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Blurb:
Mark Strieber's return to his childhood home finds the legacy of his estranged father haunting him at every turn. Armed only with a note and a strange symbol, he attempts to piece together his father's past, but the people who knew him begin to turn up dead.
Meanwhile, Mark's high school friend Eddie Celidus's life is shattered the night he finds his wife brutally murdered in their New York apartment. Desperate to escape accusations and a heavy heart, he returns to Colorado Springs. But what he hoped would be a time of healing becomes a descent into a personal hell.
Tying them together is a mysterious woman, ex-lover of Mark's father and former member of his coven. Possessed by an ancient evil bent on propagating the werewolven race, she will stop at nothing to see her diabolical work is done.
Excerpt:
The skies were laden with fog, but the state fairgrounds were crowded despite the impending threat of rain. The ferris wheel was shut down, a skeletal hulk looming in the night. The rheumy-eyed operator apologized to a group of kids who wanted to ride, saying it was because of lightning. Elsewhere, the lights still flashed and the crowds still roamed, children or parents in tow. Screams from the Tilt-A-Whirl were muffled in the damp air.
The beer tent was crowded. Aromas of freshly baked pretzels and grilled hamburgers barely masked those of sweat and vomit. Criers enticed passers-by, still drawing people into the booths. Lights blinked, mechanisms roared. Arguments and insane laughter rose above the muted din.
It was an electric jungle, and Carrie was its queen. Palpable thrills ran through her body. Her time had come. The spirit of Circé, the Mother of Wolves, had awakened within her.
It had begun.
Her excitement was evident to those wandering by. She wore nothing beneath the form-fitting white silk dress, and her nipples were erect. Her tongue occasionally touched her lips as if in fond remembrance of a lover's kiss. One man gaped when she met his gaze. His girlfriend yanked his arm, ordering him to pay attention to what she was saying. Two long-haired teenage boys wearing Venom and Slayer shirts commented on her "tight ass."
Her destination was just ahead, through a churning wall of spectators.
About 25 people crowded around a canopied trailer loaded with displays of gems and rare stones. Expensive raw minerals gleamed beneath the overhead lamps. A generator could be heard around the corner. She pushed through the throng toward the center of attention, brushing against onlookers. A man wearing a dirty fedora expressed his approval with a vulgar sneer. She glared at him. His expression changed when her stare locked with his. He hurried away through the mob.
She fought her way to the front.
There it was, about the size of a softball, in a separate case away from the others. The moonrock-provided to the Colorado State Fair courtesy of NASA, according to a silver plaque-was encased in a thick glass box.
She spotted two guards; one sitting on a cooler eating a hot dog and drinking a beer, talking to another who stared off into the distance, occasionally glancing back at the displays.
She approached the moonrock. It began to glow.
The guards weren't watching. There were children at her right elbow and a woman to her left, peering into the case. They gasped. Carrie felt the rush of blood through her veins and trembled.
She closed her eyes and drifted meditatively for a moment, seeking the spirit that dwelled within her, that had guided her through life for the past 15 years.
The spirit of the Mother of Wolves responded with a stir of darkness within. She felt a supernatural energy like electricity rush through her, felt the connection as it was made, the power that was bestowed upon her by seeking the Mother's will.
Call them.
In her mind, Carrie envisioned the wolves emerging from the forest that surrounded the fairgrounds. She pictured them coming to her, gathering around this small exhibit.
When she opened her eyes, she searched the shadows that skirted the edge of the gathering.
Their eyes flashed in the darkness. Five, and then six pair of them, appearing like phantoms in the mist.
The woman to her left saw them, too.
"Oh my," the woman said.
She touched the arm of the man she was with.
"Oh, just some dogs," he muttered.
The wolves growled and came fully into the light.
Their heads were down and their eyes seemed to glow. The muscles of the beasts tensed. One of them barked. Another raised its head and bayed at the moon.
A startled murmur rose from the group. There was a stir of bodies, shuffling this way and that, those closest trying to get farther away, those behind trying to get closer and see what was happening. A cacophony of startled voices rose in obvious awe and concern. Frightened people huddled together. Couples grasped one another, some still trying to push their way back from the edge of the group, away from the growling beasts.
The guard stood. He reached for his mace.
"Everyone stay calm," he said.
The wolves attacked.
In a snarling fury they leapt into the crowd. Screams pierced the night air. Gray-white canine bodies lunged and found purchase with snapping fangs. The force of the attack knocked two men and three women to the ground. Those who fell were set upon and ravaged, powerful jaws yanking away hunks of flesh from sudden gaping wounds. The crowd flew into a panic.
One wolf leaped on the guard as he stood paralyzed, pepper spray in-hand. The creature dug its fangs deep into his throat and tore out the man's windpipe. Blood gushed down the front of his clothes as he collapsed, gurgling. Another wolf latched onto a nearby woman's leg, dragging her to the ground, pulling her boyfriend down with her. She screamed and reached for her partner who was frozen, apparently torn between trying to save her and running to save his own life. The wolf gnashed her leg then loped in a lightning flash over fallen bodies to attack another couple running to escape the carnage. Each of the wolves did their part, attacking anyone within 10 yards of the moonrock display.
In the midst of this panic, Carrie smiled, a placid calm in the eye of the storm.
Standing before the display with the coveted moonrock, she laced her fingers together, raised her arms, and swung down hard.
She broke the glass in a surge of supernatural strength, tearing skin from her knuckles and forearms when she jerked the moonrock from its base. An alarm pierced the night, blending with the other carnival sounds, screams of terror melding with thrilled screams of excitement. Battering her way through the crowd, she spotted more security guards headed toward the commotion. One pushed his way through to the other side of the mob to pursue her.
She was fast. Almost like a wolf herself, she leapt over and dodged any obstacles, darting into the misty woods south of the fairgrounds before the guards had even jumped the fence.
Reaching the edge of the forest, the faster of the two guards stopped running and tried to prop himself up on his knees. Exhausted, he watched her fade quickly away into the dark. He wiped his forehead and looked into the woods again. He didn't see the wolves coming up behind him.
They leapt onto his back and dragged him down, ripping him apart, yanking on his limbs as if fighting for their last meal. By the time anyone had a moment to figure out what had happened, horrified cries rose from the scene of carnage, and all thought of the missing moonrock was lost in the aftermath of the wolves' vicious attack.
About the Author:
Christopher Fulbright is a journalist turned technical writer, with short stories published in magazines and anthologies of the science fiction, fantasy, and horror varieties. He is the recipient of the Horror Writers Association's 2007 Richard Laymon President's Award, and lives in Texas with his wife, writer Angeline Hawkes, with whom he collaborated on the acclaimed horror novellas Then Comes The Child and Blood Coven. A collection of his short stories, When it Rains, was released in 2007 by Doorways Publications. Learn more about the author and his work at http://www.christopherfulbright.com/
Reviews:
"Christopher Fulbright's fiction is steeped in the classic pulp tradition, yet is always fresh, original, and wholly entertaining. If you want an author who can actually deliver terror, look no further. Fulbright's future is bright indeed." -- Brian Keene, author of THE RISING and GHOST WALK
"Christopher Fulbright's prose is as lean and mean as a starving bobcat. As you read, you feel each sentence come straight from its claws, quick and sharp. By the end you realize you've just been eaten...and liked it." -- Charlee Jacob, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of DREAD IN THE BEAST and HAUNTER
"Christopher Fulbright will sneak up on a lot of readers. His stories are sharp and deadly, like an assassin's blade on a dark night. Keep an eye on him, or you'll be sorry." -- Steven E. Wedel, author of CALL TO THE HUNT and MURDERED BY HUMAN WOLVES
