Format: Hardcover, 352 pages
Release Date: November 5, 2019
Publisher: DAW
Source: Publisher
Genre: Urban Fantasy
A biker and a cowboy must stop the apocalypse in the first book of the Blood and Bone western urban fantasy series.
Gabe Harlan, ex-con biker, and Remi McCue, Texas cowboy, are informed—no, commanded—by a higher power that they must form a partnership, bound by blood and bone, to help save the world. Complete strangers one moment, they have now been thrust together, conscripted into heaven’s army-on-earth. While Remi is willing to believe in such things, to Gabe, newly released from prison, it makes no sense that heaven would count on humans when it has angels in its armory.
Especially when the devil claims a more dangerous, unearthly weapon: demons. Now loosed upon the earth in the first spasms of an unholy war, demons inhabit and make real the beasts and characters of fiction, folklore, fairy-tales. Gods and goddesses walk the earth. Myth becomes reality; legends and lies become truths.
End Times. End of Days. Armageddon and Apocalypse.
It’s up to Gabe and Remi to stop it, no matter the name. But how the hell do you stop hell? Tell truth from lies? Friend from foe? Heaven has its own agenda, and demons wear wings, too.
"You'll be a soldier. Sealed to it. Life and Limb, blood and bone, heart and soul. Not a soldier like others are, for it's not the kind of people most people fight on earth. The fate of the world hinges upon it."
Life and Limb, by author Jennifer Roberson, is the first installment in the authors Blood and Bone series. It’s up to Gabriel Harlan, a biker in black leather, and
Remiel McCue, a country music-loving cowboy, to stop Armageddon and take up the
fight between heaven and hell in this western urban fantasy. Gabe has just been released from prison after he apparently killed someone. Remi has been living in Arizona where he loves to buck horses. The two are tied by the fact that neither of them is entirely human.
Jubel is a character the two call Granddad. Granddad has been preparing the two for the end of the world. After some time away from them both, Granddad brings the two together in Flagstaff, Arizona for a life altering mission. Gabe is really good with guns, Remi is really good with knives. Gabe is sensitive to places, Remi is an empath. Alpha and Beta. The world has apparently become Lucifer's playground. The Devil has loosed his surrogates on the world and are now riding mythological tall tales, historical figures and fictional villains.
Lucifer is really good at exploiting disbelief. The greatest trick the devil every pulled was convincing the world that he doesn't exist. In this reality, folklore has roots in some portion of reality. All across the planet, there have been signs that the apocalypse is imminent. Where ever an earthquake happens, things come out from the ground. Legends are now very real and are picking sides of who to support in the upcoming war. Everyone in this story has some sort of agenda. From Granddad and who he really is. To a Grigori named Ambriel who Gabe encounters and tells him to open his eyes to the new reality.
Gods and Goddess are involved. Many are on Hell's side. People once worshiped the Gods and have no clue that some of these Gods don't favor their existence. Gabe and Remi must be the stop sign to keep the adversary from taking out humanity. Gabe and Remi's allies include Lily Morrigan aka Boudica the Irish Goddess of War who led an uprising against the occupying forces of the Roman Empire in AD 60 or 61 and an African Orisha who sings volcanoes awake. While Gabe and Remi are working out their own issues and their new mission, they are being hunted. The hunter is leaving bodies behind in a very Jack the Ripper modus operandi.
This story ends on a cliffhanger. People have been comparing this book to the TV series Supernatural for very good reasons. After all, Gabe and Remi are all but blood brothers who have been called to fight a variety of characters from black demon dogs called Barghest, to Nephilim who Granddad can't stand, to La Llorona, the Weeping Woman who appears near the water wailing for her children who she killed after her husband left her for another woman. As a fair warning, the opening chapters are filled heavily with information dumping as readers have to prepare themselves for why they should care about these two characters, and what is at stake if the two fail in their mission.
Will I read the sequel? Mayhap!
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CHAPTER ONE
From
out of the heat of the day and into looming twilight, I pulled onto
gravel and threaded my Harley through a parking lot jammed with pickup
trucks. Killed the growl of the engine as I rolled up next to a
handicapped spot, stayed straddled as I pulled off my helmet and gloves
and let the cool pine-scented air wash over me. Pure tactile, almost
atavistic relief after hours on a hot interstate.
I
yanked the tie from my hair and unstuck compressed strands from my
skull with a couple of quick scrubs so it fell loose to my shoulders
again. Unzipped the jacket. Left my ass parked on leather and crossed
arms as I surveyed the building before me.
I had to smile. Not exactly my thing.
Now
roadhouses, yeah. Definitely. But in the Patrick Swayze/Sam Elliott
school. This? Nuh-uh. Pickup trucks, gun racks; a lighted sign boasting
live country music. Probably spittoons on the floor, for all I knew.
Maybe even a mechanical bull.
The
building was a bulwark of massive, stripped pines chinked together
rising two stories tall, topped by a rust-patinaed tin roof. Its slab of
a front door looked thick enough to bounce cannon balls off of, and the
entry steps were framed by a massive split-crotch tree. Behind it
loomed the shoulder of a fire-ravaged mountain, and the dying of the
day.
I
heaved in a breath, blew it out on a sigh as I swung a leg across the
seat. “Grandaddy, why the hell did you summon me to a cowboy bar in
Flagstaff, Arizona?”
I
clomped up the low steps in my biker boots and stepped aside as a
laughing couple, nearly joined at the hip, exited. I caught the door’s
edge from the guy, pulled it wide, and the strains of that live country
music erupted into the twilight.
I
winced, thought uncharitable things about a music genre I cannot
abide-all that whine and twang and mud and blood and beer-and prepared
myself for an even noisier unwelcome assault upon my ears.
As
always in strange places, particularly roadhouses and dive bars, which I
tend to frequent, I entered carefully. Eased through the door, let it
thump closed, then stepped aside and waited, marking the details of the
place. Particularly the exits.
Live
band, already established; parquet dance floor; booths against the
wall; couple of pool tables in the back. Tables and chairs; long,
polished slab of a bar; rough-hewn beams, tree trunk pillars; and so
many mounted animals, trophy heads, skins, and antlers affixed to the
walls that it looked more like a…well, yeah, the place was called the
Zoo Club. Though it more closely resembled a taxidermist’s. In fact,
just beyond my right shoulder, crammed into the corner, loomed a
ginormous huge-humped grizzly bear with mouth agape to display fearsome
teeth.
I
did not fit here, not in this place, where I was pretty much an alien.
Cowboy hats, boots, plate-sized silver belt buckles, pressed jeans,
yoked shirts. Me, I wore a plain black t-shirt, motorcycle leathers, and
thick-soled boots meant for the road, not stirrups. I like my bars with
chrome and steel and twinned wheels parked outside, where the only hint
of horses resides within engines.
A
flash of movement at the end of the bar. Seems I’d caught the notice of
a young woman. And boy, did I notice back. Long wheat-blond hair was
slicked away from her face and tied into a high ponytail hanging down
her back. I couldn’t see details in bar lighting, but the assemblage of
her features collaborated quite nicely, well above the norm. Red
lipstick. Her brows, darker than the gold of her hair, arched as her
eyes brightened, and she smiled slow and easy, the invitation obvious.
She did not appear to care that I was not in the cowboy uniform, or that
my hair hit just past my shoulders.
Well,
then. I smiled back, raised brows, lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug
that told her Not just now, saw faint disappointment in the tilt of her
head, the regretful twist of her mouth. Maybe later, if she were still
around when business was concluded.
“Gabriel.”
Even
in the midst of roadhouse noise, I heard and knew that tone. With
regret I shifted attention from the young lady to the man coming toward
me.
Jubal
Horatio Tanner, aka Grandaddy, the only one who called me by my full
name. Tall, blue-eyed, clear-skinned, with a cascade of springy
silver-white hair tucked behind his ears. Imposing man. To me as a kid,
he’d seemed old; now, not so much, even with the near-white hair.
Ageless, if anything. Rock of Gibraltar type. His brows remained dark,
as did his neatly trimmed beard, though it bore a peppering of silver.
He
wore, as he always did-for some unaccountable reason I kept forgetting
to ask him about-an old-style frock coat, as if he’d stepped out of a
Western. Which, inside a cowboy bar in Arizona, struck me as ironically
appropriate. He fit. I didn’t. Beneath the coat, unless he’d changed his
ways, he wore a sheathed Bowie knife and a waistband holster, home to
his 9-mil S&W.
We
clasped hands, grinned at one another, then stepped close for a quick
hug, slap of hands against backs before stepping out again.
“Too
long, Grandaddy!” Couple of years, in fact. I raised my voice over the
live band. “I thought you’d visit, at least.” I didn’t say more; he’d
know what else I meant.
“Business,”
Grandaddy said crisply; no apology was included. “You know how that
goes. I kept tabs on you.” He touched a fingertip to his left eyebrow.
“Your dad told me you got jumped.”
I
almost put my own hand up to that spot in my brow, but dropped it back
down. I knew it was there: a thin, pale diagonal line, stitch-free now,
but it looked like the hair wouldn’t grow back.
I kept my tone light. “Too far from my heart to kill me.”
Grandaddy’s eyes were unrelenting. “You handle the man who jumped you?”
Handle him? Oh, yeah.
I lifted the scarred eyebrow. “We had us a ’discussion’ right there in general population. Nobody bothered me after that.”
What I didn’t add was that it’s tough to bother a man in solitary.
Grandaddy
didn’t respond, just gestured with a sweep of a broad-palmed hand.
“I’ve got a table in an alcove in the back where we can talk privately.
Remi’s not here yet; he called to say he was running a tad late. Sorry
to say that boy’s always a tad late; his internal clock runs about as
slow as his Texas drawl.”
I
started to ask who he meant, but Grandaddy’d headed off through the
crowd. I followed to the alcove, discovered a pitcher of beer and a
half-filled mug, two empty tumblers, a bottle of Patron tequila, and
another of Talisker single malt sitting atop the table.
“Unless
you’ve changed your brand of whiskey.” Grandaddy flipped aside the
tails of his frock coat as he sat down and took up his beer.
I
couldn’t suppress my grin of delight. “Hell, no. I still drink that
whenever I can get it. But it’s not usually on offer in biker bars.” And
anyway, I’d pretty much ridden nonstop to this watering hole with time
only for coffee, prepackaged convenience store sandwiches. And, well,
licorice. The black stuff. The real stuff.
“They don’t carry it, so I snuck the bottle in under my coat,” Grandaddy admitted, eyes bright with amusement.
Warm
affection filled my chest. Damn, it was good to see the man again. I
hooked out a chair, swung it around, pushed the back against the wall so
I could keep an eye on the bar crowd, then sat my ass down and poured
two fingers’ worth of fine Scottish whiskey. Lifted the tumbler, let it
linger at my lips as the pungent tang of spirits rose to my eyes. Took a
sip.
Yeah,
there it was, that complex peaty power. I just appreciated it in my
mouth a long moment, then swallowed with a grateful smile and a nod of
the head. I’d missed this while in prison. “So, this is all your doing,
right? Early release, and now I report to you? Maybe the first time an
ex-con has been assigned to his own grandfather.”
Blue
eyes were bright across the beer mug. As always, he watched me even as
his posture suggested relaxation. “Mitigating circumstances, Gabriel.”
I poured more whiskey, enjoyed another swallow. “Now, who’s this Remi, and why are we meeting here? Why not Oregon, like usual?”
“Remi’s
coming in from Texas. Arizona splits the difference.” Grandaddy drank
beer, thumbed away liquid from his moustache, then fixed me with a
steady gaze I remembered very well, even if I hadn’t seen it for a
couple of years. “Pay attention, Gabriel.”
Okay,
so it’s like that. I’d heard those words, that tone, so many times over
the years. It always prefaced information Grandaddy considered vital,
even if it made absolutely no sense. I huffed air through my nose in
amusement, grinned crookedly, nodded.
And
he said, by way of pronouncement, “Remi is someone you’re going to come
to know very, very well, Gabriel. Someone with whom you will form a
bond unlike any other. Someone upon whose actions your life will depend,
and whose life will depend upon your actions.”
For
a long, arrested moment, drink suspended in midair on its journey to my
mouth, I stared blankly at him. Found no illumination in his face. “My
life?” I waited a beat; no answer was forthcoming. “As in, life and
death?”
“Precisely life and death.”
“Uhhh,
okay.” I set down the tumbler with a muted clunk, scratched at my
bisected eyebrow. It itched now and then. “Can you kinda elaborate on
that? Just-” I waved a hand in an indistinct gesture encompassing worlds
of nothing much “-you know, for the sake of me knowing what the hell
you’re talking about?”
The eyes were penetrating. “He will have your back, and you will have his, pretty much twenty-four, seven, three-sixty-five.”
I
contemplated that announcement, knocked back more whiskey, then opted
for candor. “That still doesn’t tell me shit, Grandaddy.”
Now he was quietly amused. “Not yet, no. We’ll wait till Remi arrives, and then I will, as you say, elaborate.”
I
opened my mouth to question further, but gave up, knowing it was
pointless. Grandaddy was often cryptic, and he could not be rushed. I’d
learned not to push or things got more obscure. I could tie my brains
into knots trying to sort out the man’s intentions. “This Remi got a
last name?”
“McCue.
And-ah, speak of the devil.” Grandaddy laughed softly. “Or not.” He
shoved his chair back, rose, extended his hand. “Remi, good to see you,
boy.”
I
raised my brows. Unlike me, Remi McCue fit right in with the crowd.
Dark denim western shirt, tucked in; neatly pressed jeans, leather belt
with big silver buckle, cowboy boots, even an honest-to-God hat.
This was the man Grandaddy thought I’d bond with, whatever the hell that meant. Upon whom my life was to depend.
A cowboy?
The booze warmed my belly. I gusted a laugh and sat back in my chair, grinning. “No offense, but…you gotta be shitting me!”
The
stranger gazed down at me a long moment, registered that he was himself
the target of the irony, and raised one eloquent dark brow beneath the
brim of his cream-colored hat as he made his assessment of me. In a
clear tone he drawled, “Well, boy, looks to me like you’re wearin’ one
of my steers in all that biker leather, so I wouldn’t go sayin’ much,
was I you.”
Ah. Okay. Like that, then. “You weren’t me the last time I looked.”
Grandaddy
laughed. “Oh, in a way he is, Gabriel. While you’re not related in a
normal sense, there is a common genetic background. Take a harder look.”
I
did. Okay, yeah, the cowboy was around six-feet, one-eighty, so we were
pretty much within an inch and five pounds of one another, and he had
dark hair, too, but his eyes were a clear blue, not my brown. He was
tanned, I wasn’t; prison leaches melanin. Still, I had to concede we
were of a similar physical type.
McCue
smiled as he was given his second inspection. “Well, if Grandaddy says
we resemble one another, then I’ll have to say you are a handsome
devil.” He paused, lips pursing. “Might could do with a haircut,
though.”
Beneath
the hat, McCue’s hair was neatly trimmed and did not remotely approach
the vicinity of his shirt collar, let alone his shoulder blades. I
smiled back, not meaning it; you learned to do that in prison. “And
you’re a poor man’s Matthew McConaughey.”
That, too, you learned there, to challenge before he did.
But
the cowboy, patently unoffended and offering no return challenge,
grinned slow, then drawled in deep tones, “All right, all right, all
right.”
“Remi,
sit down and have something to drink,” Grandaddy told him, before it
went further, “and Gabriel, have another. You’ll need the alcohol. I’m
about to embark upon a foray into the expositional-and I guarantee you
won’t believe a word of it. All I ask is that you suspend your disbelief
and hear me out.”
I
employed a booted foot to shove the empty chair toward the cowboy. He
caught it, settled it, took his seat. We eyed one another in brief
male-to-male consideration and evaluation, smiled blandly, poured
drinks. My second went down easily. McCue drank Patron.
Grandaddy
meanwhile assessed us like he was weighing our worth, marking things
about the two of us I couldn’t grasp. This was a man who knew things,
who always struck me as a secret-keeper, but not out of ill-intent. Out
of privacy and a wish to control what he said when he said it. Of what
he viewed was safe to be said.
And
just now, Grandaddy appeared to arrive at a conclusion. His smile was a
brief, sardonic twitch. “Forgive me the melodrama, but I do promise
that at some point, some day, all will come clear. I ask merely that you
keep your minds open.” His smile broadened. “I did train you for that.”
Much
as I wanted to, I didn’t swear in frustration. Yeah, you don’t push
him, but Grandaddy could be more than a little frustrating at times. And
a sideways glance at McCue suggested he felt the same as he smiled
crookedly at me and twitched a shoulder, tilted his head in shared
resignation.
But we waited. It’s what you do with Jubal Tanner: you wait for pronouncements to be declared from on high.
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