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Hell Bound by International Bestseller @WestonAndrew is a Trick or Treat Book Bonanza Pick #paranorm

Title: Hell Bound

Author: Andrew P. Weston

Genre: Paranormal Fantasy

Book Blurb:

In hell, none of the condemned believes they deserve to be there. And that’s fine, so long as they’re not foolish enough to try and do anything about it. For those that do, there’s always Satan’s Reaper–and chief bounty hunter–Daemon Grim.

Feared throughout the many layers of the underverse, no one in their right mind dares to cross him.

However, when Grim discovers that someone has attempted to evade injustice, and seems hell-bent on gaining access to ancient angelic artifacts, proscribed since the time of the original rebellion in heaven, circumstances point to the fact they may be doing just that.

The question is...why?

Thus begins an investigation that leads Grim throughout the many contradictory and baffling levels of the underworld, where he unearths a conspiracy that is not only eating its way like a cancer through the highest echelons of Hellion society, but one which threatens the very stability of Satan’s rule.

How does Daemon Grim Respond?

Rest assured. It’ll be bloody, brutal, and despicably wicked.


Lost in shadow, I surveyed my surroundings and took my time to ensure the area was deserted. The squall outside fell in stinging gusts, creating a tympanic frenzy of contending melodies. I paused for a moment to savor the erratic beat of rain against metal, glass, and corrugated roofing. The discordance was almost hypnotic, and it was only with the greatest effort that I was able to break free from its influence and concentrate on the task at hand.

It didn’t take long, for I’d chosen my location well. It was past midnight, and my position at the top of the stairwell afforded me a commanding view of the parking lot outside. Apart from a solitary discarded coffee cup tumbling its way along a line of stationary vehicles like a demented gymnast, I was completely alone, and invisible to the detritus of humanity sleeping fitfully beneath their makeshift shelters throughout the different levels of the garage.

The scant security lighting that still worked did little to illuminate the area. If anything, each lamp created a swathe of gloom that I would use to my advantage, for my assignment here would end shortly, and it was almost time to go home.

At last.

Just the thought of getting back sent a twinge of pleasure tingling along my spine. While my work afforded me a degree of freedom enjoyed by no one else, I always felt fatigued the longer I stayed away. And a week was simply too long.

Still, it’s been a good harvest. Not only was I able to sort out a major problem for the Boss, but the latest candidates should go a long way toward calming his frustrations.

A faint echo portending ravenous hunger intruded at the edge of my astral perceptions. Adjusting my awareness, I sensed my quarry coming closer. Forewarned, I used the opportunity to mentally review his rap-sheet.

Jesus Toledo Perez. Born 1980, in New Mexico, to Alberto Toledo and Christina Perez. A fraternal twin introduced to his true vocation at the tender age of just five years, when he smothered his sibling, Alana, in her sleep following an infantile spat. Authorities weren’t able to pin anything on him at the time, and how would they? An innocent child, rolling over in the night to cuddle his sister as they slept? Little did the Toledo family appreciate the monster born into their midst that day.

But we did, and that act had drawn him to our attention. For as little Jesus grew up, his crimes progressed from random acts of asphyxiation as a child to the more opportunistic, premeditated, hormone-driven angst of a teenager. By the time he graduated, Jesus had strangled, drowned, and pushed seven people to their deaths.

Hmm. Judging from what it says here, he always acted as if he was daring the authorities to catch him. Just what we want. A cold, calculating killer with a God complex.

I watched him from my place of concealment as he edged his way out onto the top tier from the opposite side of the level. Hiding beneath an oversized golf umbrella, and dressed to the nines in an expensive suit and raincoat, he looked every bit the highflyer currently establishing himself as a philanthropist and charity worker among the city’s homeless.

The perfect cover.

Or so he thinks.

I noticed he was carrying a plastic bag. Despite the wind, I could hear the contents clunking as he moved.

Aha! Going with the poisoned hooch option tonight, are we?

I suppressed a snort at the poignancy of the situation.

I’ve got a real-life Jesus of suburbia right in front of me, but the only salvation he’ll be bringing one of the poor and lowly tonight is a release from the suffering of their miserable lives.

It was time to intercede.

Like a wraith, I detached myself from the gloom and stepped out into the night. Within moments, the rain had soaked my hair and beaded my trench coat and sunglasses in a chainmail of translucent pearls. Gliding silently between the parked vehicles, the only sign of my advance came from the momentary dimming of the overhead lights as I passed.

I neared my target, and noticed Jesus had stooped low over a congregation of cardboard boxes between two large trucks. The soft chink of glass scraping on concrete signaled his preparations, and in moments, several bottles stood on the floor before him.

“There you go,” he crooned, “this’ll help keep you warm on a night like this.”

Several pairs of grubby hands snaked out from darkened alcoves. Grasping at the unexpected gifts they fought among themselves, frantic for any solace that might ease the drudgery of their existence, if only for a little while.

A cap popped, and necks craned as bottles were lifted toward eager lips.

Oh no you don’t!

I swept forward and slapped one of the bottles away from desperate fingers. Full of liquid, it bounced once before exploding in a shower of liquid-crystal splinters.

Jesus spun to face whoever had intervened in his machinations. His look of anger blanched into one of fear as his gaze met mine.

I couldn’t blame him. Despite the glasses, I’d always had that effect on people.

Dressed from head to toe in black, and coming in at over six feet tall, I exuded an air of menace and barely suppressed aggression.

Without taking my eyes from him, I grabbed Jesus by the collar, lifted him off the floor, and addressed the bums now cowering inside their rain-sodden caves. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you value your existence I strongly suggest you stay where you are for the next few minutes. Enjoy your beverages, and the fact that each of you will now live to see the dawning of a brand new day.”

As I concluded my sentence, I flexed, and sent Jesus sailing through the downpour behind me. Only then did I pause to regard the occupants within their shelters.

Nervous, owl-like expressions stared back.

If you could dress up as anything or anyone this Halloween, what or who would it be and why?

That would have to be the Grim Reaper, because no matter what he does or where he goes, he always makes a killing. Just the character to put you in the mood for Halloween.

Explain why your featured book is a treat to read:

Because critics say Hell Bound is – “Reminiscent of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle”, a master of adventure stories. What better accolade could there be?”


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Open internationally

Runs October 1 – 31

Drawing will be held on November 1.

Author Biography:

Andrew P. Weston is an international bestselling author from the UK who now lives on the beautiful Greek island of Kos with his wife, Annette, and their growing family of rescue cats. An astronomy and criminal law graduate, he has the privilege of being a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, the British Science Fiction Association, British Fantasy Society and the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers.

When not writing, Andrew devotes some of his spare time to assisting NASA with one of their remote research projects, and writes educational articles for and Amazing Stories.

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