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Excerpt: Winter's Demon by Eric R. Asher

by - 12:30 AM


Winter’s Demon (Vesik Series # 3) by Eric R. Asher

Some things can never be undone. The horrors I've defeated—or even caused—with my own hands … they are nothing compared to what’s coming. Philip Pinkerton has brought his madness upon my family, my own blood. His army of necromancers is on the move, harbingers of a great darkness. I fear the war has begun ... and damn, I don't get paid enough for this.




Hi guys! Today I have an excerpt for you. This one is from the book Days Gone Bad, which is the first in this series. Enjoy!

Foster’s howl shattered the night. It grew into a scream as his body began to glow. Swirls of orange and red flickered into being around him, spinning faster and growing thicker as he called on the wild fae. A swirling sphere of color like the storm clouds of Jupiter swallowed the van and Foster with it. The entire scene burst into a nova of flame and I closed my eyes against the light, the blast of heat hitting me like a desert wind. Foster’s scream fell silent. I heard his sword slide out of its sheath as he stepped from the smoke and flame. His body and wings were covered in soot, but no burns marred his flesh.
The smell hit me as the wards were dissolved by the fae-powered flames. The stench of burning skin and hair was overwhelming. I stepped away from the inferno, blinked a few times, and followed Foster into the garage.
“What will the authorities find?” I said.
“Nothing but a burned out van.” Foster’s voice was dead, his knuckles stark white with the pressure he put on the hilt of his sword.



I was standing outside the birdcage in the dead of night with a tiny ghost holding my hand and a seven-foot fairy watching our backs. I closed my eyes and focused, gathering up a glowing ball of fae before sending it out in a pulse of power across the park. It wasn’t aimed at just any dead; it was aimed at attracting the attention of one particular ghost. It didn’t take long.
The little girl at my side squealed as Happy came bounding through the bars of the birdcage, much to the chagrin of the scattering birds.
Happy pulled up about six inches in front of us. I held up another ball of energy and the spirit quaffed it down before I started scratching his ears. “Hey buddy, still terrorizing the birds, huh?” He leaned into the ear scratching and grunted.
“That is so wrong,” Foster said.
I turned to the little girl. She clung tightly to the back of my leg. Happy pushed his head between my legs and I heard another squeal. So, there I was, with a fairy laughing at me, a ghost panda between my legs, and a little girl unwilling to relinquish her death grip on me while she tried to get away from Happy.

About the Author
Eric is a former bookseller, guitarist, and comic seller currently living in Saint Louis, Missouri. A lifelong enthusiast of books, music, toys, and games, he discovered a love for the written word after being dragged to the library by his parents at a young age. When he is not writing, you can usually find him reading, gaming, or buried beneath a small avalanche of Transformers.

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