Title: The Forest Bull
Author: Terry Maggert
Genre: Urban Fantasy/Thriller
Release: August 2013
Author’s Blog: http://terrymaggert.com/
Additional Social Media:
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Terry-
Amazon Sales Link: http://www.amazon.com/Forest-
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.
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.
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.
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