I joined this blog tour because I was really intrigued by the premise of this book. It’s about vampires! But the kind that I like–evil, diabolical, deceiving, and without any remorse. What would have happened in World War 2 if the Third Reich had vampires on their side? Interesting, yes? Read on to know more! Plus check out a guest post by the author, read a really cool excerpt from the first chapter (vampires!!), and join the giveaway for a chance to win 5 paperback copies and 10 ebook copies of The Division of The Damned (open worldwide).
The Division of The Damned
by Richard Rhys Jones
Publisher: Taylor Street Publishing
Date of Publication: April 5, 2012
ISBN: 978-1475155433, ASIN: B007RS1YUI
Number of pages: 298, Word Count: 90.000
Cover Artist: Chris Salmen
Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/V7j4QcC0gvQ
It was a brilliant plan to win the war.
What if the Third Reich could own the night?
What if they had a Division of Vampires?
And if those Vampires didn’t stop?
If they had plans to conquer the whole world?
Even Heinrich Himmler hadn’t thought of that. But in Transylvania someone had. And on the Winter Solstice of 1944, the world would be at their mercy.
I’m going straight to the point. I liked this book. Vampires of old, werewolves, old demon legends, a war between humans and a war against evil. It’s all the gothic stuff I like. I liked that it presented a different history of how vampires came to be and I liked that the plot was laced with the legends of Lilith, something which I, admittedly, have to read up on one of these days (gotta add that to my growing list of fairy tales, legends, and myths to read). I also liked the premise of vampires involving themselves in the war. I don’t know how some people might take that since it can be a sensitive topic, but I think the author handled that well. This book is just a good story with a group of heroes that are diverse and interesting and one that you’d absolutely root for.
I liked the writing style, too. The writing was dramatic, for lack of a better word. I liked how the writing style fit the setting and the story. It felt like I was reading an old book. Read the author’s guest post below and get a feel of his writing style. By the way, his author photo has got to be one of the coolest ones I’ve seen so far. Hah. I think it was also one of the reasons why I decided to sign up for this tour. I mean, let’s be honest, doesn’t he look like he knows his horror stuff?
If you liked Bram Stoker’s Dracula, old legends about demons and religions, or if you like war stories, or if you like classic gothic literature, you might enjoy this book! :)
I received a review copy of this book at no cost and with no obligations. All opinions and views expressed here are my own.
For the love of a book
by Richard Rhys Jones
It took my family a long time to click on to sending me books.
I read a lot in school but at age sixteen I lost contact with the academic part of me to become a soldier.
We wouldn’t see each other for a long time to come.
My first years in the Army were spent in Dorset and Essex and to be honest, I wasn’t such a big reader at that time. In the formative years of the man I was to become, socialising and sports took up most of my free time and all of my money. Reading never really stood a chance.
It wasn’t until we were posted to Germany that the pleasure of literary escape placed its weighty mark on my person.
In Germany, the British Army of the Eighties didn’t bother with two week exercises. Oh no, if we went on exercise, we went out ON EXERCISE. Two months in the field and all done in one go.
Two months of Compo, (field rations), radio stags, (I was an operator on a command vehicle) and shovel reccies, (don’t ask).
The food I could eat, sort of. You had to or you’d go broke buying a bratwurst and chips three times a day.
The shovel reccies, (digging your own latrine) did take some getting used to.
Everybody can do it once or twice but try it every day for a week and let’s see how commando you are then? You’ll be begging for Armitage Shanks and Andrex inside of three days, believe me.
Radio Stags, though, were a nightmare. During the day all would be fine; we had codes to sort, reports to log, maps to mark out, people to communicate with etc. etc. However, during the cold wee hours, tedium and weakness brought on the wretched nightly struggle with the tender arms of Somnus. Hours crept by in mocking apathy as eyelids gathered weight like mud on boots.
It was on such a fatigue-blasted dead man’s stag, (between one and three in the morning) that I rediscovered the written word.
With nothing to do except listen to the white noise of the HF radio, I turned to a parcel my Gran had sent me. I’d impatiently ripped it open earlier but now, cloaked as I was in absolute boredom, I decided to go through its contents once again. The letter was written in the square, almost Gothic print that I knew so well.
One glance at the writing would whisk me back to easy backyard Saturday afternoons and careless, spoilt-rotten summers with my Gran. The letter spoke of long forgotten aunties and never-met cousins, the Church, the town, Mam and Dad and all the minutiae that make a family a family.
Gran really knew how to write a letter.
Under it, as if in hiding, was a book.
That book turned the water torture of radio stag on its head. It was like finding someone who had left town a long time ago and was now back to help beat up the bullies. It was the final goodbye to the creased sweethearts and dubious health tips of the men’s magazines. It was my key to the defeat of the slit-eyed beast, sleep. The reader in me was back and the mind killing ennui of radio silence was no more. I’d be a liar if I said I could remember which book it was she sent me. I do remember being surprised that my Gran even knew what I’d enjoy reading. I suppose our families know us all better than we give them credit for.
What I can say is that every military exercise I went on after that, I was loaded with reading material and none of it had pictures.
Read an excerpt
Chapter 1, Russia, 1944
They flew from tree to tree, as silent and cold as the churning snow around them. Armed only with blade and tooth, they darted through the night with supernatural grace. The dark held no secrets for them as the day held no mercy and, slick and practised, they spread into formation as the quarry neared.
On a densely wooded hill five miles away from the German lines, a lone Russian guard stamped his feet to ward off the cold. It was the dead man’s stag, two till three, and he was bone tired. They had driven all day before halting to set up the communications post, then he had serviced his wagon, set up the tented area for the officers and helped position the radio masts. Now, after only three hours sleep, he was back on guard duty and he couldn’t see further than his dire need of a cigarette.
The war would soon be over. he reckoned. A couple more months and then he could go back to his hometown. There he would find a wife, start a family and work on a farm or in a factory. He would be a hero and, on family gatherings, he would regale them all with stories of how he single-handedly took on the might of the Fascist army and conquered them.
Like pouncing arachnids, they dropped from the trees on the unsuspecting camp. The lone Russian’s last sensation was the warm gush of blood spurting from his now lacerated throat and the voracious teeth that greedily violated the wound. As the blackness of death dimmed his sight, he heard the first screams of the officers and men he had been guarding as the enemy wreaked carnage and death.
With steel and fang, they killed and fed the way they had always done.
No mercy, only butchery and then gorging on the blood of the fallen.