– Scott A. Johnson, DreadCentral.com
"A great big bloody beast of a book that enthralls the reader on multiple levels. Vicious, gory, sexy, fascinating—part-supernatural thriller, part-police procedural, pure dynamite!"
– Edward Lee, author of Brides of the Impaler, The Black Train, and The Golem
"Wolf's Gambit is that rare accomplishment in horror of a sequel that not only surpasses the power of the original but turns your expectations against you at every turn. Gagliani is fashioning an epic werewolf cycle here, one filled with terror, passion, violence, surprisingly affecting sensuality, and enough fantastical twists and turns to satisfy even the most jaded horror reader. Put your preconceptions aside and get ready for one hell of a ride."
– Gary A. Braunbeck, author of Coffin County and Far Dark Fields
"Wolf's Gambit is one book you won't put down, and it's a story you'll never forget."
– Deborah LeBlanc, bestselling author of Water Witch
"Wolf's Gambit is the equivalent of a North Woods rollercoaster ... the pages seem to turn themselves! I couldn't put it down!"
– John Everson, author of Covenant, Sacrifice, The 13th, and Siren
PRAISE FOR WOLF'S TRAP
"Gagliani has brought bite back to the werewolf novel . . . Wolf's Trap is a hirsute werewolf story that will grab you by the reading jugular and keep you clawing the pages until the story's exciting conclusion."
– Jim Argendeli, CNN.com Headline News Book Lizard
"The best werewolf novel since The Howling!"
– J.A. Konrath, author of Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, Rusty Nail, etc.
" Wolf's Trap is one part horror tale, one part police procedural, one part chase-thriller, and one part classic rock musical! What a ride...!"
– Raymond Benson, author of Dark Side of the Morgue and several James Bond continuation novels
"… by turns tough, suspenseful, poignant, surprisingly erotic, and beautifully measured ... one of the best werewolf novels of the last ten years."
– Gary A. Braunbeck, author of Keepers and In Silent Graves
"Wolf's Trap offers a unique spin on the werewolf fable and snares the reader right from the first page. Part horror tale, part crime novel, this is first-rate entertainment that will keep you reading deep into the moonlit night."
– Tom Piccirilli, author of November Mourns, The Dead Letters, and The Coldest Mile
"Wolf's Trap catches you by the throat and shakes your senses hard. "
– James A. Moore, author of Serenity Falls, Blood Red, and Cherry Hill
"Wolf's Trap is a riveting, disturbing, gut-wrenching – and entertaining as all get-out – journey into the darkest part of the human soul, and I loved every page."
– Jay Bonansinga, author of Frozen, The Killer's Game, and Oblivion
"Wolf's Trap rocks! … this werewolf novel will grab you by the scruff of the neck and shake you till you see stars!"
– Tamara Thorne, author of Bad Things, Candle Bay, and Thunder Road
"Wolf's Trap pounces and I was caught in the jaws of the trap..."
– Robert W. Walker, author of the City for Ransom, and the Instinct and Edge Series
"A top-notch lunar-challenged hero, a villain bent on painful revenge, a deliciously developed plot. Bravo!"
– Elaine Bergstrom, author of Shattered Glass, Mina, Madeline, and Nocturne
"Gagliani is a natural storyteller … the story he tells not only makes the reader re-examine their thoughts on Monsters, but allows us to look into both the mind and souls of two very different kinds. Shall I say it was a 'howling' good read?"
– P.D. Cacek, World Fantasy Award winner and author of Canyons
"Recommended to anyone who likes their horror hot, wet and just a little bit nasty."
– Edo van Belkom, author of Wolf Pack, Scream Queen and Blood Road
"Cops, werewolves, serial killers, violence, and sex! You get it all..."
– Michael Laimo, author of The Demonologist, and Dead Souls
"Wolf's Trap is fierce and unforgettable … gallops toward a no-holds barred finale."
– Brian Pinkerton, author of Abducted and Vengeance
"Combining crime fiction with supernatural horror fiction, Wolf's Trap brought me back to the reason why I love a good scary read in the first place: it kept me enthralled with bated breath, turning the pages!"
– J. F. Gonzalez, author of Shapeshifter, Survivor, and Beloved
"Wolf's Trap is a brisk, cross-genre romp that pulls no punches and offers genuine scares. I had a ball with it."
– Harry Shannon, author of Night of the Werewolf and Daemon
"A fine addition to the lycanthropic literary canon."
– Gerard Houarner, author of The Beast That Was Max and Road to Hell
"Hey man, the musical score alone in Wolf's Trap as it plays in your head is worth the price of admission. W.D. Gagliani is my main man. Can't wait for his next."
– Evan Kingsbury, author of Fire & Flesh
"Wolf's Trap delivers plenty of sex and violence, as all good werewolf books should. [The] pacing is solid and the climax is riveting. Werewolf fans should be more than pleased with this solid effort."
– Garrett Peck, Flesh & Blood Magazine
BONUS MATERIAL
Excerpt from:
WOLF'S TRAP
by
W.D. Gagliani
The first Nick Lupo horror/thriller!
In new print and ebook editions from Samhain Publishing, 2012.
PROLOGUE
Cincinnati; March 2
He headed for the park again.
He went just about every day, when the weather was nice, but only once every few weeks did he feel the tingle that told him something special would happen.
Today he felt the tingle, and he smiled.
It was warm, but he wore his parka anyway. The mushy ground seemed to spring under his step, still wet from the last snow, but the benches were dry.
He pulled himself into character, easily enough.
He was so happy. He was going to see a girl.
He'd been seeing her every day for a couple of weeks now, and had managed to say hello in his own shy way. And Susan had just as shyly told him her name when he'd pressed her for it a few days before, after she told him she liked to watch him feed squirrels. Maybe it was the way the small, furry rodents climbed all over him, looking for peanuts and corn kernels, that first attracted her to him. Or because he was a nice, quiet person. He dressed well, spoke well, and made her feel safe with his subdued manner.
And maybe his priest's collar made her feel even safer.
When Susan had come up to him that first day, he'd had to admit that she was cute. Just plain, really, with a heavy dose of cute. Brown hair, grey eyes, normal nose (maybe a little bony) and no make-up except lipstick. That had made him perk right up. When she smiled, she was no longer plain.
He was a smile man, pure and simple.
And she did smile, seeing all those squirrels waiting their turn to jump up and search through the folds and pockets of the young priest's parka.
"I didn't realize they were so tame," she had said.
He pretended to see her for the first time. "Oh, yes," he said, "they're pretty used to me."
When he looked at her, he often looked at just her lips. He did that, he explained, because he was a little deaf, though not enough to require a hearing aid. He told her it helped just to see her lips forming words. It didn't hurt when the lips he "read" were so stunningly perfect.
He smiled at her, his priestly smile.
"They're so cute," she said, smiling back.
He nodded, silent because one chubby squirrel was checking out the top of his head, tiny paws grabbing onto his shoulder. When it was done, it scurried down the back of the parka, and a different fellow climbed up. He put another peanut in his hair.
"You must be a regular," she said, and he was happy to see that she wanted to keep talking. S
o they chatted about squirrels and rabbits and their feeding habits, and he told her that he'd been feeding them every day. He noted that when she smiled her eyes sparkled.
"Well, I have to get back to work," she said after a while, real regret apparent in her voice.
"Where do you work?" he asked. An innocent question.
She told him a lie and he smiled. "Very nice! Maybe I'll see you again."
"Yes," she said, "maybe."
So he continued going back to the park, his starched collar in place. The next day she didn't stay long – she had a lunch date – but she said hello and watched him feed a pudgy squirrel. She laughed and called him Piglet. He looked at her as she laughed. She really did feel safe, and that made him happy.
She didn't come the next three days, and he wished he had taken her picture. He had a camera in his bag, but it might have been difficult to explain why a priest would want to photograph a pretty girl. So he spent hours sitting in the chilly early spring sunlight, throwing nuts to the gathered squirrels with little angry gestures.
She was back the following Monday, calling out a cheery hello that startled him. He looked at her eyes for a second, then her mouth. She smiled; then he smiled, too. The squirrels were insistent, though, and he had to concentrate on the feeding. She took a brown bag out of her spacious purse and sat on the next bench. That was when she first told him her name.
He told her his name, and she said, "Martin, that's a nice name."
"Father Martin," he corrected her, "though I'm between parish assignments right now."
He fed hungry squirrels, and she ate a sparse lunch, throwing out crumbs that the furry creatures scooped into their tiny mouths. Then, while he watched, she refreshed her bright lipstick before smiling and waving goodbye.
His hands itched, and he scratched them until they almost bled, the camera lying screaming and unused in his duffel bag. If only he could have planted an excuse, a reason, to photograph her.
But, no, a priest couldn't get away with it, not this day and age.
Martin felt a sharp pain behind his eyes. Susan's face blended into Caroline's, and he knew that her memory was weighing on him again, causing his vision to blur and his hands to itch. Her loss was the catalyst, the reason for his visits to the park this month, and for his visits to the airport last month. No, it was the moon's position, he thought, pushing the pinprick pain
aside once again.
He knew it was almost showtime. His great crusade, his life's work. Everything he'd done up to now was just a warm-up, an opener, a prelude. He was ready now – almost ready – to make the blood flow.
"It won't be long, Caroline," he thought. "Not long at all."
Now, as he spread peanuts on the bench and called the squirrels, he spied Susan approaching on the path from the parking lot. She was right on time – had her lunch hour planned to the minute – and she waved as he looked up. In one hand she carried one of those colorful reusable lunch sacks and in the other a clear bag of goodies for the squirrels.
He smiled and waved, too, and wrestled his bag closer, making sure the flap was closed. He didn't want her to see his surprise too soon. It was time to move on, and the expectation surged through him like high voltage. He always enjoyed the culmination of his plans. He always enjoyed the moving-on part, and this time he had something even bigger to look forward to.
He patted the bag. One thing at a time. Finish one series of actions before beginning another.
He had planned this well. He planned everything well.
He smiled at the thought of it.
When he looked up at Susan, he knew that for the first time she could see into and beyond his bland eyes. Past his smile. Into his darkness. She hesitated, her steps first slowing and then coming to a halt.
It was too late. Understanding crossed her features just as his hand came out of the bag.
***
Excerpt from:
WOLF'S GAMBIT
by
W.D. Gagliani
The second Nick Lupo horror/thriller!
Look for new print and ebook editions, coming soon from Samhain Publishing.
PRELUDE
Five miles from Eagle River
He is running for his life.
Jimmy Blackthorn's Gucci shoes make sucking sounds in the mud, but he barely notices.
His ears are hypertuned for the sounds of pursuit. From behind and beside him, he can sense something – more than one something – is pacing him, remaining invisible.
A fast glance over his shoulder nets him a fleeting gray shadow.
He hasn't panicked yet, but he's about to.
When he hears the growls, the blood freezes in his veins.
When the howling begins, his thoughts degenerate into a cloud of primitive terror.
The dirt road is now mud that reaches up and snags his feet, slowing his headlong rush away… away from…
His mouth is open in a soundless scream.
Behind and beside him, the pursuit closes in.
***
When he arrived, the storm was rolling in, the sound of distant thunder echoing through the pines. Lightning flashed a glow over the treetops, off to the west. The strobe effect increased in frequency, and thunder grew louder by the minute, a rumble you could feel down in your shoes.
Jimmy Blackthorn took only partial note of the approaching storm. He was fuming. He kicked a piece of sawed two-by-four out of his way and felt satisfaction. He rolled his eyes, stomped a step or two, then continued on toward his car, parked near a large unfinished sign.
His anger was boiling inside, building like a locomotive's head of steam, threatening to set him off. He shook his head for the tenth or twentieth time. They had promised. There had been communication, and he'd been convinced they finally understood his position in this matter. The construction site would be humming the next time he stopped in, they'd said. There would be progress. Things would be moving, wheels rolling.
Blackthorn had liked what he heard. He'd agreed that this effort would stave off problems with the investors. He nodded and smiled, but then he came out to check the site, telling himself he was wasting his time.
But when he arrived, the site was deserted. No humming. No wheels doing anything. Nothing moved at all.
"Jesus Christ," he'd shouted, after looking at the three big holes in the ground that would, with an inordinate amount of luck, become the Great Northern Casino & Entertainment complex. Casino, 400-room hotel, and adjoining theater for intimate performances by A-list celebs and bands gone C-list (but still willing to pretend if their fans were). He'd stared into the wide holes and had felt the money sucked out of his pockets. Heard the sound of it clinking like casino change into the one-armed bandits.
Ha, they don't even bother with cash anymore, he reminded himself.
He had stomped all over the site, looking for Sabin, the head security guard. Hadn't found him at his trailer, in his car, or anywhere else. Nope, Jimmy Blackthorn was alone. The site was deserted. The workers were ... just not there.
He had tried making a call, but he couldn't raise a signal on his cell.
Damn woods. Too many trees.
He made a note to raise the topic of cell-phone repeater towers at the next meeting.
Still grasping the useless cell phone, he had headed over to the future parking lot back to his car.
He tried again to make a call, this time seeing the LCD bar that told him he was picking up a signal, then dialing, then seeing the bar disappear even as he started shouting into the phone.
Jimmy stood behind his Beamer, a silver rag-top roadster, and smacked the hood in frustration. Once, twice, three times.
Now he became aware of the rolling thunder that signaled the storm's arrival. The tall stands of pines all around the clearing couldn't muffle the thunder claps any longer, and the lightning was beginning to filter through the thick tree line more insistently.
He climbed into his car. He'd have to go out of his way to rep
ort the site was abandoned.
Again.
This was the third time workers had walked off, and after he had been assured the head of security would make it his business to keep "accidents" and slowdowns to a minimum. Yes, there had been opposition to the casino being built, but it was a done deal now.
Thunder crashed almost overhead. Not more than a couple miles away.
Better get moving, he thought. Beat the storm.
He turned the ignition and pressed the starter.
Nothing. Not even a click.
What the fuck!
He repeated the procedure a half dozen times. Nothing.
A fat droplet exploded on his head.
Damn it. Rain. What else could go wrong?
And he couldn't put up the top without the engine on. Could he? He'd have to check the manual. But he didn't have it with him. He'd never had the car not start. He tried his phone again and saw the teasing bars, but when he dialed they disappeared again.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Jimmy slammed the wheel repeatedly. More rain plopped into the car and on the upholstery. Would rain ruin the leather? Damn it, he was really pissed now. He would have Sabin fired first, and then he'd set about getting the workers – most of them local – replaced. They were under contract and it was his job to bring in the construction on time and under budget.
Fat chance.
He heaved himself out of the driver's seat and stood trying to orient himself. The dirt road was behind him, but it snaked and curled through the woods. If he wanted to reach US 45 and the series of filling stations he remembered spotting every day, then he'd have to cut through the woods at an angle. The rain was beginning to intensify, splattering all around him.
Savage Nights Page 35
