The Book Junkie's Reads . . .: James A. Hunter

Friday, October 7, 2016

Release Day Blitz - Savage Prophet (Yancy Lazarus, #4) by James A. Hunter

Savage Prophet

Yancy Lazarus, #4

by James A. Hunter

Date of Publication: October 7^th2016

Publisher: Shadow Alley Press Inc

Cover Artist: Lou Harper

Genre: Adult Urban Fantasy

BLURB

Legions of murderous undead, Haitian voodoo, and a five-thousand-year old serpent god.

Yeah, ’cause that’s exactly what Yancy Lazarus needs in his life: more complications. As if being the Hand of Fate and the newly appointed guardian over one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse wasn’t headache enough.

All Yancy wants is an easy life on the open road—chock-full of ribs, beer, cigarettes, and smoky bars blaring with gritty blues music—but that just isn’t in the cards. Nope, not anymore. He’s been charged to save the world and now that he’s got a no-shit demon riding shotgun in his head, he’s sorta committed to the cause.

If Yancy can’t sort through this colossal heap of bullshit, he’s coffin bound. But, he’s not dead yet. In fact, he even has a lead.

Turns out one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse—the pale Rider, Death—is slumming around in one of Yancy’s old haunts. In order to corner this new threat, though, Yancy’s gonna have to face some deadly supernatural nightmares from his distant past. And, to make matters worse, he’s not the only one trailing the Pale Rider. A powerful new mage with some serious magical chops, is also aiming to find the Fourth Seal and he’ll do whatever it takes to win. Even if it means hurting those closest to Yancy … Like F.B.I. Agent Nicole Ferraro.

Buy Link: Amazon

“Will anyone stand for this man? Stand for Yancy Lazarus?” The voice rang out, echoing off the bleak stone walls, rolling over me like a frigid ocean wave crashing on a rocky shoreline. “Will anyone dare to call him friend”—a taut pause—“or brother?” A creeping dread filled my belly, twisting my guts into serpentine knots. Gooseflesh broke out along my arms, neck, and back, while slick beads of perspiration dotted my forehead.

If no one stood for me, vouched for me, I was dead. And I’m not being hyperbolic or metaphorical here.

Someone—probably ol’ Iron Stan, the leader of the Fist of the Staff and my former boss—would literally slip a Vis-imbued garrote around my neck and strangle me until I was a lifeless meat sock. Choke the air from my lungs while crushing my windpipe, leaving me to die a very undignified death: Kneeling on the concrete floor before a bunch of bathrobe wearing geezers. Back bent with some douchehole digging an elbow in between my shoulder blades. Hands cuffed behind my back and a brown leather sack covering my bowed head.

Well, someone would try …

These days, I had some extra kick under the hood in the form of an honest to goodness End Times Seal—straight outta the book of Revelation—come to me by way of an Elder Bigfoot, Chief Chankoowashtay, the leader of the People of the Forest and the last great ruler of the Chiye-tanka.

Yep, riding right next to my ticker was the Seal of War. A metaphysical prison containing the essence of the second horseman of the Apocalypse: Azazel the Purros, Grigori of Old, Scourge of Mankind, Maker of War, and Lord of Dark Magicks. A creature with a truly intimidating string of titles, though, admittedly, I’d hate to be him when tax season rolls around and you have to list your full name in quintuplet.

True, I couldn’t take on the entire Guild even with that evil dickhead, Azazel, in my corner, but I’d sure as shit go down hookin’ and jabbin’, and I’d take at least a few of these sons of bitches with me if it came to it.

“He abandoned this Guild,” the voice said, as insistent and unyielding as old stones. I swiveled my head toward the speaker, and though I couldn’t see her—what with a friggin’ sack over my face—I could picture her in my mind. A striking woman with smooth skin, high cheeks, and bright green eyes, searching and weighing. Her hair, a mass of silver, hanging all the way down her back. Arch-Mage Borgstorm, head of the Guild of the Staff. As savvy as magi came, but cold, calculating, and political to her teeth.

“Throughout the course of this trial,” she continued, “the prosecutor has shown Mage Lazarus to be a traitor. A danger. A deserter.” Her words sparked a fire in my chest, my blood rising to a low simmer as I clenched my teeth and balled my hands into fists.

Traitor.

I’d given more for the damn Guild than anyone had a right to ask, and they’d been the ones to turn their backs on me and mine, not the other way around. But, despite the fact that I had the sudden urge to conjure a gout of molten rock and melt the chamber to blackened slag, I held my tongue.

My personal feelings aside, I needed these shifty bastards in my corner because I had nowhere else to turn. No other leads to run down.

After trying unsuccessfully to find James and the Morrigan for the past two months—and with no further word from Lady Luck, my immediate boss as Hand of Fate—I only had one viable clue: the Fourth Seal. The essence of Death and Pestilence. And, unfortunately, the only person who knew the location of the Seal Bearer was sitting on the raised platform. The arch-mage. Awful luck for me, considering she was the one leading the charge to have me summarily executed and thrown into an unmarked grave.

Them’s the breaks sometimes, I suppose.

“Even if Mr. Lazarus isn’t willfully an enemy of the Guild,” the arch-mage said, “no one here can deny he is a liability and threat to anyone who comes near him. Everyone in this room has seen his personnel file, so we all know exactly how dangerous he is. Moreover, since deserting our ranks in ’98, he’s committed hundreds of unsanctioned acts of violence and vigilantism across Inworld and Out.

“Hundreds. Violating untold treaties. Wantonly killing. Compromising the integrity of this distinguished organization.” She made that last one sound far worse than wantonly killing, which should tell you everything you need to know about her. “So, I ask again. Will anyone stand for him knowing the potential risk he represents?”

A long, uncomfortable pause filled the room, a palpable weight settling over everything.

“If you would have him back among our number,” the arch-mage said at last, breaking the quiet, “stand now, or hold your peace as the Elders pass judgement on this man. This unrepentant criminal.”

Buy Link: Amazon

Author Info

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thiland. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

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Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Audio BLITZ - MudMan (The Golem Chronicles, #1) by James A. Hunter

MudMan

The Golem Chronicles, #1

by James A. Hunter

Audiobook Date of Publication: August 10^th 2016

Publisher: Shadow Alley Press

Cover Artist: Lou Harper

Genre: Adult Urban Fantasy

BLURB

Levi Adams is a soft spoken, middle-aged Mennonite man—at least he tries to be when he’s not murdering people.

Levi’s a golem, a Mudman, crafted from the muck, mire, and corpses of a World War II concentration camp—killing is just a part of his DNA. He doesn’t like it, but unfortunately he’s been saddled with a divine commission to dole out judgment on those who shed innocent blood. After seventy years as a cold-blooded murder machine, however, Levi’s trying to change his grisly nature. And the AA meetings and church services are helping. A little. But when he runs across a wounded girl, Sally Ryder, during one of his “hunting expeditions,” he realizes self-help may have to go on the back burner.

Someone is attempting to revive a pre-Babylonian murder god, and the road to rebirth is paved with dead bodies. Lots and lots of them.

Now, Levi must protect Ryder—the key to an unspeakable resurrection—and defeat a Nazi mage from Levi’s murky past. But the shadowy mage holds a terrible secret about the Mudman’s unorthodox birth, one offering insight into Levi’s morbid compulsion for bloodshed. It’s a secret Levi would pay anything to uncover: maybe even Ryder’s life. If Levi isn’t careful, he may end up turning into the monster he always imagined himself to be.

Buy Link: Audible

ZERO:

Awakening

June, 1943

He blinked his eyes open for the first time: a newborn stealing his first look at the world, which, in a way, is exactly what he was. Except no squealing, rosy-cheeked infant had ever been so big, so ugly, or so filled with blood-boiling rage. Never had a child been so appalling. He squinted at first, letting in only the merest trickle of light because even the wan illumination from the moon, which loitered over the world like a fat thumbnail, was harsh to his virgin eyes.

Smells came next: the scent of musky earth, the harsh tang of powdery slaked lime—used to mask the reek of decay—and buried beneath that, the sour stink of rotten flesh and burnt hair.

The sky spit down a misty drizzle, fine droplets of cool water that turned his gray skin slick. After a few moments more his eyes adjusted fully, allowing him, at last, to survey his surroundings. Mud and muck, deep brown and goopy, lined everything. It squished beneath his shoulder blades, clung to his arms and legs, and liberally coated the corpses crudely piled to his right. Despite the mud, the bodies appeared almost white, like angry specters waiting for him, welcoming him to this new hell with silent screams and vacant eyes.

How he knew anything was beyond him, since this was the first day of his life, the day—or rather night—of his unnatural birth. Surely, no baby pushed and fought its way into the world with dark and grisly thoughts of murder and death lingering in its mind, with knowledge of mass graves, heinous experimentation, and hasty executions. But he knew such things. Fragments of memories floated and swirled inside his skull, dancing a slow funeral dirge, parading incoherent snatches of imagery through his head.

The Wehrmacht march through the streets in their black spit-shined boots and high-collared, gray wool uniforms. Smart and dashing, those uniforms, dressing up the face of murder in civility and pageantry …

The Luftwaffe soars overhead. The buzz of the single-prop Focke-Wulf and the thunderous roar of the colossal Messerschmitt transport planes fill the air with their racket …

He clutches a small boy to his chest, his body trembling as he hides, holding his breath for fear of being heard. Terror and panic wriggle in his guts as the black-garbed Schutzstaffel—the SS—make their way from door to door, fists rapping on wood, rifle buttstocks smashing out windows, booted feet kicking their way inside …

Then, train cars, loaded to capacity, roll through his thoughts. Bodies press up against one another so tightly he can’t breathe—except he isn’t a he, but a she. And she is searching for her sister. They’d been separated in all the chaos …

So many images, circling around, each screaming more loudly than the last, each demanding he lend them an ear or an eye or a hand. He clutched at either side of his head. Broad, fleshy palms pressed in as though he could simply pulverize the images and send them back to whatever nightmare they’d come from. But they kept coming, and as they came—faster and faster, like a hail of automatic machine gunfire—his chest began to itch and burn. It felt like someone had taken a cherry-red fire iron and jabbed it into the meat covering his breastbone.

A huge hand flew to the pain, his fingers finding crude markings etched directly into the skin, cut deep into the muscle below. As he touched the mark, the jagged wound, the voices and visions coalesced into a single demand. A demand for retribution. The anger came next, flowing from the brand like gasoline pumping through his veins, scorching his insides and propelling him to action. He lumbered to his feet, the muck squishing around his thick toes, and made for the muddy wall of his earthen womb. In reality, an open grave. He dug his digits in and used his flabby, though powerfully built, arms to pull himself upward and free.

He lay on the edge of the pit for a long beat, charting the lay of the land, eyes scanning the dark, which covered everything like a velvety blanket. In the distance, not so far off, he saw a squat building. Some sort of bunker, outlined by the faint glow of light bulbs. He wasn’t surewhat he was. Where he was. Or how he’d gotten there. But, as the brand burned in his chest, he was certain of one thing: someone—or, perhaps, lots of someones—had quite the butcher’s bill to account for, and he was ready to collect.

Author Info