Undertaker brothers fight the monsters who
killed their family and uncover a dark secret that could destroy a kingdom.
Scourge
A Darkhurst Novel Book 1
Three
undertaker brothers fight the monsters who killed their family—and uncover a
plot larger and far more dangerous than they ever imagined.
In a city beset by monsters, three brothers
must find out who is controlling the abominations. The city-state of Ravenwood
is wealthy, powerful, and corrupt. Merchant princes and guild masters wager
fortunes to outmaneuver League rivals for the king’s favor and advantageous
trading terms. Lord Mayor Ellor Machison wields assassins, blood witches, and
forbidden magic to ensure that his powerful patrons get what they want, no
matter the cost.
Corran, Rigan, and Kell Valmonde are guild
undertakers left to run their family’s business when guards murdered their
father and monsters killed their mother. Their grave magic enables them to help
souls pass to the After and banish vengeful spirits. Rigan’s magic is unusually
strong and enables him to hear the confessions of the dead, the secrets that
would otherwise be taken to the grave.
When the toll exacted by monsters and brutal
guards hits close to home, and ghosts expose the hidden sins of powerful men,
Corran, Rigan, and Kell become targets in a deadly game and face a choice: obey
the guild or fight back and risk everything.
Scourge is a fast-paced, action-packed,
monster-filled fantasy adventure with non-stop twists and turns, loyal
brothers, found family, forbidden magic, vengeful ghosts, high-stakes intrigue,
and dangerous secrets set in a vibrantly visualized world.
EXCERPT
Chapter One
A heavy iron candleholder slammed against
the wall, just missing Corran Valmonde’s head.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Try not to make her mad, Corran.”
Rigan Valmonde knelt on the worn floor,
drawing a sigil in charcoal, moving as quickly as he dared. Not quickly enough;
a piece of firewood spun from the hearth and flew across the room, slamming him
in the shoulder hard enough to make him grunt in pain.
“Keep her off me!” he snapped, repairing the
smudge in the soot line. Sloppy symbols meant sloppy magic, and that could get
someone killed.
“I would if I could see her.” Corran stepped
away from the wall, raising his iron sword, putting himself between the
fireplace and his brother. His breath misted in the unnaturally cold room and
moisture condensed on the wavy glass of the only window.
“Watch where you step.” Rigan worked on the
second sigil, widdershins from the soot marking, this one daubed in ochre. “I
don’t want to have to do this again.”
A small ceramic bowl careened from the
mantle, and, for an instant, Rigan glimpsed a young woman in a blood-soaked
dress, one hand clutching her heavily pregnant belly. The other hand slipped
right through the bowl, even as the dish hurtled at Rigan’s head. Rigan dove to
one side and the bowl smashed against the opposite wall. At the same time,
Corran’s sword slashed down through the specter. A howl of rage filled the air
as the ghost dissipated.
You have no right to be in my home. The dead woman’s voice echoed in Rigan’s mind.
Get out of my head.
You are a confessor. Hear me!
Not while you’re trying to kill my brother.
“You’d better hurry.” Corran slowly turned,
watching for the ghost.
“I can’t rush the ritual.” Rigan tried to
shut out the ghost’s voice, focusing on the complex chalk sigil. He reached
into a pouch and drew a thin curved line of salt, aconite, and powdered
amanita, connecting the first sigil to the second, and the second to the third
and fourth, working his way to drawing a complete warded circle.
The ghost materialized without warning on
the other side of the line, thrusting a thin arm toward Rigan, her long fingers
crabbed into claws, old blood beneath her torn nails. She opened a gash on
Rigan’s cheek as he stumbled backward, grabbed a handful of the salt mixture
and threw it. The apparition vanished with a wail.
“Corran!” Rigan’s warning came a breath too
late as the ghost appeared right behind his brother, and took a swipe with her
sharp, filthy nails, clawing Corran’s left shoulder.
He wronged me. He let me die, let my baby die— The voice shrieked in Rigan’s mind.
“Draw the damn signs!” Corran yelled. “I’ll
handle her.” He wheeled, and before the blood- smeared ghost could strike
again, the tip of his iron blade caught her in the chest. Her image dissipated
like smoke, with a shriek that echoed from the walls.
Avenge me.
Sorry, lady, Rigan thought as he reached for a pot of pigment. I’m
stuck listening to dead people’s dirty little secrets and last regrets, but I
just bury people. Take your complaints up with the gods.
“Last one.” Rigan marked the rune in blue
woad. The condensation on the window turned to frost, and he shivered. The
ghost flickered, insubstantial but still identifiable as the young woman who
had died bringing her stillborn child into the world. Her blood still stained
the floor in the center of the warded circle and held her to this world as
surely as her grief.
Wind whipped through the room, and would
have scattered the salt and aconite line if Rigan had not daubed the mixture
onto the floor in paste. Fragments of the broken bowl scythed through the air.
The iron candle holder sailed across the room; Corran dodged it again, and a
shard caught the side of his brother’s head, opening a cut on Rigan’s scalp,
sending a warm rush of blood down the side of his face.
The ghost raged on, her anger and grief
whipping the air into a whirlwind. I will not leave without justice for myself
and my son.
You don’t really have a choice about it, Rigan replied silently and stepped across the warding, careful not
to smudge the lines, pulling an iron knife from his belt. He nodded to Corran
and together their voices rose as they chanted the burial rite, harmonizing out
of long practice, the words of the Old Language as familiar as their own names.
The ghostly woman’s image flickered again,
solid enough now that Rigan could see the streaks of blood on her pale arms and
make out the pattern of her dress. She appeared right next to him, close enough
that his shoulder bumped against her chest, and her mouth brushed his ear.
’Twas not nature that killed me. My faithless husband let us bleed because
he thought the child was not his own.
The ghost vanished, compelled to reappear in
the center of the circle, standing on the blood-stained floor. Rigan extended
his trembling right hand and called to the magic, drawing on the old, familiar
currents of power. The circle and runes flared with light. The sigils burned in
red, white, blue, and black, with the salt-aconite lines a golden glow between
them.
Corran and Rigan’s voices rose as the glow
grew steadily brighter, and the ghost raged all the harder against the power
that held her, thinning the line between this world and the next, opening a
door and forcing her through it.
One heartbeat she was present; in the next
she was gone, though her screams continued to echo.
Rigan and Corran kept on chanting, finishing
the rite as the circle’s glow faded and the sigils dulled to mere pigment once
more. Rigan lowered his palm and dispelled the magic, then blew out a deep
breath.
“That was not supposed to happen.” Corran’s
scowl deepened as he looked around the room, taking in the shattered bowl and
the dented candle holder. He flinched, noticing Rigan’s wounds now that the
immediate danger had passed.
“You’re hurt.”
Rigan shrugged. “Not as bad as you are.” He
wiped blood from his face with his sleeve, then bent to gather the ritual
materials.
“She confessed to you?” Corran bent to help
his brother, wincing at the movement.
“Yeah. And she had her reasons,” Rigan
replied. He looked at Corran, frowning at the blood that soaked his shirt.
“We’ll need to wash and bind your wounds when we get back to the shop.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
They packed up their gear, but Corran did
not sheath his iron sword until they were ready to step outside. A small crowd
had gathered, no doubt drawn by the shrieks and thuds and the flares of light
through the cracked, dirty window.
“Nothing to see here, folks,” Corran said,
exhaustion clear in his voice. “We’re just the undertakers.”
Once they were convinced the excitement was
over, the onlookers dispersed, leaving one man standing to the side. He looked
up anxiously as Rigan and Corran approached him.
“Is it done? Is she gone?” For an instant,
eagerness shone too clearly in his eyes. Then his posture shifted, shoulders
hunching, gaze dropping, and mask slipped back into place. “I mean, is she at
rest? After all she’s been through?”
Before Corran could answer, Rigan grabbed
the man by the collar, pulled him around the corner into an alley and threw him
up against the wall. “You can stop the grieving widower act,” he growled. Out
of the corner of his eye, he saw Corran standing guard at the mouth of the
alley, gripping his sword.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
The denial did not reach the man’s eyes.
“You let her bleed out, you let the baby
die, because you didn’t think the child was yours.” Rigan’s voice was rough as
gravel, pitched low so that only the trembling man could hear him.
“She betrayed me—”
“No.” The word brought the man up short.
“No, if she had been lying, her spirit wouldn’t have been trapped here.” Rigan
slammed the widower against the wall again to get his attention.
“Rigan—” Corran cautioned.
“Lying spirits don’t get trapped.” Rigan had
a tight grip on the man’s shirt, enough that he could feel his body trembling.
“Your wife. Your baby. Your fault.” He stepped back and let the man down, then
threw him aside to land on the cobblestones.
“The dead are at peace. You’ve got the rest
of your life to live with what you did.” With that, he turned on his heel and
walked away, as the man choked back a sob.
Corran sheathed his sword. “I really wish
you’d stop beating up paying customers,” he grumbled as they turned to walk
back to the shop.
“Wish I could. Don’t know how to stop being
confessor to the dead, not sure what else to do once I know the dirt,” Rigan
replied, an edge of pain and bitterness in his voice.
“So the husband brought us in to clean up
his mess?” Corran winced as he walked; the gashes on his arm and back had to be
throbbing.
“Yeah.”
“I like it better when the ghosts confess
something like where they buried their money,” Corran replied.
“So do I.”
The sign over the front of the shop
read Valmonde Undertakers. Around back, in the alley, the
sign over the door just said Bodies. Corran led the way,
dropping the small rucksack containing their gear just inside the entrance, and
cursed under his breath as the strap raked across raw shoulders.
“Sit down,” Rigan said, nodding at an
unoccupied mortuary table. He tied his brown hair into a queue before washing
his hands in a bucket of fresh water drawn from the pump. “Let me have a look
at those wounds.”
Footsteps descended the stairs from the
small apartment above.
“You’re back? How bad was it?” Kell, the
youngest of the Valmonde brothers, stopped halfway down the stairs. He had
Corran’s coloring, taking after their father, with dark blond hair that curled
when it grew long. Rigan’s brown hair favored their mother. All three brothers’
blue eyes were the same shade, making the resemblance impossible to overlook.
“Shit.” Kell jumped the last several steps
as he saw his brothers’ injuries. He grabbed a bucket of water and scanned a
row of powders and elixirs, grabbing bottles and measuring out with a practiced
eye and long experience. “I thought you said it was just a banishing.”
“It was supposed to
be ‘just’ a banishing,” Rigan said as Corran stripped off his bloody shirt.
“But it didn’t go entirely to plan.” He soaked a clean cloth in the bucket Kell
held and wrung it out.
“A murder, not a natural death,” Corran
said, and his breath hitched as Rigan daubed his wounds. “Another ghost with
more power than it should have had.”
Rigan saw Kell appraising Corran’s wounds,
glancing at the gashes on Rigan’s face and hairline.
“Mine aren’t as bad,” Rigan said.
“When you’re done with Corran, I’ll take
care of them,” Kell said. “So I’m guessing Mama’s magic kicked in again, if you
knew about the murder?”
“Yeah,” Rigan replied in a flat voice.
Undertaking, like all the trades in
Ravenwood, was a hereditary profession. That it came with its own magic held no
surprise; all the trades did. The power and the profession were passed down
from one generation to the next. Undertakers could ease a spirit’s transition
to the realm beyond, nudge a lost soul onward, or release one held back by
unfinished business. Sigils, grave markings, corpse paints, and ritual chants
were all part of the job. But none of the other undertakers that Rigan knew had
a mama who was part Wanderer. Of the three Valmonde brothers, only Rigan had
inherited her ability to hear the confessions of the dead, something not even
the temple priests could do. His mother had called it a gift. Most of the time,
Rigan regarded it as a burden, sometimes a curse. Usually, it just made things
more complicated than they needed to be.
“Hold still,” Rigan chided as Corran winced.
“Ghost wounds draw taint.” He wiped away the blood, cleaned the cuts, and then
applied ointment from the jar Kell handed him. All three of them knew the
routine; they had done this kind of thing far too many times.
“There,” he said, binding up Corran’s arm
and shoulder with strips of gauze torn from a clean linen shroud. “That should
do it.”
Corran slid off the table to make room for
Rigan. While Kell dealt with his brother’s wounds, Corran went to pour them
each a whiskey.
“That’s the second time this month we’ve had
a spirit go from angry to dangerous,” Corran said, returning with their drinks.
He pushed a glass into Rigan’s hand, and set one aside for Kell, who was busy
wiping the blood from his brother’s face.
“I’d love to know why.” Rigan tried not to
wince as Kell probed his wounds. The deep gash where the pottery shard had
sliced his hairline bled more freely than the cut on his cheek. Kell swore
under his breath as he tried to staunch the bleeding.
“It’s happening all over Ravenwood, and no
one in the Guild seems to know a damn thing about why or what to do about it,”
Corran said, knocking his drink back in one shot. “Old Daniels said he’d heard
his father talk about the same sort of thing, but that was fifty years ago. So
why did the ghosts stop being dangerous then,
and what made them start being dangerous
now?”
Rigan started to shake his head, but stopped
at a glare from Kell, who said, “Hold still.”
He let out a long breath and complied, but
his mind raced. Until the last few months, banishings were routine. Violence
and tragedy sometimes produced ghosts, but in all the years since Rigan and
Corran had been undertakers—first helping their father and uncles and then
running the business since the older men had passed away—banishings were
usually uneventful.
Make the marks, sing the chant, the ghost
goes on and we go home. So what’s changed?
“I’m sick of being handed my ass by things
that aren’t even solid,” Rigan grumbled. “If this keeps up, we’ll need to
charge more.”
Corran snorted. “Good luck convincing Guild
Master Orlo to raise the rates.”
Rigan’s eyes narrowed. “Guild Master Orlo
can dodge flying candlesticks and broken pottery. See how he likes it.”
“Once you’ve finished grumbling we’ve got
four new bodies to attend to,” Kell said. “One’s a Guild burial and the others
are worth a few silvers a piece.” Rigan did not doubt that Kell had negotiated
the best fees possible, he always did.
“Nice,” Rigan replied, and for the first
time noticed that there were corpses on the other tables in the workshop,
covered with sheets. “We can probably have these ready to take to the cemetery
in the morning.”
“One of them was killed by a guard,” Kell
said, turning his back and keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“Do you know why?” Corran tensed.
“His wife said he protested when the guard
doubled the ‘protection’ fee. Guess the guard felt he needed to be taught a
lesson.” Bribes were part of everyday life in Ravenwood, and residents
generally went along with the hated extortion. Guilds promised to shield their
members from the guards’ worst abuses, but in reality, the Guild Masters only
intervened in the most extreme cases, fearful of drawing the Lord Mayor’s ire.
At least, that had been the excuse when Corran sought justice from the
Undertakers’ Guild for their father’s murder, a fatal beating on flimsy
charges. Rigan suspected the guards had killed their father because the
neighborhood looked up to him, and if he’d decided to speak out in opposition,
others might have followed. Even with the passing years, the grief remained
sharp, the injustice bitter.
Kell went to wash his hands in a bucket by
the door. “Trent came by while you and Corran were out. There’s been another
attack, three dead. He wants you to go have a look and take care of the
bodies.”
Rigan and Corran exchanged a glance. “What
kind of attack?”
Kell sighed. “What kind do you think?
Creatures.” He hesitated. “I got the feeling from Trent this was worse than
usual.”
“Did Trent say what kind of creatures?”
Corran asked, and Rigan picked up on an edge to his brother’s voice.
Kell nodded. “Ghouls.”
Corran swore under his breath and looked
away, pushing back old memories. “All right,” he said, not quite managing to
hide a shudder. “Let’s go get the bodies before it gets any later. We’re going
to have our hands full tonight.”
“Kell and I can go, if you want to start on
the ones here,” Rigan offered.
Corran shook his head. “No. I’m not much use
as an undertaker if I can’t go get the corpses no matter how they came to an
end,” Corran said.
Rigan heard the undercurrent in his tone.
Kell glanced at Rigan, who gave a barely perceptible nod, warning Kell to say
nothing. Corran’s dealing with the memories the best way he knows how,
Rigan thought. I just wish there weren’t so many reminders.
“I’ll prepare the wash and the pigments, and
get the shrouds ready,” Kell said. “I’ll have these folks ready for your part
of the ritual by the time you get back.” He gestured to the bodies already laid
out. “Might have to park the new ones in the cart for a bit and switch
out—tables are scarce.”
Corran grimaced. “That’ll help.” He turned
to Rigan. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Kell gave them the directions Trent had
provided. Corran took up the long poles of the undertaker’s cart, which
clattered behind him as they walked. Rigan knew better than to talk to his
brother when he was in this kind of mood. At best he could be present, keep
Corran from having to deal with the ghouls’ victims alone, and sit up with him
afterward.
It’s only been three months since he buried
Jora, since we almost had to bury him.
The memory’s raw, although he won’t mention it. But Kell and I both hear what
he shouts in his sleep. He’s still fighting them in his dreams, and still
losing.
Rigan’s memories of that night were bad
enough—Trent stumbling to the back door of the shop, carrying Corran, bloody
and unconscious; Corran’s too-still body on one of the mortuary tables; Kell
praying to Doharmu and any god who would listen to stave off death; Trent,
covered in Corran’s blood, telling them how he had found their brother and Jora
out in the tavern barn, the ghoul that attacked them already feasting on Jora’s
fresh corpse.
Rigan never did understand why Trent had
gone to the barn that night, or how he managed to fight off the ghoul. Corran
and Jora, no doubt, had slipped away for a tryst, expecting the barn to be safe
and private. Corran said little of the attack, and Rigan hoped his brother
truly did not remember all the details.
“We’re here.” Corran’s rough voice and
expressionless face revealed more than any words.
Ross, the farrier, met them at the door.
“I’m sorry to have to call you out,” he said.
“It’s our job,” Corran replied. “I’m just
sorry the godsdamned ghouls are back.”
“Not for long,” Ross said under his breath.
A glance passed between Corran and Ross. Rigan filed it away to ask Corran
about later.
The stench hit Rigan as soon as they entered
the barn. Two horses lay gutted in their stalls and partially dismembered.
Blood spattered the wooden walls and soaked the sawdust. Flies swarmed on what
the ghouls had left behind.
“They’re over here,” Ross said. The bodies
of two men and a woman had been tossed aside like discarded bones at a feast.
Rigan swallowed down bile. Corran paled, his jaw working as he ground his
teeth.
Rigan and Corran knew better than most what
remained of a corpse once a ghoul had finished with it. Belly torn open to get
to the soft organs; ribs split wide to access the heart. How much of the flesh
remained depended on the ghoul’s hunger and whether or not it feasted
undisturbed. Given the state these bodies were in—their faces were the only
parts left untouched—the ghouls had taken their time. Rigan closed his eyes and
took a deep breath, willing himself not to retch.
“What about the creatures?” Corran asked.
“Must have fled when they heard us coming,”
Ross said. “We were making plenty of noise.” Ross handed them each a shovel,
and took one up himself. “There’s not much left, and what’s there is… loose.”
“Who were they?” Rigan asked, not sure
Corran felt up to asking questions.
Ross swallowed hard. “One of the men was my
cousin, Tad. The other two were customers. They brought in the two horses late
in the day, and my cousin said he’d handle it.”
Rigan heard the guilt in Ross’s tone.
“Guild honors?” Corran asked, finding his
voice, and Ross nodded.
Rigan brought the cart into the barn,
stopping as close as possible to the mangled corpses. The bodies were likely to
fall to pieces as soon as they began shoveling.
“Yeah,” Ross replied, getting past the lump
in his throat. “Send them off right.” He shook his head. “They say the monsters
are all part of the Balance, like life and death cancel each other out somehow.
That’s bullshit, if you ask me.”
The three men bent to their work, trying not
to think of the slippery bones and bloody bits as bodies. Carcasses.
Like what’s left when the butcher’s done with a hog, or the vultures are
finished with a cow, Rigan thought. The
barn smelled of blood and entrails, copper and shit. Rigan looked at what they
loaded into the cart. Only the skulls made it possible to tell that the remains
had once been human.
“I’m sorry about this, but I need to do
it—to keep them from rising as ghouls or restless spirits,” Rigan said. He
pulled a glass bottle from the bag at the front of the wagon, and carefully
removed the stopper, sprinkling the bodies with green vitriol to burn the flesh
and prevent the corpses from rising. The acid sizzled, sending up noxious
tendrils of smoke. Rigan stoppered the bottle and pulled out a bag of the
salt-aconite-amanita mixture, dusting it over the bodies, assuring that the
spirits would remain at rest.
Ross nodded. “Better than having them return
as one of those… things,” he said, shuddering.
“We’ll have them buried tomorrow,” Corran
said as Rigan secured their grisly load.
“That’s more than fair,” Ross agreed.
“Corran—you know if I’d had a choice about calling you—”
“It’s our job.” Corran cut off the apology.
Ross knew about Jora’s death. That didn’t change the fact that they were the
only Guild undertakers in this area of Ravenwood, and Ross was a friend.
“I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon with the
money,” Ross said, accompanying them to the door.
“We’ll be done by then,” Corran replied. Rigan
went to pick up the cart’s poles, but Corran shook his head and lifted them
himself.
Rigan did not argue. Easier
for him to haul the wagon; that way he doesn’t have to look at the bodies and
remember when Jora’s brother brought her for burial.
Rigan felt for the reassuring bulk of his
knife beneath his cloak—a steel blade rather than the iron weapon they used in
the banishing rite. No one knew the true nature of the monsters, or why so many
more had started appearing in Ravenwood of late. Ghouls weren’t like angry
ghosts or restless spirits that could be banished with salt, aconite, and iron.
Whatever darkness spawned them and the rest of their monstrous brethren, they
were creatures of skin and bone; only beheading would stop them.
Rigan kept his blade sharpened.
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Vengeance
A Darkhurst Novel Book 2
Fighting the monsters that killed their
family and friends cost undertaker brothers Corran and Rigan Valmonde their
home and livelihood and made them wanted men—but the worst is yet to come.
The city-state of Ravenwood is wealthy, powerful, and corrupt. Merchant Princes
and Guild Masters wager fortunes to outmaneuver League rivals for the king’s
favor and the best trading terms. Ambitious and ruthless leaders use betrayal
and assassination to gain their ends. Blood magic conjures monsters to further
the goals of the ruling class, and the price of stolen power is paid for by the
deaths of commoners. Now, the fate of Ravenwood hangs in the balance as rival
city-states maneuver to gain advantage.
When Corran and Rigan and their friends became outlaw monster hunters and fled
beyond the walls of Ravenwood City, they thought they had defeated the source
of the abominations that killed so many of their friends and loved ones. But
the more successful they become at destroying the creatures, the more they
realize a greater evil is at work – larger and more monstrous than they ever
could imagine…
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Reckoning
A Darkhurst Novel Book 3
by Gail Z. Martin
Genre: Dark Epic Fantasy Adventure
Undertaker brothers fight the monsters who
killed their family and uncover a dark secret that could destroy a kingdom.
When Corran, Rigan, and their friends became
outlaw monster hunters and fled beyond the walls of Ravenwood City, they
thought they had defeated the source of the abominations that killed so many of
their friends and loved ones. But the more successful they become at destroying
the creatures, the more they realize that greater evil is at work—larger and
more terrifying than they ever imagined.
The city state of Ravenwood is wealthy,
powerful, and corrupt. Ambitious and ruthless leaders use betrayal and
assassination to gain their ends. Blood magic conjures monsters to further the
goals of the ruling class, and stolen power is paid for by the deaths of
commoners. But now the magic extracts too high a toll, merchant princes scheme
against each other, smugglers and pirates threaten the trade that holds the
kingdom together, and old alliances shatter. Darkhurst’s wastrel king seems
ill-suited to stop the collapse of the merchant league and the kingdom itself.
When fanatic priests begin a reign of terror
to summon ravenous beings and cause the unmaking of the world, Corran, Rigan,
and their friends face an impossible task. They must bind the monstrous First
Being, stop the priests from bringing about their blood-soaked reckoning, and
put a king on the throne that will end the cull forever. The price of failure
is the destruction of Darkhurst and the world itself.
Reckoning is the fast-paced, action-packed
conclusion to a monster-filled fantasy adventure with non-stop twists and
turns, loyal brothers, found family, forbidden magic, vengeful ghosts,
high-stakes intrigue, and dangerous secrets set in a vibrantly visualized
world.
Amazon * Apple
* B&N
* Kobo
* Bookbub
* Goodreads
Book Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0CT2D5ZKG
Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/reckoning/id6476566863
B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/reckoning-gail-z-martin/1144704661?ean=2940179318446
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/reckoning-136
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/reckoning-darkhurst-3-by-gail-z-martin
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/205798245-reckoning
About the Author
Gail Z. Martin writes urban fantasy, epic
fantasy, steampunk and more for Solaris Books, Orbit Books, Falstaff Books, SOL
Publishing and Darkwind Press. Urban fantasy series include Deadly Curiosities
and the Night Vigil (Sons of Darkness). Epic fantasy series include Darkhurst,
the Chronicles Of The Necromancer, the Fallen Kings Cycle, the Ascendant
Kingdoms Saga, and the Assassins of Landria.
Together with Larry N. Martin, she is the
co-author of Iron & Blood, Storm & Fury (both Steampunk/alternate
history), the Spells Salt and Steel comedic horror series, the Roaring Twenties
monster hunter Joe Mack Shadow Council series, and the Wasteland Marshals
near-future post-apocalyptic series. As Morgan Brice, she writes urban fantasy
MM paranormal romance, with the Witchbane, Badlands, Treasure Trail, Kings of
the Mountain and Fox Hollow series. Gail is also a con-runner for ConTinual,
the online, ongoing multi-genre convention that never ends.
Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub
* Amazon
* Goodreads
Author
Links
Website: https://ascendantkingdoms.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/WinterKingdoms
Twitter: https://twitter.com/gailzmartin
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/morganbriceauthor
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/gail-z-martin
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Gail-Z.-Martin/e/B002BM8XSQ
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1637418.Gail_Z_Martin
Giveaway
$20 Amazon
Follow
the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!
https://bit.ly/DarkhurstTour
