Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

It's possible I've gone a bit bonkers! But, hell, it's Chrismastime and we're fast approaching the New Year, so why not see in 2018 with the chance of a few goodies.

I've decided to run multiple Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ Giveaways, so this is a great opportunity to celebrate seeing in the New Year with a *Signed* paperback (or five)!

You can click on individual titles above for further details, or visit my webpage and scroll to select which *Signed* book(s) you would love to win:


Happy Christmas & Happy New Year to one and all!

"I return my gaze to the fragmented monster resting in my palm. Can this really be the remains of an angel? And if it is shouldn’t we all tremble in anticipation of what awaits at our end?"

Ok, Ok, Ok, I get it. You're asking: If this blog post is about my upcoming novel, The Lord of Always, then why the heck is it accompanied by a cover image of The Strange Case at Misty Ridge?

Well, there is a connection between the books - although it's more of a shared universe scenario, rather than a direct link with the stories. Secondly, though, and I guess it's time to 'fess up: with the year I've had I haven't yet been able to get the cover sorted. Lazy, right? Well, maybe.

The novel itself hasn't been difficult to write, but completing it has been burdened by the horrendous weather we suffered a while back. Muggins here managed to slip on the ice while out walking the dog. Not too bad in itself, you'd think, right? And usually you'd be correct; except this fool didn't just slip on the ice. I managed to slip right off the bridge I was crossing at the time.

Thankfully the water was shallow enough I didn't drown. The downside to this is that I smashed my left kneecap in the fall, and Jesus H. Christ did it hurt!

Somewhat bizarrely, the following day, my youngest son also slipped on ice, and he managed to fracture an elbow and his kneecap (again the left one).

We must be a fragile family.

Now, you'd assume being laid up would allow me to zip on with the writing, correct? Unfortunately, not. I was in that much discomfort I could barely concentrate on anything - other than swallowing painkillers.

Anyhow, I'm well on the mend now, and close to completing The Lord of Always. The novel has just returned from being edited, and I'm working through those edits now, so it won't be long before the story is revealed in all its twisted glory.

The Lord of Always tells the story of a young couple named Frank and Roz Tanner, and their battle for survival amid a landscape of merging realities, monstrous creatures and cruel deities, and an array of other cosmic shenanigans...oh, and exploding monkeys!

Frank Tanner is losing his mind to Alzheimer's disease. As the illness claims him, he remembers thoughts long buried; memories of ancient beings that declared themselves to be gods, demons and angels, and of the devastation they wreaked upon all they judged; he remembers the mysterious George Smoke, and questions why this was the only man these gods feared?

It was long ago that George Smoke swore a promise to Frank Tanner. Now, as Alzheimer's looks set to claim him, Frank dares to hope...

The Lord of Always will be available in June 2018.

"Humankind is but the pieces in a game, plastic soldiers waging war between boy gods."

For anyone who hasn't yet read The Strange Case at Misty Ridge (see image), it is available in paperback, or on Amazon Kindle, and can be read *free* with Kindle Unlimted.





"

"I return my gaze to the fragmented monster resting in my palm. Can this really be the remains of an angel? And if it is, shouldn’t we all tremble in anticipation of what awaits at our end?"

July/August sees the release of my latest novel, The Lord of Always. It is reasonable to describe the book as a genre blending mix of weird fiction, horror, and dark fantasy; however, at its core, it is primarily a story about love, and hope, and the nature of reality.

As an old man confronts demons conjured by his Alzheimer's, his younger self faces off against a legion of unholy monsters - each man fights to secure the future, and to save the soul of the woman they love!

For Frank and Roz Tanner, booking a honeymoon at Penhale House, set amid beautiful Cornish landscapes, should have been the perfect getaway. But the house sits on a nexus point; a gateway to demonic realms.

Amid a turbulence of twisting realities, and facing legions of fallen angels and nightmarish servitors, Frank and Roz become separated. Frank turns to a local pensioner for assistance. But the enigmatic George Smoke is a man who offers more questions than answers.

Confronted by dark gods and cosmic abominations, Frank faces a battle for his wife's soul. It seems a fight he is destined to lose... but he must succeed. Saving Roz is the key to everything.

The paperback version of The Lord of Always hit Amazon's bookshelves on July 6th, and will be available through various other outlets within the next few weeks.

The Kindle Version is due for release on August 1st - it is currently available for pre-order - and will (at least initially) only be available via Amazon - it can be read *free* by anyone enrolled in Amazon's Kindle Unlimited program.

It is fair to say that book reviews are a helpful resource to indie authors, because many promo sites operate a 'minimum number of reviews' policy. So, if anyone fancies reading-and-reviewing a genre blending tale involving mental illness, twisting realities, fallen angels, and an abundance of other cosmic abominations, then just fire me a message, and I'll shoot you a copy.

ETA: The same read-to-review offer applies across all my other titles.

/book/show/4...

It was just supposed to be a bit of fun...

An out of hours visit to a remote funeral home. A depraved undertaker whose predilections go beyond a desire to resurrect the dead. A murdered girl bonded to the fiend who stole her life. And a desperate son on the verge of discovering a terrible secret about his missing mother�

When the dead rise.

It doesn’t take long to prove the building is haunted, but there is more to fear than the unfortunate souls trapped within the borders of the Toliver House.

It’s time to run.

Preview

It wasn’t the first time that Morden had stood at the edge of this huge crater anticipating the events ahead. Previously, whenever he’d made late night sojourns to this spot, he would take time to admire the eerie solitude of this bleakly beautiful landscape.

Not tonight, though.

Behind him, two figures moved through the darkness, their bare feet unsteady in the mud as dampened soil bubbled up and lodged between calcified toes; further slowing their crippled and faltering stride. They came to a stop just short of Morden’s shoulder.

A solitary flash of lightning brightened the night, revealing the two forms behind him. Patches of rain-washed skull glinted through thin coverings of hair layering pitted crowns. Unkempt strands hung loose about bony shoulders, and across faces � with impossibly wide mouths � that resembled masks of decayed lint. The two creatures � which may once have passed as feminine � did not look out of place amid this landscape of forlorn desolation.

As he heard them shuffle to a stop, Morden shivered. This damn storm had inflicted a raging headache. How he loathed inclement weather and the way it affected him. Morden’s head felt muzzy, and this in turn made him want to puke: his limbs felt heavy, what the hell was happening? A tingling sensation had begun prickling his arms, the unpleasantness running to the tips of his fingers. Could there be some problem with his heart?

His lips curled to a smile. This seemed doubtful.

He recognized that he was no longer the man he once had been, and he realized the labors of reaching this place had exhausted him; but nonetheless, he’d had little choice other than to make this journey: Needs must.

“Please, don’t do it!�

The Cheerleader’s desperate plea once again flashed into his mind, but this time her words served only to lighten his mood. Her constant interference, and attempts at curbing his actions, made him regret the night which first brought them together. Although, by contrast, the knowledge that his ways so distressed the girl warmed the very core of his being. However, Morden currently had neither the time nor will to contend with thoughts of the girl’s constant whining, and so, for what seemed the umpteenth time over these past several years, he closed his eyes and willed her to be gone from his head. Standing motionless, waiting to see if he had succeeded in banishing her, he considered that maybe their coming together had in fact been a curse placed upon him by some higher power, mocking him, intent on disrupting the course of his greater quest.

The girl continued to be a bane to his existence.

Once he succeeded in quieting his mind, his thoughts returned to the task in hand. He turned up the velvet-trim collar on his overcoat, in a feeble effort to gain a modicum of comfort against the wet and cold. Staring into the depths of the pit below, he considered that this one was probably the largest, and hence likely the most prosperous of the Emerson Slate dig sites. With almost thirty acres of quarry pits, it was difficult not to appreciate this place without making comparison to a moonscape. Usually, even beneath the light of a half moon, each inky concave, in turn pitted with smaller shadow-splashed excavations, gave an impression of impact craters on a scarred celestial body. But on a night such as this, with the landscape blackened by low hanging clouds, featureless and with a wind chill capable of shrinking your face even as bullets of rain punished you, it occurred to Morden this would be a fitting habitat for the dead. This was a desolate and grim wasteland, and for those burdened by the clarity of their situation; that the life they spent so many years bemoaning and the rigors their mortality presented them, this was as good as it was ever going to get. Then, surely, would this not be a suitable panorama for such discarded and troubled souls?

It was a truth he had realized on the night Mary died. And, although there was no logical reason why, or even how, a child might come to know such things, it was this revelation which had initially led him toward this future path. He was only nine years old when tuberculosis stole her away from him, and the trauma of such a loss, it had scarred him deeply. He reached inside the waist pocket of his coat, gently stroking Mary’s favorite silk-scarf, which he kept on his person always, neatly folded and close to hand. He was burdened by the knowledge that the dead faced a future of regret and disappointment � of this he was certain. So, as a younger man he had felt it his duty to give the deceased as good a sendoff from their best years as was possible. His career choice of funeral director, without doubt influenced by Mary’s untimely passing, might almost be considered a calling.

Of course, he had barely been in the job a matter of weeks before he realized the dead held a far more intimate fascination for him. One that, although he hadn’t perhaps realized at the time, first stirred within him on the day he visited Mary’s open casket. And this, in turn, had led him on toward far darker quests.
Inspecting a jagged pile of slate on the ground beside him, he considered the amassed weight of the mainly triangular strips of stone. The dead girl they had brought in that afternoon, Casey Fisher, it was doubtful she weighed more than a hundred soaking wet. Estimating there was perhaps eighty pounds of slate at his feet � it would have to do. Nobody was going to notice if a coffin was twenty pounds light. Damn it. He much preferred cremations; they proved far easier for his purposes.

Morden took a sharp intake of breath, a sudden fluttering of excitement beating his chest. His head still felt fuzzy, and his body continued to tingle unpleasantly, but the thought of what was soon to be enjoyed; it thrilled him.

He turned to the solemn figures behind him, and set his companions about their labors.

End of preview

I hope you've enjoyed this snippet from The Bones of Morden Gray. It's a dark little tale about why you should never go sneaking around in (supposedly) deserted buildings late at night. Sure, it was always going to end well, right?
The Kindle eBook is slated for a June 1st release, and can be preordered for the promotion price of .99c/.99p.




The paperback is already available on Amazon, and this is priced $ - It's unfortunate, but I've had to restrict any wider distribution on the hard copies in an attempt to combat the ever-inflating costs of printing.




Finishing off writing this novel has taken a long time, and that has been for a myriad of reasons: the majority of which haven't been good.
Suffice to say, on a personal level it's been a tough twelve months, just as it has for others I love and care about.

My appearances on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ have been sparse for a while. So, as well as dedicating this book to my family and loved ones, it is also for you, dear readers. Thank you for sticking with me, and for continuing to read and support the books during my absence.

Most of all though, this one is for Michael.
Sleep well, brother. You will always be missed.

Callum watched under the glow of the roadside light as a sweeping tide of rabbits, deer, foxes and squirrels hurried to escape the carriageway. Upwards of a hundred different animals scurried up the embankment before disappearing into the night...

During one of the bleakest storms in years, the raging pulse of an alarm signals a breakout from a government research facility. Hours later, a ragtag team of military rejects slips into a snow laden Midlands town. Their mission: either to retrieve or terminate the escapees.

Rumours soon abound, reports of mysterious deaths and disappearances occurring throughout the area. The attacks are focused along the borders of a local nature park, and when a disparate group of locals turns up at the reserve's tearoom, seeking sanctuary from the storm, it soon becomes apparent there are things moving amid the ivory haze of the blizzard� ravenous creatures on the hunt for fresh meat.

Preview

Fifteen minutes later and Wilder was standing in the hallway drawing on a cigarette. He sucked in a breath and then blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

“You know this is a no smoking area, right?� said Harry as she leaned back against the wall and took a draw into her lungs.

“And yet here you are, trying to help me set off the smoke alarms.�

She smiled. “With all the madness gone on here tonight, I doubt anyone would even respond to a smoke alarm.�

Wilder studied the woman standing across from him. Hair the colour of burnt syrup framed a slim face with unblemished skin. She was gifted with natural beauty, although the bluest eyes he ever saw looked capable of delivering a stare that would chill a serial killer. The stern eyes and pale skin had contributed to Wilder’s initial impression of this being a harsh, less than engaging individual. But he had been wrong. It hadn’t taken long to discover Harry Chastain had a great sense of humour, and spending time together in the foyer only served to crush his initial damning assessment. He liked Harry. She was an attractive woman with a quirky style and wild eyes. She also possessed a sharp wit, although her most empowering feature was the aura of confident warmth she exuded. This was a woman who remained comfortable in her skin even when faced with grave concerns.

“It seems you underestimated the talents of your creations,� Wilder said before taking another pull.

“Hey, like I already said, I’m as much in the dark over this as you are.�

He studied her hard. “I doubt that. You have Fontaine’s ear.�

She laughed. “Yes, I’m his favourite ginger.�

“Rather you than me,� he said returning the smile. There was a pause and then he asked: “And the rest of the team?�

Harry smiled. “All fuck-ups like you and Brennan. You’ll meet them soon enough.�

All fuck-ups like you and Brennan. Then why select us for the mission? Wilder blew a smoke ring and watched as it floated towards the ceiling. Only minutes earlier he had been watching Ghorbani tapping away at the keyboard, opening various files on the computer. He stood transfixed, observing events as the nightmare unfolded. Wilder felt the colour draining from his features as he recalled the actions he saw on those screens. He looked at Harry, and felt a flush of relief that he was sporting a full beard: lest the paleness of his skin reveal the horror gripping his soul.

The pair finished the remainder of the cigarettes in silence, only occasionally smiling at each other as their eyes met across the hallway. Wilder was just about to suggest they return to the laboratory when a door opened at the end of the hall and a pale faced corporal hurried in their direction.

The corporal delivered a hurried salute to both officers. “Major. Captain. Colonel Fontaine needs you back inside, right away.�

“What’s happened,� asked Harry stubbing out the butt of the cigarette on the wall.

“We may have a lead, captain.�

End of preview

I hope you enjoyed this brief sample from Feeding Grounds. It's a horror thriller that's sure to put you off visiting the woods. And demonstrates why you are never truly safe . . . even in your own home.
The Kindle eBook is slated for a June 15st release, and can be preordered for the promotion price of .99c/.99p.




The paperback received a quiet launch on May 24th, and is priced $14.99/ £11.99.




Thank you for taking the time to read this post. Events worldwide have made it a really tough last eighteen months for every one of us. Hopefully we are now heading into the daylight. Stay healthy. And stay safe.

"There are people in the house. They have the children. What should we do?"

For Kate and Simon Collier, taking a midweek trip to a local restaurant provides some much needed respite from the rigours of their stressful careers. But little do they realise that their family is being hunted by a group of religious zealots.

The couple returns home to find their three children being held captive by the Sons and Daughters of Light, a sect led by the savage King Mod; a man who proclaims himself to be the Second Coming of Christ.

As the nightmare unfolds, it becomes apparent that the attack isn't a random intrusion. And on the darkest night of their lives, one civilised family will be tested on how far they are prepared to go in order to survive.


Preview

Dried tears line the boy’s face, his reddened cheeks stained by the same salty streams that dampen his neck and wet the shabby collar of a once-white school shirt. The thunder and lightning has ceased, but grey clouds continue to linger low in the sky outside, as though refusing to fully concede the storm. The light inside the room remains dull, and so the boy briefly turns his eyes to the room’s solitary window, set eight feet to the rear of the armchair in which his mother lies snoring.

The sleeping woman’s head rests uncomfortably on her left shoulder, a mop of dark matted hair obscuring the once pretty features. The mother’s petite, skinny body is slumped in one corner of the seat, a dribble of dark stained saliva trickling from the edge of her mouth. The animalistic grunts she emits are easily explainable: two empty vodka bottles lay discarded on the floor.

The boy touches his reddened face, then runs fingers over the bump rising above his left eye. His bottom lip is split, bloodied and sore. At just seven years old, he knows he should be in school today. The fact that, not for the first time, his mother opted to open a bottle before he even finished his cornflakes means another absence from his one happy place: the teachers and school he considers a sanctuary from the drink sodden cruelty of his mother’s addiction.

He is terrified of his mother. Or, more accurately, he is terrified of the outbursts which always accompany the drinking. Nevertheless, he also loves her more than life itself� he will do anything in an attempt to make the woman proud. Today though, he understands the why of this latest assault, and so forgives both the backhand and the closed fist which followed. He knows his mother is in pain. He understands that the rotten tooth at the back of her mouth is the catalyst for this violent start to the week.

He moves to within two paces of the slumped woman before the stink of the dark liquid dribbling from her mouth stops him in his tracks. He is too young to fully understand, although the sour smell of the fluid staining his mother’s chin tells him that the tooth is making her sick. It is a realization that troubles him greatly. He reaches out a hand and places it onto his mother’s right arm, gently but firmly shaking it in an attempt to wake her. The action garners barely a response, other than a disgruntled shrug of the arm and a snorted grunt. A nonplussed expression paints itself across the boy’s features, he is unsure of what he can do to rid her of the affliction.

Then a bulb of inspiration fires in his brain, his eyes brightening with excitement as he turns and makes for the kitchen.

He opens the cabinet doors set beneath the sink unit, stretching his slender body over the bottom shelf until he can drag out the red toolbox. Even though it is made of plastic, the box is heavy and makes his shoulders ache. He sets it down on the floor before sliding his thumbs under the two retaining catches and flipping up the lid. Inside the box there is a wooden handled hammer, several screwdrivers of various lengths and styles, plus a surplus of other small tools many of which he is unable to identify.

For a moment he wonders why his mother keeps the tool-set? She certainly never uses any of the items contained in the box and has never even done so much as hammer a nail into a wall to hang a picture. The only time he has ever seen her open up the box was during the previous year’s power cut: since that night the torch has been kept in the same kitchen drawer as the dinner utensils.

The boy picks up a set of long-nosed pliers from the box, the weight of the tool surprising him as he turns it over in his hands, studying the insulated, blue plastic hand-grips. The shape and style of the jaws reminds him of a crocodile's dangerous mouth.

He leaves the toolbox laying open on the kitchen floor, and quickly returns to the lounge. His mother still slumbers in the armchair, the slow rise and fall of her chest and the grunts of disturbed dreams providing proof of life. He prods her with the sharp end of the pliers, needing to ascertain that she will remain asleep until he cures her ills.

She does not stir.

The boy climbs up onto his mother’s lap, straddling her with his legs before placing a hand on either side of her face, and as gently as he can he rests her head into the chair. Once he is certain she is sitting comfortably, he pulls the pliers from his trouser pocket and gently prises them into her open maw. As he searches the floor of her mouth she emits a few disgruntled snorts, but the actions fail to raise her from the stupor.

Finally he manages to locate the rotten tooth, and a sense of pride washes over him as he realises he has the power to heal his mother. The unconscious woman lets out a hurtful cry as he twists the pliers the first time, but he remembers what she tells him each time she strips plasters from his healed wounds. A short sharp discomfort, then we’ll be done with it. Just tear it off as quickly as we can.

He jerks the pliers hard towards the centre of the mouth, attempting to free the blackened molar from the swollen gums surrounding the bottom row of teeth. Four times he sets the pliers to the task, and on each occasion the stupefied woman voices discomfort and struggles in the seat. But the son will not be denied.

With the fifth attempt he manages to unseat the tooth from the gums, the room seeming to resonate with the crack of the dislodging: his mother’s scream providing backing vocals as he yanks the offending article free from her mouth, her twisting head and bucking body almost unseating him, causing the jaws of the pliers to clatter against incisors and snag on bloody lips.

In her drunken state the woman cannot fathom what has happened, but the hurt afflicting her scrawny body is enough to make her rise, and as she wrestles herself free of the pliers and climbs to her feet, the child is dumped to the floor. Fear marks the boy’s face, terror at the rage in his mother’s eyes. There is also concern: blood continues to waterfall from the woman’s open maw.

Her right hand clasps the hurt jaw, her eyes swelling with confusion and then rage as she studies the pliers she has taken from her son. The blow she delivers is purely a reflex action, a backhand strike that both mother and son are familiar with. But her pain makes her oblivious to the pliers she holds in her hand, the weight of the tool delivering a concussive strike to the boy’s brow. Stars dance in front of his eyes even before his head bounces off the floor. As blood from the wound begins to weep into his blurred eyes, he becomes aware of the mother standing over him: aware of the strange, guttural sounds escaping the bloody waterfall of her face, the difficulty in her breathing, and then the crash of her body hitting the floor as she falls backwards.

The mother’s choked death throes are the last thing the boy hears before he loses consciousness.

A considerable length of time passes before he awakens. The hand he touches to his left brow confirming that the mother is not the only one to have bled this day. He doesn’t know it but he has suffered a dizzying concussion, and as he pushes himself up to a sitting position, the wound to his head means it is difficult for him to understand the carnage in the room.

He crawls over to the mother, fascinated but also hurting, understanding that she is gone from this world, laid out on a carmine floor. Her eyes are open and staring at an invisible speck on the ceiling, her face painted with fear: the realisation of her own demise. It had only ever been the boy and his mother� despite the regular bouts of brutality and anger, she always told him he was special. That she was the only parent: no man is your father.

Her stillness scares him, but he leans forward and plants a kiss on the side of her face. And now I have no mother.

The boy’s fingers touch something sharp hidden in the blood surrounding his mother’s body. He picks up the shard of broken tooth and rises to his feet, considering this act of kindness that has taken his mother from him. He moves to the window, for some unknown reason needing to study this fragment of his mother that he knows he will always keep with him.

He only wanted to ease her suffering, and the shard provides some small comfort once he realises he will never truly be alone so long as he keeps the object with him. It is then that the light strikes his eyes, the clouds outside finally rolling back to reveal a sun several times brighter than any he has seen during his young life. He holds up a hand to shield his face, turning from the window to where his mother lays posed on a red canvas.

Her face no longer looks afraid.

She is at peace now.

The boy turns back to the window, his watering eyes drawn to the light, and as he does so the dizziness afflicting his brain begins to evaporate: to heal.

His mind returns to the stories they have been taught in school... and at last he understands. It was always his path to be denied that which his classmates share.

No man is your father. Mother’s replies to his questions had been cryptic. You are special. No man is your father.

He rolls the tooth in his fingers, finally understanding: he succeeded in healing his mother’s pain. He steps back from the window and drops to his knees, keeping the shard in his palms as he clasps his hands in prayer, and looks up at the stinging light of the sun.

“You came for me, Father. When I needed you the most. You came back for me.�

End of preview

I hope you enjoyed this brief sample from Once More with Feeling. It's a tale that's sure to have you checking the window latches and bolting the doors before retiring to bed. Just remember, you are never truly safe . . . not even in your own home.
The Kindle eBook is out on October 17th, and can be preordered now for the promotional price of .99c/.99p.




The paperback received a quiet launch on September 8th.




Thank you for taking the time to read this post. And, wherever you are in the world, I hope life is treating you well.

All Prices Reduced.
Times are hard at the moment, and from talking with friends around the world it is apparent that it isn't just the UK being affected by shortages and inflated prices.
There are many reasons for the current situation, and these range from after effects of the COVID-19 lockdowns to Putin's war in Europe and also downright greed on the part of many corporations - this last one being another topic altogether.
Anyhow, in an attempt to do my small bit to assist readers during these hard times and dark nights; I've taken the decision to price-drop all of my books.
From October 31st until December 1st, all novels and short story collections available on Kindle will be priced $1.99








And all novellas will be priced $1.50.





All non-US titles will be reduced in line with local exchange rates.
I hope this helps in some small way. Take care, and stay strong.

- David

Through the mire affecting his mind, Braxton was aware of something firm and slippery passing over his body, a brief glimpse of bulbous eyes glimmering ebony in the candlelight, and a rubbery countenance painted onto a neckless head.

Hey, folks. Just a quick post to bring fresh eyes to my newly released/soon to be released new novel, set in a weird and horrific version of the wild west.

/book/show/1...

In the distance, a dark shape moved easily beneath the surface waters of the lake. The duo watched in silence as the thing in the water turned and snaked towards the shallows, creating powerful crests that forced the waters along the bank to slosh ferociously up the shore.

The expressions on the faces of man and boy turned from looks of confusion to stunned disbelief as a dullish-grey figure surfaced from the waves; the sunlight casting silver reflections off the creature’s piscatorial skin as it heaved itself from the water. The lake monster appeared to hesitate when it reached the bank, a momentary pause as it pressed a blunt, though somewhat gator-like tail into the wet dirt; steadying itself on two short but muscular legs before correcting the hunched posture of its thick body.

The thing possessed two rubbery arms that draped lazily by its sides as it turned a stout head in the direction of the watching duo, studying them for a moment before beginning its move away from the shoreline.

Under a Blood Red Sky is available now in paperback, and is slated for an April 18th release on Amazon Kindle. and is priced just .99c/.99p while on pre-order.

“So what say you, Miss Prudence? Would you do me the honour of taking a stroll with me? It’s a fine evening,� Cletus said, removing his hat and stroking his hand through a thicket of greasy black hair.

Prudence turned her palm to the sky before taking a step away from the gunslinger.

“A fine evening, you say? Why, I do believe it’s spotting with rain, Mr. Dolamire. Besides, Papa doesn’t like me spending time alone with men of your ilk. I shouldn’t even be walking the camp at such a late hour.� She moved back a further step, the ripeness of Cletus� nicotine breath endorsing his general lack of hygiene.

Cletus� features hardened unpleasantly, and for a moment Prudence wondered if she had spoken out of turn. Then he smiled as the heavens opened.

“Looks like you were right, Miss Prudence. We’re in for a much needed downpour.�

She returned the smile, but then her face hardened when the sound of a woman’s terrified scream erupted from somewhere beyond the edge of the camp.

Paperback launched March 8th.



Kindle Launches April 18th. Available for .99c/.99p while on pre-order.



It was nice to have a woman to press against when he settled beside the camp fire: even when that woman was cold and dead and maggots had eaten her eyes.

Thanks, as always, for your continuing support. And thanks, too, for taking a moment to browse this post. Keep well, stay safe, and be happy!

David