I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the Legends of the Lost Causes series by Brad McLelland & Louis Sylvester Blog Tour hosted
by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the
giveaway!
Author: Brad McLelland & Louis Sylvester
Series: Legends of the Lost Causes #3
Age: Middle Grade
Genres: Fantasy, Adventure, Western
Publication Date: March 17, 2020
Publisher: Henry Holt & Company
Source: Hardcover
Purchase: Hardcover | Kindle | B&N | Kobo | iBooks
Synopsis:
Dark magic meets the Old West in this third installment of the Legends of the Lost Causes, as a group of vigilante orphans go head-to-head against an outlaw sorcerer in pursuit of an ancient and powerful magical artifact!Keech Blackwood and his fellow Lost Causes have won their share of battles, but the war against the ruthless sorcerer Reverend Rose still rages on.
This time, the Lost Causes face their most perilous trial yet: stopping Rose and his henchmen from retrieving an ancient, powerful object that would help return him to his full, frightening strength. As the vigilante orphans race to the dangerous depths of Skeleton Peak, the sight of the magical object, they’ll have to outmaneuver Rose’s most faithful—and menacing—ally: an inhuman creature spawned by darkness and shadow. But ever in pursuit of justice and vengeance for their fallen families, the Lost Causes won’t give up without a fight.
Other Books in Series:
Book 2 - The Fang of Bonfire Crossing (Hardcover | Paperback | Kindle)
Prologue: Miguel on the Mountain Excerpt
For eighty-five days, Miguel Herrera rode on Chantico’s weary back. He knew the count well; using his special bone-handled knife, he’d been scoring the days into his saddle since embarking from eastern Kansas. His riding companion let him keep the big knife, provided he be a “good boy.”
Miguel wore his hat pulled low and his blue bandana high to keep the swirling frost off his cheeks. He traveled in silence, following the small man through the shallow foothills of western Kansas Territory and into the Rocky Mountains. Bitter winds colder than the worst Missouri winter blew down the canyon passes. Miguel felt as if his fingers would turn to icicles despite his thick gloves.
“These storms will keep curious eyes out of the canyons where we’re headed,” his companion said. With the heavy snow flurries threatening to bury them, the Mountain Route they were climbing portended avalanches and impassable ice walls.
When he was a little kid, Miguel’s mother had told him frightful bedtime stories about Shifters and fantasmas, but she had never told him tales about unnatural weather. Miguel knew well the cruelty of a hard winter, but this was something different, something fiendish and calculating. Perhaps he was seeing what his old Spanish Bible had called los últimos días, or the last days. Pray when you see fearful things, his mother had once said. Make the Sign of the Cross, Miguel, and your faith will spare you.
But Miguel felt no such salvation.
Peering up at the white peaks rising high on each side, Miguel marveled at the size of the Rockies. Having once roamed across the southern rise of the Appalachians in Alabama with his amigo Frank Bishop, he’d thought he knew mountains, but these peaks towered with such majesty that they seemed to scrape the sky itself.
As the horses lumbered up the snow-choked path, Miguel’s callous chaperone pointed. “Let’s stop for the night in that clearing.”
Reining Chantico to a halt, Miguel dismounted.
The small man hopped off his own pony, a knock-kneed gelding he had rustled from a lonely farmer in December. “Fetch us some supper. We still have a few days before we reach the Peak, and our beans and bacon are mostly gone.”
Miguel moved off into the woods to search for small game. He scanned the drift for prints, watching for signs of a passing rabbit. He kept his long blade in hand. In Missouri, Bishop had said it was a magical blade that would someday kill “the Eye.”
Not long after, the one-eyed Bad Whiskey Nelson, El Ojo, had killed Bishop in an Arkansas prison. Miguel thought he’d discovered the knife’s intended target, but when he thrust it into El Ojo’s chest at Bone Ridge Cemetery, the blade did nothing. Only the silver charms and the Reverend Rose’s devil birds were able to stop the fiend once and for all.
But now Miguel had new plans for the knife. Once he found his opportunity, he would rid the world of his vicious traveling partner.
After fetching a jackrabbit for grub, Miguel fed and watered the two ponies. He muttered kind words to his palomino, asking forgiveness for riding her so hard.
“Enough messing around with those nags. Fetch my saddlebag.” After brushing away snow to clear a spot, the small man leaned against a fallen cottonwood tree. He peeled off his ragged hat, revealing a mangy tonsure of gray hair. “Then build up a fire. My feet are cold.”
The stolen gelding carried a few saddlebags, but Miguel knew his captor desired a special bundle tucked inside a small leather pouch. Miguel unhooked the bag and carried it over. “Here,” he muttered, setting the bag in the fellow’s hands.
The man pulled the bag close. “Here . . . what?”
Miguel clenched his teeth. “Here, sir.”
“That’s better. Now, since you and I have become old pals, go ahead and speak my name.” The man’s satisfied grin melted into a malignant frown. “I insist.”
Miguel had no desire to speak his captor’s name. He preferred to think of his infernal companion as el diablito, small in stature but possessed by evil. He had first met the desperado in Arkansas, locked inside a cárcel called Barrenpoint, the accursed prison where El Ojo had killed Frank Bishop. Even then the small man had forced terrible orders upon Miguel. Yet he knew better than to resist a direct command. “Coward,” Miguel said. “Your name’s Coward.”
Miguel wore his hat pulled low and his blue bandana high to keep the swirling frost off his cheeks. He traveled in silence, following the small man through the shallow foothills of western Kansas Territory and into the Rocky Mountains. Bitter winds colder than the worst Missouri winter blew down the canyon passes. Miguel felt as if his fingers would turn to icicles despite his thick gloves.
“These storms will keep curious eyes out of the canyons where we’re headed,” his companion said. With the heavy snow flurries threatening to bury them, the Mountain Route they were climbing portended avalanches and impassable ice walls.
When he was a little kid, Miguel’s mother had told him frightful bedtime stories about Shifters and fantasmas, but she had never told him tales about unnatural weather. Miguel knew well the cruelty of a hard winter, but this was something different, something fiendish and calculating. Perhaps he was seeing what his old Spanish Bible had called los últimos días, or the last days. Pray when you see fearful things, his mother had once said. Make the Sign of the Cross, Miguel, and your faith will spare you.
But Miguel felt no such salvation.
Peering up at the white peaks rising high on each side, Miguel marveled at the size of the Rockies. Having once roamed across the southern rise of the Appalachians in Alabama with his amigo Frank Bishop, he’d thought he knew mountains, but these peaks towered with such majesty that they seemed to scrape the sky itself.
As the horses lumbered up the snow-choked path, Miguel’s callous chaperone pointed. “Let’s stop for the night in that clearing.”
Reining Chantico to a halt, Miguel dismounted.
The small man hopped off his own pony, a knock-kneed gelding he had rustled from a lonely farmer in December. “Fetch us some supper. We still have a few days before we reach the Peak, and our beans and bacon are mostly gone.”
Miguel moved off into the woods to search for small game. He scanned the drift for prints, watching for signs of a passing rabbit. He kept his long blade in hand. In Missouri, Bishop had said it was a magical blade that would someday kill “the Eye.”
Not long after, the one-eyed Bad Whiskey Nelson, El Ojo, had killed Bishop in an Arkansas prison. Miguel thought he’d discovered the knife’s intended target, but when he thrust it into El Ojo’s chest at Bone Ridge Cemetery, the blade did nothing. Only the silver charms and the Reverend Rose’s devil birds were able to stop the fiend once and for all.
But now Miguel had new plans for the knife. Once he found his opportunity, he would rid the world of his vicious traveling partner.
After fetching a jackrabbit for grub, Miguel fed and watered the two ponies. He muttered kind words to his palomino, asking forgiveness for riding her so hard.
“Enough messing around with those nags. Fetch my saddlebag.” After brushing away snow to clear a spot, the small man leaned against a fallen cottonwood tree. He peeled off his ragged hat, revealing a mangy tonsure of gray hair. “Then build up a fire. My feet are cold.”
The stolen gelding carried a few saddlebags, but Miguel knew his captor desired a special bundle tucked inside a small leather pouch. Miguel unhooked the bag and carried it over. “Here,” he muttered, setting the bag in the fellow’s hands.
The man pulled the bag close. “Here . . . what?”
Miguel clenched his teeth. “Here, sir.”
“That’s better. Now, since you and I have become old pals, go ahead and speak my name.” The man’s satisfied grin melted into a malignant frown. “I insist.”
Miguel had no desire to speak his captor’s name. He preferred to think of his infernal companion as el diablito, small in stature but possessed by evil. He had first met the desperado in Arkansas, locked inside a cárcel called Barrenpoint, the accursed prison where El Ojo had killed Frank Bishop. Even then the small man had forced terrible orders upon Miguel. Yet he knew better than to resist a direct command. “Coward,” Miguel said. “Your name’s Coward.”
Series Review:
I have been on a roll with finding new middle grade novels to read lately, so I was pleasantly surprised and excited when I came across this series! This is one that will keep you hooked from beginning to end. I never found myself bored so I'm sure that children will enjoy reading this. This is definitely a series that I will be sharing with my son to read when he gets a little older. It's action packed, character driven, has great plot and is well rounded. Highly recommend!!
About Brad McLelland
Born and
raised in Arkansas, Brad McLelland spent several years working as a crime
journalist in the South before earning his MFA in creative writing from
Oklahoma State University. A part-time drummer and singer, Brad lives in
Oklahoma with his wife, stepdaughter, a mini-Aussie who gives hugs, and a
chubby cat who begs for ham.
About Louis Sylvester
Louis Sylvester is a
professor at Lewis-Clark State College in Lewiston, Idaho. He teaches courses
on Creative Writing, Research Writing, Introduction to Film, Screenwriting, and
The Ethics of Art and Censorship.
Together with his
wife, he enjoys playing tabletop games from his collection of over 1,000 board
and card games.
His two dogs are named
Cake and Muse. They are the best.
His writing partner is
the talented author Brad McLelland. Their first novel is titled LEGENDS OF THE
LOST CAUSES.
Giveaway
Three lucky winners will receive finished
copies of the LEGENDS OF LOST CAUSES SERIES, US Only.
Tour Schedule
Week
One:
3/16/2020
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Excerpt/Spotlight
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3/16/2020
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Excerpt/Spotlight
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3/17/2020
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Review
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3/17/2020
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Excerpt/Spotlight
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3/18/2020
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Review
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3/18/2020
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Review
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3/19/2020
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Review
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3/19/2020
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Review
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3/20/2020
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Review
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3/20/2020
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Review
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Week
Two:
3/23/2020
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Review
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3/23/2020
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Review
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3/24/2020
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Review
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3/24/2020
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Excerpt/Spotlight
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3/25/2020
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Review
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3/25/2020
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Excerpt/Spotlight
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3/26/2020
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Review
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3/26/2020
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Review
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3/27/2020
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Review
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3/27/2020
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Excerpt/Spotlight
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I highly recommend you check out the series!