About the Book:
Gotta know when to fake ‘em, know when to stake them, know when to burn it down—and know when to let all hell break loose.
Some days, mechanic and monster hunter Mark Wojcik thinks that if it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all.
His corner of rural Pennsylvania used to be relatively quiet—except for the ghosts, trolls, gnomes, and snallygasters. But when people start disappearing and bodies pile up, Mark and his friends realize that big city problems have come to town, with deadly consequences.
Necromancer narcos, a monster trafficking ring, and mafia witches would give anyone heartburn. It’s just Mark’s luck they all converge in his territory, along with an underground cryptid fight club and a secret casino catering to witches, werewolves, and the unwary.
The fight gets personal when Mark’s friends go missing, and all bets are off when he and Father Leo bring in a ringer to even the odds.
They say the house always wins. Mark’s betting the farm that he and his friends can save the day. He’s got a couple of cards up his sleeve—but unless luck and magic go his way, they might turn out to be aces and eights.
Spells, Salt, & Steel 8: House of Cards Excerpt: (299)
Anyone who says there are “no bad dogs” never fought a werewolf with a grudge.
“I’ll go in the front—cover the back door,” I told Blair Hamilton, my wingman tonight. Not that she needed instructions. Blair was ex-military, cool as a cucumber under fire, and damn good with a weapon.
“Try not to be puppy chow.” She smirked before circling to the back of the isolated cabin deep in the Big Woods.
I checked my Glock to make sure I’d loaded the silver bullets, touched the silver knife in the sheath on my belt just to be sure, and took a deep breath, then headed toward the front door with all the stealth I could muster.
Mere mortal sneakiness is no match for werewolf hearing.
Reggie Bloch slammed the cabin door open before I’d gotten close enough to kick it in.
“Get off my porch and off my land,” Bloch growled. He took a step toward me, menace clear in his eyes.
I sized him up and didn’t care for the odds. Bloch was my height—a couple of inches over six feet—but where I was fit, he was ripped muscle. We both knew who would win if it came to arm wrestling.
Which is why I kept my gun leveled at his heart. “Should have thought about that before you went on a rampage. Bunch of shredded cows with their hearts missing says you’ve been feeling peckish—and not sticking to the rules.”
“Fuck the rules,” Bloch snapped. “I’ve got a right to eat.” Werewolves are known for having hot tempers, but they’re not twitchy. Bloch was positively tweaking.
“Pay for the cows first, and no one cares what you eat. But you went Cujo on the cattle, and that’s a problem.”
“You gonna shoot me?”