A Little Something To Sink Your Teeth Into?
Fan's of Daemon Grim will be glad to hear he returns to a nightmare near you in the near future...sometime this Fall in fact.
The story?
Hell Hounds
Hell Hounds
The setting?
The harsh and stygian multilevels of the underworld where the grizliest ghouls and most despicable demons work their worst.
The harsh and stygian multilevels of the underworld where the grizliest ghouls and most despicable demons work their worst.
Of course, whatever hell the damned try to inflict on their enemies, it pales in comparison to the savaging Daemon Grim and his personal pack of bounty hunters - The Hell Hounds - dispense on those unfortunate enough to fall foul of their attention.
But there's no need to wait until later in the year!
WHY?
Because you can get an early look at the first three chapters of Hell Hounds in the very latest rendering from the award winning Heroes in Hell shared universe:
Pirates in Hell
Pirates in Hell
Yes, this treasure chest of an anthology is packed with all sorts of gems and diabolical delights, including a short story featuring none other than Daemon Grim himself - Pieces of Hate.
And to round things off, there's a sizable excerpt from the next novel length escapade itself.
Wanna Sneak Peek?
*************
Hidden
amongst the ziggurat spires adorning the northwestern corner of the Palace of
Westmonster, I had a commanding view of a midnight skyline that could only
belong to Olde London Town. As usual, the rainbow-haloed blush of the streetlights
far below twinkled into the distance, distinguishing those parts of the city
anchored in the modern day from the remnants scattered throughout the broad spectrum
of other eras known to saturate this, the topsy-turviest existence in all of latter-day
hell; otherwise known as the Juxtapose level.
From
my vantage point, it looked as if a patchwork quilt of simple open fires, gas
streetlamps, and brilliant neon beacons had been scattered in all directions.
Whatever the period, it made no difference: everything remained veiled beneath
the stain of original sin.
I inhaled
deeply, my phantom nostrils flaring in pleasure as a pungent blend of brimstone
and exhaust fumes filled my nonexistent lungs.
Home.
This
was my kind of place and I loved it here. But I suppose that was
understandable, as I was at the top of the food chain.
Movement
down below and on the opposite bank of the River Tombs caught my attention. I phased,
and in the blink of an eye materialized among the crenels of the highest
buttresses on the far side of Westmonster Bridge. Safe amongst the shadows, I adjusted
my perspective and zeroed in on Phosphate Magnum Square in the district of
Lambsdeath, a place synonymous with hellegal weapons trafficking. Not that you
could call it a square anymore, for the Victorian thoroughfare was littered
with ruptured gas mains, shattered cobbles, and a veritable no man’s land of
debris from semi-demolished buildings, courtesy of our Sibitti friends (the
plague-god Erra’s seven personified weapons) and the latest tremors they had engendered
over the past several months.
Vegetation,
taking advantage of the unexpected reprieve from all-enveloping brickwork, had exploded
from every available crack and fissure, adding a tangled maze of roots and
foliage to the already confusing minefield that remained. Along with it came cloying
swarms of insects. Freed at last from the confines of centuries-old pipe work,
they wove their droning spell through the air like chitinous starlings; worrying
people and animals alike under a relentless assault of gnashing mandibles and venomous
stings.
If
that wasn’t distracting enough, an endless drizzle of oily black rain fell from
leaden clouds, making the going treacherous underfoot. But not for the assassin
I’d espied.
Dressed
from head to toe in a figure-hugging flaytex cat suit and soft-soled boots, she
looked completely at home in this environment, every inch the unrepentant femme
fatale. In fact, so congruous was her presence that she pierced the legion of
hearse flies swarming about the crown of the debris without attracting the
slightest curiosity.
An
exceptional achievement. And part of the reason for my interest.
On
Satan’s orders, I had increased my efforts to uncover the extent of the cancer
eating its way through the heart of our society. A difficult task. And yet,
indirectly, I had been helped a great deal by the late—and not so great—Dr.
Thomas Neill Cream, whose antics had alerted me to the existence of the problem
in the first place.
Now
that Cream had been reassigned to the Cirque du Freak, he would be out of the
way for a millennia or two, enjoying the torments lavished upon our lobotomized,
mutant novelty acts. That still left Chopin and Tesla on the loose, though, along
with Erra and his Sibitti ass-wipes. And, of course, we now had our very own
psychopathic angel on the loose.
A devil’s cauldron of a mix
if ever there was one.
Bearing
in mind painful missteps endured last time out, Satan wanted me to expand my
team to ensure we were never again too thin on the ground. Easier said than
done, that. For while the underworld was rife with murderous cutthroats and
rogues, finding that special someone with the skills that differentiated them from
all the other cattle hadn’t been easy.
In
fact, out of the dozen or so candidates I had considered during the past four
months, only one had made a lasting impression: the young lady below me now.
Tonight
would be her fifth assignment I’d tagged along on—without her knowledge, of
course—and I had to admit, I was impressed by her work. Over the past several
weeks she had managed to take out a Low Court judge, midsession, as he summed
up a case in the primary courtroom of the Olde Bully; a high value inmate under
witness protection in the isolation wing of Wormblood Scrubs maximum security
prison; and her last job, involving one of the most clinical demonstrations I
had ever witnessed of how to dispatch an entire coven of Dread-Locks, armed
with nothing but a pair of combat knives blessed in the flames of the Bãlefire.
Not bad for someone who doesn’t
appear augmented in any other way apart from a preternatural ability to move stealthily.
It must be down to training and focus. I wonder what she’ll be like once she
receives her enhancements?
I
had already made up my mind, but wanted this final opportunity to make sure of
my choice.
As
I mused, she had nestled amongst the undergrowth and creepy-crawlies to wait
for her target to appear, most likely from one of the derelict buildings
opposite. So I seized the opportunity to scan through her hellographic-profile
to help pass the time.
Okay . . .
Marie-Anne Charlotte de
Corday d’Armont, known simply as Charlotte Corday, or l’ange de l’assassinat, the angel of the assassination. Born 1768
in France to a minor aristocratic family and executed by guillotine when only
twenty-four years old for the murder of Jacobin leader, Jean-Paul Marat, a person
whom history calls the instigator of the radicalized course undertaken by the insurgents
during the initial stages of the revolution.
I flicked
across to an addendum.
From what it says here, Marat
was responsible for the political purge of the prisons. He believed France languished
under the threat of invasion, and that those held in custody would rise up on
their release and fight against the people. So he ordered them slain. I glanced at the death toll
and my eyes widened in pleasure. Over
fourteen hundred in Paris alone? Including a goodly number of priests? Nice
work. Unfortunately, that led to a split amongst the factions, and especially
those who were against such an aggressive stance. Ah, I see, Marat singled out
the Girondins in particular. Although they were a minor group, they played a
leading role in the legislative assembly and promoted a more tempered course
through which to engender nationalism. Hmmm. Evidently, Charlotte sympathized
with the Girondin movement, and became so concerned by Marat’s witch-hunt against
his own people that she took it upon herself to visit his home on the pretext
of providing valuable information regarding a supposed Girondin uprising. Once
alone, she stabbed him whilst he was in the bath . . . I did a double take.
In the bath! How embarrassing.
I
glanced down at my would-be recruit.
At least it explains her
preference for daggers.
Then
I flipped back to the bullet points regarding her trial.
At her sentencing, she was
quoted as declaring, “I have killed one man to save thousands.” Oh dear, oh
dear. Yet another principled idealist, eh?
Next,
I took a closer look at the more pertinent details. They made interesting reading:
After
arriving in hell, Charlotte went through the inevitable period of trauma and maladjustment.
Like most of the condemned, she couldn’t believe her “righteous” act had resulted
in damnation and an eternity of judgment. Her outrage led to a number of ill-advised
run-ins with injustice. Needless to say, she pissed off the wrong people, and
the Boss ordered the Undertaker to permanently disfigure her as an incentive to
shut up and switch on.
And
switch on she did. For once she resigned herself to her lot, Charlotte made the
nature of her infinite punishment the subject of a whole new vocation. After
changing her name to reflect the character of her deformity, she set about
acquiring the expertise that would put Charlotte Corday—aka Lady Gemini—on the
map as one of the underworld’s most accomplished assassins.
I
brought up a hellographic representation of Lady Gemini’s latest persona and
took a moment to study the ravaged countenance spinning in the air before me.
The
right side of her face embodied the rest of her lithe and athletic form. It was
flawless, as pale as alabaster, her skin so smooth and blemish free that I
thought at first she must be wearing a mask molded from liquid porcelain, an effect
only heightened by the shimmering luster of raven-blue hair cascading down over
her shoulders.
Separated
by a livid puckered scar running down the center of her skull, her left side
was marred by flaking contusions and gaping lesions, reminding me of parchment
left out in the sun to crack and dry. Its two halves were attached by a series
of jagged surgical staples, gothic makeup and Ombre lipstick. I could only
imagine the pain she would experience every time she made any facial
expression.
Fortunately,
I completed my run-through just in time . . .
Across
the street, a small crowd of mobsters had just exited an old-style ale house,
and Lady Gemini came alert. Hunkering down in a small depression created by the
collapse of a major sewer tunnel, she removed a long cylindrical pipe from one
of her elongated thigh-flaps, and rummaged around in her breast pocket with her
other hand.
I
watched her movements with professional curiosity. She hasn’t taken her eyes off them once. Now that’s the kind of attitude
I want to see.
The
group comprised two ‘boss’ types (one a Gomez Adams wannabe, the other a
startlingly accurate representation of what you would get if you stuffed a
bulldog inside human flesh) followed by a statutory retinue of muscle-bound,
knuckle-dragging, brain-dead hoods and a hulking great lawyer dripping mucus
and blood with every step. His steaming name badge gleamed dully in the
twilight, and identified him as Othello.
Scanning
their auras, I doubted the combined IQs of the thugs would challenge the slime Othello
left in his wake, so they were obviously present to look mean, grunt in single
syllables, and take bullets for their masters.
Which is what they’ll
probably be doing a few seconds from now . . .
I
adjusted the sensitivity of my sweeps and glanced back and forth between the
two parties. The Godfather wake was oblivious to the danger. Gemini merely
studied them from her place of concealment, and slowly raised the tube to her
lips.
So who’s the mark?
*************
If that takes your fancy, remember to pick up a copy of Daemon Grim's first adventure in Hell Bound
The links are in the sidebar.
The hunt is on...
See you in hell soon
