Exile

Description

HARDBOILED MYTHIC FANTASY

A hit man. An apocalyptic cult. A demon with a grudge

Keith Murphy’s on the run after botching his last hit, fleeing Adelaide with a necromancer’s soul in his pocket and an apocalyptic cult on his heels. Seeking a hiding spot where magic can’t trace him, Keith heads for the one place nobody expects: home.

Thirteen years ago, Keith left the employ of the demonic crime boss Sabbath, disappearing into the night without a word. Now he’s back, and Sabbath demands a toll before Keith can take refuge on Sabbath’s turf — assassinate three of the demon’s enemies, or Keith forfeits his life.

Keith doesn’t want to be a killer anymore, but he’s all out of choices and things have changed for the worse back home: his best friend has gone to the dark side, his ex-girlfriend is running a club for supernaturals, and it seems like Sabbath isn’t the only one who wants Keith dead.

A fast-paced Australian urban fantasy thriller full of magic, supernatural creatures, betrayal, and deals with the devil. If you ever wanted a little John Constantine blended in with your John Wick, you’re going to love Keith Murphy.

PRAISE FOR THE KEITH MURPHY SERIES

“All the grit and growl of the golden age detectives let loose upon the monsters and magics that keep us fascinated (and occasionally afraid) as we curl up on the couch at night. Ball is masterful in his use of tension, with a knack for keeping readers glued to the screen or page. His ability to showcase emotional connections and complications without devolving into self-pitying monologues or poetic meanderings give the stories an action movie vibe that adds tension and focus to the stories.” Kylie Thompson, HushHushBiz

WHAT READERS ARE SAYING

★★★★★ “Equal parts violence, noir and magic. Also manages to capture the feel of the Gold Coast.”

★★★★★ “a thoroughly entertaining noir-flavoured urban fantasy, where our hard-bitten but basically honourable protagonist tries to stay one step ahead of a multitude of past mistakes (while making a few more along the way). I’m definitely looking forward to seeing the other Keith Murphy books”

★★★★★ “Myth-heavy hard-boiled Gold Coast pre-(assorted)-apocalyptic fantasy. It resonates with the parts of my mind where American Gods took up residence.”

READ A SAMPLE

They found me in the Hard Rock. Thursday night, a little after ten. The bar drew a good crowd for a Thursday, all things considered. Lots of girls with inscrutable, backpacker accents clustered around the counter. Plenty more heading for the Beer Garden upstairs, attracted by the cover band’s caterwaul. Blondes, legitimate and peroxide — a Gold Coast epidemic. Swathes of exposed skin, despite the cool nip in the air. Twenty-dollar cocktails named after natural disasters: Typhoons; Tsunamis; rum-soaked Hurricanes.

I’d racked up three straight hours sitting in the downstairs bar, drinking short blacks and reading my book. A guy flying solo at at a cozy table for four, ignoring the crush of the late-night crowd, the heady mingling of sweat and perfume and the salt-water from the nearby beach. I blew off the irritated, dark-eyed waitress who kept offering to take my coffee cup in the hopes I’d fuck off and free up the four top. I wasn’t waiting for anyone else. Just me and my beat-up copy of Persuasion on yet another stake-out, killing time until the local talent picked up on my presence.

I’d selected a table up the back, wedged between one of Keith Moon’s polyester shirts and Mark Occhilupo’s surfboards. Earlier, when I’d been eating dinner, tourists stopped by to read the brass plaques and sniff at my empty seats. Personally, I didn’t give a shit about the memorabilia. My position delivered clear sight-lines on the bar, the gift shop, and both sets of sliding doors.

The band working  upstairs distracted me with their off-key singing and affection for the Gunners. Every time they launched into another cover, I’d lose my place and have to re-read the same page of Persuasion again. I’d stumbled over the same line about fine ladies and calm waters ever since their version of ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door.’ They were leading the bellicose crowd through the chorus of ‘Paradise City’ right as the demon walked in.

His arrival marked the end of my reading. I downed the dregs of my coffee and watched the big feller work. The purposeful stroll through the gift shop, all swagger and white teeth. The momentary pause as he scanned the room with a jungle cat’s poise, making a note of every warm body crammed in among the memorabilia. I figured him for six-nine, give or take an inch. Athletic and well-built, dressed to fit in with the local crowd. Tight black jeans and bright red high-top sneakers, a walnut tan just brown enough to be real instead of spray-on.

The kind of guy I’d remember, even after sixteen years, and I couldn’t recall anyone with his height and frame among Sabbath’s mooks. New blood, then. Definitely a demon. I didn’t need to pierce the veil to confirm it — he carried himself in that languid, unsettling way most creatures of the Gloom deploy when they forget to play human.

The short, dark-eyed waitress stopped by my table and removed the empty coffee cup. Asked me if I’d like another, and broke into a grin when I told her I’d finish up soon. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet, folded it, and slid it beneath the salt and pepper shakers. Dog-eared my current page and stuffed Persuasion into a jacket pocket so I wouldn’t leave it behind. Things would start moving fast now a demon was on the prowl.

He crossed the bar at a leisurely pace, stopped to chat up women and deploy a toothy smile. The first three shot him down, which took effort on his part. Demons flirt easier than most people breathe, and this guy’s jaw and build were easy on the eyes. In the fourth he found a receptive partner, the kind of chick young men dream of meeting at a joint like the Hard Rock: bleached-blond; white t-shirt; tanned and smooth and friendly, her cut-off jeans showing off the pink hibiscus tattooed on her right thigh. Her intentions were obvious in the raucous laugh she deployed, and her drunken lurch into the demon’s side.

Then the Big Guy glanced my way, a surreptitious glance to confirm I’d clocked his presence. Could be a subtle warning to back off and let him feed in peace, or a predator recognizing a potential threat and disregarding it before hunting. And so we kicked off a round of my least-favorite game, trying to figure who was playing who.

The blonde made it easy for the Big Guy. Pressed against him, whispered into his ear. Midriff top giving him access to bare skin as he pulled her close. The veins closest to his fingertips turned dark as he siphoned a fragment of her life-force. He did it light and subtle, like a pickpocket filching your wallet. The drain left the girl woozy, bought the demon a chance to prop her against the bar and scan the crowd for another victim.

Slick work, and feeding in public is brazen for any demon. This guy played it cool, focused on the prey. My presence forgotten or disregarded, confident I wouldn’t risk a move on Sabbath’s turf and put a target on my back. Given the way possession enhanced human senses, he already knew I wasn’t local. My scent was fresh off the Greyhound, a sour-and-rumpled traveler who’d gone too long without sleep. My flannel shirt too warm for the Gold Coast summer, but ideal for covering the the tethers inked along my arm and the SIG tucked into my belt.

I tracked his movements, trying to figure out if he was overconfident, dumb, or extremely good. Realized too late he was the fourth option: a big, distracting billboard deployed to capture my attention. When the .38 kissed the hollow of my back, just below the ribs, a part of me was flattered I’d warranted that kind of caution from two alpha predators.

Of course, that part of me was dumb as rocks, but I guess nobody’s perfect.

Wesna Holjack leaned over my right shoulder, her voice tickling my ear. “Well, shit, Keith Murphy. How the fuck are you?”

“Hey Wes,” I said. “Been a while, yeah?”

“You think?” She slid into the empty seat beside me, draped her arm around my neck. The other hand jammed the pistol into my gut, made it clear trying to squirm or run would trigger a messy response.

“You should have left it longer,” Wesna said. “Now I’m kinda pissed I have to kill you.”