It was an addiction.
The pungent smell of manure filled the air, latching onto my nostril hairs. I took another step, trying to calm my racing pulse. A glint of gold reflected in the silver moonlight, but my victim remained motionless, hopefully unaware or all was lost. I wouldn’t make it out alive if he knew I was here. Timing was everything.
I carefully took the last two steps, a lifetime between each, watching the legendary monster’s ears, anxious and terrified that I would catch even so much as a twitch in my direction. Seeing nothing, a fierce grin split my unshaven cheeks. My spell had worked! I raised my palms an inch away from their target, firmly planted my feet, and squared my shoulders. I took one silent, calming breath, and then heaved forward with every ounce of physical strength I could muster. As well as a teensy-weensy boost of magic. Enough to goose him good.
“MOOO!!!” The sound tore through the cool October night like an unstoppable freight train. Thud-splat! The beast collapsed sideways onto the frosted grass; straight into a steaming patty of cow shit, cow dung, or, if you really wanted to church it up, a Meadow Muffin. But to me, shit is, and always will be, shit.
Cow tipping. It doesn’t get any better than that in Missouri.
Especially when you’re tipping the Minotaur. Capital M. I’d tipped plenty of ordinary cows before, but never the legendary variety.
Razor-blade hooves tore at the frozen earth as the beast struggled to stand, his grunts of rage vibrating the air. I raised my arms triumphantly. “Boo-yah! Temple 1, Minotaur 0!” I crowed. Then I very bravely prepared to protect myself. Some people just couldn’t take a joke. Cruel, evil, and sadistic cow tipping may be, but by hell, it was a rush. The legendary beast turned his gaze on me after gaining his feet, eyes ablaze as his body…shifted from his bull disguise into his notorious, well-known bipedal form. He unfolded to his full height on two tree trunk-thick legs, his hooves having magically transformed into heavily booted feet. The thick, gold ring dangling from his snotty snout quivered as the Minotaur panted, and his dense, corded muscles contracted over his now human-like chest. As I stared up into those brown eyes, I actually felt sorry…for, well, myself.
“I have killed greater men than you for lesser offense,” he growled.
His voice sounded like an angry James Earl Jones—like Mufasa talking to Scar.
“You have shit on your shoulder, Asterion.” I ignited a roiling ball of fire in my palm in order to see his eyes more clearly. By no means was it a defensive gesture on my part. It was just dark. Under the weight of his glare, I somehow managed to keep my face composed, even though my fraudulent, self-denial had curled up into the fetal position and started whimpering. I hoped using a form of his ancient name would give me brownie points. Or maybe just not-worthy-of-killing points.
The beast grunted, eyes tightening, and I sensed the barest hesitation. “Nate Temple…your name would look splendid on my already long list of slain idiots.” Asterion took a threatening step forward, and I thrust out my palm in warning, my roiling flame blue now.
“You lost fair and square, Asterion. Yield or perish.” The beast’s shoulders sagged slightly. Then he finally nodded to himself in resignation, appraising me with the scrutiny of a worthy adversary. “Your time comes, Temple, but I will grant you this. You’ve got a pair of stones on you to rival Hercules.”
I reflexively glanced in the direction of the myth’s own crown jewels before jerking my gaze away. Some things you simply couldn’t un-see. “Well, I won’t be needing a wheelbarrow any time soon, but overcompensating today keeps future lower-back pain away.”
The Minotaur blinked once, and then he bellowed out a deep, contagious, snorting laughter. Realizing I wasn’t about to become a murder statistic, I couldn’t help but join in. It felt good. It had been a while since I had allowed myself to experience genuine laughter.
In the harsh moonlight, his bulk was even more intimidating as he towered head and shoulders above me. This was the beast that had fed upon human sacrifices for countless years while imprisoned in Daedalus’ Labyrinth in Greece. And all that protein had not gone to waste, forming a heavily woven musculature over the beast’s body that made even Mr. Olympia look puny.
From the neck up, he was now entirely bull, but the rest of his body more closely resembled a thickly furred man. But, as shown moments ago, he could adapt his form to his environment, never appearing fully human, but able to make his entire form appear as a bull when necessary. For instance, how he had looked just before I tipped him. Maybe he had been scouting the field for heifers before I had so efficiently killed the mood.
His bull face was also covered in thick, coarse hair—he even sported a long, wavy beard of sorts, and his eyes were the deepest brown I had ever seen. Cow-shit brown. His snout jutted out, emphasizing the golden ring dangling from his glistening nostrils, and both glinted in the luminous glow of the moon. The metal was at least an inch thick and etched with runes of a language long forgotten. Wide, aged ivory horns sprouted from each temple, long enough to skewer a wizard with little effort. He was nude except for a massive beaded necklace and a pair of worn leather boots that were big enough to stomp a size twenty-five imprint in my face if he felt so inclined.
I hoped our blossoming friendship wouldn’t end that way. I really did.
Because friends didn’t let friends wear boots naked…
Get your copy of OBSIDIAN SON online today! http://www.shaynesilvers.com/l/38474
Turn the page to read a sample of WHISKEY GINGER - Phantom Queen Diaries Book 1, or BUY ONLINE. Quinn MacKenna is a black magic arms dealer in Boston. She likes to fight monsters almost as much as she likes to drink.
TRY: WHISKEY GINGER (PHANTOM QUEEN DIARIES BOOK 1)
The pasty guitarist hunched forward, thrust a rolled-up wad of paper deep into one nostril, and snorted a line of blood crystals—frozen hemoglobin that I’d smuggled over in a refrigerated canister—with the uncanny grace of a drug addict. He sat back, fangs gleaming, and pawed at his nose. “That’s some bodacious shit. Hey, bros,” he said, glancing at his fellow band members, “come hit this shit before it melts.”
He fetched one of the backstage passes hanging nearby, pried the plastic badge from its lanyard, and used it to split up the crystals, murmuring something in an accent that reminded me of California. Not the California, but you know, Cali-foh-nia—the land of beaches, babes, and bros. I retrieved a toothpick from my pocket and punched it through its thin wrapper. “So,” I asked no one in particular, “now that ye have the product, who’s payin’?”
Another band member stepped out of the shadows to my left, and I don’t mean that figuratively, either—the fucker literally stepped out of the shadows. I scowled at him, but hid my surprise, nonchalantly rolling the toothpick from one side of my mouth to the other.
The rest of the band gathered around the dressing room table, following the guitarist’s lead by preparing their own snorting utensils—tattered magazine covers, mostly. Typically, you’d do this sort of thing with a dollar-bill, maybe even a Benjamin if you were flush. But fangers like this lot couldn’t touch cash directly—in God We Trust and all that. Of course, I didn’t really understand why sucking blood the old-fashioned way had suddenly gone out of style. More of a rush, maybe?
“It lasts longer,” the vampire next to me explained, catching my mildly curious expression. “It’s especially good for shows and stuff. Makes us look, like, less—”
“Creepy?” I offered, my Irish brogue lilting just enough to make it a question.
“Pale,” he finished, frowning.
I shrugged. “Listen, I’ve got places to be,” I said, holding out my hand.
“I’m sure you do,” he replied, smiling. “Tell you what, why don’t you, like, hang around for a bit? Once that wears off,” he dipped his head toward the bloody powder smeared across the table’s surface, “we may need a pick-me-up.” He rested his hand on my arm and our gazes locked.
I blinked, realized what he was
trying to pull, and rolled my eyes. His widened in surprise, then shock as I yanked out my toothpick and shoved it through his hand.
“Motherfuck—”
“I want what we agreed on,” I declared. “Now. No tricks.”
The rest of the band saw what happened and rose faster than I could blink. They circled me, their grins feral…they might have even seemed intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that they each had a case of the sniffles—I had to work extra hard not to think about what it felt like to have someone else’s blood dripping down my nasal cavity.
I held up a hand.
“Can I ask ye gentlemen a question before we get started?” I asked. “Do ye even have what I asked for?”
Two of the band members exchanged looks and shrugged. The guitarist, however, glanced back towards the dressing room, where a brown paper bag sat next to a case full of makeup. He caught me looking and bared his teeth, his fangs stretching until it looked like it would be uncomfortable for him to close his mouth without piercing his own lip.
“Follow-up question,” I said, eyeing the vampire I’d stabbed as he gingerly withdrew the toothpick from his hand and flung it across the room with a snarl. “Do ye do each other’s make-up? Since, ye know, ye can’t use mirrors?”
I was genuinely curious.
The guitarist grunted. “Mike, we have to go on soon.”
“Wait a minute. Mike?” I turned to the snarling vampire with a frown. “What happened to The Vampire Prospero?” I glanced at the numerous fliers in the dressing room, most of which depicted the band members wading through blood, with Mike in the lead, each one titled The Vampire Prospero in Rocky Horror Picture Show font. Come to think of it…Mike did look a little like Tim Curry in all that leather and lace.
I was about to comment on the resemblance when Mike spoke up, “Alright, change of plans, bros. We’re gonna drain this bitch before the show. We’ll look totally—”
“Creepy?” I offered, again.
“Kill her.”
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MAKE A DIFFERENCE
Reviews are the most powerful tools in my arsenal when it comes to getting attention for my books. Much as I’d like to, I don't have the financial muscle of a New York publisher.
But I do have something much more powerful and effective than that, and it’s something that those publishers would kill to get their hands on.
A committed and loyal bunch of readers.
Honest reviews of my books help bring them to the attention of other readers.
If you’ve enjoyed this book, I would be very grateful if you could spend just five minutes leaving a review (it can be as short as you like) on my book’s Amazon page by clicking below.
Review Anghellic
Thank you very much in advance.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Team Temple and the Den of Freaks on Facebook have become family to me. I couldn’t do it without die-hard readers like them.
I would also like to thank you, the reader. I hope you enjoyed reading ANGHELLIC as much as I enjoyed writing it. Be sure to check out the two crossover series in the Temple Verse: The Nate Temple Series and the Phantom Queen Diaries.
And last, but definitely not least, I thank my wife, Lexy. Without your support, none of this would have been possible.
ABOUT SHAYNE SILVERS
Shayne is a man of mystery and power, whose power is exceeded only by his mystery…
He currently writes the Amazon Bestselling Nate Temple Series, which features a foul-mouthed wizard from St. Louis. He rides a bloodthirsty unicorn, drinks with Achilles, and is pals with the Four Horsemen.
He also writes the Amazon Bestselling Feathers and Fire Series—a second series in the TempleVerse. The story follows a rookie spell-slinger named Callie Penrose who works for the Vatican in Kansas City. Her problem? Hell seems to know more about her past than she does.
He coauthors The Phantom Queen Diaries—a third series set in The TempleVerse—with Cameron O’Connell. The story follows Quinn MacKenna, a mouthy black magic arms dealer in Boston. All she wants? A round-trip ticket to the Fae realm…and maybe a drink on the house.
He also writes the Shade of Devil Series, which tells the story of Sorin Ambrogio—the world’s FIRST vampire. He was put into a magical slumber by a Native American Medicine Man when the Americas were first discovered by Europeans. Sorin wakes up after five-hundred years to learn that his protege, Dracula, stole his reputation and that no one has ever even heard of Sorin Ambrogio. The streets of New York City will run with blood as Sorin reclaims his legend.
Shayne holds two high-ranking black belts, and can be found writing in a coffee shop, cackling madly into his computer screen while pounding shots of espresso. He’s hard at work on the newest books in the TempleVerse—You can find updates on new releases or chronological reading order on the next page, his website, or any of his social media accounts. Follow him online for all sorts of groovy goodies, giveaways, and new release updates:
Get Down with Shayne Online
www.shaynesilvers.com
[email protected]
BOOKS BY SHAYNE SILVERS
CHRONOLOGY: All stories in the TempleVerse are shown in chronological order on the following page
* * *
NATE TEMPLE SERIES
(Main series in the TempleVerse)
by Shayne Silvers
FAIRY TALE - FREE prequel novella #0 for my subscribers
OBSIDIAN SON
BLOOD DEBTS
GRIMM
SILVER TONGUE
BEAST MASTER
BEERLYMPIAN (Novella #5.5 in the ‘LAST CALL’ anthology)
TINY GODS
DADDY DUTY (Novella #6.5)
WILD SIDE
WAR HAMMER
NINE SOULS
HORSEMAN
LEGEND
KNIGHTMARE
ASCENSION
CARNAGE
* * *
FEATHERS AND FIRE SERIES
(Also set in the TempleVerse)
by Shayne Silvers
UNCHAINED
RAGE
WHISPERS
ANGEL’S ROAR
MOTHERLUCKER (Novella #4.5 in the ‘LAST CALL’ anthology)
SINNER
BLACK SHEEP
GODLESS
ANGHELLIC
* * *
PHANTOM QUEEN DIARIES
(Also set in the TempleVerse)
by Cameron O’Connell & Shayne Silvers
COLLINS (Prequel novella #0 in the ‘LAST CALL’ anthology)
WHISKEY GINGER
COSMOPOLITAN
OLD FASHIONED
MOTHERLUCKER (Novella #3.5 in the ‘LAST CALL’ anthology)
DARK AND STORMY
MOSCOW MULE
WITCHES BREW
SALTY DOG
SEA BREEZE
HURRICANE
BRIMSTONE KISS
* * *
CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER: TEMPLE VERSE
* * *
FAIRY TALE (TEMPLE PREQUEL)
OBSIDIAN SON (TEMPLE 1)
BLOOD DEBTS (TEMPLE 2)
GRIMM (TEMPLE 3)
SILVER TONGUE (TEMPLE 4)
BEAST MASTER (TEMPLE 5)
BEERLYMPIAN (TEMPLE 5.5)
TINY GODS (TEMPLE 6)
DADDY DUTY (TEMPLE NOVELLA 6.5)
UNCHAINED (FEATHERS… 1)
RAGE (FEATHERS… 2)
WILD SIDE (TEMPLE 7)
WAR HAMMER (TEMPLE 8)
WHISPERS (FEATHERS… 3)
COLLINS (PHANTOM 0)
WHISKEY GINGER (PHANTOM… 1)
NINE SOULS (TEMPLE 9)
COSMOPOLITAN (PHANTOM… 2)
ANGEL’S ROAR (FEATHERS… 4)
MOTHERLUCKER (FEATHERS 4.5, PHANTOM 3.5)
OLD FASHIONED (PHANTOM…3)
HORSEMAN (TEMPLE 10)
DARK AND STORMY (PHANTOM… 4)
MOSCOW MULE (PHANTOM�
�5)
SINNER (FEATHERS…5)
WITCHES BREW (PHANTOM…6)
LEGEND (TEMPLE…11)
SALTY DOG (PHANTOM…7)
BLACK SHEEP (FEATHERS…6)
GODLESS (FEATHERS…7)
KNIGHTMARE (TEMPLE 12)
ASCENSION (TEMPLE 13)
SEA BREEZE (PHANTOM…8)
HURRICANE (PHANTOM…9)
BRIMSTONE KISS (PHANTOM…10)
CARNAGE (TEMPLE 14)
ANGHELLIC (FEATHERS…8)
SHADE OF DEVIL SERIES
(Not part of the TempleVerse)
by Shayne Silvers
DEVIL’S DREAM
DEVIL’S CRY
DEVIL’S BLOOD
Nothing to see here.
Thanks for reaching the last page of the book, you over-achiever. Sniff the spine. You’ve earned it. Or sniff your Kindle.
Now this has gotten weird.
Alright. I’m leaving.
Anghellic: Feathers and Fire Book 8 Page 33
