FLAME IN THE DARK
by Faith Hunter
FLAME IN THE DARK (Soulwood #3)
Author: Faith Hunter
December 5, 2017
Mass Market Paperback $7.99
Set in the same world as Faith Hunter’s New York Times bestselling Jane Yellowrock novels, the third, thrilling Soulwood novel stars Nell Ingram, who draws her powers from deep within the earth.
Nell Ingram has always known she was different. Since she was a child, she’s been able to feel and channel ancient powers from deep within the earth. When she met Jane Yellowrock, her entire life changed, and she was recruited into PsyLED—the Homeland Security division that polices paranormals. But now her newly formed unit is about to take on its toughest case yet.
A powerful senator barely survives an assassination attempt that leaves many others dead—and the house he was visiting burns to the ground. Invisible to security cameras, the assassin literally disappears, and Nell’s team is called in. As they track a killer they know is more—or less—than human, they unravel a web of dark intrigue and malevolent motives that tests them to their limits and beyond.
How Occam Got His Name
serial short story
By Faith Hunter
Trace rolled over, his arm hanging useless, and half crawled to Wayman, laying so still on the ground. But his chest still struggled to move and he made a whistling sound with each breath. He slid his good arm under Wayman’s neck and lifted his friend. “I’m here. The cat’s gone. We’re safe.”
But Trace was lying. Wayman was dying. He knew it. There was so much blood. Trace had never seen what people looked when they were dying. But most of his friend’s belly was gone, leaving a gaping hole where his insides used to be. The cat had eaten into Wayman.
“Wayman. I got’cha. I aint gonna leave you.”
Wayman lifted his hand and dropped it onto Trace’s arm, his fingers curling around Trace’s wrist. He whispered, “Devil cat. Jist like your daddy said.”
“I’m gonna be checking out God’s Big Bang Fart.” Wayman made a sound like crying or laughing or both. And his stopped breathing. And he died.
Trace somehow managed to get the wagon to Wayman. Somehow got the body of his best friend rolled onto it. Abandoning the tent and the bikes and even his shotgun, Trace somehow made it back to 82, pulling the wagon and the body of his friend along the dirt side of the road. Pulling the small handle. Rolling down the dirt street of Dickens. Wayman’s legs dragging. The wheels bumping along. Grinding in the soil beside the road.
By the time the sun was overhead, flies had started to gather in the ground up meat that was his friend’s belly.
He’d forgot to pick up the water. He was salt-caked and dryer than a stone, walking like a demon-zombie, when a white pickup truck pulled to a stop on 82. Someone starting talking at him. Loud. And then more people showed up, all talking. And more cars were appeared out of the hazy heat. Trace kept trying to pull the wagon with Wayman on it, back to town. And kept trying. Kept trying. His daddy stopped him.
His daddy, stinking of whiskey, started yelling, shouting scripture. They gave him bottles of water. Poured some over his body to cool him down.
The sheriff drove up and started asking questions. Trace tried to answer but he couldn’t think straight. He was hot. Maybe feverish. He couldn’t even cry for his friend. His piece of meat dead friend.
His mama raced up, shouting, “Trace Quaid Oakum! What have you done?” And then she saw him, touched his head, grabbed him up, saying, “Oh, my God. Baby.” She cussed the sheriff out and cradled Trace in her arms, calling him her baby. Forcing him to drink more water. Mama’s hugs were the best thing he ever remembered feeling. Trace melted into her, his skin aching, burning up.
While she coddled him, the local men gathered rifles and shotguns and tried to pinpoint where the attack took place. Someone brought in a tracking dog and the men jogged back to 82, following his trail. Mama tucked him into bed and went with the church ladies to make sandwiches for the trackers, and brew up sweet iced tea.
Trace curled into his bed, stinking and sick. Burning up and maybe dying. But he didn’t care. Wayman was dead.
Eventually, mama came in to bring him some soup and noticed that he was sick. She pulled off his shirt and found the bite mark. It was all puffy and swollen by then, his arm mostly useless. Mama started hollering and the church ladies mighta seen him naked. He didn’t really remember. But they put him into Mrs.’s Jefferies car and they took him to the clinic in Spur.
New York Times and USAToday bestselling fantasy author Faith Hunter was born in Louisiana and raised all over the south. Altogether she has 40+ books in print under the names Gary Hunter, Gwen Hunter, and Faith Hunter. As Faith, she writes two contemporary Urban Fantasy series: the Jane Yellowrock series, featuring a Cherokee skinwalker who hunts rogue vampires, and the Soulwood series, featuring earth magic user Nell Ingram. Her Rogue Mage novels are a dark, post-apocalyptic, fantasy series featuring Thorn St. Croix, a stone mage. The role playing game based on the series, is ROGUE MAGE, RPG.
Yellowrock Securities: http://www.yellowrocksecurities.com
Gwen Hunter: www.gwenhunter.com
3 Winners of a set of the
1st and 2nd Soulwood Books
( BLOOD OF THE EARTH and CURSE ON THE LAND )
and one $50 Amazon gift card
(US residents only)
Ends Dec. 13, 2017
Ends Dec. 13, 2017