RELEASE DAY: Phineas Foxx "Last of the Mighty"

Blurb

Centuries ago, an elite band of thirty-seven, holy warriors called the Mighty would routinely slay thousands in a single battle. Today, the offspring of these heroes of old have all been hunted and killed.

Save one.

Augustine Caffrey is fifteen years old, seven feet tall and star of his high school wrestling team. Known as Og, the born fighter has never backed down from any human. Problem is the ungodly half-man/half-demon who has come to slaughter him today isn’t really human. And when Og refuses the crossbreed’s offer to join the wicked, his first battle against the demonic begins.  

Og soon discovers that the father he has never met is responsible for the war that has come to his doorstep. A probe into his father’s identity leads Og to a secret history of angels gone bad, a sacred law dating back to the Flood that clearly condemns the kid and blood ties that explain why both Heaven and Hell want Og dead.

 

About the Author:
Phineas Foxx lives in a small beach village with his incurably gorgeous English wife, two perfectly beastly teenagers, a rotund Chihuahua and an elderly cat that may live forever. Last of the Mighty is his first novel.
     
 
  

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Excerpt:

Chapter One

The ugly dog-thing’s massive jaws were two feet from my throat when it all went quiet and time finally slowed.

Like everything was suddenly underwater.

Except me. I was still moving at full speed.

A foot away now, the giant cranked open its maw even more, readied for clampdown. His disgusting yellow teeth could taste me already.

I arched back to let the hyena-beast sail by and seized him by the scruff. With my other hand, I struck—a hammerfist, rock-hard, to the middle of the monster’s neck. The dog’s yelp told me he was not immune to pain. The muffled snap of bone meant he was not made of iron. And when the mongrel’s limp body hit the ground and kept rolling, I knew the mutant hellhound was mortal.

Though the animal appeared dead, I had to be sure. Suppose I could’ve busted out a mirror to make sure his breath didn’t fog it. I opted for a double stomp kick to the spine instead.

“Never liked that one anyway.” A craggy voice came from behind me.

I spun to face the speaker, in Cat stance, ready for another attack.

I stumbled back, shocked at the size of the guy. Seven-and-a-half feet tall with broad shoulders and a bull neck. He stood with the challenging stance of an old west gunslinger—feet spread, beefy hands cocked at the hips. I caught a whiff. Dude was all sweat and tobacco. A shaft of sun grazed across the stubble of his jaw, but the rest of his face was hidden in the shade cast by the upturned hood of a dark cloak. Despite the dim, I caught a glint of an eerie eye peering out from the shadows.

He sparked up a thick, half-smoked cigar, stoked it to life. Between puffs, he croaked, “So. You’re Augustine.”

“O-Og.” I tried to sound tough, didn’t quite get there. “Why’d ya sic that dog on me? You got a—”

“Og, huh?” he grunted, then blew out some smoke. “Charming.” He snickered.

That bugged. The snickering and the interrupting. I was raised in a convent with a bunch of nuns, where good manners were expected, demanded.

“Well…Og,” he grumbled, again with the mocking.

Now I wasn’t a violent kid, but come on. First he sends the dog and now this? I thought of how nice it would’ve felt to let my foot cave in his face. The guy’s size was a factor, but I, too, was freakishly large. Fifteen-and-a-half years old and I was already seven feet tall. On top of that, I’d been studying martial arts since I was four.

“You and I have business.” He hit the lung dart again, and held in the smoke for a good ten seconds, studying me.

A school bell clanged in the distance. Could have been The Committee in my head, but I doubted it. Looked like I was going to be late to first period. Again.

“Business?” I asked.

“Yes, Og.” There it was again. Poking fun at my name. “Or as you might say, bid-nit. There. Is that better…punk?”

My lip twitched at the insult. Though I was a black belt in aikido, wing chun, Krav…you name it, I rarely fought outside the dojo. Mostly because I was a nice guy—like the gentle giant in a Disney movie—and partly because I’d promised my mother I’d only fight in tournaments and club competitions. But Mom was dead now.

I wanted to reply with something witty and mean, but instead, Mr. Disney giant went with, “You got a problem, pal,” and I tried to wrap that last word with enough taunt to provoke a swing from Jesus.

He just stood there, all cool and quiet, his face still hiding in the shadow of his hood. He took another drag off the cigar, then chirped out a short whistle.

Leaves crackled in the nearby woods.

My eyes slid over to see a pair of mutant canines.

            Even bigger than the one I’d just killed.