Today we are helping author Scott Eder "book bomb" his new book, Knight of Flame. Isn't that one gorgeous cover? And early reviews show folks are loving the story, as well. Why don't you give it a try? And please hit the facebook, twitter, and google plus buttons below to help us spread the word! Thanks!
Aaron Lazar
www.lazarbooks.com
Here's a look at Chapter 1:
Chapter 1
Knights don't dance. Develor
Quinteele wrung the leather-wrapped steering wheel and swallowed hard. The
muted roar of the rented Jag's high-performance engine and smooth-as-silk ride
did nothing to dispel his apprehension. Wren could have picked anything, but
she chose dancing. He jammed a finger under the rigid collar of his first
modern suit and yanked it away from his skin.
Great. Just great.
Dev stretched
to adjust the rear-view mirror and ripped the seam of his jacket. Armani stretch wool, my ass. A growl
rumbled in his chest and he glared at Wren, but she seemed oblivious to his
distress.
"How much
farther?" Wren's excitement tumbled out with each word. The sun's last
rays reflected off the silver sequins of her micro-dress and sparkled across
the car's dark chocolate interior. She shifted position, adjusted her dress,
and crossed her legs. Despite her fidgeting, her head remained still, focused
on the distant horizon, straining to get her first look at Club Mastodon.
Dev smiled
through his growing unease. Though somewhere in her early twenties, Wren
reminded him of a small child driving up to the gates of Disney World for the
first time. Her usually tense and critical Japanese features were soft, eager
and innocent. Seeing her excitement helped steady his nerves…a little.
"Just a
few more minutes. You know I'm missing a Three
Stooges marathon for this, don't you?"
"Whatevs."
Wren brushed him off.
Dev checked his
mirrors, vision in constant motion, and raked the hair out of his eyes. The thin,
wavy strands felt foreign to his calloused fingers. He couldn't remember the
last time he had more than a dark prickly shadow on top of his head, let alone
mussed brown locks.
With a careless
wave of his hand, he grazed the new bruise over his left eye. Damn, forgot about that. He prodded the tender skin, trying to gauge the
size of the purpling evidence. So far, he'd managed to keep his fights at work from
Wren. If she found out, he'd never hear the end of it. The last time, she went
on and on about him being reckless, and jeopardizing the mission. Thankfully,
she hadn't reported the incident to Stillman, his commander. It had been close,
though. Cost Dev a night on the town. But it wasn't that big of a sacrifice. He
loved her like a little sister, and enjoyed seeing her smile.
Brushing his
hair forward, Dev tried to cover the injured area, and hoped for the best.
"This
place won't be crowded, will it?" he asked. "You know crowds and I
don't mix."
"Mmhm."
Wren's arm shot out, pointed ahead and to the right. "There it is." The
rest of her words blurred together, "I can't believe you got us on the list. I mean, like, I've never been
to a place like this." She turned her sparkling green eyes on Dev. "Do
you think a lot of movie stars will be here?"
"Breathe,
Wren." Dev took the exit off I-275 south, just in sight of the Sunshine
Skyway Bridge, and stopped at the traffic light across from the club. When Club
Mastodon first opened he'd read about the local business leaders raising an
uproar over how quickly the permits, zoning and associated building minutia
were pushed through. But, when the club was bank-rolled by Alexander Gray, one
of the head honchos at Daegon Gray, the normal red tape-covered bullshit
disappeared.
Dev tilted his
head as he caught his first glimpse of their destination through a ring of palm
trees lining the property.
"Really? That's
it?"
Wren didn't
respond. Instead, she leaned forward, hands pressed tight against the dash,
mouth open wide.
"It's just
a big ass tent," Dev said. "I paid 10-K in advance to go to a
circus?" His stomach rolled. "Wonderful."
The light
changed and he pulled onto the gravel drive. Tires crunched on loose stones as they
passed through the trees and drove the half-mile to the front of the club.
"I hate clowns," he murmured,
"And elephants. I hate when they make those big bastards do stupid tricks."
Dev queued for
the valet behind a sleek Mercedes SLR and waited his turn. The wait gave him a
chance to assess the place without being obvious.
People. Damn. So many people, so many potential ways to piss
me off.
A large number
of the area celebrities milled about in front of the club's huge entrance. Beyond a set of giant wooden doors rose the
three tall peaks of the monstrous Club Mastodon tent. Spotlights spaced evenly
around the perimeter beamed on the white walls, causing them to glow. A smaller
tent hung off the rear of the main, connected via covered walkway.
He couldn't see
any exits other than the big main door, not even a window. They really weren't kidding about the whole privacy thing. The club
was touted as the place to relax, a soothing oasis where the local aristocracy
and visiting celebs could let their guard down and be themselves. In essence, society's
elite could make fools of themselves without it showing up on the internet the
next day. Absolutely no cameras were allowed, not even cell phones.
"It's not
too late." Dev shook his head. "We could always go somewhere else."
Please…anywhere else.
"Nope,
we're good." Wren sounded distracted. Her gaze darted from one car window
to the next. "Hey, isn't that Marcus Albright from the Bucs?"
"Who?"
"You know,
the cornerback for the Buccaneers. Ooh, and that's the guy from that new show
on AB—."
"Dennis
Carlisle." The name rolled off Dev's tongue before she finished the
station's call letters.
Wren oohed and
ahed over a few other names he'd never heard of. Probably famous athletes or
politicians or something, but he played along for her sake.
Movement. Out
the window to his left. Dev tracked it out of the corner of his eye. A pair of
security guards in black blazers and slacks marched down a row of exotic cars
parked in tight lanes. Their heads swiveled every few feet so as not to miss
anything.
More movement. Further
out this time and a couple rows over. Another pair on patrol. Rent-a-cops
didn't move like that. They had to be ex-military.
I bet the bulges in their jackets are compact automatic
weapons.
"Geez,
they take their security seriously around here." Dev spied more guards
near the back tent. "Can you say overkill?"
"What are
you babbling about?" Wren asked, flipping him an annoyed glance.
"Nothing…nothing."
Dev moved up in line. Rhythmic burps of deep bass rattled the windows and
thrummed through the steering wheel. Within seconds, the vein at his temple
throbbed in time.
A valet
approached the driver's side while another opened the door for Wren. Dev got
out and shrugged at the tear in his jacket then met her on the curb.
"I feel
naked in this." He whispered, running his hand over his chest and the
expensive suit. "Out of my element."
"I feel
like a princess." Wren, five-foot three, a smidgen under five-eight in her
knee-high boots, twirled. Even with the added height, she only came up to Dev's
chin. "Like the boots?" She modeled the right one—slick black leather
that laced to the top—turning it enough to flash a red sole. "Louboutin.
Got them yesterday."
Dev shrugged.
"Nice, I guess. Not very practical."
She slapped his
arm. "Dork. Not everything in this world is meant to be practical. I think
they're gorgeous. Now, hold still." She straightened his tie and fussed
with his hair, exposing his little secret.
Her eyes
narrowed. "You've been fighting again." She spun on her spiked-heels,
her expression blocked by the swish of her shoulder-length, ebony bob, and
wound her way through the throng of socialites and celebrities.
Dev tried to
keep pace, but she melted through the crowd toward the entrance. Impressed, he
admired her agile dips and whirls as she put years of his hard-core physical
training to unconscious use.
On her trail, he
moved left and jostled the guy on his right, "Sorry," then bumped the
woman on his left. "Excuse me." Anger flared, but he forced a tight
smile. The shoulder-to-shoulder press of humanity reminded him of the
battlefield. He slid between a pair of athletic-looking
young men, but clipped one's shoulder. "Sorry, sorry."
High on
alpha-male bravado, the kid tried to shove back, but Dev caught his hand before
it made contact. With a deft twist, he bent the young man's wrist back and
lifted him onto his toes. Dev leaned in close and bared his teeth. Anger boiled
into rage, heating his body and fueling his need to fight.
"I said, pardon
me." He spoke so only the impromptu ballerina could hear. Muscles tense, he
wanted to yank this punk's arm off and beat him and the rest of the crowd with
it, lay waste to everything around him until nothing stood between him and the
entrance except Wren.
He
straightened, took a loud breath through his nose, and found her off to the
side near the entrance. Safe. Arms crossed. Hip cocked. Frown in place.
Crap. He'd lost control in
front of her again.
"Today's
your lucky day, skippy." After a last, painful wrench on his captive's arm,
Dev released him and slogged his way through the crowd to Wren's side. People
reacted to his rough passage, cast annoyed glances at his broad back then
quickly went back to their own lives.
Every nerve,
cell and fiber of Dev's being surged inside him. It didn't take much to get him
going anymore. And
sitting idle in Tampa for the last two years, due to a nebulous prediction of
the Gray Lord's return, was not how an
elemental warrior should live.
Daily
skirmishes in the shipyard got him by, but he craved more. Primed for combat, he
wanted a release. He wanted, no, needed, to fight. But this wasn't the time or
the place. He needed to be strong, for Wren. This was her night.
"You
promised the fighting would stop." Wren said between clenched teeth.
"You stationed yourself at the
shipyard to watch for signs of the Gray Lord, not play around. You don't see me
getting in fights at the airport, do you?"
"It was
just a minor disagreement," he said. "There were eight of them,
jumped me behind the scrap metal piles."
"Eight!"
A nearby couple
turned to stare at Wren. Dev took her arm and pulled her further away from the
crowd.
"Look, I
screwed up. They usually attack in threes. I didn't see Little Mike hiding in
the garbage can. He whacked me with a crowbar." Dev looked away from her
accusing stare. "It's no big deal. Won't happen again." That you'll know of.
"But you —"
"Let it go.
Please."
Wren opened her
mouth as if to say more when her eyes opened wide. "You're hot," she
whispered, "Smoking."
Dev wiggled his
eyebrows. "Why, thank you, thank you very much. You're looking pretty good
yourself."
"That's not what I mean."
Dev caught a
whiff of burned hair. His hand shot to the top of his head and found it still
covered. As his body cooled, he found the singed stalks of the little hairs on
the back of his hands. The shirt cuffs were scorched as well. That was close.
"Maybe
this was a mistake." Wren's tentative, quiet voice touched him. "We should
go."
"No."
Dev stared at his shoes. Black. Leather. Uncomfortable. "No. I'm okay. You
deserve this."
Wren's face
scrunched as she assessed his attitude. She nodded. "Yeah, I do. Don't screw
it up."
Dev blinked….
She laughed, wrapped
her arm around his, "Come on, come on," and pulled him to the entrance.
Up close, the
imposing entry reminded Dev of a smaller version of the village gates on Skull
Island built to keep out King Kong. A dense collection of palm fronds and
exotic, big-leaf plants, surrounded a pair of giant double doors unevenly
framed by thick, rough-hewn timbers. The presence of security cameras
positioned within the plants did little to deter from the primordial setting.
Dev smiled and
waved at the camera tracking his movements.
Another pair of
guards, much bigger than those patrolling the parking lot, flanked the entrance.
Clad in nothing but loincloths, with long, black hair draped over heavily
muscled shoulders and square pecks, they looked like stand-ins from Conan the Barbarian. Both stared straight
ahead, boulder-crushing arms rigid at their sides. If it weren't for the slight
motion of their immense chests, they could be statues. A low mist crawled
around their feet and billowed in front of and under the big doors. Capping off
the primitive atmosphere, flames swirled and popped above their heads in a long
trench dug out of the lintel.
Blessed fire. Dev focused on
the flames. He felt their lure, their potential, and the fire's raw power. A
taste. That's all he needed. A quick fix to steady his nerves and help him
through the night. With a thought he called to his element, drew it into him. His
body tingled. Invisible tendrils of heat trickled into his chest and coalesced
into a fireball behind his ribcage. It churned and roiled and intensified.
"Dev."
Wren's harsh whisper seemed to come from far away.
That's nice. With another
thought, he capped the flow and dispersed the warmth throughout his body. It
calmed his spirit, dispelled his rage.
"Dev."
An elbow to the ribs punctuated her call.
Awareness
rushed in as his wind rushed out. Damn,
that girl knows right where to hit a guy. He wheezed, tried to refill his
lungs, and ignored the curious stares of the other patrons.
#
Alexander
Gray stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows and scowled at
the world far below. Streetlights bathed the Tampa Bay Times Forum and
Channelside shops in a sickly yellow glow. People, ants from this height,
scurried through the darkness from one light post to another while a few late
drivers braved the downtown Tampa streets.
His dark power
surged, burrowing beneath his skin like angry wasps. With a thought he could
make the shadows rise up and lay waste to those insignificant specs of life
beneath him, but he reluctantly held back.
Not yet.
Out of the flat
screen mounted in the corner, a local news anchor droned on about the rash of
unexplained disappearances that baffled police.
Alexander
smiled.
A small brown
bird thumped into the window and fell dazed to the ledge. Stupid birds. Alexander crouched and tapped on the window. He knew
neither the sound nor the vibration would penetrate the hurricane-proof glass, but
he did it anyway.
"Hey
there," he cooed, "Are you okay, little one?"
The bird got to
its feet, shook his feathery head and leaned against the glass out of the wind.
"I have
something for you." Alexander pressed his index finger against the thick pane
and exerted a sliver of his will. A dark ribbon of inky-black energy oozed
through the window and wriggled on the outside.
Startled, the
bird hopped down the ledge.
"Take it."
Alexander's face twitched. "Take it."
It hopped
closer, its curious little head bobbing from side to side.
A little peck to taste the darkness.
The bird
struck, tore off a hunk of black flesh, and bounced backward.
Alexander
stopped the flow, folded his hands between his knees and studied his prey.
Its beak opened
once, an unheard chirp of distress lost in the wind, and its chest expanded
until hollow bone and skin could no longer contain the pressure. It exploded in
a puff of gray-feathered clumps that floated away on the breeze.
Alexander
stood, smoothing the imagined wrinkles from his pants, and stared at the human
infestation below. If only the rest of
you were so easy. A picture came to mind, one in which thousands of people
writhed on the ground while their life force drained into the soil, and their
skin turned the color of ash. A pleasant
notion indeed.
A lightly
spoken, "Sir?" accompanied a soft knock at the door. Alexander Gray, Master
of Shadow, son of the last Gray Lord Bestok Molan, transformed into Alexander
Gray, Regional President of Daegon Gray, philanthropist. Tight features relaxed
and he coerced a false smile from his lips.
"Come."
The intern from
the mayor's office minced through the room reeking of Chanel and french fries.
"Yes, Miss
White?" Smooth, confident, and charismatic, that's what all the local
papers wrote about him. His warm, deep voice put people at ease. "How can
I help you, my dear?"
"M-m-m…Mr.
Gray, the reporters are st-still waiting, sir." Straight blond hair framed
an attractive face. She regarded him with bright-eyed innocence tinged with a
delicious helping of fear. "Are you r-r-ready to start the press
conference?"
Alexander
savored the uncomfortable silence when he did not answer immediately. Fresh. Young. Barely out of college. Dressed
in a grown-up's business suit and conservative heels. Even in the dim
lighting, he noted the slight tremble in her limbs and her delightful habit of
nibbling her lower lip. Mmmm. Her life
would taste sweet.
A slight buzz
tickled the back of his neck, but he ignored it. Not now.
"Yes, yes.
We can start." Alexander walked over, placed his hand on her lower back
and escorted her to the door.
The buzz
increased to a sustained tingle, urgent, insistent. I do not have time for this.
At the doorway Alexander
grabbed the back of his neck as it started to burn. "I am sorry,
sweetheart, but I need to make a call first. I will only be a few minutes."
He pushed her out and shut the door.
Snarling, he
strode to his antique mahogany desk, threw himself into the high-backed leather
chair and spun to the portraits on the wall. The largest, an older gentleman in
a high-collared black waistcoat and black cravat, hung in the center. Dark brown
eyes, small and deep-set, stared out from narrow, emaciated features under a
thin fringe of white stringy hair. Brown spots littered his pallid face like
dead leaves over old snow.
Alexander took
a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to calm his murderous thoughts, but
the intensity of the pain made it more difficult than usual. He had been told
his impatience would get the better of him and he didn't want to let on just
how frayed he was. Frustration, anger, anticipation—feelings of any kind were
considered flaws, and it would not do to show weakness in front of Bestok Molan.
Emotions masked.
Breathing and heartbeat normal. Body still and relaxed. He opened his eyes and
met the stare in the portrait.
"Yes, Father?"
A gnarled head pushed
out from the painting, stretching the canvas into three dimensions while the
background colors drained away. Bestok Molan's likeness blinked its black eyes
rapidly then jerked from side to side, searching. "You are alone?" A
breathy voice, like a harsh and well-articulated hiss, issued from the gaunt
visage. "I hear someone."
With the
contact established, Alexander's pain dissipated and he stifled a relieved moan.
"That is only the television, Father." Calm, flat and deferential. No
hint of emotion.
"Television."
The Gray Lord spat the word out as if it were a rat hair in his porridge. "The
harvest is progressing, no?"
"Yes, Father."
"Good. Good."
Thin, dry lips over-enunciated every word. "Tell me."
"The club
has been operational for four months and produces two hundred shadow orbs per
week."
Bestok Molan's
dead eyes flickered, and his upper lip twitched. "That few?"
"If we
drain any more of the people's energy, they will feel it. It would not take
them long, even as simple-minded as they are, to trace it back to us. With the
current harvest setting, they go home feeling weak and tired, which they
attribute to a hard night of revelry." He gripped the arms of his chair. "As
it is, the stupid sheep have no idea we are sucking out their very life
essence."
The head behind
the canvas tilted. "So be it."
"Father? I
wish to test the orbs on something small."
"No."
"But are
we sure the death magic works? That the orbs can kill?" It galled Alexander,
this asking for permission to do what should be a natural act for any Shadow
Lord.
Bestok Molan
pushed his bulbous head further into the room, testing the strength of the
canvas, and the temperature dropped thirty degrees in less than a heartbeat.
"Do not
question me again, boy." An evil grin split the Gray Lord's face. "Or
have you forgotten the last time?"
"No, Father."
Alexander's words puffed out in a white mist as he flexed the fingers on both
hands. The painful memories of that first and only time haunted the dark
recesses of his mind. Changing the subject and, hopefully, the homicidal
atmosphere, he steered back to the plan. "The orbs will be ready when you
need them."
"They had
better be." Bestok Molan melded into the painting.
"And when
is that?" Alexander knew he was pushing his luck, but could not help
himself. The lack of inactivity made him reckless.
"When I am
ready." Bestok Molan's head flattened out and the background colors
reappeared, but the distant hiss carried one more message before fading,
"Wait."
I hate that word.
The portrait
was solid again, ugly.
Alexander also
hated that picture, and those of his three brothers to either side.
"I am
tired of waiting." Alexander got to his feet, strolled back to the window,
and clasped his hands behind his back.
Another light
knock sounded. His hand rose out of reflex, enwrapped in rippling gray shadow, but
he stopped before he blasted the door with a bolt of dark energy. It was a close
call. He needed an outlet for his frustration, or he would explode and take out
Tampa in a shadowy swirl of death and destruction.
That's what he
should be doing, bending the world around him to his will and that of Bestok
Molan's.
But the old Gray Lord says, 'Wait.' I have waited centuries
for his grand plan to take shape, bounced from one menial post to another. I had
hoped this time would be different, but it does not look promising. He preaches
that the world must not know of our existence until we are ready to strike.
That there is no need to alert the sheep that greater powers exist, for it
would give them time to prepare. It is tough enough evading the Knights'
constant vigil, let alone the billions of mortals on this world.
Billions. Their numbers are too vast. Time to cull the
flock.
The knock
sounded again and he turned toward the door with a broad, friendly smile
plastered across his face.
"Come in,
Miss White."
As the door
opened, he swooped to her side and took her hand. "After the press
conference, how about we get a drink? I know a little pla—"
Alexander's
cell phone rang.
"Excuse me, my
dear. I have to take this
Author Bio:
Since he was a kid, Scott wanted
to be an author. Through the years, fantastic tales of nobility and strife,
honor and chaos dominated his thoughts. After twenty years mired in the
corporate machine, he broke free to bring those stories to life.
Scott
lives with his wife and two children on the west coast of Florida.
Log Line:
Tainted by the very
element he's supposed to control, an elemental Knight must overcome a centuries-old
tragedy and find the balance to his fire-stoked rage to prevent his clandestine
Order's ancient enemy from destroying all life in modern-day Tampa.
Synopsis:
Fire. The most chaotic of the primal elements. When wielded properly by
the Knight of Flame, it burns like the sun. Otherwise, it slowly consumes the
Knight, burning away his control, driving him towards dark deeds.
Stationed in Tampa, FL,
Develor Quinteele, sixth Knight of Flame, waits impatiently for the predicted emergence
of the last Gray Lord, his Order's ancient enemy. Hampered by a centuries-old
tragedy, Dev knows of only one way to control his elemental power—rage. It
broils just below his surface, waiting for the slightest provocation to set it
alight.
Anticipating Dev's transition
from asset to liability, his commander assigns a young guardian, Wren, to
report on Dev's actions. Torn between duty and love, Wren struggles to save her
Knight; but, after a brutal attack by the Gray Lord's minions for which Dev is
wrongly blamed, he's stripped of his freedom until he regains control.
With the help of his
fellow Knights, can Dev regain his balance and unlock his full elemental potential
in time to prevent the destruction of all life in Tampa?
Superstar Quote:
"In Knight of Flame Scott re-imagines
traditional fantasy and forges something new from old metal--a fast-paced
thriller that delivers a healthy dose of wonder. As enjoyable as it is
engrossing." - David Farland, International Best-Selling Author of The Runelords
Link to First Five Chapters:
Buy Links:
Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/knight-of-flame-scott-eder/1116911291
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Knight-Flame-Knights-Elementalis-ebook/dp/B00F7SXQ8I/
Contact Links:
Website: www.scotteder.net
Twitter: @Scotteder
Scott - thanks for being here with us today on Murder By 4!
ReplyDeleteHi Aaron,
ReplyDeleteYou're quite welcome, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to present Knight of Flame to your followers.
Have fun,
Scott
I love this first chapter! Dev is one of the hottest fantasy heroes out there. Literally! LOL. I have now officially purchased this book and can't wait to read it!
ReplyDelete