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Jack Templar and the Lord of the Vampires
Jack is back.
After his adventures at the Monster Hunter Academy (which included fighting a goblin army, befriending an ancient werewolf, and battling two fire breathing dragons), Jack Templar was hoping for a rest. No such luck.
In Book #3 of the Jack Templar Monster Hunter series, Jack embarks on a quest to track down and acquire the first of the five mythical Jerusalem Stones, an ancient power found by his ancestors the Templar Knights. Only the reunited Stones can stop Ren Lucre, the Dark Lord who holds Jack’s father hostage and prepares for an all-out war against an unsuspecting human world. But each Stone is held by a different Creach Lord and recovering them will not be easy. Jack and his friends begin their quest by seeking out one of the most powerful and dangerous keepers of the Stones, the Lord of the Vampires. The fate of the world rests on Jack’s shoulders and he will be tested like never before. But true monster hunters always do their duty…come what may.
Jack Templar and the Lord of the Vampires.
Jack Templar Monster Hunter was chosen as a
Book of the Year Finalist by Foreword Reviews.
EXCERPT
PROLOGUE
As
the man staggered into the narrow corridor of the castle, he knew the woman he
left behind would be dead within minutes unless he did something. The thought of
losing her gripped him by the throat as strongly as if a hand seized him and
sought to wring the life from him. He tore at the tight collar around his neck
and ripped it open, gasping for breath. His fingers brushed against the wound
there, two deep punctures that seeped a slow trickle of blood.
“Vitus!” he cried. “I need
you!”
His rushed down the stone
hallway, bent over and running his hand along the wall to keep his balance.
Since his birth in this castle, he had spent countless hours running through its
many rooms. But tonight it felt as disorienting as one of the mazes the workers
made out of the cornfields for Harvest Festival.
“Vitus! Show yourself!” he
bellowed.
Stairs. Narrow and steep. The
man half-ran, half-fell down them, growing more desperate with every step
farther from the room where he had spent the last three days caring for his
wife. Once the essence of life, she was now no more than a brittle husk, a frail
body with a withered soul. He could still feel the damp on his clothes from
holding her fevered body next to his as he gently rocked her, singing her the
soft songs of their youth. But her breathing had only gotten worse, now a faint
rasp of air, so strained that he feared each would be her last.
Finally, as the shadow of
death filled the room and hovered over her, something had broken inside of the
man. The promise he had made to her—no, more than a promise, a solemn oath bound
by the strongest words her dying mind could conjure—suddenly seemed a
transparent lie. In a flash of clarity, it appeared so obvious that he lurched
from the bed, calling himself a fool, and ran from the room.
If she died, nothing else
mattered.
Even if she hated him for
what he intended to do, he didn’t care. He could not let her die.
The man came to the enormous
oak doors of the banquet hall. He lowered his shoulder with a snarl and barreled
into them. The doors flew open on well-oiled hinges, revealing a massive room
with a soaring ceiling supported by rows of thick stone pillars. Tapestries and
banners covered the walls. A long table, enough to seat dozens at a feast,
filled the center aisle. Platters of food and goblets of wine sat atop the dark,
polished wood. Fanciful flower decorations served as centerpieces, alternating
the length of the table with candlesticks made of the finest silver. Every chair
was filled with a gentleman or lady wearing the most fashionable clothing. Vests
embroidered with gold and silver. Dresses assembled in layers of sheer fabrics.
Cloaks of ermine and mink draped over the chair backs in case a draft should
appear.
But a draft would not bother
any of the assembled guests.
Even the coldest wind will
not bother a corpse.
The dinner guests were all
frozen in a dramatic tableau of death. Some lay facedown on the table. Others
leaned back, dead, open eyes staring at the ceiling. The worst ones, someone had
propped up as if they were still conversing, but pale white skin accented the
bright line of red blood across their necks.
The room was dark, the
candles long since melted into puddles of wax on the table. The only light came
from a small fire burning in the giant hearth in the center wall of the room. A
solitary figure sat in a wooden chair, rocking back and forth, keeping pace to
music only he could hear.
“Vitus, I know you could hear
me,” the man shouted. “I need you.”
Vitus cocked his head
slightly toward the man as if picking up only the slightest creak of the
floorboards in the middle of the night, but he continued to stare into the fire.
Vitus’s beard grew down to his chest and stood in contrast to his clean-shaven
head. The fire cast odd shadows across a weathered face, chiseled deep by time
and pain. Vitus looked no different from any number of old men lost to his
thoughts deep inside the flames of a hearth fire.
No different that is except
for his eyes and stains of blood that ran down both sides of his mouth. His eyes
were black wells that seemed to suck the light from the air and give nothing in
return. No reflection from the fire or glistening from moisture, just dead
endless darkness that saw both nothing and everything. For the first time since
leaving his dying wife, the man paused, terrified at what he intended to do.
Author Jeff Gunhus
Jeff Gunhus grew up in Cyprus, Greece, and Saudi Arabia where there was a distinct lack of television. He quickly found books were the gateway to incredible adventures, fascinating characters and unbelievable discoveries. Now, with five children of his own (all who watch too much television, in his opinion), he has enjoyed revisiting his old books and reliving those adventures all over again.
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Ends 11/3/13
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