Farmer's Creed

by Christopher Woods

  Now Available from Blood Moon Press

  eBook, Audio, and Paperback

  Excerpt from “The Devil’s Gunman:”

  I eased the door open and braced for gunfire or a fireball.

  I got neither. I swept the entryway with my rifle’s sights. Nothing more offensive than some high school photos glared back at me, and I didn’t hear anything running down the hallway or readying a weapon. There were no shouts from police or federal agents, either.

  What I did hear, from the living room, was incessant chatter underscored by the occasional interjection of a laugh track. The chatter was accompanied by the soft peripheral glow of my television. Whoever had broken into my house was watching a sitcom.

  “I’m unarmed,” a man’s voice rang out. “So put down the rifle, and let’s have a talk.”

  “The fuck we will,” I shouted back. “You broke into my home!”

  I moved down the hallway, keeping my rifle on the opening to the living room.

  “That’s part of what we have to talk about,” the voice said. I peered around the corner and saw a young Caucasian man. His pale features and dyed blue hair did little to mask the malicious smirk on his face. He was dressed in an oxford shirt and slacks with a skinny tie, as though he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to look like he’d just joined a band or an investment firm. He wore a silver tie clip with a red blood drop on it.

  I stood there with my rifle sights on his head.

  “I’m here as a messenger,” he said and flashed his teeth. I saw pointed incisors. That was enough for me. “This is peaceful, Nicholas. No need to be violent.”

  I lowered the rifle. I didn’t like the prick’s condescending tone; he sounded like he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Those types were always eager to give up information.

  “Okay, let’s talk. Who’s the message from?” I asked.

  “I hold the honored post of Emissary of the Lyndale Coven,” he said politely, examining his nails. “We’ve taken a professional interest in you, and Coven leadership sent me.”

  “Oh yeah?” I asked. “What for?”

  “To dictate the terms of your surrender,” he said, locking eyes with me. His hands twitched, then curled slightly. I imagined him leaping off the couch and knocking me down. I fought the urge to bring the rifle to bear, keeping it at the low ready.

  “Thought your kind needed an invite,” I said.

  The man snarled.

  “We both know who built this house. I have a standing invite. The coven master says that the Duke no longer wants you, so you’re fair game. Our agreement, which I have right here, has the details.”

  He pulled a no-shit scroll out of his suit jacket and put it down on my coffee table. I glanced at it. The Lyndale Coven seemed to be under the impression that I belonged to them. I read the word “slave” once, and that was enough for me to decide I wasn’t interested.

  “No dice,” I said.

  “These terms are much more charitable than those the Coven Master wanted,” he said, warning in his voice. “Oath breakers aren’t normally given this kind of clemency.”

  I didn’t have much idea what he meant about oath breakers, but I wasn’t going to play ball with this pompous fuck.

  “Not charitable enough,” I said. “Why do you guys want me? Running out of blood from young clubgoers and runaways?”

  The young vampire smiled again, flashing his teeth with what I’m sure he thought was menace.

  “It’ll certainly improve our coven’s standings with the Duke if we prove we can clean up his loose ends. I’m sure you’ll make an excellent blood thrall. We’ll be taking a pint of blood every month, as—”

  I raised the rifle and sighted in on his head. He sighed, and rolled his eyes.

  “Look, you primitive ape, guns won’t—”

  I fired three times, the rounds earth-shatteringly loud in such a tight place. He screamed in pain and terror as the holy rifle’s bullets tore through him, the wounds leaving bright blue caverns of light.

  His screaming echoed in my head, so I kept shooting. I fired the rest of the magazine until there was nothing left but a corpse, riddled with holes and glowing softly, and me, standing there in my gunpowder-fueled catharsis.

  I dropped the mag and slapped in a fresh one, savoring the sound of the bolt sliding forward and knowing that if the emissary had any friends, they too, would be introduced to the kinetic light of St. Joseph.

  “Anyone else here? I got more.”

  * * * * *

  Get “The Devil’s Gunman” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07N1QF4MD.

  Find out more about Philip S. Bolger and “The Devil’s Gunman” at:

  https://chriskennedypublishing.com/philip-s-bolger/.

  * * * * *

  The following is an

  Excerpt from Book One of the Turning Point:

  A Time to Die

  ___________________

  Mark Wandrey

  Available Now from Blood Moon Press

  eBook, Paperback, and Audio

  Excerpt from “A Time to Die:”

  An hour later, Ken tried to drink some of the water and eat some of the food Erin had left for him, only to vomit it up moments afterwards. His head swam with pain and confusion, and sweat poured from his forehead despite the cool evening breeze. Suddenly he stumbled to his feet, not knowing why, completely unable to concentrate. “Wha—what?” he choked, spinning around and searching for the source of the disturbance with blurred vision.

  He heard something behind him, and he spun again to find only darkness. “Damn you,” he snarled and took a step in that direction, only to fall over a root in the gloom and sprawl in the dense pine needles. His mind exploded in lights, pain, and voices. Whispers and screams, thoughts and ideas he could not understand. “Stop it, stop it, stop…stop…STOP!” The last word came out as an anguished wail from the depths of his soul that echoed through the woods and down to the Rio Grande thousands of feet below. He shuddered in the brush, and the man that was Ken succumbed.

  Small animals and night birds flitted around for a time, sniffing the air and trying to sense if the man had become food. But after a few minutes, it was standing again, wildly searching the darkness. It noticed the birds and scurrying creatures, and it shook its head and snarled. The snarl turned into a clipped scream, more visceral than the previous one. It turned toward a narrow goat trail that descended the cliff.

  The descent would have terrified Ken and likely sent him plummeting to the rocks below. The creature that now walked in his skin, though, felt no fear and held close to the sharp rocks with single-minded, painless determination. By the time it reached the river, its hands were torn nearly to the bone in several places. It paid no mind to the blood-dripping wounds as it scanned the opposite riverbank. Moonlight illuminated the far shore where it saw a group of people, all moving slowly to the west. A little moan escaped its lips, and its teeth gnashed as it jerked forward and plowed into the water.

  * * * * *

  Get “A Time to Die” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0787VQ8RJ/.

  Find out more about Mark Wandrey and “A Time to Die” at:

  http://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/mark-wandrey/.

  * * * * *

  The following is an

  Excerpt from Book One of The Shadow Lands:

  Shadow Lands

  ___________________

  Lloyd Behm, II

  Now Available from Blood Moon Press

  eBook and Paperback

  Excerpt from “Shadow Lands:”

  The combatants, for lack of a better term, were both resting at the edges of the dance floor. To the left was a very butch-looking blonde in what looked to be purple leather, along with her entourage, while to the right, a petite, dark-skinned Hispanic in a princess outfit stood, surrounded by meat popsicles wrapped in leather. Vampire fashions make no damn sense to me, for what it’s worth. There were a few ‘normals’ huddled against the far wall, w
hich showed signs of someone’s face being run along it, repeatedly. Sure enough, the London ‘Special’ was in the DJ booth. He killed the sound as soon as he realized we were standing there.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce the final players in our little drama, the Reinhumation Specialists of the Quinton Morris Group!” the Special said into the mike.

  “Fuck me running,” I said.

  “With a rusty chainsaw,” Jed finished.

  The two groups of vampires turned to face us.

  “Remind me to kick Michael in his balls when we get back to the office,” I said.

  “You’re going to have to get in line behind me to do it,” Jed replied.

  “You can leave now, mortals,” the blonde said with a slight German accent. She had occult patterns tattooed around her eyes, which had to be a bitch, because she would have had to have them redone every six months or so. Vampires heal.

  “Like, fershure, this totally doesn’t involve you,” the Hispanic said, her accent pure San Fernando Valley.

  “Jed, did I ever tell you how I feel about Valley Girls?” I asked, raising my voice.

  “No…”

  “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t kill ‘em,” I replied, swinging my UMP up and cratering the Valley vampire’s chest with three rounds into the fragile set of blood vessels above the heart. Sure, the pump still works, but there’s nothing connected to it for what passes as blood in a vampire to spread. On top of that, company-issue bullets are frangible silver, to which vampires have an adverse reaction.

  With that, the dance was on. The damn Special in the DJ booth at least had the good sense to put on Rammstein. Mien Teil came thundering out of the speakers as we started killing vampires. Gunny ran his M1897 Trench Gun dry in five shots, dropped it to hang by a patrol sling, and switched to his ancient, family 1911. I ran my UMP dry on Valley Vamp’s minions, then dropped the magazine and reloaded in time to dump the second full magazine into the Butch Vampire as she leaped toward the ceiling to clear the tables between us and the dance floor. As soon as Butch Vamp went down, the remaining vampires froze.

  “Glamour,” the Special called, stepping out of the booth. “I can control a lot of lesser vampires, but not until you got those two randy cunts thinking about how much they hurt.”

  “You. Fucking. Asshole,” I panted.

  Combat is cardio, I don’t care what anyone else says.

  “Yes?” he replied.

  I looked him over. He was wearing a red zoot suit—red-pegged trousers and a long red jacket with wide shoulders over the ubiquitous white peasant shirt, topped with a red, wide-brimmed hat. He even had on red-tinted glacier glasses.

  I felt his mind try to probe mine, then beamed as he bounced off.

  “My that hurt,” he replied.

  “You know, we don’t work with Michelangelo for nothing,” Jed replied. Apparently the mind probe had been general, not specific.

  I went through the messy side of the business—staking and beheading—assisted by Capdepon. Crash helped Jed sort out the normal survivors, followed by prepping the live lesser vampires for transport. The Special leaned against a wall, maintaining control of the lesser vampires until we could move them out. Once all the work was done so the cleaners could move in, and the lesser vampires were moved out of Eyelash, I stepped wearily to the Special.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “You can call me,” he paused dramatically, “Tim.”

  I kicked him in the nuts with a steel-toed boot. Even in the undead, it’s a sensitive spot.

  * * * * *

  Get “Shadow Lands” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KX8GHYX/.

  Find out more about Lloyd Behm, II and “Shadow Lands” at:

  https://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/lloyd-behm-ii/.

  * * * * *

  The following is an

  Excerpt from Book One of The Darkness War:

  Psi-Mechs, Inc.

  ___________________

  Eric S. Brown

  Available Now from Blood Moon Press

  eBook and Paperback

  Excerpt from “Psi-Mechs, Inc.:”

  Ringer reached the bottom of the stairs and came straight at him. “Mr. Dubin?” Ringer asked.

  Frank rose to his feet, offering his hand. “Ah, Detective Ringer, I must say it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  Ringer didn’t accept his proffered hand. Instead, he stared at Frank with appraising eyes.

  “I’m told you’re with the Feds. If this is about the Hangman killer case…” Ringer said.

  Frank quickly shook his head. “No, nothing like that, Detective. I merely need a few moments of your time.”

  “You picked a bad night for it, Mr. Dubin,” Ringer told him. “It’s a full moon out there this evening, and the crazies are coming out of the woodwork.”

  “Crazies?” Frank asked.

  “I just locked up a guy who thinks he’s a werewolf.” Ringer sighed. “We get a couple of them every year.”

  “And is he?” Frank asked with a grin.

  Ringer gave Frank a careful look as he said, “What do you mean is he? Of course not. There’s no such thing as werewolves, Mr. Dubin.”

  “Anything’s possible, Detective Ringer.” Frank smirked.

  “Look, I really don’t have time for this.” Ringer shook his head. “Either get on with what you’ve come to see me about, or go back to wherever you came from. I’ve got enough on my hands tonight without you.”

  “Is there somewhere a touch more private we could talk?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” Ringer answered reluctantly. “This way.”

  Ringer led Frank into a nearby office and shut the door behind them. He walked around the room’s desk and plopped into the chair there.

  “Have a seat,” Ringer instructed him, gesturing at the chair in front of the desk.

  Frank took it. He stared across the desk at Ringer.

  “Well?” Ringer urged.

  “Detective Ringer, I work for an organization that has reason to believe you have the capacity to be much more than the mere street detective you are now,” Frank started.

  “Hold on a sec.” Ringer leaned forward where he sat. “You’re here to offer me a job?”

  “Something like that.” Frank grinned.

  “I’m not interested,” Ringer said gruffly and started to get up. Frank’s next words knocked him off his feet, causing him to collapse back into his chair as if he’d been gut-punched.

  “We know about your power, Detective Ringer.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ringer said, though it was clear he was lying.

  “There’s no reason to be ashamed of your abilities, Detective,” Frank assured him, “and what the two of us are about to discuss will never leave this room.”

  “I think it’s time you left now, Mr. Dubin,” Ringer growled.

  “Far from it,” Frank said. “We’re just getting started, Detective Ringer.”

  Ringer sprung from his seat and started for the office’s door. “You can either show yourself out, or I can have one of the officers out there help you back to the street.”

  Frank left his own seat and moved to block Ringer’s path. “I have a gift myself, Detective Ringer.”

  Shaking his head, Ringer started to shove Frank aside. Frank took him by the arm.

  “My gift is that I can sense the powers of people like yourself, Detective,” Frank told him. “You can’t deny your power to me. I can see it in my mind, glowing like a bright, shining star in an otherwise dark void.”

  “You’re crazy,” Ringer snapped, shaking free of Frank’s hold.

  “You need to listen to me,” Frank warned. “I know about what happened to your parents. I mean what really happened, and how you survived.”

  Frank’s declaration stopped Ringer in his tracks.

  “You don’t know crap!” Ringer shouted as Frank continued to stare at him.


  “Vampires are very real, Detective Ringer.” Frank cocked his head to look up at Ringer as he spoke. “The organization I work for…We deal with them, and other monsters, every day.”

  Ringer stabbed a finger into Frank’s chest. It hurt, as Ringer thumped it repeatedly against him. “I don’t know who you are, Mr. Dubin, but I’ve had enough of your crap. Now take your crazy and get the hell out of my life. Do I make myself clear?”

  The pictures on the wall of the office vibrated as Ringer raged at Frank. Frank’s smile grew wider.

  “You’re a TK, aren’t you?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t even know what that is!” Ringer bellowed at him.

  “You can move objects with your mind, Detective Ringer. We call that TK. It’s a term that denotes you have telekinetic abilities. They’re how you saved yourself from the vampire who murdered your family when you were thirteen.”

  Ringer said nothing. He stood, shaking with fear and rage.

  “You’re not alone, Detective Ringer,” Frank told him. “There are many others in this world with powers like your own. As I’ve said, I have one myself, though it’s not as powerful or as physical in nature, as your own. I urge you to have a seat, so we can talk about this a little more. I highly doubt your captain would be as understanding of your gift as I and my employer are if it should, say, become public knowledge.”

  “Is that a threat?” Ringer snarled.

  Frank shook his head. “Certainly not. Now if you would…?” Frank gestured for Ringer to return to the chair behind the desk.