Spells, Salt & Steel by Gail Z. Martin & Larry N. Martin Book Tour and Giveaway :)
Spells,
Salt, & Steel
Season
One
by
Gail Z. Martin & Larry N. Martin
Genre:
Comedic Horror
“When
all else fails, the ass end of a carp makes a damn fine weapon.”
Your
new favorite monster hunter has arrived! Bubba the Monster Hunter has
some competition in this horror comedy collection from best-selling
author duo Gail Z. & Larry N. Martin!
By
day, Mark Wojcik can be found elbow-deep in engine grease, making
cars and trucks safe for the highway. By night, he can be found
traipsing through the wilds of Pennsylvania, making the world safe
for humans. He’s more than just a mechanic, he’s a New Templar
Knight. He travels the backroads and byways fighting weresquonks,
ningen, selkies, ghosts, and…gnomes? Is that gnome…naked? (sigh).
Season
One collects the first four novellas in the Spells, Salt, & Steel
series –
Spells,
Salt, & Steel
Open
Season
Deep
Trouble
Close
Encounters
Regular
soap didn’t get the carp stink off of me, so I opted for the canned
tomato juice I keep around in case of skunk. That made me feel like a
Bloody Mary, but being a brunch drink was better than smelling like
day-old catch. I
knew when I ambled in to Hamilton Hardware the next day that I’d be
in for a ribbing. “Whoa,
Chick!” Blair Hamilton called, her affectionate mangling of my last
name. I’d long ago quit correcting her—since it only made things
worse—but for the record, it’s pronounced “voy-chick.” I’ll
answer to anything close. Most people who can’t figure it out just
go with “Mark.” “Whoa,
yourself,” I replied. “What’s the word on the street?” Blair
blew raspberries. “This is Conneaut Lake. Nothing ever happens
here.” Blair is five-ten to my six-two and with her military
background, I’d put my money on her in a fair fight. She inherited
the family hardware store, the third-generation Hamilton to supply
the good folks of Conneaut Lake with all their hunting, fishing,
shooting, and hardware needs. She
gave a knowing grin. “Except that I hear there was a commotion over
at the Spillway in Linesville last night. Poachers or something.” “That
so? Can’t trust anyone these days,” I replied. The store was
fairly empty. I’d intentionally waited until the “dawn patrol”
of DIY-ers and contractors filled their urgent orders and I knew
Blair would have time for some less conventional requests. “I
got a job coming up,” I said when the few remaining customers were
out of earshot. “Gonna
need another big bag of rock salt, a case of shotgun shells, and
about fifty feet of hemp rope.” I paused. “Oh, and can you let
Chiara know I need her help on something?” “How
about you tell me yourself?” Chiara Moretti Hamilton slipped behind
the counter and threw an arm around Blair’s waist. “I
need some intel,” I replied.
Chiara
gave her wife a squeeze and then beckoned for me to follow her. “Step
into my parlor,” she said. I
followed her through a doorway Blair had cut into one wall of the
hardware store that led to the adjacent building, which had been many
things over the last century. Now, it housed Crystal Dreams, Chiara’s
New Age bookstore, café, and gift shop. In the renovated office
upstairs, Chiara also ran a website development company. On the sly,
she did Dark Web research for me and other hunters, and there was an
invitation-only back room behind the hardware store that carried a
variety of silver, iron, spelled tools and weapons, holy water by the
keg, and other hardto- find herbs and items necessary for hunting or
warding off ghoulies and ghosties and longleggedy beasties. She and
Blair weren’t even thirty yet, and they made me feel like a
slacker, even though I had less than ten years on them and owned my
own car repair shop. “Coffee
first,” she said, holding up a hand to stop me before I got on a
roll. “And sugar.” She poured me a cup of joe, black, and started
a latte for herself. Then Chiara reached into the display case and
pulled out a couple of sfogliatelli pastries fresh from her
family’s bakery. “Good,
right?” She nudged as I bit into the lobster tail-shaped flaky bit
of heaven and gave a pornographic groan of sheer bliss. “You’re
not going to make Blair jealous, you know,” she joked. “I don’t
bat for that team.” “Shhh,”
I joked. “Don’t ruin the moment. This is between me and the
pastry,” I said, and rolled
my eyes back in my head with another groan. “You
better not try that if you ever stop by the bakery,” Chiara warned.
“Grandma won’t put up
with any ‘lascivious goings on.’” “Spoilsport,”
I retorted. Chiara treats me like one of her older brothers, and
considering that she’s
got five of them, she can dish it out and take it with the best of
them. I chugged the coffee, still
groggy from the late night, and Chiara obligingly refilled it before
taking a seat at the bar next
to me. “So
what is it this time?” she asked. At the moment, the cafe was
unusually quiet. That
wouldn’t
last. Tonight, the Tuesday night Bunko group would be gathering in
the social room in the
back, and no one aside from a privileged few would realize it was
really the local coven. There
aren’t a lot of people in the supernatural community around these
parts and mostly, we look
after our own. “I
need everything you can find on the old Keystone Ordinance Works
plant,” I said, sipping the
coffee to make it last and savoring the caffeine buzz. “You
mean the KOW?” She pronounced it “cow” and laughed when I
looked puzzled. “The old
TNT plant in Geneva?” I
nodded. “Yeah. You’ve heard the story about the Nazi sniper that
got shot off the water tower?” “Hasn’t
everyone?” “Yeah,
well apparently it’s true, and something’s got his ghost riled
up.” “You
know that place is dangerous, right?” Chiara cautioned. She tucked
a strand of dark hair behind
one multiply-pierced ear. Chiara’s thin enough to qualify as
“waif-ish,” but she’d hit me
if
I ever called her that. With long dark hair, big brown eyes, and a
light olive complexion,
Chiara’s
a looker, but she’s been heart-and-soul for Blair since high
school. “Part of it’s owned by
a big corporation that doesn’t like urban explorers, some of it’s
still military—and lord knows,
they’re not friendly—and the other piece is owned by a local guy
who’s put out the word that
trespassers will be arrested, or maybe shot.” “Nice,”
I muttered. “Actually, I’ve got the invitation from a guy in the
corporation, and they’re
paying me. I did a job for his uncle—got rid of a ghost that was
hanging around his hunting
cabin, scaring off the game—and got me access.” “Not
going to help you if your Nazi spook Heil-Hitlers over onto private
property and you get
your butt filled with buckshot.” I
shrugged. “Won’t be the first time, probably not the last
either.” I drained my coffee cup and
met her gaze. “Can you see what you can dig up? I’ve got all the
easy stuff Google can give
me.” “You
want what’s in the old records—old government records—don’t
you?” “Something
powered this ghost up after seventy years, and he’s been
poltergeisting around the
place, vandalizing corporate property.” “You
sure it isn’t kids?” Chiara asked. “Every high school kid
around here knows the story, and
a ‘no trespassing’ sign is an open invitation for anyone who
wants to impress a date enough to
get lucky.” My
eyes narrowed. “Do I sense a story here?” Chiara
grinned, though her cheeks colored a bit. “Maybe. Blair hopped the
fence and brought me
back a souvenir when we were first dating.” “And
did she get lucky?” Chiara’s
blush deepened, as if I hadn’t already guessed the answer. “Shut
up,” she protested in
jest, and smacked me on the arm. “When do you need the intel?” “As
soon as you can get it,” I replied. “Apparently the company is
planning to refurbish some of
the old buildings on its land for labs and product testing. The
planning team that went out to look
at the buildings thought they were being shot at. They called the
cops, reported gun shots, and
holed up like they were under siege.” “And
when the cops came?” I
shook my head. “Nothing. No spent shells, no footprints or tire
tracks, no bullet holes. Now the
architect and the designer refuse to set foot on the property until
it gets ‘exorcised,’” I added, making
air quotes. “Are
you trying to put Father Minnelli out of a job?” Chiara teased. I
put my hand over my heart. “As God is my witness, and much to my
grandmother’s sorrow, I’ve
got no interest in being a priest,” I swore. “I just didn’t
have time to waste explaining that ‘exorcising’
ghosts won’t do a damn bit of good. Demons, yes. Ghosts, no.” “Is
it actually dangerous?” Chiara finished her coffee. “Don’t
know, don’t want to find out the hard way,” I replied, draining
the rest of my cup. “That’s
why I need anything you can find for me. If I’ve got to chase the
damn thing, I want to know
everything about that property, and that ghost.” Chiara
looked up as the door chimed and a customer walked in. “I can work
on it tonight, after
we close. Should have something to you first thing tomorrow.” I
grinned. “Blair’s got fine taste in women. You’re the best!” Chiara
punched me in the shoulder, just enough to twinge. “Gotta go. I
have to set up for the Bunko
meeting tonight,” she added with a wink. Shit.
That meant she’d be closing late. I was in a hurry for her data,
but not enough to piss off
a
coven of witches. I sighed, carried my empty cup up to the counter,
and ambled back to pick up the
rest of my purchases from Blair before I headed home. I
pulled into my driveway with a truckload of supplies and a hot pizza.
“Home” is a cabin
down
a gravel lane in between Adamsville and Atlantic, two towns with a
combined population of
less than two hundred. Suits me fine, although now and again I still
have to go out and handle restless
ghosts from the big tornado twenty years ago that damn near took out
both towns and a couple
other ‘burgs, too. I reckon we’ve got more residents under the
ground than above it, and since
I keep the local cemeteries blessed and ghost-free, it makes for a
nice, quiet place to put my feet
up between hunts. Chiara
pulled some strings—legal and not so much—to get me better
internet out here than
anyone
would ever believe. I popped open an Iron City beer and fired up my
laptop to go over everything
again. Demon, my big softie of a Doberman, planted himself next to me
and dropped his
head into my lap for attention. I scratched his ears as I read over
my notes. If
I’d have put as much effort into my homework back when I was in
school as I do getting ready
for a hunt, I’d have the grades to be a brain surgeon. Sadly, I
couldn’t see my way past anything
that didn’t have to do with cars or girls back then. Girls broke my
heart; cars didn’t, which
is one reason I’m still a mechanic after all this time, but my love
life’s deader than most of the
things I hunt. It’s
not that I’d mind having a good woman in my life. It’s just that
finding one who would put
up with my anime and comics collection, my poker nights, and the odd
hours I keep at the shop
would be rough enough, without the monster hunting stuff on top. My
wife Lara left me after
the wendigo incident. Blair and Chiara are lucky—they didn’t have
to convince each other that
the supernatural shit is real. Blair saw stuff that can’t be
explained when she was military, and
Chiara’s brothers offed a werewolf when she was in high school.
Most of the time, I’m too busy
to think about finding myself a girlfriend. Or
maybe I’m just chickenshit. I
finished the beer and pizza and powered up my secured search engine.
There are many times
when my browsing might raise a few questions, so I figure it’s
better not to take chances. Urban
explorers have done a pretty fine job of taking pictures despite
Keystone’s “off limits” status.
The photos revealed dilapidated two- and three-story brick buildings
with their windows
long
broken out, rusted machinery, junker trucks from the 1940s, storage
silos, and the famous water
tower—still standing after all these years. According to the blog
posts, someone had thought
it was a good idea to raise cattle on what had to be a Superfund
site. I wondered if the cows
still ran loose at KOW, and if the sniper cared. I’d
heard the story about the Nazi spy at the TNT plant when I was
growing up, but now that
I
needed details, they were hard to find or were classified, and any
eyewitnesses were either over ninety
or dead. Still, I pieced together what I could. It wasn’t a pretty
picture. My
phone rang at the same time a chime on my computer indicated that I
had new email. “Did
you get what I sent?” Chiara asked as I juggled the phone and
logged in to the Dark Web, trying
not to get pizza sauce all over my keyboard. “Give
me a minute,” I growled, wiping away a stray bit of sauce as I
pulled up her file on the anonymous
file-sharing network and looked at the results. “All right, walk me
through it.” “The
spy’s name was Helmut Zinzer, but he infiltrated the plant back in
1944 as Hank
Stump.
His job was to sabotage the production of ordnance in any way he
could, and also to find out
about the secret projects German high command suspected were taking
place at the plant,” Chiara
recapped as I scanned the old documents she sent. Even though they
came from government
servers and over seventy years had passed, parts were blacked out for
security reasons. “Secret
projects?” I took a swig of IC and peered more closely at the old
files. “Pittsburgh
manufacturing was hot stuff back then, some of the best engineering
in the world,”
Chiara said with pride. “There was a big glass company that tried
to build an invisible plane.” I
let out a low whistle. “You mean, like Wonder Woman’s?” Chiara
sighed. “You win, Blair,” she called out, and I heard snickering.
“Yes, comic nerd, like
Wonder Woman’s. Only they wanted to build it for real, out of super
special secret glass.
Zinzer
was supposed to halt production, assassinate the engineers on the
project, and grab the plans.” “Only
it didn’t work out,” I added, still torn between being annoyed
and secretly pleased that Chiara
and Blair had bet on whether my comic-fu would pick up on the
connection. “Closer
than you’d think,” Chiara said as I flipped through the rest of
the file. “The two lead engineers
died suddenly, one with a heart attack and the other from a car
accident, both suspicious.
An early prototype was destroyed in a lab fire. But the project
continued, and rumor has
it that a second, improved prototype was not only built, but aced its
initial tests. Zinzer stole some
schematics and passed them off to an associate, then went back to
finish the job. He planned
to detonate some of the ordnance, destroy the lab and prototype, and
get the hell out of Dodge.” “But
someone picked him off the water tower before he could do that, and
now he’s haunting
the
place,” I said. A long pull finished my beer, and I scowled at the
computer. “Bad enough we never
got the flying cars they promised, but we coulda had invisible
planes, too?” “Life’s
a bitch,” Chiara commiserated. “So
why now?” I asked, leaning back and debating popping open another
beer. “Has ol’ Helmut
been haunting the place all this time, but there wasn’t anyone
around to see?” “You
mean, if a ghost haunts in a forest and no one’s there, does he
make a sound?” “This
is the sound of one finger clapping,” I muttered, tossing her the
salute. She responded with
a chin flick. “Could
be,” Chiara replied. “I mean, who would know or care? But get
this—the corporation that
hired you is the legal successor of the company that wanted to make
the invisible plane out of
special glass all those years ago. Only now, we’ve got all kinds of
polymers…” “And
so it might actually be possible,” I said. “Holy shit...so
Helmut’s back on the job, different
war, same shit.” “That’s
what it sounds like to me,” Chiara replied. “Okay,
thanks. You totally rock. This helps.” “Hey
Mark—be careful,” Chiara cautioned. “Helmut was a dangerous
guy, and he offed a couple
of people before he lost his luck. He might be pissed about that, so
watch your back.” “Will
do.” Just what I needed: a pissed off Nazi ghost assassin. Well, I
already spent the advance
so it’s too late to back out now. Guess I’d just have to gank the
Jerry and save the invisible
airplane. Funny,
I’d always pictured myself more Space Ghost than Wonder Woman. “And
I scored big,” Chiara continued. “TMI,”
I protested. “I don’t want to know—” “Not
like that, perv,” she joked. “I was talking about the whole TNT
plant thing with Blair, and
she reminded me that her aunt’s neighbor used to tell stories about
working there during the war.
Want to go see what he remembers?” Which
is how I ended up standing on a stranger’s doorstep to see a man
about a ghost. I’d like
to say my innate charm opened the door, but I’m betting it was
Chiara’s box of homemade Italian
pastries that did the trick. Despite
being over ninety, Eugene was sharp as a tack, and he told us plenty
of stories, including
a first-hand account of the night his Army patrol shot the sniper off
a water tower. “Thank
you so much,” Chiara said, after Eugene’s story came to an end.
“We’ve taken up enough
of your time.” “Would
you like to see the stuff I kept from when I worked there?”
Eugene’s rheumy eyes sparkled,
and I bet he was having more fun flirting with Chiara and eating the
pastries than he’d had
in a long time. “We’d
love to!” I replied before Chiara had a chance to protest. Eugene
got to his feet and reached for his cane. “Be back in a moment,”
he promised, setting off
down the hall. “Blair
is gonna kill me,” Chiara murmured. “I’m late opening the
shop.” “Wait
‘til she finds out you’ve been flirting up a storm,” I joked,
elbowing her. She
rolled her eyes. “Blair knows better.” Eugene
shuffled back with a box in one hand and put it on the coffee table
before settling back
into his worn recliner. “I kept a little of this and a little of
that over the years,” he said. “This
is the box from my time in the Army.” He opened it, revealing a
collection of badges and medals,
hunting licenses, snapshots, and…buttons. Dozens of buttons of all
kinds. I
must have looked confused because Eugene laughed. “My mother was
quite the seamstress when
I was a boy, and I used to amuse myself playing with her button jar.
Never quite got over my
fascination, so I’ve always picked up the odd button when I saw it
and added it to my collection.” Then
he held up a pebbled black button. “You know where I got this?”
Eugene asked. When Chiara
and I shook our heads, he chuckled. “Our Jerry spy ripped his
jacket when he took a header
off the water tower. We found the button in the grass. German-issue.
I pocketed it, since I figured
it didn’t matter to anyone else, and I’d been part of the team
that got in the lucky shot.” I
felt a chill go down my spine. “Mr. Sprake—” “Eugene,”
he corrected. “You
probably aren’t going to believe me, but that spy you shot came
back as a ghost.” To
my surprise, Eugene nodded. “That’s old news, son.” “You
know?” “Yep,”
Eugene replied, and helped himself to another pastry. “We’d see
wisps up on the catwalk
around the water tower after he was shot and hear a voice muttering
in German. Never came
to anything, and then we all cleared out, and the place stood empty
for a long time. Figured it
served him right, being stuck as the last sentry after trying to kill
us.” “He’s
back, and a lot stronger—strong enough to cause trouble,” I said.
“I was wondering, I know
it’s a lot to ask, but may I have that button? I need to make sure
he doesn’t hurt anyone else.” Eugene
fixed me with his gaze, and I felt like a teenager caught breaking
curfew. “You’re that
monster hunter guy, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you.” I
tried not to cringe. For obvious reasons, I didn’t advertise my
side job, figuring that people who
needed my services would find me on their own. Still, word gets
around, and I hated to think
what he might have heard. Eugene
chuckled. “None of that now,” he chided. “Blair’s older
brother was at the VFW and
had
a bit much to drink one night, started telling stories, and got to
the one about that werewolf he
and his brothers took care of. Said there was more stuff like that
out there, and that you were one
of the guys who got rid of it.” He shrugged. “At the time, I
blamed it on the whiskey, but I saw
him later, and he swore it was true.” “It’s
true,” I confirmed.
Eugene
nodded. “I’ve seen a strange thing or two in my time as well,”
he said, and dropped the
button into my hand. “I
won’t be able to return this,” I warned. He
shrugged. “You gonna use it to get rid of that Nazi bastard once
and for all? Keep it, with
my
blessing.” His eyes blazed with the fire of the young soldier he
once had been. “And when you
send the son of a bitch to hell, you be sure to tell him that’s for
my brother Mickey and his friends,
the guys who never came back from Normandy.” My
fingers closed around the button. “It would be an honor.”
Gail
Z. Martin
discovered her passion for science fiction, fantasy and ghost stories
in elementary school. The first story she wrote at age five was about
a vampire. Her favorite TV show as a preschooler was Dark Shadows. At
age 14, she decided to become a writer. She enjoys attending science
fiction/fantasy conventions, Renaissance fairs and living history
sites.
Larry N. Martin
is the author of the new sci-fi adventure novel Salvage Rat. He is
the co-author (with Gail Z. Martin) of the Spells, Salt, and
Steel/New Templars series; the Steampunk series Iron & Blood; and
a collection of short stories and novellas: The Storm & Fury
Adventures set in the Iron & Blood universe. He is also the
co-author of the upcoming Wasteland Marshals series and the Joe Mack
Cauldron/Secret Council series.
The Martins have
three children, a Maltese, and a Golden Retriever.
Website
* Newsletter* Facebook
* Pinterest *
Follow
the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!
Comments
Post a Comment