BOOK EXCERPT: THE WAR IN THE DARK BY NICK SETCHFIELD

18/7/2018

Ginger Nuts of Horror is proud to be q part of the blog tour for Nick Setchfield's new novel The War in the Dark. Today we have an excerpt from the book, A genre-defying page turner that fuses thriller and speculative fiction with dark fantasy in a hidden world in the heart of Cold War Europe.

Synopsis

Europe. 1963. And the true Cold War is fought on the borders of this world, at the edges of the light.
When the assassination of a traitor trading with the enemy goes terribly wrong, British Intelligence agent Christopher Winter must flee London. In a tense alliance with a lethal, mysterious woman named Karina Lazarova, he s caught in a quest for hidden knowledge from centuries before, an occult secret written in a language of fire. A secret that will give supremacy to the nation that possesses it.

Racing against the Russians, the chase takes them from the demon-haunted Hungarian border to treasure-laden tunnels beneath Berlin, from an impossible house in Vienna to a bomb-blasted ruin in Bavaria where something unholy waits, born of the power of white fire and black glass . . .
It's a world of treachery, blood and magic. A world at war in the dark.

"James Bond meets Indiana Jones... a rip-roaring adventure. This is the book you'll be reading on the beach even when it rains or the sun goes down" Mark Millar

"A rattling good read... it's thrilling" Russell T Davies

"Nick Setchfield's occult spy thriller is a smooth blend of James Bond and M.R. James, played with tons of wit and style. This is something new that entertains like something old. Triumphantly suave' Paul Cornell
"
"A compelling fusion of Bond-era espionage and occult horror" James Brogden

EXCERPT

It was time to end this. Winter reached inside his overcoat. The pistol felt reassuring in his hand, heavy and familiar. He ignored the sweat on its lattice grip and removed a silencer from an outside pocket. In a quick, deft movement he screwed the tube to the head of the barrel, twisting it into place. It clicked, locked.
‘On your knees.’
The priest threw a hand towards him. It held a knife, plucked from the cassock. The blade flashed and found Winter’s arm, puncturing his coat and piercing the flesh.
There was a hot flare of pain but Winter kept the gun tight in his fist. He smashed it against Costigan’s hand. The knife tumbled to the flagstones.
The priest’s fingers curled around Winter’s forearm. He had remarkable strength. The hand closed, choking a fresh spasm of pain from the wounded arm.
The gun jerked upwards. Winter’s finger squeezed. A bullet fired with a cordite stench. It struck the stainedglass window, splintering a cherub.
The priest’s nails dug into Winter’s wrist, pricking the skin, claiming blood. Winter forced the trembling gun higher, closer to Costigan’s face. Another bullet fired. This one sailed into the rafters, scattering dust,
useless as the last.
Costigan’s other hand reached for Winter’s face. The broad palm pressed against his mouth, the nails targeting his eyes. Again the power in the man was astonishing. He seemed possessed by a feral energy.
Winter locked his fist around the priest’s arm and pushed back. As he did so he looked into Costigan’s eyes. Something moved in the pupils. Something that didn’t entirely belong to a man. Something that was one with the church’s shadows.
The priest’s hand moved closer. Winter stared at the greasy flesh. It was bulging, translucent. The skin itself seemed to strain, as if struggling to contain something.
‘Christ,’ he breathed.
The hand was bulbous now. Swollen, it cracked and tore. A shoal of insects burst from the ruptured flesh. Flies, lice, silverfish.
The creatures poured onto Winter. Instinctively he shut his eyes and bolted his mouth, though he wanted to cry out, even scream. He staggered backwards into a pew, shaking the flood of insects from his face even as he sensed them scurry into his hair.
Finally he forced his eyes open and stared at Father Costigan. The priest’s expression was savage now, his face streaked with gobs of bile. He had removed his glasses.
The man’s eyes were orbs of pure blood. Tiny albino spiders prised themselves out of the tear ducts, their pale legs curling over the lids.
Winter raised and steadied his gun. He aimed for the head.
‘I am beyond flesh,’ Costigan said, defiantly. ‘Flesh shall burn.’
Winter pulled the trigger. A bullet tore through Costigan’s skull, shredding bone. The priest fell.