Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel by James A. Hunter: Character Interview

Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel

The Yancy Lazarus Series, Episode 2

James A. Hunter

Genre: Adult Urban Fantasy

Publisher: Shadow Alley Press

Date of Publication: May 22, 2015

ISBN: 978-1514234266

ASIN: B00WDQCY30

Number of pages: 415

Word Count: 111,000

Cover Artist: Dane, EbookLaunch.com

Book Description:

PRAISE FOR COLD HEARTED:

Yancy Lazarus is back and facing off against his most dangerous foe yet—without the benefit of his magic. A breakneck thriller that'll keep you turning the pages!

—Sam Witt, Author of Half-Made Girls (Pitchfork County Novels)

Yancy Lazarus just wants to be left alone. He wants to play his blues music, smoke a few cigarettes, and otherwise leave the supernatural world to fend for itself.

He especially wants to be left alone by the Guild of the Staff—the mage ruling body—where he used to work as a Fix-It man. But when a little kid gets nabbed by an ancient Fae creature from the nether regions of Winter and the Guild refuses to set things right, he just can’t seem to heed good sense and leave things be.

Nothing’s ever easy though. Turns out, the kidnapping is just the tip of one big ol’ iceberg of pain and trouble. It seems some nefarious force is working behind the scenes to try and unhinge the tenuous balance between the supernatural nations and usher in a new world order. So now, if Yancy ever hopes to see the bottom of another beer bottle, he’s gonna have to partner up with an FBI agent—an agent who’s been hunting him for years—in order to bring down a nigh-immortal, douchebag mage from a different era. And to top it off, Yancy’s gonna have to pull it off without his magical powers … Boy, some days just aren’t worth getting out of bed for.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE:

Spelunking

The tunnel stretched out before me like the throat of some monstrous serpent, icy blue walls radiating pale witchlight to guide my feet. I shuffled along the winding pathway, trying for speed and failing miserably. There was snow underfoot, but the powder was often interspersed with patches of slick ice, which made the going treacherous as hell. It didn’t help a lick that my feet were so numb I couldn’t feel my toes, even though I had on heavy boots and thermal socks. Every friggin’ step felt like a crapshoot and I wasn’t quite sure how the dice would land.

I heard a howl from somewhere back in the darkness, a warbling noise that echoed and bounced around the narrow tunnel. I glanced back for a moment, which is precisely when my feet skidded out from under me and I went down hard, my ass connecting on the slippery ground below. My hip ached from the tumble, but at least my head landed in a pile of snow instead of on hard ground. I lay there for a moment, staring up at the curved ceiling, simmering in indignation.

Why me? Why couldn’t I ever just keep my head down and mind my own friggin’ business? I felt like kicking my own ass for being such a gullible, softhearted mook. Shit, the least I could do was be a little more selective. Tell people I’d only do them favors if the location was somewhere nice and beautiful … like say, sunny, sandy, not-cold-as-balls Honolulu.

I guess, technically, Thurak-Tir—home to the High Fae of the Winterlands—was a beautiful-ish place, so long as you’re the kind of person who doesn’t mind the arctic tundra of Siberia. The buildings are impressive at least: slick spires of frost, carved and sculpted into a thousand wonders; a house fashioned to resemble a frozen waterfall; a palace made of snow and crystalline-rime in the image of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life; a tower in the shape of a serpentine neck, complete with scales, topped by a massive dragon’s head. Under the light of day, the whole city sparkles like a diamond, and at night beautiful slashes of green and gold drift through the air, a semi-permanent Aurora Borealis. 

But it’s also piss-freezing cold and only beautiful in the way a statue is—lifeless, still, too perfect. And the residents are all the same. Bunch of too-good-for-you, cold-hearted pricks. I absolutely hate Thurak-Tir. Give me a warm New Orleans night in a dirty bar with a crowd of shit-faced hobos any day of the week.

Down in the subterranean caverns below the city, where I happened to be trudging around, was even worse. Monsters, spirits, and a whole lot of frigid air. The light of day never penetrated these depths, so the cold … well, the cold seemed both malevolent and alive, like some frostbite-belching yeti.

More yowls and howls, followed by cackling laughter: Ice gnomes—not nearly as cute or cuddly as they sound—closing in, and fast. Time to move.

I scrambled onto my hands and knees, gaining my feet like a clumsy toddler taking his first steps, and shambled away from the chorus of mocking laughter. Creepy little twerps.

If I was going to make it out of this place in one piece, I needed better lighting. Thankfully, I’ve got something a little handier than a flashlight. I can do magic, and not the cheap stuff you see in Vegas with flowers or floating cards or disappearing stagehands. People like me, who can touch the Vis, can do real magic. Although magic isn’t the right word—magic is a Rube word for those not in-the-know. Users just call it the Vis, an old Latin word meaning force or energy. Simply put, there are energies out there, underlying matter, existence, and in fact, all Creation. It just so happens that I can manipulate that energy. Period. End of story.

I paused for a moment, and opened myself to the Vis. Power rolled into me like magma from an active volcano, heat and life and energy filling me up, sending renewed strength into my limbs. I was careful only to draw a little and push the rest away—unchecked, the Vis can be as seductive and dangerous as a beautiful woman with a grudge.

Weaves of fire and air flowed out around me as I shaped that raw force; a soft nimbus of orange light encircled me, granting both better visibility and a small pocket of comforting warmth. Sure, it would make me stand out like a dirty redneck at a posh country club, but there was nothing I could do about that.     

I got moving again, huffing and puffing my way along. More frenzied cries floated toward me from the tunnel twisting away behind. I needed to move faster, but the gloom still hampered my progress, forcing me to slow down and take my time. Even with the combined illumination from my construct and the ghostly witchlight bleeding from the walls, I could only see a few feet out. This was a night place, a dark place that fought the intrusion of light and heat with tooth and nail.

Even going sloth-speed, I almost didn’t see the cliff until my feet were over the edge. I hollered and threw on the brakes in a panic—digging in with my heels and pinwheeling my arms as I fell once more onto my back. I landed with a whuff of expelled air and immediately sprawled out my arms and legs. The greater surface area seemed to slow me down a little, but not enough. My legs skittered over the side, drawing me onward and downward. I clawed at the unyielding ice with numb fingers, my thin winter gloves making it all the more difficult.

I pulled more power, more Vis, into my body, and pushed thin strands of fire out through my fingertips. Small divots blossomed into the ice-covered surface of the floor, little grooves where my digits could find purchase.

Unfortunately my gloves began to smolder from the flame, the leather sending up curls of gray smoke. I ignored the heat—survival was my first priority. I dug in, giving it everything I had, arms and hands straining with the effort.

At last I skidded to a halt, my slide coming to a premature stop though it was a damn close thing. The tension in my arms and hands eased up as I slowly, carefully, pulled my hips and legs back from the drop-off, though my feet still dangled out in the air. Past the drop-off was blackness all the way down with no bottom in sight. Admittedly, the soft glow surrounding my body didn’t do much to diminish the gloom. Hell, the bottom could’ve been ten feet down or ten thousand. Better not to find out by taking a leap.

My heart thudded hard against my ribs. I’m not exactly afraid of heights, mind you, but anyone would be apprehensive about the prospect of careening off a cliff into potentially unending blackness. I took one more glance over the edge and uttered a sigh of relief. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.  

I heard a hoot of mirth just a second before something hard and heavy collided into my back—a wallop right between my aching shoulder blades.

My fingers tore free of their meager holds and over the drop-off I went, manic gnome laughter filling my ears as I fell. I tumbled down and down, flipping through the air like a fumbled football. I caught just a brief glimpse of a short, knobby form peering over the edge, his whole stumpy body shaking as he cackled. Asshole gnomes.

I lashed out with air—great columns of the stuff—directed down to slow my descent. That was a start, but the construct wouldn’t keep me from getting impaled on a giant icicle or busting my guts open on a rocky outcropping.

So next, I pulled in strands of artic cold, weaves of spirit and reinforced bands of fae power, floating through the air like so much dust. A shimmering bubble of green—shifting from emerald to pine to jade and back again—snapped into place with an effort of will, encompassing me in a tight globe of power, exerting a slight pressure on my body. A small safeguard against pointy things and an air pocket to cushion my body from the inevitable impact.

Splash-thud. 

Author Bio

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thailand. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

You can visit me to find out more at 

Facebook    Twitter     Website 

Author Message

Hey folks, my name is James A. Hunter and I’m an Urban Fantasy writer, not that you’ll catch me making that confession in public. I’m the author of the Golem Chronicles—starring a dysfunctional, socially awkward, vigilante, shapeshifting golem—and the Yancy Lazarus series, which revolves around the adventures and various shenanigans of Yancy Lazarus, a magical, wet-works man turned rambling blues hound. I’d like to thank Diane for inviting me on to her wonderful blog.

Character Interview  

Please welcome Yancy from James A. Hunter's Cold Hearted to Diane’s Book Blog. 

What is your name? Do you have a nickname?

Name’s Yancy Lazarus—bluesman, rambler, magical wet-works man for the Guild of the Staff. Well, former wet-works man, I suppose, since I’ve technically been outta the game for fifteen-years or so, though, you’d never guess it by all the douche-holes constantly trying to fit me for a toe-tag.

How old are you?

It’s rude to ask how old someone is, you know that, right? Not that I really care, understand, I’m just laying it out there. Anywho, I’m sixty-seven, old-enough to collect retirement benefits, but for a mage, that’s still pretty spry. Not a young-buck, not anymore, but not golden-oldies territory. We live a long time—three, four-hundred years sometimes—so late sixties put’s me firmly in my prime and into the realm of unruly mage teenager. And I sure-as-shit don’t look sixty-seven, I can pass for early-forties, if you don’t look too closely.

Where were you born? Where have you lived since then? Where do you currently call home?

Plentywood, Montana, little dirt-speck of a place, but mostly I grew up poor on the outskirts of Raleigh, North Carolina. My Pop was a gambler—like his pa before him—though he wasn’t a particularly successful one, a big part of the reason we were so poor. When my old man wasn’t betting the ponies or playing poker over at the VFW hall, he and Mom, along with the family, ran a little barbeque joint. Made some mean ol’ ribs. We’d called those bad-boys Last Meal Ribs, ’cause if you were about to hang or fry, those were the last thing you’d want to taste.

I’ve lived a lot of places since then. Did time over in Okinawa, Japan, back in ’68 that was, stationed at Camp Butler with the 3^rd Battalion 3^rd Marines. That was before Nam. Since then I’ve been all over the place, though my heart belongs to the Big Easy—nothing I love better than, blues, booze, artery-clogging BBQ, and smoky bars. And that? That’s the heart and soul of New Orleans. These days, though, I don’t have a permeant home per say, since I’m basically an itinerant hobo, living out of the back of my car, gambling for beer money.

What is your most treasured possession?

Puff, easy-peasy. Seriously, complete no-brainer.

My single most treasured possession is my car, which conveniently doubles as my place of residence: a midnight blue ’86 El Camino with a high-gloss, black camper shell attached to the back of the truck bed. Yeah, you heard that right—an El Camino with a camper shell. At first it might sound a little funky, but believe you me, it’s one sweet ride and it’s about a gajillion times cooler than having a stupid apartment.

I mean, the camper shell doesn’t have a shower or toilet, so it doesn’t make a proper home, but it does give me a nice little nook to keep my gear and catch a long blink once in a while.

And it’s a beast—a 355 Chevy small block, turbo 350 transmission, posi-track rear differential. Absolute beast. Fast, mobile, badass-squared and she can take me pretty much anywhere I please. I’d also bet dollars to donuts that my home can beat your home in a car race any day of the week.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?

Hoo-boy, now this question is a bit of a sore spot for me. Used to be, I had a lady in my life, Ailia. A real sweetheart. Back before I left the Guild, she and I had been working an op in the court of the High Tuatha De Danann: ye olde Irish gods of badassery. A fairly straight forward recovery mission—supposed to get back an MIA Guild ambassador—but things … let’s just say they went south. Real south. Like all the way to hell, south. Long story short, the Morrigan, war goddess and all around hardass, ended up possessing Ailia. Now she wears her body around like a bad Halloween costume.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

I’m sorta well known for my colorful vocabulary, so the phrases I must overuse are variations on ass, douche, dick, shit, turd. The basics really. For example, ass-hat, douche-nozzle, dick-cheese, shit-stick, turd-bag, and endless creative variations thereof. What can I say, I am what I am, alright?

What is your motto?

Mottos. Man do I love mottos. Matter of fact, choosing just one is a tricky bit of business. Let’s see—“improvise, adapt, and overcome,” is always a favorite of mine; it’s an oldie but a goodie, straight out of the Marine Corps playbook. I’m also a big fan of the motto, “pragmatism over heroism.” Heroism, isn’t really my bag, since idiot heroes die all the time doing idiotic, asinine hero things, and I like not being murdered horribly. And, as a rule of thumb, ruthless pragmatists have much better odds at survival, so for me it’s pragmatism over heroism all the way down.   

Strange Magic by James A. Hunter: Interview

Strange Magic:

A Yancy Lazarus Novel

Pilot Episode

Yancy Lazarus Series, Book One

James A. Hunter

Genre: Urban Fantasy

Publisher: Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

Date of Publication: January 16th, 2015

ISBN: 978-1507706923

ASIN: B00R7QEFN8

Number of pages: 221

Word Count: 75,000

Book Description:

Yancy Lazarus is having a bad day: there’s a bullet lodged in his butt cheek, his face looks like the site of a demolition derby, and he’s been saran-wrapped to a banquet table. He never should have answered the phone. Stupid bleeding heart—helping others in his circles is a good way to get dead.

Just ask the gang members ripped to pieces by some kind of demonic nightmare in LA. As a favor to a friend, Yancy agrees to take a little looksee into the massacre and boom, he’s stuck in a turf war between two rival gangs, which both think he’s pinch-hitting for the other side. Oh, and there’s also a secretive dark mage with some mean ol’ magical chops and a small army of hyena-faced, body-snatching baddies. It might be time to seriously reconsider some of his life choices.

Yancy is a bluesman, a rambler, a gambler, but not much more. Sure, he can do a little magic—maybe even more than just a little magic—but he knows enough to keep his head down and stay clear of freaky-deaky hoodoo like this business in LA. Somehow though, he’s been set up to take a real bad fall—the kind of very permanent fall that leaves a guy with a toe tag. Unless, of course, he can find out who is responsible for the gangland murders, make peace in the midst of the gang feud, and take out said dark mage before he hexes Yancy into an early retirement. Easy right? Stupid. Bleeding. Heart.

Available at Amazon

PRAISE FOR STRANGE MAGIC:

"Move over Harry Dresden because there's a new wizard in town. Yancy Lazarus a chain-smoking, take no prisoners S.O.B. with a heart of gold and a fistful of primal power. A stellar debut novel from James Hunter, the next big name in Urban Fantasy."  —Rick Gualtieri, Author of Bill the Vampire (The Tome of Bill) 

Excerpt

The piano keys bobbed and danced under the pressure of my fingers. Music—low, slow, and soulful—drifted through the club, merging and twirling with wandering clouds of blue-gray smoke. So many places have no-smoking laws these days, it seems like there’s nowhere in the country where a guy can take a drag from a cigarette in peace. Everyone is so worried about their health, they make damn sure you stay healthy by proxy.

Not Nick’s Smoke House, though. Nick’s—like some rare, near extinct animal—is the kind of bar where you can die unmolested by laws or ordinances. You can burn yourself up with cancer, drown yourself into liver failure, or binge on a plate of ribs until a heart attack takes you cold, and no one will say boo. And you can die to music here: the beautiful, lonely, brassy beats, of the like only ever found in New Orleans.

The house band was on a break, so I sat thumping out an old Ray Charles tune in the interim while I watched the man standing offstage in a pool of inky shadow.

I’d never met the guy before, but I instinctively knew he was looking for me, or rather The Fixer—a shitty alias I’ve been trying to ditch for years. It was in the way he stood: chest forward, back straight, arms crossed, chin outthrust. He was a man used to intimidating others, used to being obeyed. In short, he was a thug. A thug sporting an expensive suit, a three-thousand dollar watch, and a pair of loafers that probably cost more than most people paid on rent. At the end of the day, though, he was still just a thug—somebody else’s trained pit bull.

I don’t know why, but thugs are always looking for The Fixer. Either they’ve got something that needs fixing or they’re looking to fix me. I didn’t know whether this guy wanted option A or option B, but I figured he’d get around to it in his own sweet time. So, instead of tipping my hand prematurely, I continued to pound out melodies on the black and whites. My Ray Charles faded out, and I started up a gritty, ambling version of Meade “Lux” Lewis’ famous “Honky Tonk Train Blues.”

My left hand hammered out the thudding, rhythmic, rock-steady pulse of a driving train pushing its bulk across the rolling open space of some forgotten Midwest wilderness; the bass notes offered a mimicry of the ebb and flow of pumping gears. My right hand flitted across the keys, touching down here and there, sending up a rusty whistle blowing in the night. The dusty clatter of track switches being thrown. The braying of hounds, while bullyboys searched for stowaways. If there was ever a song to make a man dance his way onto the boxcar of a rolling train, it was this funky ol’ honky-tonk rhythm.

I let the beat roll on, hoping the thug would hop and jive his way right out of Nick’s Smoke House and out of my life, no harm, no foul. Though a whole helluva lot a people think of me as The Fixer, really I’m just an old rambler trying to get by and enjoy the time I have on this spinning little mud ball. All I wanted was for this overdressed clown to walk away and leave me be.

The man in the black suit just glared at me like I’d offered him an insult, and I knew then things would not end well between us. Still, I mostly ignored him. I should’ve been worried, but I wasn’t.

I’ve been around for a good long while, and I don’t scare easy.

After what felt like an age, the hulking suit stepped up to the stage and into a pool of soft amber light, illuminating his features for the first time. He was enormous, six and a half feet of pro wrestling muscle, with a pushed-in nose and military cropped blond hair. His face was a mosaic of scars, though the thick tissue on his knuckles put them all to shame. One meaty paw lifted back a coat lapel, revealing the glint of chromed metal: a Colt 1911.

A Colt 1911 is a big gun, not the kind of thing a person normally chooses as a concealed carry. The things are too large to conceal easily, and they can be awkward to draw on the fly, so he probably wasn’t here to assassinate me. A pro assassin would never have used something as ostentatious and conspicuous as this McGoon’s 1911. A hitter would’ve chosen a sleek, nondescript .22. The kind of gun that’s easy to hide, would go off unnoticed, get the job done without much mess, and could be disposed of in a dumpster somewhere. This guy’s choice of weapon told me he was intimidating muscle, but likely better with his fists than with his piece.

“Yancy Lazarus?” he asked with a low voice like grating cement. “You the guy who fixes things?”

Yep, a thug.

I could’ve denied it, but the guy had found me fair and square, so it was safe to assume he already knew the answer. I nodded my head a fraction of an inch. That was all. I went right on playing as though I hadn’t noticed his veiled threat or didn’t care. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not suicidal and I’m not a pompous jackass—at least that’s not how I see myself—but I knew I could take this guy. I had an edge, although Macho Man Hulk in the other corner didn’t know it.

I can do magic and not the cheap kind of stuff you see in Vegas with flowers, or floating cards, or disappearing stagehands. People like me, who can touch the Vis, can do real magic. Although magic isn’t the right word: magic is a Rube word, for those not in the know, which is precisely why we who practice call it the Vis in the first place. Vis is an old Latin word meaning force or energy, nothing fancy about it.

There are energies out there, underlying matter, existence, and in fact, all Creation. As it happens, I can manipulate that energy. Period. End of story.

Author Bio

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—‘cause that’s a real thing. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I work as a missionary and international aid worker with my wife and young daughter in Bangkok, Thailand. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep. Strange Magic is the first novel in the Yancy Lazarus series—the third, full-length novel, Wendigo Rising, just released on November 3rd, 2015.

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Interview 

Please welcome Strange Magic author James A. Hunter to Diane’s Book Blog. 

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also an Urban Fantasy writer—not that you’ll catch me making that confession in public. I’m the author of the Yancy Lazarus series, which follows around Yancy Lazarus, a magical, wet-works man turned rambling bluesman. Before we jump into the interview, I’d just like to say thanks to Diane for having me on her blog.

1. How long did it take you to write Strange Magic?

Strange Magic, the first book in the Yancy Lazarus series, took about a year to write and produce (editing, cover art, etc). But Strange Magic wasn’t my first book. The first book I ever wrote took a grand total of four years—it was a terrible high/epic fantasy novel, which will never, ever, ever see the light of day. Suffice it to say, my first full-length novel was a great learning lesson in how not to write good fantasy. My second novel, an equally terrible horror story, took two years. Strange Magic was my third full-length book and it took a year, but my writing time has sped up considerably since then. The second and third books in the Yancy Lazarus series only took around four months each to produce from start to finish.

2. What is your favorite book that you wrote?     

Since I just finished writing Wendigo Rising, Yancy Lazarus Episode Three, that happens to be my favorite book. Really, though, it changes. I love all my books, but the one I’m working on is always the one closest to my heart. Plus, Wendigo Rising rocks harder than a 1980s big hair band. Murder and intrigue. Snake-faced, black-market organ harvesters. Epic music battles and hulking, sixty-foot fat monsters. Bigfoot. Yeah, it has everything, really.

3. Who or what inspired you to be a writer?

I’d like to shout out to my top three most influential authors. First, J. K. Rowling and the Harry Potter books: this series, more than anything else, influenced me to start reading as a young teen ager and got me hooked on the fantasy genre. Stephen King, and pretty much every book he’s ever written, has had a huge impact on me as a reader and writer. And, of course, Jim Butcher and the Dresden Files. These books introduced me to the Urban Fantasy genre and made me want to write in this genre, abandoning my original calling as a horror author.  

4. How do you overcome writer’s block?

For me, writer’s block has a simple solution: Sit in a room, by myself with a computer. I don’t have to write, but I can’t do anything else either. No Youtube. No Netflix. No internet (not even a quick glimpse at my email). No books. No music. Nothing but writing. After an hour or so, boredom takes over and voilà, no more writer’s block.

5. Can you share a little of your current work with us?

The third book in my Yancy Lazarus series, Wendigo Rising, just released a few days ago (November 3^rd), so I’ve decided to take a break and work on something else. Right now, I’m writing Mud-Man—an Urban Fantasy novel that takes place in the same universe as the Lazarus series, but which features a very different character. Here’s a little teaser:

Levi Adams is a soft spoken, middle-aged, Mennonite man—at least he tries to be when he’s not murdering people.

Levi’s a Golem, a Mud-man, crafted from the muck, mire, and corpses of a World War II concentration camp—killing is just a part of his DNA. He doesn’t like it, but unfortunately he’s been saddled with a divine commission to dole out judgement on those who shed innocent blood. After a lifetime as a cold-blooded, murder machine, however, Levi’s trying to change his grisly nature. And the AA meetings and church services are helping. A little. But when he runs across a wounded girl during one of his “hunting expeditions,” he realizes self-help may have to go on the backburner.

Someone is attempting to revive an ancient godling and the road to rebirth is paved with dead bodies. Lots and lots of them.

Now, Levi must protect the girl—the key to an unspeakable resurrection—and defeat a Nazi Mage from Levi’s murky past. But the shadowy Mage holds a terrible secret about the Mud-man’s unorthodox birth, one offering insight into Levi’s morbid compulsion for blood shed. It’s a secret Levi would pay anything to discover: maybe even the innocent girl in his care. If Levi isn’t careful, though, he may end up as the Mage’s final sacrifice.

6. What book are you reading now?

Currently, I’m reading Craig Schaefer’s Redemption Song (Daniel Faust Book 2), another in a long line of very well-written, urban-fantasy novels with a noir feel. If you’re a fan of gritty, fun Urban Fantasy, then I’d highly recommend the Daniel Faust Series.

7. Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

To all my readers and fans, I’d just like to say thank you! Seriously. Writing is an act of communication, and without people willing to read my stories, I’d just be an awkward guy shouting at an empty room. Knowing there are folks out in the world who enjoy my books makes writing worthwhile. So thank you. 

Wendigo Rsing: A Yancy Lazarus Novel by James A. Hunter

Wendigo Rising:

A Yancy Lazarus Novel, Episode Three

James A. Hunter

Genre: Urban Fantasy

Publisher: Shadow Alley Press

Date of Publication: November 3rd, 2015

ASIN: B0163REPD6

Number of pages: 400

Word Count: 110,000

Cover Artist: Dane EbookLaunch.com

Book Description:

Bigfoot is real. Yancy Lazarus—mage, bluesman, and rambler—knows because there happens to be a nine-foot-tall, walking myth standing in the road, flagging him down.

Yancy just can’t escape his reputation as a supernatural Fix-it man even when cruising through the forgotten backwoods of Montana. Turns out Bigfoot has a serious problem on his hands: one of his own has gone rogue, developing a taste for the flesh of humans and Sasquatch alike. A greater Wendigo has risen for the first time in thousands of years and if Yancy can’t stop the creature it could be a slaughter for the residents of a rural Montana town.

But even with the monstrous threat looming on the horizon, Yancy has bigger fish to fry. He’s working as an agent of Fate, attempting to put the kibosh on a nefarious scheme, aimed at upsetting the tenuous balance between the supernatural nations. When your boss is Lady Luck, however, nothing is ever left to chance, and his two cases may have more in common than it appears. If he can’t figure out the missing link it could usher in a new world order: an age of inhuman creatures and walking nightmares … one where Yancy Lazarus doesn’t exist.

Available at Amazon

Excerpt

Bigfoot is real. I know the existence of this nigh-mythical figure is pretty controversial in a lot of circles; tons of drunken bar brawls and fistfights have started over this very topic. Money, religion, politics, and Bigfoot: these are the things best avoided in polite conversation. Unless, of course, you want someone to punch you in the nose or call the men in white jackets. Don’t believe me? Next Thanksgiving, ask your assorted family members their thoughts on Bigfoot and see where the conversation goes. It’ll be entertaining, that much I can promise.

Me, though? I’ve never been one for polite conversation, and I’d love to see the crazy-police try to haul my ass in.

Plus, this isn’t some delusional, government-conspiracy, paranoia thing. I know Bigfoot is real. There was one standing in the road, flagging me down. 

Jeez, my life.

I’d glimpsed one years ago and at a distance. A rare encounter. The creatures—Chiye-tanka, for those in the know—are elusive as hell and covet their privacy like paparazzi-weary celebs, evidenced by the fact that no one has ever managed to get much on ’em despite what basically amounts to a nationwide ape hunt. They’re monstrously big and about as inconspicuous as a pro wrestler sporting a neon pink tutu, but they’re also faster than the Road Runner high on speed, uncannily quiet, and boast some crazy-impressive skills with illusion and glamour constructs.

Apparently, the creature standing in the road was the slow kid in the class, the one sitting in the corner with the dunce cap, because this big, hairy roadblock was taking approximately zero percent of the usual Bigfoot evasive precautions. Might as well have been wearing a road guard vest and waving a friggin’ hand flare. 

He was colossal, nine feet easy, all mud-colored hair and muscle. Lots and lots of muscle—heck, his muscles had muscles with their own gym membership. He was built on the same scale as a gorilla, only bigger. Much bigger. His face was leathery black and flat, surrounded by flecks of silvered hair. He had deep recessed eyes of brilliant green, which regarded me with a strangely thoughtful expression.

He didn’t look particularly pissed off, which was good since I was sure he could throw me into orbit with those big ol’ monkey arms. Either that or put an asteroid-sized dent in the hood of my ’86 El Camino—part car, part mobile home, and one hundred percent badass—the worse of the two options in my book. I braked since there was no point in trying to run the walking carpet over. With my luck, a collision would level my car without putting so much as a dent in Kong. I slowed to a crawl, the engine rumbling beneath me as I tried to decide what in the hell to do. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.

Dammit. 

Author Bio

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—‘cause that’s a real thing. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay  … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I work as a missionary and international aid worker with my wife and young daughter in Bangkok, Thailand. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep. Strange Magic is the first novel in the Yancy Lazarus series—the third, full-length novel, Wendigo Rising, just released on November 3rd, 2015. 

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