Title: The Forest
Bull
Author: Terry
Maggert
Genre: Urban
Fantasy/Thriller
Release: August
2013
Synopsis: Three
lovers who stalk and kill the immortals that drift through South Florida
(tourists are a moveable feast, after all) are living a simple life of leisure-
until one of them is nearly killed by woman who is a new kind of lethal.
When Ring Hardigan isn’t making sandwiches
for, and with, his two partners, Waleska and Risa (they’re cool like that),
he’s got a busy schedule doing the dirty work of sending immortals to the ever
after. Wally and Risa provide linguistics, logistics, and finding the right
place for him and his knife- together, they’re a well-oiled machine, and
they’ve settled into a rhythm that bodes ill for the Undying. Warlocks,
vampires, succubae and the odd ghoul have all fallen to their teamwork. Life is
tough, but they soldier on killing the undead, liberating their worldly goods
for charity, and generally achieving very little.
-Until
Ring wakes up after nearly dying at the hands of a woman who may or may not be
the daughter of Satan. Ring’s a tough character, for a boat bum (killing
immortals sort of rubs off on you that way), but twelve days of comatose
healing are enough to bring out the ugly side of his temper. When a letter
arrives asking for their help finding a large collection of stolen heirloom
jewelry, they form an uneasy friendship with the last Baron of a family hiding
in a primal European forest.
Cazimir, the Baron, has two skills: Jeweler
and preserver of the last herd of forest bulls. It’s an odd occupation, but
then, Ring, Risa and Wally aren’t your everyday career folks, and Cazimir’s
lodge might be sitting on something that looks a lot like hell, which,
according to a 2400 year old succubus hooker named Delphine, is currently on
the market to the strongest immortal. The Baron’s impassioned plea to find the
jewelry comes with some conditions- he doesn’t want the collection back as much
as he does the thief, Elizabeth, who happens to be his daughter- and the woman
who nearly sent Ring to his grave.
In a
tapestry of lies, it’s up to Ring, Wally and Risa to find out what is evil, who
is human, and exactly who really wants to reign over hell.
Book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2B75_jmkBvY
Author’s Blog: http://terrymaggert.com/
Additional Social
Media:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/TerryMaggert
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Terry-Maggert/e/B00EKN8RHG/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
Amazon Sales Link: http://www.amazon.com/Forest-Bull-Terry-Maggert/dp/1484862201/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1379295785&sr=1-1
Signed Paperback: Contact
author directly via Facebook, or at terrymaggertbooks@gmail.com
Author’s Bio: Born in 1968, I discovered fishing shortly
after walking, a boon considering I lived in South Florida. After a brief move
to Kentucky, my family trekked back to South Florida, and it was at this time
that I made the first of my Big Career Changes, breaking from my daily fishing
habit to play the saxophone in middle school. I took this leap of faith under
advisement from my Consigliore/ Grandfather, who assured me that this was the
way to impress girls.
In a rare occurrence, he was wrong. This
isn’t surprising considering he had been a Big Band leader in the 1930s, which,
I have since learned, was a certainty for impressing girls. Middle School
saxophone played by a cherubic pre-teen? Not so much.
I had the good fortune to attend high
school in idyllic Upstate New York, where I learned the meaning of winter-- and
how to seize the whole of summer.
After two or three failed attempts at
college, I bought a pub. That was fun, because I love beer. However, I
eventually met someone smarter than me (a common event), but in this case, she
married me and convinced me to go back to school - which I did, with great
enthusiasm. I earned a Master’s Degree in History and rediscovered my love for
writing. I had written for most of my life, but it was only fatherhood and a
herd of dogs/cats/etc. that gave me the time management skills necessary to
finish a novel, and actually see several more in my future.
I live near Nashville, Tennessee with the
aforementioned wife, son, and herd, and when I’m not writing, I teach history,
grow wildly enthusiastic tomato plants, and restore my 1967 Mustang.
Excerpt:
Florida
“You may kiss me
now,” she stated in a voice devoid of music. The mirthless bow of her full lips
betrayed her intent to me, but I knew the invitation, like my costume, was a
lie. She was pretending to be human. I adopted the persona of just another
lonely, awkward snowbird, my own illusion that had brought me to this intimate
second with her, inviting me closer with a flicker of her brow. I bought in,
leaning towards her in the alcove of a cheesy hotel that advertised in French
and English. The boardwalk nearby was a haven for the Quebecois who fled the
rigors of winter for the sun and crowding of Hollywood, Florida, squeezed
between the fashion of Miami and the canals of Fort Lauderdale.
We were a
mismatched pair because she saw what I wished: a slouching, whitebread tourist
being rewarded by the gods of fate with the company of a pale, elegant woman
whose body filled her sundress flawlessly. Other couples and groups passed us
in a late night rush between the bars and gathering places of the beach. It was
cool for November. Bursts of drunken laughter mixed with the quiet spaces
surrounding lovers who walked, faces turned to the shushing metronome of the
surf. A single set of footfalls clattered nearby, interrupting our moment of
impending passion. It was a woman dropping her keys and swearing in lightly-
accented French. With a metallic tinkling, she picked them up and moved off
into the night, leaving us alone again.
Reaching out, I
took the woman’s thin hand tentatively as she leaned into me with beautiful but
shopworn looks, tired under her makeup. A halo of dark curls was pushed back
from her oval face with hair combs that were deeply burnished red, gleaming
like rubbed bone. They looked regal in the careless way that beautiful women
wear trinkets with quiet entitlement.
She had approached
me in a bar an hour earlier as I sat alone nursing a comical umbrella drink and
reading a paperback. I dress with purpose when I become someone else, leaving a
riot of clues about my weaknesses and desires scattered on me. I hunch. I
become meek. I mute my ego and become subservient to an affectation of absolute
mediocrity. A cheap, tacky sweatshirt
and garishly new deck shoes completed my identity as a visitor, unsure of my
surroundings and far from home. I added moping loneliness and an aura of
desperation purely for effect. With my shoulders rolled in and my body language
long on failure, women ignored me. I, in turn, avoided anyone who made eye
contact until she sat down, sliding into the space next to me and settling
quickly. She was very still except for her eyes. They were alive, but brittle
and hooded.
Senya, she introduced herself when she
calmly sat in my booth without invitation. There was no uncertainty in her
motions as she drank one glass of wine while asking a mechanical litany of
questions. Where was I from? Did I have family with me? Was I staying nearby?
She delivered these in a throaty accent that was purely Eastern Europe, all
while flirting with me in a listless way. I played the role of the flattered
rube, and, when she asked me to leave with her, my eyes went wide, the shock of
my good fortune lighting my face. I fumbled awkwardly to the door with her.
And now, here we
were, in a shadowed place with the wind and water muted. Alone, or as much as
you could be in public. She pulled me to her, and I inhaled her scents of red
wine, foreign tobacco, and the lingering grit of the ocean. She opened her
mouth and circled me with her arms, warming to the moment as we kissed. I felt
her body begin to respond heatedly from our contact and winced with regret as
my hand whispered upwards, burying the slim knife I had silently palmed deep
into her ribs. She buckled and tried to pull back, but my arms locked on her
like heavy stones resting in earth. Her eyes never opened as the poisonous
blade wrecked her spirit, the silvered steel shooting through her without
mercy, cutting the bond to her body forever.
Immortals are
always surprised when they die. She was no different, judging by her open-
mouthed, hiccupping sigh as I lowered her spasmodic body, eyes fluttering, to
the concrete of the hotel patio. In seconds, she began to sublime, her ashes
fleeing upward with tiny blue points of moonlight that left her dress an empty
outline. I stepped back, looking at the dust of Senya, and began to turn away.
In that instant, two obscenely fat moths fluttered down and began to delicately
scatter her remains with their feet.
I have learned
that killing immortals causes changes in my body. Maybe another executioner
could learn how to fly, read minds, or bend a metal rod with their hands. I
tend to think that each immortal death makes us better at what we know. For me,
I grow faster, more confident. I know I am something more after fourteen years
of killing their kind.
I still can’t fly,
but one thing is certain. I’m very good with knives.
No comments:
Post a Comment