I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the THE SEVEN HUNGERS by Morgan Quaid Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out
my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Title: THE
SEVEN HUNGERS : Rise of the Crimson King
Author: Morgan Quaid
Pub. Date: April 20, 2022
Publisher: Morgan Quaid
Formats: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 357
Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, Kindle
Read for FREE with a Kindle Unlimited membership!
"Jaw-Dropping action, a great
blend of investigation and horror, I've never quite read anything like
it!"
Censured Crown sorcerer Ambrose Drake is hired to investigate a bizarre
emergence in a city halfway across the world from his native London. Drake soon
learns that a being from one of the Seven Hungers beneath our world is
attempting to cross over. Flanked by his ex-lover and betrayer, Agent Karen
Winter and a young acolyte with a severe lack of magical ability, Drake must
plunge once more into the depths to save humanity.
The Seven Hungers is a fast-paced fantasy thriller which blends sorcery, horror
elements and the exploration of dark new worlds with intense emotional
struggle.
Perfect for fans of Jim Butcher's The Dresden Files, Charles
Stross's Laundry Files, and the Alex Verus series
by Benedict Jacka.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
Suburban Unpleasantries
The sound of
my forearm snapping cuts through the din of chaotic violence, accompanied by
splintered wood and clouds of debris. I can’t help but grit my teeth as the
shattered bone rubs against itself within the mangled flesh of my right arm.
The pain brings with it a flood of power, followed closely by nausea. I swallow
it down and try to keep my focus as the tentacle wrapped around my torso slams
me into the kitchen wall.
It’s times
like these I tend to reevaluate my life choices. Standing with my right arm
elbow deep inside the wall of a haunted London apartment while the
under-dweller who lives here tries to debone me; it’s the kind of thing that
makes you wonder if a mundane life in the burbs wouldn’t be such a bad
thing.
The building
shakes violently, as though in the throes of a localized earthquake. I almost
lose my footing but manage to stay more or less upright, my back bent over
kitchen cabinetry, legs
splayed, and
one arm barely holding together beneath the under dweller’s vise-like
grip.
From
somewhere below, another tentacle bursts from the kitchen wall, wrapping
muscular cords around my left leg and wrenching with such force that I can’t
help the high-pitched squeal that slips from my mouth.
“Rook!” I
cry out, in a voice somewhat shriller than I would prefer. “Rook, you big
bastard! Hurry the hell up!”
There’s no
way Rook can hear me. At a guess, I’d say there’s half a dozen feet of
concrete, wood, and insulation between us, and I’m guessing she’s got her own
problems at the minute. Still, I let fly a string of obscenities in her general
direction, hoping that their vigorous application might somehow aid Rook in
putting an end to this business.
The
creature, in whose copious limbs I am currently caught, shakes violently. I
lose my footing and flail about helplessly as the room shudders. Glass and
crockery fall to the ground in a spectacular bombardment, sending up flecks of
sharp teeth that cut at my face and pepper my clothes. The pain brings clarity
and a seductive promise of power. Once more I fight back against the dark
impulse screaming from within.
“ROOK!” I
screech above the din of impending destruction. The building shakes, and I feel
the brute pull against me, wrenching my splintered arm out of its socket and
battering my shin so violently that I feel it give way entirely. The power
grows, sickeningly sweet. It whispers to me, begging to be used, threatening to
drown my objections. I could end this in a moment, just by
reaching out
and taking hold of the black ether, by permitting a little of what lies within
to be freed. So quick, so easy. But giving up control in a confined space like
this is likely to leave a dozen mundanes dead, and I can’t have that on my
conscience.
In the reflection
of a nearby piece of broken glass, my eyes catch sight of the tattooed shackle
on my neck. It wouldn’t be much of a struggle to break these bonds and unleash
the black ether—no struggle at all, actually. But that would mean breaking
Crown law, and I’m not ready for the kind of attention. It would also mean
burning every bridge I have left and spending the rest of my days running, so I
swallow it down and keep fighting against the shadow within.
The room
shudders, and I hear a roar come from somewhere beneath.
“Rook! Where
the f—”
My words are
cut short as the apartment shudders and the tentacles gripping my body suddenly
loosen. They slip into various cracks and crevasses in the walls and leave me
to fall in an undignified heap upon the floor. I sit, my chest heaving as I
suck in breath, collecting my wits and considering the myriad ways this morning
could have gone differently.
“God’s
blood, I hate my life,” I mutter as Rook comes thudding up basement stairs,
walking with such heavy steps that I can feel them reverberate through the
floor. She enters the kitchen wiping her soiled hands on a grimy towel, her
outfit splattered with purple ichor.
“Jesus,
Rook. Did you beat it to death with your bare hands?”
She mimes
one hand chopping another, as though in reference to some large pipe or other
implement. Rook is nothing if not resourceful, and I’m guessing she found
something to use as a bludgeon down there in the depths of the building.
“And it’s
dead?” I ask between rasping breaths.
She
nods.
“Good. Then
we can tie it all up with a bow and leave the cleanup to the
Administratum.”
Rook moves
toward me, leaning down to pick me up off the floor and cradle me in her arms.
She carries my broken body like a child gingerly transporting a damaged doll.
I’m too exhausted and in too much pain to protest at the indignity of the
situation. Ten years as a censured Crown sorcerer has knocked most of the pride
out of me. This isn’t the first time Rook has had to scrape my broken body off
the floor, and it won’t be the last.
Just shy of
seven feet tall and layered with thick cords of muscle, Rook is a tank on legs.
She wears combat boots, camo pants, and a plain black T-shirt, now slightly
soiled by the under-dweller ichor splattered across its surface. Close-cropped
blonde hair and a face which seems perpetually caught in a wry smile complete
the look— my own personal John Rambo.
We head into
an adjoining room where a family of three sit patiently, their glassy eyes
oblivious to the violence which has unfolded in their kitchen. Rook sits me
down at a free chair, then throws me a questioning look. I motion to my broken,
dislocated arm.
“Gonna need
something strong for this one, Rook. Something alive, I think. Something fairly
big.”
She nods and
walks from the room with purpose. In her absence, I conduct a rough inspection
of my battered body. It starts with three cracked incisors I can feel with my
tongue, as well as a dislodged piece of something floating around in the back
of my throat. I don’t want to think too much on that, so I gingerly twist my
body, confirming at least two broken ribs, a few muscular tears and various
cuts and bruises. Then there are the broken bones. Forearm, wrist, shoulder—my
right arm is a mess. One of my kneecaps has been dislodged, and a shin has been
cracked and splintered. All in all, a fine morning’s work.
The pain
itself has dropped to a dull ache somewhere in the back of my mind. It still
hurts like hell, but it’s manageable. A mundane would likely have passed out by
now, but we Crown sorcerers have a long list of tools at our disposal to lessen
or outright ignore pain. The trick comes in handy in this line of work, and
it’s usually one of the first things you learn as an apprentice. Given how
frail and squishy our human bodies are, it makes sense to prepare for the
inevitable battering that the use of etheric thaumaturgy will undoubtedly
cause.
A fledgling
sorcerer could easily misspeak an incantation, grow a little lazy with fingered
signs, or simply misread a single word of some archaic cantrip. That might
result in bright-blue hair for a month, a nose which drips milk, or twelve
broken bones and a black eye. When starting out in this life, it’s a
requirement to acclimatize to a certain amount of physical inconvenience if not
downright pain. So, the first thing you learn is how to cope with that pain.
The second is how to heal quickly, and this is where things get a little tricky
in my case.
I share a
few awkward moments with the small family sitting at their dining table. No
point talking to them. I’ve set a mind-tether on the group, so they’re not
really here, anyway. They’re not strictly anywhere. They’re in a kind of
limbo where time passes without meaning or memory. Until it’s undone, I could
dance naked on their tabletop, and they wouldn’t bat an eyelid.
Rook’s
footfalls precede her arrival back at the apartment. She drops a stack of small
caviar cans and a spoon on the table in front of me, then opens her other hand
and passes me the golden chick nestled in her palm. The little creature cheeps
as it waddles across the table. The boy seated beside his parents doesn’t even
register the existence of the baby chicken as I scoop it up in my good
hand.
I turn to
Rook, leveling a withering glare in her direction. “Really? A chick?”
She shrugs,
signing with thick fingers.
Said you
wanted something different.
I roll my
eyes, feeling the pain in the back of my head redouble. “I meant some kind of
fish or maybe a baby lizard. Not this. I’m sick of eggs and grubs, Rook,
that’s all. It doesn’t mean I want to work my way up the food chain starting
with the cutest animals first.”
The little
creature cheeps happily, waddling about on my palm. The hunger inside rises to
a fever pitch as the darkness stirs. I feel an unnerving compulsion and take a
rasping breath, closing my eyes as the fingers of my left hand tighten ever so
slightly around the chirping angel.
And this,
ladies, and gentlemen, is the worst part of my morning. Not the broken bones,
the humiliation, the constant reminder of my punishment and the past mistakes
that led me to this place, but what is about to follow.
“Look away,
Rook.”
I hear her
turn around and feel the familiar pull of the thing inside me demanding to be
fed, requiring that my body be made whole. I shove the little chick into my
mouth and the shadow within engages the universe’s most nauseating mechanism
for self-healing. I scream inwardly, trying desperately to block out the sound
of crunching bones and the feel of what must be a tiny beak working its way
down my gullet. The shadow feeds, using my mouth and digestive system by proxy
as feathers and claws, bone and sinew are devoured.
I puff out
air from my nostrils like a Clydesdale at full gallop, completing the wretched
task and snapping my fingers impatiently in Rook’s direction as I open my eye.
She hands me a bottle of ginger beer, and I chug most of it, savoring the taste
of the sugary liquid as it burns its way down my throat.
I emerge
from the horror a few minutes later with broken bones largely made whole. My
arm is back in place, ribs are uncracked, shin and knee and muscular tears have
all begun to heal rapidly. However distasteful the enterprise is, you can’t
argue with the results. The little chick worked a treat, but there’s no way in
hell I’ll be telling Rook that.
I still wear
the various cuts and bruises of the morning’s work. For some reason the
shadow’s healing capacity doesn’t extend to minor inconveniences such as that.
I’m alive and able to function, which is all that is required according to our
rather peculiar arrangement.
After a
final swig of ginger beer, I take a long, deep breath, fighting nausea which
threatens to undo all that I have accomplished. The application of mental
techniques helps me quell the nausea and still my mind. Words of ancient power
are repeated over and over in a meditative cycle that moves from the foreground
to the workroom of the mind. Like a pianist allowing right and left hands to
perform their separate work whilst playing in unison, I let the meditation
settle into my unconscious while bringing my foremind into focus.
A few
gestures and muttered phrases bring the family out of their stupor. They blink
their eyes, turning to one another and then back to me in mild confusion. A
lingering effect of the mind-tether is a mild soporific which dulls the senses
and curtails the emergence of strong emotional impulses, so they listen calmly
as I speak.
“My name is
Ambrose Drake, and I am a Crown-certified sorcerer.” I motion to the room
behind us, drawing six pairs of eyes toward the remnants of their family
kitchen.
“It seems
that your apartment was infested with a rare breed of under-dweller. The
creature has likely lived in this establishment for some time, insinuating
itself within various nooks and crannies in the walls and crawl spaces. Most of
its bulk was housed in the basement, and it likely used a form of aerosolized
hypnosis on the building’s superintendent to keep hidden during its stay
here.”
I pause for
impact and then realize the pointlessness of the maneuver. The family are
hearing my words and understanding them to some extent, but any oratory
emphasis will be lost on them. I remind myself that this is a formality and
that I’m ticking the box, not genuinely trying to communicate something to these
people.
“Under
Administratum code, I’m required to advise you that the under-dweller has been
dispatched and will shortly be removed from this premises and disposed of. This
apartment, and others within the building, will be marked and a record of the incident
lodged with the Crown Administratum. You are welcome to request details of this
report at any time, however you won’t remember the slightest detail of this
exchange, so really this is a waste of my time and yours, but I don’t have a
choice in the matter, so there we have it.”
I turn to
Rook, and she gives me a nod. I’ve observed the right procedures. I’ve done
everything that needs to be done. So, there’s no excuse for the Administratum
to go crawling up my ass and making life even more miserable than it already
is.
I throw the
family a quick sign of the cross and promptly follow up by flipping them the
bird. I stand, testing the strength of my legs, and follow Rook from the
apartment and out into a dreary London morning, taking in a sharp breath of
cold air.
Just another
day in paradise.
About Morgan Quaid:
Morgan Quaid
is an Australian-based writer of speculative fiction, fantasy and horror,
specializing in fast-paced page turners set against expansive fantasy
backdrops. Quaid writes comics, graphic novels, short stories volumes and
novels.
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | TikTok | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub
Giveaway Details:
2 winners
will receive a finished copy of THE SEVEN HUNGERS,
US Only.
2 winners
will receive an eBook of THE SEVEN HUNGERS, International.
Ends
September 6th, midnight EST.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Tour Schedule:
Week One:
Week Two:
Week Three:
Week Four:
Week Five:
