The Menace Returns. Friends Are Threatened. Trust Is Challenged.
A year older and cleverer, Danielle distrusts the growing sense of dread that haunts her. She knows nothing of what hunts her friends. They know nothing of her foreboding.
Soon they are all thrust back together in a relentless series of hunting or being hunted by an unholy foe, a mutant possessing horrifying powers and schemes. Or is there more than one?
All His Wrath is a fast-paced story layered with complex twists and revelations. The adventures of Danielle and her friends take them deeper into the fantastical gargoyle kingdom than they would have ever chosen to go. Available everywhere: books2read.com/u/bP5Qzx
Brandon King is an award-winning author living in SW Idaho, not far from epic rock formations that find their way into his stories. While his stories are straight-up fantasy he, like favorite authors J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, infuses his novels with allegory for perceptive readers.
He intends The Gargoyle Chronicles to be a seven book series. With Books 1 and 2 published, and Books 3-5 nearing completion, his fans have many characters—human and otherwise—to love. Or fear.
Find him at brandonkingauthor.com and facebook.com/brandonkingauthor/
One of the most important goals I have as a YA fantasy author is to express emotions in a manner that young people can identify with. When I was that age I felt plenty of strong emotions, but could barely identify any of them correctly. It's not as if young people have improved at this imperative skill set. Frankly, neither have adults. #transparency #emotions #fantasy #theperilsofgettingitwrong
All His Wrath
Memories, bitter and frenzied, washed over him like salt in a fresh cut. When Paign had first learned of his father’s death in the War of Dominance, it was as if someone had, at that very moment, poured smoldering ash into his soul, melting it into slag. He’d felt all burnt inside, purged of all that was good. He’d felt only raw, cloaked in shrieking loneliness. Unlike a severe sunburn, there was no salve that Paign could have applied to his broken heart. But like the way a sunburn throbs until the skin is twisted—at which point the pain magnifies itself, almost as a most bitter punishment for having skin—Paign’s heartache and grief at the loss of his father had throbbed without respite. When by himself, the ache of it became so habitual that he had become mostly numbed to it. But when with others—who always seemed compelled to make some kind, sympathetic remark—Paign’s heart was again twisted into fresh agony. Their comments never helped. Never.