Hello and welcome to my stop on Meg Whitlock's Virtual Book Tour for The Darkman's Son. Meg was kind enough to do a guest post below. Please be sure to leave a comment below as Meg will be awarding 1 eBook copy of The Dark Man's son to each of fifteen (15) randomly drawn commenters during her tour. Please make sure to enter the Rafflecopter form below and follow her tour stops here. The more often you comment, the better your odds at winning a copy of her book.
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Title:
The Dark Man's Son (Guardian Chronicles, Part 1)
Author: Meg
Whitlock
Publisher: Self
Length: Approx.
385 pages
Genres: Historical
Paranormal/Fantasy Fiction
AVAILABLE AT:
BLURB:
She claimed
the muggers were demons, but of course Jason didn’t believe her. At first.
When a
mysterious woman appears in a dirty alley to rescue Jason Latimer from a pair
of muggers, he tries to write her off as a garden variety lunatic. But he can’t
shake the memory of her intense green eyes that seemed to flash gold, or the
glowing sword she’d worn on her hip.
She calls
herself Alex (no last name) like she’d made it up on the spot, and she offers
Jason her protection. From what, she can’t or won’t say. He refuses, and that
night he dreams of a dark man with the same offer. His black eyes flash blood
and garnet, and he smells of burning things. Jason refuses him, too.
A chance
meeting brings Alex and Jason together again, and she tells him of the
Guardians: two immortal beings created near the beginning of time with the
express purpose of fighting for mortal-kind’s soul. She is Light, and the man
from Jason’s dream is Dark. Jason must choose, because Lucifer, for reasons
purely his own, has unleashed the armies of Hell to hunt Jason down.
But there
are things about Jason that not even he knows, and he’ll face hard truths and
bitter choices as he struggles to find his place in a world redefined. Will he
rise to the challenge, or, when the time comes, will he falter?
From
Renaissance Florence to the French Revolution, from World War II to the modern
streets of New Orleans, The Dark Man’s Son
is a riveting journey filled with unforgettable characters, wry humor, dark
twists, and a touch of romance.
EXTENDED
EXCERPT:
He turned
away from the door with an angry huff of breath, and she followed him inside.
Closed the door behind them. “The library’s through here,” he grumbled. “Do you
really know anything about old books, or was this whole thing just some weird
set-up?”
She
followed him down the short hall and lingered in the library’s doorway to get a
good look at the room. “That would be an elaborate plan, even for me,” she
said, her eyes trained on the sprawling shelves. “No, the bookstore you called
is mine, and I’m the one who does all the appraisals. When I saw your name in
the appointment book…well, I figured it was just a funny little twist of fate.”
“Fate has a
pretty messed up sense of humor.”
Her gaze
moved to rest on him for the first time since they’d come into the library.
“Yes. But she’s also a stubborn bitch, and arguing with her is futile. So here
I am.”
He crossed
his arms over his broad chest and leaned back against the desk. Dark blue eyes
narrowed as he watched her set the briefcase on the table and begin to unpack
its contents. “Your brother says hi.”
She froze,
though only for a moment. “Does he?” she said. He sensed the strain in her
voice as she struggled to sound casual; her hands trembled; she wouldn’t meet
his eyes. “And how did you two get on?”
Jason gave
a lazy shrug. “Not so well, actually. He’s sorta pushy.”
She snorted
and seemed to relax. “Nailed it. He’s very impatient, and very ruthless. I am a
bit surprised he found you so quickly, though.” She pulled on a pair of white
cotton gloves and flashed him a smile. “Where would you like to begin?”
“Are you
serious about this?”
“You made
an appointment, Jason. You obviously have need of my services,” she said with a
gesture that encompassed the neat stacks and the mess he’d already made. “I
wouldn’t think our prior meeting should have any impact on a possible business
relationship, should it?”
“I’m sorry,
I just…this is all a bit too weird for me.” He rubbed the tattoo on his upper
arm like he did when he was anxious or deep in thought. She caught the gesture,
and her eyes narrowed.
“Interesting
tattoo,” she said.
“Huh? Oh,
yeah. I designed it myself.”
“Did you?”
she murmured. “Hmm.” She took a few steps closer, and the whisper-soft feel of
her gloved fingers against his skin surprised him. “What was your inspiration?”
“Um, you
know, just…life? I don’t know, really. I wanted a tattoo, and I wanted
something different. I sat down and started doodling, and this is what I came
up with.”
“Hm,” she
said again. Her expression turned quizzical, and she cocked her head to the
side like a curious bird. “What do you do, Jason? When you’re not being
attacked by demons or overwhelmed by an old man’s minutiae, I mean.”
He had to
smile at the way she phrased it; it was the first genuine smile he could
remember since hearing about his grandfather’s death. His navy eyes warmed and
a dimple appeared in his left cheek; a shallower one flashed on the right. Her
own mouth curved helplessly in response. “What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothing,”
he said with a shake of his head. “Everything. I don’t know. But to answer your
original question, I work with wood. I guess you could call me a carpenter.”
“Like my
brother,” she said.
“That
creepy guy’s a carpenter?”
She made an
impatient gesture. “No, of course not. My other brother.”
Somehow his
mind made the impossible leap, and shook his head again at this new madness.
“You’re insane. Are you trying to tell me your brother—”
“I’m a
child of the Divine,” she said in that same serene, implacable tone. “So was
he. Different, of course, but the same.” She shrugged a little. “There were
many before him, a few since, and there will be more. It’s just the way of
things.”
He didn’t
have an answer to this, but she didn’t seem to expect one. “The creature you
met last night—what did he call himself?”
“Luke.”
Her
expression turned sour. “Of course he would. Luke. He employs a
thousand tiny cruelties. Do me a favor: next time you see him—and there will be
a next time, I’m sure of it—call him Cassius.”
Her eyes seemed over-bright, and her next words were brisk. “As for carpentry,
he’s incapable of creating anything. He exists only to rot and destroy.”
“He called
you a bringer of nightmares.”
She
wandered away and began to carefully sort through some of the books he’d culled
from the deeper parts of the library. “Yes. He would. To his kind, I am a
nightmare.”
Jason ran
frustrated hands through his hair; scraped it back off his forehead and tugged
hard. “Could you please just explain to me what you are? I’ve been trying to
find some sort of clue, but it’s like no one has ever heard of you.”
“I told you
last night that we keep a low profile. It’s necessary when you’ve existed…as
long as we have.”
“Enough
with the riddles, lady—Claire or Alex, whatever your name is! I’m tired of
these mind games. I just want a straight answer.”
She cleared
her throat and stroked a leather binding. “Your grandfather seems to have an
extensive collection of books on demonology, mythology, and religion.”
“Yeah, I
noticed that. So?”
“Some of
these are quite rare. Look at this. I haven’t seen one of these in centuries.”
She held up a thick book, its binding dark and cracking with age, but Jason
ignored it.
“You
mean…no one’s seen one of those in centuries. Like…reports and stuff haven’t
mentioned it. Not you, personally.”
Her jade
eyes—flashing gold, like he’d noticed last night—met his, and the expression
there terrified him. “I’m a daughter of the Divine, Jason. Do you have any idea
what means?”
“Obviously
I don’t. Why do you think I’ve been begging you for a little clarification?”
Her mouth
lifted at one corner. “You won’t believe me.”
“I already
don’t believe half the stuff you say. I don’t know how much worse it could
get.”
She turned
away and very deliberately set the delicate old book back on the table. When
she faced him again, her eyes were entirely gold, no trace of the green. Jason
blinked. “Your…eyes…? What…?” A trick of the light, it had to be.
“It’s not a
trick, Jason.” She took a step toward him, and he pushed away from the desk and
backed up. She kept advancing; he kept retreating. She stopped and sighed.
“You’ve no reason to fear me.”
“You’re
joking, right? I watched you beat up a guy three times your size. I met that
freak show who calls himself your brother. Now you’re standing in my
grandfather’s library with color-change eyes claiming that you remember a book
from centuries
ago. Either one of us is seriously unhinged—”
“Or it’s
all true,” she said gently.
“I was
gonna say ‘or we both are’.”
She pulled
the desk chair out for him. “Sit down, Jason.” She claimed one of the chairs
near the fireplace and dragged it closer. “We need to have a serious talk.”
REVIEWS:
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Meg
Whitlock has been writing nearly all her life, and she’s glad she finally got
over her laziness and wrote the book she’s been dreaming about for years. She
graduated from Queens University of Charlotte with a BA in Comparative Arts
with an Art History specialization and an Ancient History minor…which is a
mouthful no matter how you say it. She has four cats (including an invisible
one), a car named Babar, and a vivid imagination.
In 2001 her
one-act play, “The Shoebox,” was produced by Catawba College in Salisbury, NC
and presented at the American College Theatre Festival. She was honored by
Art:21 and the Mint Museum of Art for her essay “Kara Walker: Using Stereotypes
to Provoke Thought,” and she’s won awards for both her fiction and non-fiction
writing.
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