Italy. A tough master of novices, Father Dante encounters the bold young priest Antonio who challenges his identity and accuses him of being the Saint Nicholas. But despite the Father faking his death, a determined Antonio discovers a rather alive Dante arrayed in kilt and armor.
In return for Antonio’s silence—and to protect the town from attracting all manner of darkness—Dante agrees to tell his life story. Without explanation, Dante orders Antonio to meet him at night in the abandoned Cathedral, the site of a former battle that the Church has kept secret for a generation.
The Criskindl. Ice Steeds. The Unborn. Saint.
From the Dark Ages’ when Poet-Sorcerers ruled kings, to the Holy Land when a new civilization was rising, to Revolutionary France where love is lost and gained, Father Dante pursues the one responsible for both his master and his mother’s deaths: Black Peter, his brother.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Gregory Bellarmine is the author of the bestselling Monthly Roman Breviary. He lives a happy though sometimes sleepless life in the UK with his wife, two children and rather cheeky Parson Russell Terrier.
Gregory will be awarding a $10 Amazon GC to a randomly drawn commenter during the tour.
Gregory’s blog is http://www.fatherdante.com
Book Trailer - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QF_LaW215X4
Amazon USA: http://amzn.com/1907436472
“The Blood That Cries in the Ground will grab the reader by the throat with a death grip from which it is impossible to break free.” -Reviewed by Bill Howard for Readers' Favorite
Link to the full review: http://readersfavorite.com/book-review/13394
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From effulgent smoke came forth a dark man of such height that his head grazed the broken frame. Straight jet hair fell to his narrow waist, and from each hip hung a curved, empty scabbard. The flaming scimitars crackled in his gauntleted fists.
Liquid fire burned in eyes that rejected fear. Garbed in shades of black, from hose and metal gloves to chest armor, the intruder moved forward like a shadow stealing across a barren heath. He hovered a dangerous pace from the midwife. And when he spoke, though his breath had the scent of lilacs his voice had the timbre of fine-tuned rage:
"I thank you graceful Lady for your months of natal torture, and I do hope that in time you forgive what will surely cause you terrible grief." His fiery stare fell on the child cradled in the midwife's arms. "I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again. The husk is different." He sniffed the air. "But the vapors, they're yours."
The midwife shook her head, rose from her stool, and fished inside her skirt pockets. Swiftly the intruder brought down one of his scimitars to sever the umbilical cord.