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“The Lost Tales of Mercia” are ten short stories that can be enjoyed as quick glimpses into the swashbuckling history of ancient England or read in addendum to the novel, "Eadric the Grasper." Aydith is a young aetheling whose distrust of the Norsemen often gets dismissed. With the encouragement of a kind hearth companion named Hastings, she might find another way to aid her country.Aydith is a young aetheling whose distrust of the Norsemen often gets dismissed. With the encouragement of a kind hearth companion named Hastings, she might find another way to aid her country."The Lost Tales of Mercia" are ten short tales that can be enjoyed as quick glimpses into the swashbuckling history of ancient England or read alongside the full-length novel, "Eadric the Grasper." Most of the characters are real historical figures inspired by the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles. Views: 213
Part 3 of Edgar Rice Burroughs\'s classic fantasy trilogy in which British and German combatants are stranded in a prehistoric world of dinosaurs. Views: 213
The English Assassin: Third novel in the Jerry Cornelius Saga. Views: 213
Beth has found herself in a whole world of trouble. The head of the Cruze Gang is hunting her down, and this time, she won't get away.What could be worse than being kidnapped by a murderous ex-army warlock? Her destiny finally catching up with her....There'll be nowhere to hide, and there'll only be one place to run - right into the arms of the city's only sorcerer. Views: 213
About the AuthorChristoper Golden was voted the third most popular science fiction author of the year 2000 by the readers of SFX magazine. He is the author of several dark fantasy novels and comic books in addition to numerous Buffy the Vampire Slayer adult novels and reference books which have made him a major UK bestseller. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.Chapter 1The swinging door that separated the dining room from the kitchen of Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub was a portal between two worlds. In the restaurant proper, fans whirled lazily above brass and wood, and the Celtic-rooted melodies of the Chieftains were pumped into the room along with the air-conditioning. Only the steady chatter of the clientele and the bustle of the waitstaff disturbed the tranquility of the scene. When Molly Hatcher, empty tray in hand, pushed through the door into the kitchen, it was like diving into chaos. The cooks in the back shouted pleasant obscenities at one another, dishes were clattered, and orders were shouted out. Somehow, the chaos managed to find a kind of focus whenever Tim Dunphy was on duty. Tim was twenty-three, a powerfully built guy from South Boston who had little patience for fooling around. Molly had a feeling it was more the respect for Tim's ability to kick the hell out of any one of them rather than his prowess as a chef that made the other cooks obey him. Either way, he ran a tight ship. Loud, yes, and wild, but somehow the orders in his kitchen were filled and rarely wrong. Molly stood with her back to the wall to let another waitress slide by her. A computer screen to the left showed that order number 0417 was up, and it was one of hers. She slipped her tray onto the counter and scanned the various dishes that were arrayed on the warming racks before her. Swiftly, she gathered the four dishes that comprised her order and turned to go. "What, you don't even say 'hi' anymore?" Tray balanced precariously on one hand and hip, Molly turned to grin at Tim on the other side of the counter. "Hi, Tim," she replied, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I didn't want to interrupt. You guys are so busy." "Never too busy for you, Miss Hatcher," he flirted. Molly rolled her eyes, but she knew he would not take it harshly. Though she did not really know how to handle his advances, that didn't mean she didn't like them. Not at all. Tim was a mess -- greasy face, bandanna tied over his head to keep his hair from falling into the food; never mind the odd bump on the bridge of his nose, where it had been broken at least once. A fighter, no doubt. Growing up in Southie, he'd probably not had a chance to be anything else. And with her wild red hair and green eyes, Molly knew she was Tim's type. He'd made no secret of that fact. Truth be told, despite his rough edges, she thought he was sort of sweet. But it was too soon. Way too soon. After what she'd been through...after Artie... "So, y'know," Tim began, "I was thinkin' maybe we could -- " "Leave the girl alone, Timothy Dunphy." Molly turned, startled -- though not enough to unbalance her tray -- and saw Tim's sister Kiera shaking a finger at him. Kiera was also a waitress at the pub, and she and Molly had struck up a friendship. "Mind your own damn business, Kiera," Tim snapped, eyes narrowing. "I make it my business. Why don't you just do your job?" Her brother bristled. "You oughta learn to keep your mouth shut." "I kicked your ass when you were twelve, boy, and I'd be happy to do it again." Tim shot her the finger, then grinned broadly at Molly and disappeared back into the kitchen. A second later one of the other cooks slipped several plates of food onto the warming racks. "Don't let him bother you," Kiera said, a smirk on her face. "He's not," Molly insisted. "But I'm happy to provide you guys with something else to fight about." "And we appreciate it," Kiera confirmed, eyes lighting up with mischief. "We truly do." Molly shook her head in amusement, then carried her tray out of the shouting and clattering that was the kitchen and into the much more serene environment of the restaurant. The other difference, of course, was temperature. The kitchen was insufferably hot, with so many stoves and ovens going at once. The restaurant and bar area whistled along at a cool seventy-three degrees, according to the thermostat. As she slipped around a recently hired waiter named Paul and waved at Wendy, the hostess up by the front door, Molly found her thoughts again drifting back to Artie. For most of high school, the two of them had been inseparable. Then, in April, her sweet, funny guy had been murdered. Surreal as it had seemed then, it was even more so now. For Artie had not been killed by a drive-by gangbanger or convenience-store robber. He had been butchered by a race of monsters that had been around before the first man walked the earth. Monsters. After all she had seen, she still had a hard time wrapping her mind around that word. But there was no other way to describe them. They weren't werewolves, though there were similarities. Unlike the werewolves of mythology, the Prowlers had no human core whose basic moral structure might restrict their actions, though some of them lived peacefully, even benevolently, among humanity. The rest were just savages, beasts who stalked the human race like lions on the veldt or hunted in packs along the fringes of civilization. Except sometimes they didn't stay on the fringes. A bold pack of Prowlers hunting in the city had killed Artie and Kate Nordling, one of Molly's best friends, as well as a bunch of other people. The authorities had finally caught up with them, and Molly and her friend Jack Dwyer had taken down their leader while the police dealt with the others. But there were more out there. No one knew how many, but it was clear that they existed, scattershot, all over the world, in ones and twos and packs of various sizes. Molly shuddered at the thought of what might happen someday if they were all brought together. Their knowledge of the Prowlers had put both her and Jack on edge, made them suspicious of everything and everyone. Jack. He was the other reason she did not know how to react to Tim Dunphy's flirting. All through the horrors back in April, Jack had been at Molly's side. He had been Artie's best friend since the two of them were very young, and he was the one who had first discovered the truth about the Prowlers. For her safety, Jack and his older sister Courtney, who owned the pub with him, had invited Molly to live with them and work there. For safety, she had agreed. Once she was there, even after the crisis was over, Molly was not about to go home to her drunken, abusive mother and their filthy apartment in Dorchester. She only had six weeks left to go now before she started classes at Yale in the fall. Not a lot of time, and she wanted to spend it with Jack and Courtney. She had to wonder if she didn't really just want to spend that time with Jack. Even wondering filled her with horrible guilt. Just a few months earlier her boyfriend had been murdered, and now she felt...something, at least, for his best friend. But she could not help it. Jack was her best friend, now. No one had ever known her so well. Not even Artie. Which didn't help alleviate her guilt at all. "Miss?" Molly blinked, stopped too quickly and only just managed to keep from letting the dinner tray topple from its perch atop her fingers. She frowned as she glanced at the woman in the booth who had called out to her. Then realization dawned, and Molly offered an apologetic, self-deprecating grin. The order she was carrying belonged to the three women at that table. "I'm sorry," she said earnestly as she slipped the plates one by one onto the table. "Just a little preoccupied, I guess." "No harm done," a diminutive blond piped up from across the booth. "As long as we all get what we ordered. I'm starved." The other women chuckled, and Molly joined in. As she slid the last of the dishes onto the table, she happened to glance over at the bar area. A small cluster of locals sat at one end, eyes glued to whatever sporting event was on the TV bolted to the wall behind the bar. A few empty stools down from them, however, there sat a man, alone. Staring at her. With a quick intake of breath that whistled through her teeth, Molly turned her attention back to her customers. She forced a smile, all the while feeling the stranger's eyes boring into her from behind. "Can I get you ladies anything else?" she asked. One of them asked for an iced tea, but the others practically ignored Molly as they dug into their dinners. When she turned around, her gaze ticked involuntarily back to the bar again. The man wore blue jeans and black boots, and a stylishly tight powder-blue T-shirt stretched over a broad, muscular chest. One of his biceps bore a tattoo she could not make out at this distance. His hair was too long and his chin bore several days stubble. He would have been strikingly handsome if he didn't look so mean, if his eyes didn't burn as he stared at her with a hunger that was almost...predatory. Oh my God, Molly thought, heart skipping a beat. A horrible thought occurred to her. Panicked, she glanced anxiously around the pub until she spotted Jack talking to the hostess up front. She dangled the large, round tray at her side as she made a beeline across the restaurant for him. When Courtney was not around, Jack was in charge. But even if his older sister had been there, Molly would have gone to Jack instead. When he saw her striding toward him, Jack's conversation faltered. "Molly, what is it?" he asked. Her gaze flicked toward Wendy, who instantly got the message and returned to the tall desk the hostess used to take reservations and assign seating. Molly purposely positioned herself in the line of sight between Jack and the man -- the predator -- at the bar. "Don't look right away," she warned him. "There's a man sitting by himself up at the bar who looks a little like a TV star or something. He's staring at me." A small smile twitched at the corners of Jack's mouth. "Can you blame him?" She grimaced. "Not in a good way, Jack. I get a vibe off him. I can't help wondering if he's...hunting." Her friend's face blanched and his eyes narrowed. He was five foot ten and, though muscular, not physically intimidating. But Jack was stronger than he looked, and when his body tensed, she could feel the coiled power of a much larger man. Jack was not someone to underestimate. Not at all. As Molly watched, Jack glanced past her shoulder. She saw no reaction in his features before he gazed at her again. "Wish Bill was back from his break," Jack said, voice low and grave. "He'd be able to tell." Molly hesitated a moment, then gave a tiny shrug. "What do we do?" Jack nodded slowly. Then, without a word, he set off across the restaurant on a direct course for the bar. The world around him shuddered and seemed to disappear as Jack strode the wood floor of Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub. The voices were gone and the other patrons ceased to exist, until all that remained were the guy at the bar and the music that lingered in the air. Adrenaline rushed through him, and Jack nearly quivered with it. His alarms were going off, and he did his best to tone them down. Molly was right. The guy looked out of place in here, like a model or an actor. Too perfect. And cruel, too. That was what disturbed Jack most of all. A powerful-looking guy, out of place, all by himself, and staring at Molly as though he were the hunter and she the prey. Prowler, Jack thought, and the idea only solidified as he moved closer to the man, defiantly challenging him with his steady gaze. The man did not look away. Jack took the two steps up to the bar area and stood directly in front of the man, staring down at him. "You're pissing her off," Jack told him. The man's eyebrows shot up, a glint of amusement in his eyes. It was an arrogant look, and Jack wanted very much to slap it off his face. "I'm sorry? I don't know what you're talkin' about." Arms crossed, Jack glared at him. "The redheaded waitress, the one you keep staring at. You're pissing her off." The guy laughed. "I'm watchin' her. She's pretty tasty-lookin'. No law against watchin'. And I'm wonderin' if maybe it ain't her I'm pissin' off. Otherwise maybe she'd be over here tellin' me herself. Doesn't look like the kind of girl who'd let a guy do her dirty work. Unless maybe she's scared a' me." Tasty-looking. The phrase stuck in Jack's mind. It might just be the guy being obnoxious, or it might mean something else entirely. "Maybe she is," Jack admitted. "So maybe you should go." The guy shook his head in disbelief and stood up. He was a good four inches taller than Jack, a lot broader, and -- Jack had to hand it to him -- he was better dressed. He knew how the man must see him: punk nineteen-year-old in a cotton shirt with the name of the pub sewn on the breast, telling him what to do? "I'm not done with my beer," the guy drawled in his slight southern accent. With a frown, Jack tilted his head and regarded the man. "You've never heard of Tanzer, have you?" From the flicker of confusion in the guy's eyes, he knew the answer. This man was not a Prowler. Just an arrogant, sexist moron with a chip on his shoulder. Jack sighed. Prowlers were one thing. Jerks like this he had to handle just about every day, which got monotonous. "You're gonna leave now," Jack told him. "Who the hell are you?" the guy scoffed. "The owner," Jack said coolly, gazing up at the man. He sniffed with a boredom that was only partially feigned. "Look, I know you think you're a badass. But you're gonna have to trust me when I say I've dealt with meaner. If you want trouble here, you shouldn't come alone." For a few seconds the guy laughed at that. But even as he did, he watched Jack's eyes. Whatever he saw there, something in them convinced him that Jack was speaking true. He reached behind the bar and grabbed his mug, sucked back several gulps of beer, then slammed it down hard and stalked off, not looking back. When the guy was gone, Danny -- who was subbing for the bartender Bill Cantwell -- leaned over the bar. "Damn, Jack, I thought for sure we were gonna have to take the big bastard down." Jack smiled softly. Danny was all of five eight and maybe one hundred and forty pounds, but he was a scrapper. Like a lot of the pub's staff, he was a Southie boy. "He didn't pay," Danny added. "Forget it," Jack told him. Molly met him at the steps that separated the bar from the restaurant, a look of consternation on her face. "No?" she asked, glancing toward the front door. "No," Jack reassured her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. Molly cursed under her breath. "After two and a half months I'm still totally paranoid." Jack reached out and tilted her chin up so that their eyes met. "Stay paranoid," he warned. "We have reason to be." Though it was well past eight o'clock, it had only just begun to get dark as Tucker Marshall strode angrily into the street from Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub. He was glad he didn't know anyone in Boston yet. The kid in the pub had embarrassed him. He knew he could have snapped the boy in half if he'd wanted to, but Tucker had come to town to audition for the touring company of the new Lloyd Webber musical and had a callback in the morning. The last thing he needed was to spend a few days in jail, or worse yet, damage his face. The buffalo wings he'd had at the bar sat heavily in his belly, sloshing around with a couple of mugs of beer. What unsettled him, though, was the anger that still roiled in him. Tucker wasn't the kind of guy to walk away from a fight. That sweet little redhead at the restaurant had been something, that was for sure. He'd made eye contact, thinking maybe he would start up a conversation. Not a crime, as far as he knew. Women liked guys who were intense, at least in his experience. Grumbling, Tucker strode across the street, barely looking where he was going. A car ground to an abrupt halt to avoid hitting him and the driver laid on the horn. Tucker shot him the finger without even looking up. He turned toward Quincy Market, figuring he could work off some of his anger just walking around, maybe get an ice cream or something. There were a lot of beautiful women, both tourists and locals, down around that part of Boston that second week of July. If he could strike up a conversation, get a chance to run his line, talk about being an actor...well, Tucker usually had good luck reeling in the ladies. The sky was dimming quickly now, the sun disappearing behind the cityscape to the west. Tucker gazed a moment in appreciation as the last rays of light shot scythes of gold between the buildings. As he was starting to turn his attention back to the sidewalk in front of him, he slammed right into a bald man who was speaking with a friend. The man bumped into his friend and both of them almost fell before regaining their footing. "Sorry," Tucker mumbled. He started to go around them. The guy he'd run into grabbed him by the hair, spun him around and shoved him up against the side of a building hard enough that his head bounced off the bricks with a painful thump. Tucker grunted as all the fury that had been building up in him in the previous few minutes combined with a new wave of rage. He forgot all about his audition. Fists balled, he cocked his right arm back and threw the first punch. "You sorry son-of-a -- " The powerful hand that gripped his throat choked off his words. The bald guy batted Tucker's fist away with his free hand and leaned in close. His breath was rank with the odor of rotting meat, and his teeth were too sharp. That wasn't the only thing Tucker noticed about the bald man in that instant. His teeth, yeah. But his eyes were wrong, too. Not like a person's, but rimmed with red like a wild animal's. And his face...his face seemed to change, to pulse. He sneered, and for an eyeblink it was almost as though he had the face of an animal, a snout like that of a dog. Or a wolf. Hair shot through the man's scalp and his face, but only a quarter inch, just a bristle. Impossible."Do you want to die?" the guy, who wasn't bald anymore, snarled. Tucker shook his head vigorously. "Apologize." He was not about to argue that he had already done so. "I'm...I wasn't paying attention. I'm sorry." Tucker stared at his shoes a second; his body felt electrified with fear and astonishment. People did not grow hair in front of you. And the teeth...and the eyes. "Hey." The voice was soft and dangerous. Tucker glanced up nervously to see the bald man smiling at him. Normal teeth. Smooth scalp. "Watch your goddamn step," the guy warned him. "You just never know who you're going to run into." Then he spun Tucker away from the wall and shoved him on his way. Tucker stumbled a few steps and then hurried on without so much as a single glance back. As quickly as he could, Tucker made his way toward the North End, where a friend was letting him crash on a futon in the living room. He had forgotten all about cruising Quincy Market, trying to meet women. He had also decided that he did not like Boston. Not at all. "What the hell are you doing?" Braun frowned, glared at Dubrowski, and ran a hand over his hairless scalp. "Guy ran into me, Doobie. Pissed me off. What do you expect, I should let him knock me on my ass and not say sumthin'?" Anxious, Dubrowski glanced along the street toward Quincy Market, watching to make sure the pretty boy had gone on his way. Then he shot a glance in the other direction, toward Bridget's. Nobody had come outside or seemed to have noticed anything. Finally, he turned his withering gaze upon Braun. "Go after him. Kill him. Either make it appear to be a simple murder, or, if you must eat, do not leave a body, even if you have to gnaw the bones and toss them in the harbor. After what happened with Tanzer, we cannot afford to have anyone suspect there are those of us who have not fled this city." "Fine," Braun said, sniffing petulantly. "Gotta tell ya, though, Doobie, I got no idea why we're still screwing around here. We oughta take off, find someplace safe to hunt." "And so we shall," Dubrowski promised. His gaze moved back toward Bridget's across the street. "Just as soon as we have tasted blood, in vengeance for the slaughter of Tanzer and the others of the pack." With lightning speed, Dubrowski's right hand lashed out, and he scratched deep furrows in Braun's left cheek. Braun hissed with pain and snarled loudly, but resisted making the change that such a break of concentration sometimes brought. "What have I told you about calling me 'Doobie'?" Copyright © 2001 by Christopher Golden Views: 213
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The club was packed, the music was loud, and the alcohol was flowing. Jessie couldn’t keep her eyes off of the exotic man drinking by himself across the room. Kai couldn’t keep his gaze from the buxom brunette laughing with her friends at the bar. Fate pulled them together, giving them a night that neither one would soon forget. But then, you know what they say about fate. While their one night of bliss was perfect, neither Jessie nor Kai could have imagined what would be in store for them the next time they met, when fate again crossed their paths. As they both soon discovered, sometimes life places obstacles in the way that are insurmountable...even for soul mates. Views: 213
The Throg force struck the Terran survey camp a few minutes after dawn, without warning, and with a deadly precision which argued that the aliens had fully reconnoitered and prepared that attack. A single cowering witness, flattened on a ledge in the heights above, knew that nothing human could possibly be left alive.
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Thus, Shann Lantee, most menial of the Terrans attached to that camp, was left alone and weaponless in the strange hostile world. Human prey for the aliens from space. But they were NOT the greatest menace on Warlock! Views: 213
A smitten woman is about to marry a dangerous man—unless Detective Hooper and his new wife, Celia, can prevent it—in this wickedly tangled holiday mystery from bestselling author Anne Perry.Detective John Hooper, William Monk's right-hand man at the Thames River Police, is blissfully happy in his new marriage to Celia, the cousin of a victim in one of the river police's recent murder cases. Celia wants the same happiness for her good friend Clementine, who's just announced her engagement to Seth Marlowe, a member of her church. Christmas is nearing, and this should be extra cause for celebration, but when Marlowe begins receiving threatening letters about his first wife's death, it becomes clear that he is far from the devout man Clementine thought he was. In his rage, Marlowe accuses Celia of sending the letters, claiming she wants to ruin his engagement to Clementine. At a loss as to how to defend herself, Celia enlists Hooper to investigate the letters'... Views: 213
In the tradition of Stephen King's 'Salem's Lot, Cirque Du Freak is the frightening saga of a young boy whose visit to a mysterious freak show leads him on a journey into a dark world of vampires. Filled with grotesque creatures, murderous vampires, and a petrifying ending, Cirque Du Freak will chill, thrill, and leave readers begging for more. Views: 212
Fierce and proud, the Rigante dwell deep in the green mountain lands, worshiping the gods of air and water, and the spirits of the earth. Among them lives a warrior who bears the mark of fate. Born of the storm that slew his father, he is Connavar, and tales of his courage spread like wildfire.
The Seidh--a magical race as old as time--take note of the young warrior and cast a malignant shadow across his life. For soon a merciless army will cross the water, destroying forever the timeless rhythms of life among the Rigante.
Swearing to protect his people, Connavar embarks on a quest that will take him into the heart of the enemy. Along the way, he receives a gift: a sword as powerful and deadly as the Seidh who forged it. Thus he receives a name that will strike fear into the hearts of friend and foe alike--a name proclaiming a glorious and bitter destiny . . .
Demonblade. Views: 212
In the third entry in bestselling author Mel Odom's Makaum War series, Master Sergeant Frank Sage struggles to defend against the Phrenorian threat as battle lines will be redrawn—and blood will spill... One step forward, two steps back sums up Frank Sage's day-to-day on Makaum. No sooner does he get the drug cartels under control than a major political assassination stirs civil unrest to a fever pitch. Makaumans never wanted to choose sides in the Terran/Phrenorian war, but frustration, fear, and resentment are turning the tide against peacekeeping efforts.As street skirmishes rage on, the Terrans' most powerful on-planet ally works with Sage's superior officer to isolate insurgent cells—and outmaneuver the general who wants to yank troops from Makaum before their job is done. Meanwhile, the assassin who's targeting powerful figures from all factions is still at large.Amidst the chaos, Sage must keep his eye on... Views: 212
Sometimes playing cat and mouse is no game...Play? "Right." My Pride is under fire from all sides, my father's authority is in question and my lover is in exile. Which means I haven't laid eyes on Marc's gorgeous face in months. And with a new mother "and" an I-know-everything teenager under my protection, I don't exactly have time to fantasize about ever seeing him again.
Then our long-awaited reunion is ruined by a vicious ambush by strays. Now our group is under attack, Marc is missing and I will need every bit of skill and smarts to keep my family from being torn apart. Forever. Views: 212
TWO MULTIPLE NEW YORK TIMES BEST-SELLING AUTHORS TEAM UP TO EXPAND LARRY CORREIA'S MONSTER HUNTER UNIVERSE!
When Marine Private Oliver Chadwick Gardenier is killed in the Marine barrack bombing in Beirut, somebody who might be Saint Peter gives him a choice: Go to Heaven, which while nice might be a little boring, or return to Earth. The Boss has a mission for him and he's to look for a sign. He's a Marine: He'll choose the mission.
Unfortunately, the sign he's to look for is "57." Which, given the food services contract in Bethesda Hospital, creates some difficulty. Eventually, it appears that God's will is for Chad to join a group called "Monster Hunters International" and protect people from things that go bump in the night. From there, things trend downhill.
Monster Hunter Memoirs is the (mostly) true story of the life and times of one of MHI's most effective—and flamboyant—hunters. Pro-tips for up and coming hunters range from how to dress appropriately for jogging (low-profile body armor and multiple weapons) to how to develop contacts among the Japanese yakuza, to why it's not a good idea to make billy goat jokes to trolls.
Grunge harkens back to the Golden Days of Monster Hunting when Reagan was in office, Ray and Susan Shackleford were top hunters and Seattle sushi was authentic.
About Black Tide Rising series entry Under a Graveyard Sky by John Ringo:
“. . .the thinking reader’s zombie novel. . . Ringo fleshes out his theme with convincing details … the proceedings become oddly plausible.”—Publishers Weekly
“If you think the zombie apocalypse will never happen, if you’ve never been afraid of zombies, you may change your mind after reading Under a Graveyard Sky. . .Events build slowly in the book at the outset, but you can’t stop reading because it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion: inexorable and horrible. And the zombie apocalypse in these pages is so fascinating that you can’t stop flipping pages to see what happens next.”—Bookhound
About John Ringo:
“[Ringo’s work is] peopled with three-dimensional characters and spiced with personal drama as well as tactical finesse.”—Library Journal
“. . . Explosive. . . . fans. . .will appreciate Ringo’s lively narrative and flavorful characters.”—Publishers Weekly
“. . . practically impossible not to read in one sitting . . . exceedingly impressive . . . executed with skill, verve, and wit.”—Booklist
“Crackerjack storytelling.”—Starlog
About Larry Correia and the Monster Hunter International series:
“[E]verything I like in fantasy: intense action scenes, evil in horrifying array, good struggling against the darkness, and most of all people—gorgeously flawed human beings faced with horrible moral choices that force them to question and change and grow.”—Jim Butcher
“[A] no-holds-barred all-out page turner that is part science fiction, part horror, and an absolute blast to read.”—Bookreporter.com
“If you love monsters and action, you’ll love this book. If you love guns, you’ll love this book. If you love fantasy, and especially horror fantasy, you’ll love this book.”—Knotclan.com
“A gun person who likes science fiction—or, heck, anyone who likes science fiction—will enjoy [these books]. . . The plotting is excellent, and Correia makes you care about the characters…I read both books without putting them down except for work . . . so whaddaya waitin’ for? Go and buy some . . . for yourself and for stocking stuffers.”—Massad Ayoob
“This lighthearted, testosterone-soaked sequel to 2009's Monster Hunter International will delight fans of action horror with elaborate weaponry, hand-to-hand combat, disgusting monsters, and an endless stream of blood and body parts.”—Publishers Weekly on Monster Hunter Vendetta
**About the Author
Larry Correia is an award-winning competitive shooter, a movie-prop-gun master and was an accountant for many years. He is the creator of the Wall Street Journal and New York Times bestselling Monster Hunter series as well as urban fantasy hardboiled adventure saga, the Grimnoir Chronicles, and epic fantasy series The Saga of the Forgotten Warrior. Correia lives in Utah with his wife and family. He's also appeared as a guest on the TV show Gun Stories, on the Outdoor Channel.
John Ringo brings fighting to life. He is the creator of the Posleen Wars series, which has become a New York Times best-selling series with over one million copies in print. His science-based zombie apocalypse Black Tide Rising series includes Under a Graveyard Sky, To Sail a Darkling Sea, Islands of Rage and Hope, and *Strands of Sorrow. * A veteran of the 82nd Airborne, Ringo brings first-hand knowledge of military operations to his fiction. Views: 212
In a fiery tale filled with villains and heroes, this boxed set of the first three books in the Earth Angel series takes readers on a magical journey rich with emotion, intrigue, and danger. Fans of Twilight, The Red Queen, The Selection, and Harry Potter will devour this breathless fantasy set in a modern mystical world.It all starts with a letter . . . Eighteen-year-old Layla Callaway doesn’t believe in magic or soul mates. And if angels were real, her mother would still be alive. But her mom’s dead and a surprise inheritance is about to change everything. Views: 212
