Tag Archives: dark fantasy

Witch Wolf Teaser Tuesday

Witch Wolf cover

 

Witch Wolf cover

Paranormal Romance, Gay,  Dark Fantasy

Date Published: June 10, 2022

Publisher: Changeling Press

 

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Will is a witch wolf, a werewolf who can do magic, but his life so far has
been anything but magical. He was sold by his own pack and for four years,
Will suffered as a slave to his captors — who used him any way they wanted.
Now, after a leap of courage has brought him to Colin’s doorstep,
Will’s past should be just that, his
past.            

Colin can see the new apprentice he’s supposed to teach magic has
been hurt. Colin wants to comfort the young werewolf who takes to magic much
more easily than he takes to human contact. Their attraction seems mutual,
but how can Colin be certain Will even knows what he wants?

As slow affection grows between Colin and Will, Will’s magic does as
well, and he allows himself a sliver of happiness. Except the dark past Will
thought he escaped from is not quite done with him, and now, it’s not
just Will’s life on the line, but also Colin’s, the witch Will’s
heart is beating for.

WARNING: Witch Wolf contains references to past sexual assault (with none
of it happening on the page), which may be triggering for some
readers.

Witch Wolf teaser

EXCERPT

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2022 Alexa Piper

Will

Once upon a time, Will had sent wishes to the full moon with his howls, but
what had come true for him were the slick slaps of skin against skin,
stinking breath against his face, the taste of his own blood and other,
unspeakable things. Will, instead of meeting a prince under the full moon,
had been sold to beasts.

Will carefully turned away from the large form next to him in the bed.
Everything seemed so loud in the darkness, the other man’s deep
breathing, Will’s own, panicked heartbeat which had not slowed while
he had waited for the small hours of the morning, refusing sleep. Will
moved, inch by inch, away from the other man. Will refused to think what the
other man — Ed — would do if he found Will sneaking out. What Ed had done
was already more than Will wanted to think about.

Will had considered packing a small bag, but that would have been too
dangerous. All he had dared was leave clothes under the bed, in such a way
it looked incidental, forgotten laundry.

The floor was cold against Will’s naked feet. Carefully, he stood. He
could say he’d just wanted to go to the bathroom if Ed woke now, but
Ed was still sleeping, and so Will got his clothes, slowly pulling them up
and onto his arms. He could not make too much noise. He had to get this
right.

Will didn’t dare put the clothes on in the bedroom — loup-garou
hearing was sensitive. He walked through the dark house and to the kitchen,
grabbing his shoes on the way. There were shards of a glass on the floor. Ed
had thrown it in fury when Will had been too slow in getting Ed his beer.
Will walked around the broken thing and quickly cleaned himself with a wipe.
He gave one last look to the dirty dishes in the sink, then pulled on his
clothes, more concerned with doing it as quietly as he could than about
doing it neatly.

Before he turned the knob, he listened to the house, but it was quiet. Ed
was still sleeping, and so was his pack of three, all of them loup-garous,
all of them vicious. They might still hear the door, but if Will was ever
going to run, then this was it.

He opened the door and crossed the threshold. Now, if they found him, they
would know without a doubt that he had tried to run, and they would punish
him.

Will closed the door as carefully as he could, but the mechanism made a
small sound. Behind the house, the alley was dirty. Trash bags rustled in
the wind, soda cans rusted and collected dirt. Will had to watch where he
stepped so he didn’t make any more noise. His heart was thundering in
his chest.

Out on the street, Will quickly broke into a run. He knew he had to put as
much distance between himself and them, because they could shift and just
hunt him down, and he couldn’t without the moon being full.

Winchester Boulevard, on foot, was quite a walk. It took Will an hour, and
he ran most of the time, so when he finally got there, he was sweaty from
running and trembling with the cold whenever he slowed down to catch his
breath. The house he wanted had a large planter by the front door with a red
and white plastic windmill in it. Ella had said the windmill would be there.
It was such a silly thing, and there wasn’t even any wind to move its
spokes, but Will nearly broke out in sobs with relief.

Will was scared to knock, but at this point, it was this or wait for Ed and
his pack to hunt him down. And Will knew they wouldn’t just kill him.
If it had been that — if he’d known that would have been the worst
he’d have to fear — he might have given up at any point over the past
four years, might have just accepted death. Everything else the loup-garous
would enjoy doing to him — that was what Will feared.

He was huffing when he stood in front of the door, but he didn’t
hesitate to knock.

Will looked over his shoulder as he waited to be let in. This neighborhood
was one of the nicer ones for New Elvenswood. The whole city tended to be
largely clean and touristy, even if Will had never been allowed to see all
that much of the place. The dilapidated house Ed and his pack had rented was
the exception more than the rule as far as Will could tell.

Across the street, there was a light on in an upstairs room. Will imagined
whoever was up was awake at this hour because of their own choosing. He
imagined they were working late or maybe just reading. Just living their
life. Will hadn’t lived in such a long time. All he’d been doing
since he’d met Ed had been surviving.

The door opened, and Will flinched.

“Yes?” the vampire asked.

Will had known it would be a vampire, but still. This one, his sheer
presence absolutely spoke to Will’s wolf nature, and the
vampire’s demeanor made Will want to show his belly and submit. He was
stunning to behold too, but in a sharp way: almost white-blond hair, icy
eyes that had a hard darkness to them, a thin mouth set in a pale
face.

With a last shallow breath, Will forced the words he’d prepared in
his head out of his mouth. “Ella said you can help people in trouble.
I… there’s a pack of loup-garous, and I need to get away from
them. I can’t pay you, but I’ll do what you want. I’ll
work for you.”

Will’s voice nearly gave out on the last part, because he started
shaking violently. It occurred to Will that the vampire looked like a
Viking, and his cold eyes were growing only more glacial in their regard.
Will doubted the man had laughed for more than a minute in the last hundred
years. And he wore nice clothes, really nice clothes. Will knew the vampire
was a lawyer, but he felt silly now for asking for help. He expected the
vampire to tell him to go and fuck off, just with nicer words.

“Come inside,” the vampire said instead and opened the door
wider.

 

Witch Wolf tablet

 

Connect with the Author

Author’s Instagram: @piperthewriter

Author’s Twitter: @prowlingpiper

Follow the Publisher on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter: @changelingpress

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Harri Unbound Teaser Tuesday

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Dark Fantasy, Paranormal Romance, Suspense

Date Published:  May 27, 2022 

When the ruthless magician Madrin dies, opportunists seek revenge for his
cruelty. They kidnap his daughters, meaning to sell them into sexual slavery
at a brutal club for sadistic, wealthy men. Lady Harri Madrin manages to
escape before the doors close behind them and vows to rescue her sister,
Morgan.

Gareth Lamb, the handsome son of a local merchant, finds Harri and hides
her from her furious pursuers. When she begs him to help rescue her sister,
he agrees. They decide to pretend she is his concubine so they can gain
entry to the club to search for Morgan.

The master-slave charade forces them into sizzling erotic encounters. Soon,
they fall in love, but Gareth knows he could never aspire to marriage with
the high-born Lady Harri.

Though Harri’s magical abilities give them an edge, they’re
badly outnumbered by the slavers. Even if they manage to rescue Morgan, will
Gareth’s disapproving father disown him if they declare their love and
attempt to marry?

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2022 Rebecca York

 

Harri Madrin woke in her narrow bed in the dark hours of the night. For a
moment she thought she might be dreaming — until she realized there was
some sort of disturbance in the convent, something she had never heard in
this place of tranquility.

With moonlight streaming through the narrow window, she slipped across the
stone floor of the small chamber to where her sister still slumbered.
“Morgan, wake up. Something bad is happening.”

Her younger sister’s eyes blinked open as the sound of rough male
voices came closer. Men in the convent? Never, unless there was some task
that the vestals could not accomplish on their own. And never at
night.

Sister Matilda rushed into the room. “Hurry, you must hide! They are
after you.” She had always been kind to them, and now her wrinkled
face was full of fear.

“Who? Why?”

“For revenge. Your father is dead.”

Harri felt nothing for her sire besides a flood of relief. In all her
eighteen years, she had feared her father, the magician, Madrin. Now he
would no longer rail at her for being born the wrong sex — and for not
inheriting any of his powers. Or so he thought. He was incorrect about the
latter, but she had kept that knowledge from him, unwilling to give him the
satisfaction of her talent. It was the same for her sister, Morgan.

“You must hide before they find you.” Sister Matilda
urged.

“But where?”

“Come with me,” she pleaded.

“We must dress,” Morgan protested.

“No time.” The elderly vestal ushered them out of their room.
The stone floor was cold on their bare feet as they followed the sister to a
small chapel. She led them up the aisle to the front of the room, then
removed two candlesticks and opened the top of the altar where they saw a
deep cavity under the horizontal surface.

“In with you.”

The girls climbed into the box, curling on their sides and scrunching down
to fit into the space.

“I will come back for you when it’s safe,” Sister Matilda
promised before lowering the lid. The sound of metal hitting wood told Harri
she had replaced the candlesticks.

Harri moved in the cramped space, trying to get comfortable. She froze when
a rough male voice demanded, “What have you done with
them?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying, you old bitch.”

“You dare such sacrilege?”

“You are no better than Madrin, sheltering his demon’s
spawn.”

The words were followed by the sound of a hand slapping against flesh.
Sister Matilda cried out in pain.

“Where are they?”

There was no answer, but Harri heard something hitting the floor. She
crammed her fist against her mouth as she struggled not to scream.

Outside in the chapel, a whirlwind of destruction erupted — heavy pews
being tossed about, glass breaking. And then silence.

Harri trembled in their hiding place, and she could feel her sister’s
similar vibrations.

Footsteps approached the altar, and she struggled to keep her teeth from
chattering. A sweeping noise sent the candlesticks clattering to the stones.
The top creaked up, and Harri cringed away.

“And what have we here?”

About the Author

New York Times and USA Today Best-Selling Author Rebecca York began her
career as a journalist writing articles for newspapers and magazines, but
after several years decided to try writing fiction. She’s a highly
successful author of over 50 romantic suspense and paranormal novels and is
the head of the Columbia Writers Workshop. Her many awards include two Rita
finalist books. She has two Career Achievement awards from Romantic Times:
for Series Romantic Suspense and for Series Romantic Mystery. Her Peregrine
Connection series won a Lifetime Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense
Series. She collects rocks, and enjoys cooking, walking, reading, gardening,
travel, and Mozart operas.

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THIRST Teaser Tuesday

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Erotica, Dark Fantasy, Vampires

Date Published: May 20, 2022

Publisher: Changeling Press

 

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Feeling thirsty?

Thirsty: Monique has finally found a place where she can live out her
fantasies. Little does she know the den of iniquity she’s walked into is
more than just a theme club. Omen’s is the playground for every type of
monster in the world.

A Thirst to Die For: When Nolan gives life to Amanda’s carnal fantasies,
his own life changes. Hell is coming to pay him a visit, and he’s about to
lose control.

Bane of Existence: One night spent in a human woman’s arms brought Bane, a
son of Satan, as close to heaven as he’ll ever get. Now the only way he can
have Iris is to convince her she wants him as much as he needs her.

A Vampire’s Thirst: Once Nolan gave all souls moderation in everything. He
was good at his job, and he called heaven home — until he fucked the wrong
seraphim! Now he’s a vampire slayer serving the devil, keeping an eye on
Omen’s, and babysitting Lucifer’s son. Not a job he expected to hold for
damn near eight hundred years…

 

Publisher’s Note:  Thirst (Razor’s Edge Box Set) contains the
previously published novellas Thirsty, A Thirst to Die For, Bane of
Existence, and A Vampire’s Thirst.

 

 

Excerpt from Thirsty

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2022 J. Hali Steele

 

“Must be a cold day in hell. You haven’t come here alone in ages.
Losing your touch or what?”

Since Nolan had been asked to keep an eye on the club, and on the
devilishly handsome man behind the bar, he almost never visited without
someone to make his evening more exciting. Giving Omen’s owner, Peris, a
long, appraising look, Nolan’s cock twitched in regret. He’d been too busy
lately.

“You asking to be touched? ‘Cause I can do that, and make you like
it.” Nolan sat on his normal stool at the end of the long, shiny wooden
bar, and eyed too many empty tables. “Where is everyone?”

“Resting up from their wicked weekend. And you wouldn’t know what to
do with that cold dick up this hot ass.”

The sound of the swinging door distracted them both.

God damn, the woman was striking. Tall, curvaceous, with dark brown hair to
her ass. An ass that cried out to be fucked. Christ. Nolan’s cock came
alive. So did every other part of his body, which took a lot of doing,
considering he’d been dead too many years to count.

Peris chuckled from the other side of the counter, giving his balls a
noticeable squeeze. “Looks like a live one to me. I might make a play
for her myself.”

“Not unless you’re looking forward to visiting relatives.” Peris
had connections to the hierarchy below, but with the dark one’s permission,
Nolan would send the young man to Hell in a heartbeat.

Nolan had been called lots of things — dead, undead, bloodsucker,
motherfucker — and he lived up to every one of them. He was a Slayer, and
he was the best. “Get the lady a beer. Let’s see what she does with
it.”

Watching the woman make her way to the bar, he took a deep breath. Human.
Omen’s wasn’t a place humans popped into often, and for good reason. The
cloying feeling of imminent danger was prevalent, a vibe even the shallowest
human sensed the minute they entered the establishment.

This one ignored it, so she must be looking for something. Or someone. The
blood pulsing through her gorgeous body would soon be running through his
veins. Wouldn’t kill her. Vamps didn’t do that anymore. Okay, some did, but
they were the ones he took out of play, and he enjoyed every minute of
it.

She slid onto a stool at the opposite end of the bar, and it felt like
she’d plopped into his lap. Cum slipped from the slit on his dick, which
jerked violently inside his designer slacks. He reached up to loosen a
button or two at the collar of the stark white silk shirt he wore. Getting
into her panties, if she wore any, was going to be pure joy. After fucking
her senseless, he’d taste her — just a little bit if she was worth another
ride. If not, he’d have a full meal before sending her home.

Peris delivered a cold brew and a glass and turned away, pretending to
straighten the bottles of liquor on display. Nolan, adjusting his heightened
vision, gazed right into her eyes when she looked his way. One hazel, one
brown — not something he saw often. Tipping the bottle toward him, she
smiled and nodded before putting it to her lips. No glass! Excellent. A cock
sucker, and he’d bet every year he had lived she was a good one. When her
pink tongue darted through painted red lips, wrapped around the top of the
bottle and licked it clean, he made his move.

Easing into her mind, he sifted through all the day’s clutter. Such tiny
panties. With a groan that lodged in his throat, he backed out, sniffing at
the air. Sweet. What he’d unearthed in her mind made his dead heart beat
like a drum. Fantasies should be played out, and he intended to help with
hers.

About the Author

J. Hali Steele wishes she could grow fur, wings, or fangs, so she can stay
warm, fly, or just plain bite the crap out of… Well, she can’t do those
things but she wishes she could!

Multi-published and Amazon bestselling author of Romance in Paranormal,
Fantasy, and Contemporary worlds which include ReligErotica and LGBTQ
stories where humans, vampyres, shapeshifters and angels collide-they
collide a lot! When J. Hali’s not writing or reading, she can be found
snuggled in front of the TV with a cat in her lap, and a cup of
coffee.

Growl and roar — it’s okay to let the beast out. — J. Hali Steele

Facebook: @jhalisteele

Follow the Publisher on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter: @changelingpress

 

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The Hell Bound Kids Tour

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Book One: Wild In The Streets

A transgressive new book series that blurs the lines between crime, horror,
dark fantasy, and suspense

 

Date Published: 05-01-2022

Publisher: No Sell Out Productions

 

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Lawlessness. Rampant crime. Ruthless gangs running wild in the streets.
Welcome to Punk City… city under a perpetual moonless and starless night.
The city of the Hell Bound Kids: one of the many gangs warring for control
of Punk City’s hellish streets. A transgressive new book series that
blurs the lines between crime, horror, dark fantasy, and suspense.

 

The Hell Bound Kids tablet

The Hell Bound Kids paperback, tablet

EXCERPT

 

For the record, I had nothing to do with the Hell Bound Kids. Abraxas would have you believe I’m the one responsible for the murder spike and reduction in output, when in fact, it was his gross mismanagement of the city that caused the situation with the Kids to spiral out of control.

 

—The Architect

 

It was another night full of the usual suspects. Cole Porter’s “Anything Goes” was playing on a pirate radio station when the dispatcher with the androgynous voice deadpanned over the rover again.

Detective Gacy grit his teeth. 

He hummed “La Vida es un Sueño.” He focused on the rumbling engine of his unmarked Crown Vic… the bumps in the road… the interminable vanishing point ahead… even the cold dew soaking through the rain-streaked glass of the shut windows; but nothing helped block out the grating voice.

The dispatcher was only a lesser symptom of the unending grind of Gacy’s job. A job which dragged the Detective back night after night, preventing him from reaching his final destination. Its omnipresent shadow loomed over his head beginning the moment he departed Central Division. Taunting him: ‘The countdown’s begun. Soon, the Beast will find you. Dangle that well-deserved rest in front of your face. Only to snatch it away at the last second and saddle you with another homicide case. Another murdered Kid.’

The unnerving voice of the dispatcher yanked Gacy back to the city under a starless night.

It was an American city of the 90’s by all outward appearances (or most of it at least, molded from that decade). Some parts appeared to be a mash-up of different decades, different eras, beginning somewhere in the 1960’s, 1970’s, or thereabouts, and ending in the 2030’s; but in truth, the city had existed only for fifty years, and for only five eras: from Gold, to Silver, to Bronze, to Iron, to the final and present era of Iron and Clay. There was no moon—no stars. Only a black cloak of night. In the scarred streets lingered an unnatural emptiness. Streetlights reflected the tired body of the cruiser off the oily rain-slick streets and gutters. The drizzle relented an hour ago; now the dirty mixture of pollution and rain curdled the night air with a sweet-n-sour odor of sugared piss. The mists crept in from the sea, crawling over the city.

The request came again, with it, the weight of his responsibilities: a job that he couldn’t scrape off his shoes.

Gacy snatched up the mic. “Yeah. 53, go ahead.”

“233 28th Street. Anonymous call reporting 187 in the alley. First responders are on scene with the new Medical Investigator.”

“10-4.” 

The Detective slammed down the mic. Hitting the brakes, he whipped the cruiser around, skidding to the other side of the street, the car’s reflection streaking again alongside the vehicle, through the gutters, bending and refracting in myriad colors under the streetlights, beneath the bright lights of the hulking Miesian glass and steel skyscrapers. East to west, Minos Highway crossed the black heart of the city. All the minor streets flowed to Minos, as though black arteries to a blacker aorta pumping pain and misery in place of life-sustaining blood, then the Highway disappeared, evanescing to the infinite black skyline. 

South on Paradise Road, Gacy passed through Downtown and the recent Gaslight quarter. 

It amazed him what a good job City Management had done cleaning up the area. Downtown—where most of the Adults and Projections lived—was no longer the ancient relic of bygone years. The new and improved was nothing like the old and squalid, when block after gang infested block of porn shops, liquor stores, and flophouses once crowded the chaotic streets. Before the City Management gentrified the locality, turning it into the Gaslight. And the pricey bars, hotels, and restaurants supplanted the old with the new. The college kids, yuppies, hipsters, socialites, and tourists replaced the bottom feeders. Gacy thought, even if they are mostly Projections, they’re still a better class of Projection

It was another section of the city the Adults had reclaimed from the Kids, using crafty city ordinances to push out the punks. The city blocks of towering high-rises crowded the Gaslight. The usual Saturday night Projections were strangely missing. Mists or rain, the carousing Projections always came out in droves at this late hour. No vagrants camped on the damp sidewalks or huddled in doorways. No street traffic. Everything as still and silent as the grave.

Then, just like that, Paradise Road curved east, the streets transitioned. Downtown shrank away in fear and loathing. The glowing high-rises no longer rose up through the gray caliginous zone between the harsh luster of the Gaslight and the starless night pressing the bright lights down. Gacy reached the borders where the edges blurred; and the orderly streets conceded to a cesspool—to the Southeast sector beset by murderous Kids and worse. 

 

* * *

 

The murder in the alley appeared to be a standard gang-related homicide. Patrol cars were collected at the entrance with high beams aimed into the alley. Ambulance waiting in the street. Yellow crime scene tape strung across the entrance.

Right now somewhere in this city a Kid was bragging about the killing.

By the look of things, the case would be routine. Tomorrow, Gacy would net the suspect after the briefest investigatory work. In forty-eight hours, seventy-two at most, he figured he’d have the case solved, the last of the paperwork wrapped up.

Gacy donned a black windbreaker with ‘Gang Unit 416’ in white letters across the back. He clipped his badge on his belt. Next to his holstered Glock 22. His unclean sneakers made small splashes in the dank street, muddying the cuffs of his blue jeans. The Berries and Cherries swept the alley in a hypnotic panoply of red and blue that flashed over his salt and pepper hair, pocked cheeks, and face as pale as a ghost.

The first responders fell into two usual categories: busy ants working the crime scene, or lazy sloths watching the others work. Some snapped pictures and gathered evidence into plastic collection bags, some placed numbered yellow cards at points across the muddied ground, but most stood by and watched, or they gossiped with the paramedics waiting next to their gurney for authorization to remove the body.

“Detective Gacy?”

The new Medical Investigator waved Gacy to a dumpster stuffed with garbage bags spilling over the side. At least two week’s worth of trash ignored by City Management. A cop was hunched over the pile, taking pictures of a body sprawled in the heap like a person half sunk into a rancid morass of filth and plastic. 

The MI waved again—friendly enough; yet agitated Gacy wouldn’t respond. Gacy took a half-empty tic-tac container from his pocket. Dumped a palm full in his hand. The more he studied the MI, the more the man resembled a white stick figure in tan khakis and a black Coroner’s jacket.

Finally, the MI came to Gacy. “You are Detective Gacy, right?”

Gacy popped the tic-tacs like Oxycontin. “Yeah. You the Medical Investigator that transferred from South Division?”

“Guilty as charged. Laurence Simms, but you can call me Larry.”

He pushed his wired-framed glasses up off the tip of his pointy nose.

“How ‘bout I just call you Simms.”

“Sure, whatever. Works for me.”

Gacy stuck out his hand.

“What’s the problem, Simms. You don’t shake hands?”

“Uh, not at all.” 

Simms extended his bony limp-wristed hand and Gacy grabbed it with an iron grip and squeezed.

“Name’s Juanito Gacy, but you can call me Detective, or Detective Gacy.”

Gacy let go.

Simms massaged his hand. 

 “Alright, Simms.” Gacy clapped his hands, rubbing the palms together. “What’re you waiting for? The second coming? Let’s get this horror show started.” He licked his chapped lips. “Show me the goodies.”

“This way, Detective.”

They ducked under the crime scene tape. Simms led Gacy to the trash stuffed dumpster where the cop busied himself taking pictures. In the flashes lit up the body of a teenage Kid. The rats had already beat feet, but the roaches, crickets, and other creepy crawly things skittered about, regrouping between bursts of light to protest the insensitive prick with the camera.

Something about the Kid unsettled Gacy. The cop snapped a few more pictures and left. Simms shined a mag light on the body—the face blown-out, twisted into a final, silent scream.

It looked as though a .45 to the back of the head had killed the teen. But there was no way in hell the same caliber bullet caused that much damage on exit. Which raised the perturbing question. What destroyed the Kid’s face?

The end of a metal fence post, perhaps? Someone, or something, punching through the back of the boy’s head? Something using the dead boy’s body to open a gateway into the city for nefarious purposes…

Gacy chuckled.

Too many late nights drinking scotch, listening to records. Binging crime and horror television shows when the city’s problems weighed heaviest on his shoulders and he was a prisoner to insomnia.

Maybe I need to cut back.

He squatted, prodding through the clothes with a pen. 

The gaping hole in the Kid’s face left little of him to recognize. The right eye had been blown out and tatters of the left eye, mouth, and left nostril peeled back into quivering meat flaps.

In twenty-two years of investigating thousands of homicides in the city, being privy to a wide gamut of gruesome murder methods and details, Gacy’d never seen anything like this. Twenty-two years… and that didn’t even count all the years he lived in the city as a Kid before joining the police force. Seven more months, I’ll be celebrating year twenty-three (and upgrading the vintage of his scotch). He shuddered to think of how many more years the Powers That Be would keep him there doing the same job.

The light fell across a tattoo of an Aztec sun on the inside of the Kid’s left forearm.

The Sun God Huitzilopochtli. It meant the Kid believed in an afterlife. Gacy wondered if the belief had done the little psychopath any good.

The pen touched a spot where the blood pooled on the boy’s baggy Freshjive t-shirt.

“What a mess. Chalk up another statistic. So what can you tell me, Simms?”

Simms snapped on a pair of latex surgical gloves:

And survey SAYS!… Ricky Gonzalez, a.k.a Butcher Face. You think he got that name before or after the number they did on his face?” Simms smirked, but Gacy wasn’t amused. “Never mind. As I was saying, seventeen year-old with a forty-five to the head. Entry’s through the back, close range, execution style.” Simms turned the head, spilling out some glistening red meat and bits of skull, and showed Gacy the gore-soaked entry wound. “A can of gold Krylon spray paint was found near him.”

Simms gestured to card number four where the can had rolled a few feet away. Then to the letters—TGH—spray painted in gold across the dumpster. The lower case ‘T’ ended in a curly devil’s tail, pointing to the small stencil of a golden, open-palm hand. “Why am I not surprised to see the Hands… handiwork,” he snickered. Gacy still wasn’t amused. Simms sobered, clearing his throat. “Paint’s still fresh.”

Gacy reenacted the events. “So, he was kneeling down, tagging the dumpster, and whoever killed him snuck up behind as he finished.”

“Correct-o-mundo.”

“You ever seen a forty-five do that to a face on exit?”

“Nope, sure haven’t.”

“You don’t think that’s a tad bit strange?”

Simms smiled, “Yep, sure do.”

“I know.” Gacy shrugged, rolling his eyes. “I mean—all things considered.” He thought on it some more. “Maybe the Kids have reverted back to their old ways. Harvested him with some kind of new technique. New toolkit.”

“Possibly. But with a wound like that? I doubt it.”

Gacy rolled around the last of the tic-tacs in his hands like a pair of dice.

Most of the grime washed away in the rain, pushing muddy deposits of trash against the wooden fences and cinder block walls.

Garbage bags lay piled against the graffiti fighting for space on the scratchy wood fence.

Over time, so much graffiti had been painted on the fence, the jumbled writings at first appeared little more than a tangle of lines. However, upon closer inspection, a history started slowly forming in the scrawl—a sordid record chronicling the stories of every Kid who’d ever tagged there. The more Gacy deciphered the more he elucidated: their pains… their angst… their triumphs and defeats—but above all—their unrealized potential wasted in hopeless pursuit of a happiness that forever lay outside their reach.

Gacy thought of the can of gold spray paint found on Gonzalez.

The graffiti covered the fence like dogs marking their territory; yet Gacy could find no gold paint, except a thick golden line through the red letters—HBK.

Dios nos ayude. Look,” he gasped, dropping the tic-tacs as he touched the golden line. “Shit.” Some of the paint rubbed off. “Hijo de puta, if this means what I think it does, we’re gonna have our work cut out for us.”

“Gee, and after City Management swore the implementation of the new system would mean less work.”

“I don’t know what it was like for you in Nordhiem, Simms, and I don’t care. But Aztlán District is a powder keg and always will be one. Whole city is. By design. Regardless of whatever system City Management implements.”

“You don’t say? Well I’ll be dipped in shit and rolled in bread crumbs,” Simms chuckled. He fingered the gaping hole in Gonzalez’s face. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Juanito. Before you get too carried away with your role.” 

Gacy glared. 

Simms looked up, smirking. “It’s all just a frightful illusion.”

  About the Authors

 

Manson

Manson loves and hates everyone equitably. Though she’ll read just about
anything, she enjoys weird shit like Hunter S. Thompson. She also likes
crime fiction, the occult, horror, transgressive, science fiction, and dark
fantasy.

 

 

Anthony Perconti

Anthony Perconti

Anthony Perconti lives and works in the hinterlands of New Jersey with his
wife and kids. He enjoys well-crafted and engaging stories from across a
variety of genres and mediums. His articles have appeared in several online
venues as well as some indie press magazines such as Three Crows Magazine,
Grimdark Magazine, Dark Matter Magazine & Pulp Modern. He can be found
on Twitter @AnthonyPerconti

 

Sebastian Vice

Sebastian Vice

Sebastian Vice is the founder of Outcast Press devoted to transgressive
fiction and dirty realism. He writes a regular column for A Thin Slice of
Anxiety called “Notes Of A Degenerate Dreamer,” and has poetry
and short fiction published in Punk Noir Magazine, A Thin Slice Of Anxiety,
Outcast Press, Terror House Magazine, and Bristol Noir. His flash piece
“One Last Good Day” was nominated for Best Of The Net
2021.

 

Joe Haward

Joe Haward

Joe Haward is an author, poet, and heretic. As a freelance journalist his
work challenges religious and political corruption. Writing horror, noir,
and transgressive fiction and poetry, his work can be found in various
places. His debut poetry collection, Heresy (Uncle B. Publications) drops in
2022. Find him on Twitter @RevJoeHaward or at www.joehaward.co.uk.

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Blog

Goodreads

Instagram

Gettr

Mewe

 

Purchase Link

Amazon

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

Comments Off on The Hell Bound Kids Tour

Filed under BOOKS

The Hell Bound Kids Blitz

The Hell Bound Kids banner

 

The Hell Bound Kids cover

Book One: Wild In The Streets

A transgressive new book series that blurs the lines between crime, horror,
dark fantasy, and suspense

 

Date Published: 05-01-2022

Publisher: No Sell Out Productions

 

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

 

Lawlessness. Rampant crime. Ruthless gangs running wild in the streets.
Welcome to Punk City… city under a perpetual moonless and starless night.
The city of the Hell Bound Kids: one of the many gangs warring for control
of Punk City’s hellish streets. A transgressive new book series that
blurs the lines between crime, horror, dark fantasy, and suspense.

 

The Hell Bound Kids teaser

About the Authors

 

Manson

Manson loves and hates everyone equitably. Though she’ll read just about
anything, she enjoys weird shit like Hunter S. Thompson. She also likes
crime fiction, the occult, horror, transgressive, science fiction, and dark
fantasy.

 

 

Anthony Perconti

Anthony Perconti

Anthony Perconti lives and works in the hinterlands of New Jersey with his
wife and kids. He enjoys well-crafted and engaging stories from across a
variety of genres and mediums. His articles have appeared in several online
venues as well as some indie press magazines such as Three Crows Magazine,
Grimdark Magazine, Dark Matter Magazine & Pulp Modern. He can be found
on Twitter @AnthonyPerconti

 

Sebastian Vice

Sebastian Vice

Sebastian Vice is the founder of Outcast Press devoted to transgressive
fiction and dirty realism. He writes a regular column for A Thin Slice of
Anxiety called “Notes Of A Degenerate Dreamer,” and has poetry
and short fiction published in Punk Noir Magazine, A Thin Slice Of Anxiety,
Outcast Press, Terror House Magazine, and Bristol Noir. His flash piece
“One Last Good Day” was nominated for Best Of The Net
2021.

 

Joe Haward

Joe Haward

Joe Haward is an author, poet, and heretic. As a freelance journalist his
work challenges religious and political corruption. Writing horror, noir,
and transgressive fiction and poetry, his work can be found in various
places. His debut poetry collection, Heresy (Uncle B. Publications) drops in
2022. Find him on Twitter @RevJoeHaward or at www.joehaward.co.uk.

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Blog

Goodreads

Instagram

Gettr

Mewe

 

Purchase Link

Amazon

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

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Filed under BOOKS