Posts Tagged ‘BLOG TOUR’

About the Book

Title: The Sanguinarian Id

Author: L.M. Labat

Artist: L.M. Labat

Genre: Horror, Historical Fiction, Paranormal, Occult, Gothic Horror

Publisher: Night to Dawn Magazine & Books

 

She’s been beaten, stabbed, poisoned, and shot, but Hael refuses to die. In her pursuit for vengeance and her origin, the Dhampir Hael hunts down the madman responsible for her fateful transformation. As this half-vampire juggernauts her way through a world at war, Hael battles hordes of Nazi soldiers as she struggles to maintain her sanity. However, while Hael gathers knowledge on how to trap and kill her target, her adversary’s network is expanding at an exponential rate, as his sick obsession with Hael grows deeper. Will she have her revenge? Will she find her origin? Or, will she crumble beneath her own insidious bloodlust?

Author Bio

Born in 1993, L. M. Labat stems from New Orleans, Louisiana. From the struggles of a broken family and surviving life-threatening events, Labat found refuge within the arts while delving into the fields of medicine, psychology, and the occult. While combining illustration and literature, L. M. Labat was able to cope with endless nightmares as well as hone in on artistic techniques. From confronting the past to facing new shadows, this author gladly invites audiences into the horror of The Sanguinarian Id.

 


Links

The Sanguinarian Id Website

Website Creator: L. M. Labat

https://thesanguinarianid.com/

Night to Dawn Magazine & Books Website:

http://bloodredshadow.com/night-to-dawn-magazine-and-books/l-m-labat/

The Sanguinarian Id on Amazon.com:  

https://www.amazon.com/Sanguinarian-Id-L-M-Labat/dp/1937769445

The Sanguinarian Id on Barnes & Noble:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-sanguinarian-id-l-m-labat/1123257469


Artwork by the Author:


Book Excerpts

Book Excerpt 1:

Within Europe’s late nineteenth century, marvelous medical miracles came into existence that augmented the intellectual to new horizons. Doctors of all fields were admired for their dedication to health and humanity. However, as their accolades increased, these professionals grew fat with entitlement while their patients starved for love. With speedy developments, the human brain, in its entire splendor, spiraled dangerously into the new era of indulgences that forked the path between masterpiece and monstrosity. **** A group of young women sat on the cold floor. In dirty hospital gowns, they picked and ingested lead paint chips from the wall. Persistently, they crammed more debris into their hungry mouths. Drool covered their cracked fingernails. With muted expressions, the nurses smoked like locomotives at their corridor stations. They watched the self-poisoning, but did nothing to help. The nurses reacted solely when the clock struck seven. The chimes notified them to administer the medication. In the joining corridor, more patients wandered aimlessly. Whimpering like beaten dogs, most patients wore restraints over their mouths and arms. Others fiddled with their gowns as they stumbled from side to side. No matter what they were doing, the inhabitants complemented each other with the same dead-eyed stare against the barred windows. The doctors were devils. They prodded, scraped, and teased the flesh with their instruments. Like foxes, the doctors lured people into their examination rooms with wide-toothed grins and false promises. None of them were in harmony with their patients. These mechanized madmen were fluent with their hands and calculations. Their utensils were never bare. These men constantly wrapped their fingers around their equipment’s silvery curves. They comforted the metal exteriors like newborn children. The wives of these doctors had sullen lives, wishing their husbands would caress their thighs the way they did their clipboards. The patients knew no humanity. The kind gazes they saw reflected off foggy spectacles before the serum blacked out their minds. That was if they were lucky enough to have the straps off their foreheads. This was Halcyon Asylum.

 

Book Excerpt 2:

The leader of the group yelled and charged at Hael with a dagger. He stabbed her in the back. She fell to the ground. Over and over again, he stabbed his blade deep into her torso. Hael roared in fury. She grabbed the severed limb and brained the leader. When the severed arm gave way, Hael buried her claws into his skull, and gouged his head wide open. Brain matter and blood splattered across her face. Her entire body became a walking nightmare of black and red.  She heard the horses go wild in the distance. The coach-man desperately tried to mount one of the horses, but the beast was too frightened to stand still. Hael walked over to the coachman. The front horse saw Hael from the corner of its eye, and reared its back legs frantically. The horse’s hoof clocked the coachman in the chest and sent him plummeting to the ground. His flask flew out of his pocket. The coachman held his beaten torso and coughed violently. A twig snapped in front of him. He looked up. Hael looked down upon him. Her body was still, but the red of her iris swirled like hellfire. The coachman sobbed and pleaded for his life. Hael looked at the carriage. “Where were you going to bring me?” she asked him.  “Please, don’t kill me,” he cried.

Hael rammed her heel down onto his hand. His bones broke through his skin upon impact. She repeated herself. “Where were you going to bring me?” Her voice was calm and authoritative.  “To the docks,” he answered.  “Why the docks?” she asked. “We were supposed to bring you and some others to the docks, and place you all on a boat bound for France.”  “Why France?”  “I don’t know,” he answered. “That’s all Mendelson wrote to us. I swear it!”  “Do you have the instructions?” she asked. The coach-man nodded. He reached into his back pocket and handed her an envelope. She read postage marks. The letter came from Germany. “What others?” she asked. The coachman said that there were other women that they collected during the week to bring to the docks. Hael was a surprise adjustment to the original list. He stated that after the delivery was made, they were instructed to burn the letter. She gave the letter back to him. “Thank you.” She walked over to the flask and unscrewed the top.  The coachman shuddered. “What are you doing?” “Following instructions.” She poured the liquor over his body. “Stop! I told you what you wanted to know.”  “Yes, you did.” Hael picked up a stone from the grass. She held it firmly in her hand. “And, I said, ‘Thank you.’” She struck her nails against the stone. Sparks flew off her claws and ignited the liquor. The coachman screamed as his body writhed within the flames.

 

Book Excerpt 3:

The majority of the women held captive by Mendelson were between the ages of eighteen to thirty-nine years old, and labeled missing to the general public. The victims’ bodies were found during scattered times of the year. The bodies were either discreetly hidden, or placed directly in the center of the stadt from where they came. All of the women were reported to be sexually assaulted, battered, or starved. The numbers of men who were taken from their families by Mendelson were never seen or heard from again.  Hael turned the page. “Abducted children and infants were brought back at separate times, unharmed, to either their families or the nearest local officials. As a whole, the children neither recall where they were held captive, nor can they give details about Mendelson’s appearance. None of the children were sexually assaulted in any matter or form. However, all of the returned children experienced seizures and night terrors at random.” Mendelson’s family once held a highly decorated position in the German military during the early 1800s. After the fire of their family mansion in Frankfurt, the residence was converted to the orphanage Das Männlein Waisenhaus in 1823. Das Männlein Waisenhaus was currently shut down. No photographs or sketches of Mendelson were documented. A few traces of fingerprints, semen, saliva, and skin particles were found on the corpses of eighteen-year-old women and older. The total numbers of people kidnapped by Mendel-son over a seventeen year period were: one hundred and seven women between the ages of eighteen to thirty-nine years old, fifty-eight men above the age of eighteen, twenty-nine female children, and twelve male children.

Hael dropped her lighter. The flame extinguished on the rocky floor. The horrendous sights Hael witnessed were inexhaustible, but the photographs and descriptions of Mendelson’s victims made her vomit. Their bodies were bruised and broken. The women found in the woods had their pelvic bones crushed, and their legs permanently bent. Their necks and wrists were badly discolored from rope burn, and their breasts were purpled with bruises. Their backs were either concaved or arched with their stomachs split open.  Hael turned her face to the ground, and retched every-where. From the pictures, she heard the groaning victims. Their bloodshot eyes, broken bones, and gray skin were nothing com-pared to the way their bodies lay open like stockpots holding their mangled organs.

 

Book Excerpt 4:

The area was a deluge. Hael watched the pond swell as the water engulfed more and more of the bank. “If you keep stalling, you’re going to drown!” she shouted. “Let me pull you up!” Air bubbles popped alongside the boulder’s surface. The man shuddered at the sound. He looked behind him. “Did you hear that?” he asked. She shrugged her shoulders. “An air pocket must’ve ruptured below the mud.” She looked at the surface of the water. The mud continued to bubble. The water level rose rapidly. “Please, let me pull you up!” His eyes bulged like soup plates at the sight of the bub-bling mud. The mud stopped moving. He turned towards her. “Leave.” “What about your legs?” “Forget about my legs!” he shouted. “Just get the fuck out of here!” She ignored his statement and waded towards him. He unsheathed his Bowie knife and swung it wildly in the air. “Go away! Damn it. Go away!” he threatened.  “Are you crazy?” she shouted.  He began to cry. “Please! Just leave!” A gurgling sound erupted from beneath the water. It was deep and loud. The man gaped in fear. With his face paled to a paper white, his mouth opened and closed in horror like a dying guppy. The noise increased in volume, morphing into a horrid watery groan. He tossed his knife at her feet. She grabbed onto his arms to pull him out. The man made no effort to move. She sank her feet into the mud and pulled.  “Please! Help me help you!” He lifted his head up to her. His eyes were drenched in tears and wide with anguish. His mouth quivered sorely. “If you want to help me, heed the words of this old fool. Leave this place. Forget about me. Forget you ever came here. Forget your reason why, and get to the closest source of concrete.” He grabbed her hand. “Take the knife! Stay away from the water banks!” Those were his last words. His body was yanked underneath the boulder. The pull’s tension and the sharpness of her claws severed the man’s hand from his body. She flew backward. The severed hand fell into her lap. The air thickened with danger. She flung the hand back into the water. Something swallowed it from beneath the sur-face. Screaming, she grabbed the knife and ran from the boulders.  The hard rain loosened the soil around the trees. Roots were exposed over the ground. She bounded over them to avoid getting caught. A lightning bolt crashed in the distance. She tripped and plummeted to the banks. An exposed tree root slammed against her head when she

hit the ground. Half her face sank into mud. She nearly stumbled back into the water as she hoisted herself out of the sludge. She searched for the knife. It was lodged underneath a tree root. The mud bubbled around her feet. The ground swallowed the knife. She jumped back and ran.


Crime Fiction

Date Published: 7/4/2017

Are the deacons of Shalom Bethel invincible? Legend has it that in the 1940’s, they came out of a gunfight with holes in their clothes but not their skin. Bullets bounced off of them. They walked through buckshots like water. That story is passed down by every deacon. The legend of Stephen Stone. That legend is about to be tested.

On the heels of a nightclub triple murder, a mysterious blizzard hits Shalom, a city normally warm year round. The blizzard brings with it bitter memories and ghosts Deacon Oak East thought were long gone: his prior drug conviction, his on and off relationship with his wife, the gruesome murder of his father and the role he played in it. But it’s not just the past that haunts him. In the present, a homicide detective wants him and the deacons for the nightclub murders. And a gangster named Cap Morgan wants revenge. The snow is falling. But soon, it will be raining bullets. Is the legend true? Are the deacons of Shalom Bethel bulletproof?

About the Author


James Fant is an award winning author who lives in Charleston, SC with his lovely wife and two hilarious children. He received a degree in biology from College of Charleston and a master’s in business administration from Charleston Southern University. His love for literature was forged by the works of Eric Jerome Dickey, Walter Mosley, and Stephen King. He also finds inspiration from screenwriters Shonda Rhimes, Aaron Sorkin and Kurt Sutter. Literarily, James has always been drawn to intelligent yet imperfect characters and he writes novels with them in mind.

 

Contact Information

Website: http://www.jamesfantbooks.com/

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jamesfantbooks

Twitter: @jamesfantjr

Blog: https://jamesfantbooks.wordpress.com/

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/jamesfant/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5763237.James_Fant

 

Purchase Links

 

Giveaway

Heart of Stone eBook
 

The early evening air cooled Oak’s skin and caused it to tighten. The sensation was odd, like someone pinching him but all over. Bringing his skin cells closer together? The thought was crazy and Oak traveled back to a biology class in which the teacher was showing a video on mitosis. Cells were dividing, giving rise to two daughter cells with the same number of chromosomes. There were different phases. One in particular where the chromatin seemed to span the two fused cellular bodies. So cool. That’s not what was happening with Oak’s skin. It was tightening…stiffening. And how would that look under a microscope?

He shook those thoughts, jogged up to the duplex and slapped the knocker three times. The door opened and he saw Moody Norco. The man who hated his guts.

“Come on in,” Moody said. “You want something to drink?”

“Nah, I’m working. What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Getting over a cold.”

“No. I mean what’s up?”

“You mean the money?”

“I always mean the money when I ask that question.”

Moody was devious and dangerous. Instead of repelling Oak, this fact attracted him. Pulled him to the man like gravity. An invisible yet powerful force that he couldn’t escape.

He carried the weight of the world into Moody’s apartment that evening. His uncle had kicked him out the house. He had lost the women he loved. And then there was that nagging guilt, the thought that God would never forgive him for what he had done eight years before. Life had burdened him. Perhaps this devious dude was just dangerous enough to remove that burden.

Oak snapped his fingers in Moody’s face. “Come on, man, I don’t have all day.”

“I’m going to warn you right now,” Moody said, “it’s been slow.” He motioned to a half-naked woman who scampered into the back room.

“I don’t care how slow it’s been. You’re delinquent yet again. Frankly, I’m fed up with it.”

Moody’s eyes narrowed.  He tightened his fist but nothing more.

“Tell your girl to hurry up with the money,” Oak said.

“C’mon. Let me fix you some Cognac. I know you like that Yack! With Coke, right?”

“Man, you’re trying my patience!” Oak pushed Moody out of the way and stomped into the bedroom, where he figured the woman was counting the money. But there was no woman. Instead, there was an open window, curtains dancing in the breeze and two guys holding sawed off shot guns that were aimed at Oak’s chest.

“You sure you don’t want something to drink?” Moody asked again with a smile as he brandished a silver Saturday Night Special.

“Truth be told,” he said, his pistol pointed at Oak, “I hate you! Why did you all of a sudden get to be boss of the streets? You haven’t put in work. You haven’t done dirt. And what’s worse, if war comes, you’d never be man enough to squeeze a trigger. You’re not a boss!” Moody and his two gunmen backed Oak into the living room. He asked, “You’re not gonna beg for your life?”

“Not at all,” Oak replied.

“Well, I gotta say I’m disappointed.”

Oak shrugged. Sighed. “Well I’ve seen too much evil. Been the cause of too much pain. Being murdered like this is a fitting end.”

“You’re not gonna cry or try to make a deal?”

“Nah. If you’re gonna shoot me, get it over with already.”

Moody chuckled. Smiled. Then his lips straitened. “This wasn’t what I imagined would happen. In my mind, I saw you sniveling, snot dripping over your lips as you begged for your life. Forget about the money. Just don’t kill me, Moody! I would demand that you call me the king. You are the king!  Then, I’d make you get down on your knees, your hands folded in prayer and praise. But…”

Oak jumped at Moody like he was going to throw a punch. Moody flinched. His boys flinched too.

“Unbelievable,” Oak laughed. Then he screamed, “Do it!”

Shot guns lifted. Forestocks pumped. Snub nose hammer pulled back. An engine roared and the hood of a SUV came crashing through sheetrock and plaster. It was Sampson, Oak’s bodyguard. Crashing through the wall. Shooting through the windshield.

Shots blazed from every direction. Glass shattered. Sampson took one in his shoulder but served several to Moody and his boys. As they hit the floor, Sampson yelled, “Lay down and stay down!”

“O!” he screamed as he grunted his way towards him. “O.E.!”

“What?!”

“Are you wearing a vest?”

“Huh?”

He patted Oak’s chest and back. “Oh my goodness!” he said. “You’re not wearing a vest!”

Oak looked at Sampson and saw that he was bleeding heavily. He took off his shirt and pressed it against his wounded shoulder. He said, “We gotta get you outta here.” Then he helped Sampson to the passenger side of the SUV, got in the driver’s seat, and slowly backed the out of the rubble.

As he drove to Shalom Memorial Hospital, images of the shootout replayed in his head. The ear splitting pops and mind numbing explosions. He racked his brain for a reason why he was still breathing.

He said, “I’m sorry, Sampson.  I should have been the one to get shot back there.”

“You did get shot.”

“What?”

His bodyguard took a deep breath. Winced in pain. “They lit you up, man. You were getting popped left and right.”

“Sampson,” Oak smiled warily, “were you smoking dope while I was in the apartment?”

“I’m serious!” Sampson screamed. “Bullets just bounced off of you. At first I thought it was the adrenaline playing tricks on my mind. But nah. You were just walking through those bullets. I know what I saw.”

Middle Grade Science Fiction
Date to be Published: December 6, 2017

For Explorers of All Ages!
Tumble forward in time with the fourth collection in the series Kirkus Review called “a must-have in science fiction collections.” These twenty-four imaginative, entertaining tales take readers of all ages to exciting places — from star ships to Mars to alien adventure!
“There are not very many action, adventure, superhero, or sci-fi stories that feature girls, but there needs to be. I have read this whole book and now I have become even more interested in space and robots and things like that.” ~ Lily F. (10 years old)
Excerpt from one of the Short Stories
THE GREAT BROCCOLI WI-FI THEFT
 by Nancy Kress
Nancy Kress is the author of thirty-three books, including twenty-six novels, four collections of short stories, and three books on writing.  Her work has won six Nebulas, two Hugos, a Sturgeon, and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award.  Most recent works are the Nebula-winning novella “Yesterday’s Kin” (Tachyon, 2014) and THE BEST OF NANCY KRESS (Subterranean, 2015).  Forthcoming in 2017 is TOMORROW’S KIN (Tor), the first novel of a trilogy based on “Yesterday’s Kin” and extending its universe for several generations.  Kress’s work has been translated into Swedish, Danish, French, Italian, German, Spanish, Polish, Croatian, Chinese, Lithuanian, Romanian, Japanese, Korean, Hebrew, Russian, and Klingon, none of which she can read.  In addition to writing, Kress often teaches at various venues around the country and abroad; in 2008 she was the Picador visiting lecturer at the University of Leipzig.  Kress lives in Seattle with her husband, writer Jack Skillingstead, and Cosette, the world’s most spoiled toy poodle.
Do you know what a pas de chat is?  I didn’t either, two months ago.  But I know now, and it’s going to make me a hero.  Really!  Everybody will applaud for me so hard their hands will sting—especially Mom!  They’ll give me a medal!  It’s going to be great!
I’m going to solve a mystery that nobody else can solve.
Just as soon as I figure out how.
#
My name is Nia.  I’m ten.  I live sometimes on the moon, at Alpha Base, and sometimes on Earth, in Illinois.  I like both places, but Illinois has a big problem: GRAVITY.  There’s too much of it here.  I wish they could just ship some of this gravity to the moon and even things out a little bit, but it doesn’t work that way.  On the moon there isn’t enough gravity to keep human muscles strong unless you exercise a lot, and I got lazy.  So now I’m back on Earth because my mom’s job moved us here—again!—and my muscles aren’t strong enough.  Which is why I was in ballet class doing a pas de chat.  It was not my idea.
“No, no,” said Mademoiselle Janine, who was in charge of the class.  “Nia, you must land lightly.  Lightly!  Ellen, show her the pas de chat.”
Ellen smirked at me and raised her arms.  Pas de chat means “step of the cat,” which is a really stupid name because it doesn’t look anything like a cat.  I know—we have a cat.  In the pas de chat you bend one leg, jump off the other leg, bend that one in the air, then land lightly.  If you can find a cat that can do that, I’ll give you a million dollars.
Ellen did the step.  She landed lightly.
“Now you try, Nia,” Mademoiselle said.
I landed like a baby elephant.
“Well…” said Mademoiselle.  “These things take practice.”
Did I mention that ballet class was definitely not my idea?
#
“I want to quit ballet,” I said at dinner.  “I’m no good at ballet.”
Dad said, “You’re probably better than you think.”  Dad is always on my side.
Mom said, “You might not be good at it, but you can’t go on quitting things when they get hard.”  Mom is always on the side of doing hard things.
“But I stink at ballet,” I said.  I pushed my mashed potatoes around with my fork.  “I’m not good at anything.”
“That’s not true,” Dad said.  “You’re good at a lot of things.”
I said, “Name three!”
“Well…you’re good at spelling.”
“Nobody needs to spell good.  Autocorrect fixes it.”
Mom said, “Nobody needs to spell well.  ‘Well,’ not ‘good.’”
“See?” I said.  “I’m not good at sentences, either! I’m not good at anything!”
“Yes, you are,” Dad said.  “You’re good at training our pets.”
That was true.  We have a dog named Bandit, a robot-dog named Luna, and a cat named Pickles.  I trained Bandit to fetch.  I programmed Luna, which is the closest you can get to training a robot.  I couldn’t train Pickles to do anything, but…cats.  They do what they want.
I said, “That’s only two things.”
Mom smiled.  “You’re good at getting into trouble.”
Dad said warningly, “Angela…”
“I’m teasing!  Nia, I just wanted to make you laugh!”
I wasn’t laughing.  Mom never understands!
But then she said, “Look, Nia, everybody has to practice and work hard in order to get good at something.  Do you know how many times my broccoli has failed?”
Mom is a plant geneticist.  That means she changes plants’ genes to make them better.  Right now she’s changing broccoli, which in my opinion can’t ever be made better no matter what you do to it.  I hate broccoli.  She was just making me feel worse.
She knew it, too, because she put her hand on mine and said, “Nia, honey, after dinner let me show you something.”
I said, “As long as it’s not broccoli.”
To be continued in the 2018 Young Explorer’s Adventure Guide!
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