blair abandoning his chance of a pardon, and putting his trust in his pistols. But the thing that scares Blair the most, he and the demons have clashed before. And they’re eager for his tainted soul.

• • •

Dust and frayed threads were the dominant features of William Johnson’s clothes. Running for your life was a hard ride. Blair studied Johnson’s sunburned face. His eyes held the pain he inflicted on others. Willy wouldn’t want the life of a prisoner. This was going to end with bullets, but would not be a mercy killing.

“Jonathan Blair,” Willy said as he looked at him from across the room. His quiet voice didn’t attract much attention. Blair heard him only because he was watching him. He took several steps toward Johnson. Neither man moved their hands. Two gripping pistols. Two holding glass.

“The lawman,” Willy said with a dry laugh.

Blair scoffed at the sarcastic remark. But the words caught the attention of the people nearby.

Eyes tired, Blair shot quick glances at the men in the saloon who watched him and Willy. They didn’t recognize Blair from the old wanted posters or the stories in the Denver paper. He was far from a lawman. He was part of Willy’s gang.

Now he was trying to escape the hangman. Blair couldn’t turn down the deal—trade his death sentence for a stay of execution. If he brought in his former gang members, the state and the railroad company would let him go free. It was the railroad company’s idea—let him risk his life to arrest the rest of the gang. The company set the rules and time limit. How they got the judge to agree, Blair didn’t know and didn’t ask. He took the chance of freedom.

The men at the nearby tables got up and moved, which brought everyone’s attention to the pair of old friends.

“Trying to save your hide or your soul?” Willy asked.

“My soul’s not worth saving,” Blair said. “But I ain’t ready to die.”

“So, you’re here to kill me instead,” Willy said. “You think I need killing?”

Blair took a step within reach of the chair on his side of the table. “No one needs killing. Death just has a way of finding those who taunt it.”

Willy grinned big. “We’ve done more than taunt death.” He slowly lifted the bottle of whiskey and poured two shots. He cautiously slid one shot glass toward Blair, then raised his own, leaving a third empty glass on the table.

Blair picked up the shot glass with his coarse fingers.

“To old friends,” Willy said.

Blair nodded and lifted the glass to his nose. He inhaled—vanilla, oak and grain filled his senses with pleasure. The aroma tempted him, but he set the full shot glass back on the sweat and whiskey stained table.

Willy frowned. “Too good to drink with me now?”

“It’s not like that.” Blair said. “Haven’t had any since I left… left the gang.”

“You mean since you ran out on us in Mexico.” Willy emptied his glass. “What scared you so bad you took off like a little girl?”

The question struck Blair like a bullet. Willy’s hateful words didn’t burn, but the memory those words evoked—a scar from a forgotten wound.

As kind as Willy had been at times, he was a mean son of a bitch. All of them were. Willy’s brothers were worse. He’d already dealt with Bart. And he wouldn’t have to worry about Cliff until he got out of prison. If he got out, which was unlikely to happen.

But I’m out, aren’t I?

• • •

Joel spent his youth between the Magic Mitten and the Old South, but now resides at 9,000 feet in the Rocky Mountains.

The great lake and sandy shores gave him a love of the beach, but high mountain summits are now his favorite places to watch the world. Cold streams flowing with snow melt and wild trout bring him simple pleasures and long relaxing days in the wild throwing feathers at fish. But it's his love of the South that follows him where ever he travels: sweet tea, y'all, yes ma'am, BBQ, and SEC football. As you might guess, hiking 14ers, fly fishing, and college football are the major distracters to Joel's writing. A Cubs fan from his youth, he's watched games on WGN before there was cable TV.

Many things influenced his imagination as a kid...X-Men comic books, The Twilight Zone, Star Wars, E.T., Kolchak: The Night Stalker, Stephen King, and art by Brian Froud.

Joel has degrees in journalism and management from the University of Arkansas. Woo Pig Sooie!

He spent most of the last 20-plus years in some form of communications/public relations or journalism which provided a writing outlet. But it was two other authors who continued to ask, "What are you reading" and "What are you writing" that sparked his muse to write creatively—a talent his wife says she knew I had from the beginning. One of her first gifts to Joel was a writing journal. Now, several years later, he has a few completed manuscripts.

Find Joel Online:

Website - http://www.joelqaaron.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/Joel-Q-Aaron
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/Joel-Q-Aaron-598312096989382
Twitter - https://twitter.com/Joel__Q
Blog - http://joelqblog.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Aaron_JoelQ




Friday, 22 January 2016

Available Now: Let There Be Light by David Toft

LET THERE BE LIGHT
The Kyklos Trilogy, #3
David Toft

Length: Novel
Genre: Occult Fantasy
Digita Price: $3.99 (99c/99p through 24 Jan)

BUY HERE: TIRGEARR PUBLISHING

Augustus and Sharna wake on different worlds.

Once again they have failed. Edward Braine still lives. Both can feel his malignant presence. Growing into his new body, Edward rebuilds his reserves of pain and despair, masses an army, and prepares once again to confront his enemy.

Augustus has one last chance. If he fails to destroy Edward this time, Edward will inherit the whole of creation, and Augustus and Sharna will be lost forever.

• • •

Augustus Braithwaite woke to the screams of children. Happy, playground screams, not tortured ones that set him on a panicked struggle to achieve wakefulness.

He had no idea how long he had slept, but felt as if it had been a long time, years, perhaps even centuries. He pushed himself up from the rough, straw-filled mattress, unsteady on his legs, as if after years of idleness they no longer had the strength to bear the weight of his body. He remained motionless, ready to guide his collapse, should it happen, toward the mattress rather than the hard timber boards of the floor.

Eventually he managed a single, tentative step. His balance held. Satisfied he could trust his legs to keep him upright, he allowed his concentration to focus on his surroundings.

The small, wood-floored room contained no furniture other than the cot from which he had risen. A doorless opening to his right provided the only exit. Opposite this, a small, square, unglazed window let in the room’s only light along with the cries of the children. No ornamentation or decoration interrupted the smooth white plaster on the walls and ceiling. The room looked anything but lived in—a cell perhaps, except missing bars on the window and a door.

He strode to the window. The thick walls of the building forced him to lean into the opening in order to see out. The window overlooked a walled courtyard. Twenty feet below, a dozen or so children ran back and forth across its cobbled surface chasing balls of red and blue. Intent on their game, none looked up toward his vantage point. He studied their clothing. Both the boys and the girls, there seemed to be an equal number of each, wore tan-coloured smocks and loose leggings, which looked more mediaeval than modern.

Augustus smiled, infected by the innocent enthusiasm of the game. Slowly the curl of his lips disappeared, and his brow furrowed. He had no idea where he was or why he was here.

• • •

Born in Bradford England, David Toft gained a degree in Education before going on to work in London and Warwickshire. He now lives in South County Dublin, Ireland with his wife, Mary.

David has been writing adult fantasy and paranormal fiction for over twenty years.

Find David Online:

Website
Facebook
Twitter
Author's Den
Tirgearr Publishing