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VOLK is a refreshing mash-up of a police procedural, spy novel, and shapeshifter story. Whenever I thought I knew what was coming next, the narrative took a delightful left turn. I devoured the book over two days and was sorry when I reached the end as I wanted more. A delightful mixture of fantasy and reality-based police procedure with engaging characters.
Who knew an author could make
me root for a werewolf?
Bradley Harper MD
Author, 2019 Edgar's Finalist
A Knife in the Fog
VOLK by D. Werkmeister is a riveting tale of revenge and self-discovery. With a clever mixture of paranormal and real life evil, Werkmeister delivers a rousing
novel that is sure to keep you fascinated and will leave you wanting more. This page turner will keep you guessing the true nature of all the characters, most
surprisingly, the antagonists. With just the right amount of mystery and suspense,
Werkmeister has a compelling hit
and is a must read.
D. M. Bourgeois
Author of
Slipping Into Darkness, Misguided Revenge
and Edge of Reality
About
My name is Darin Werkmeister
I am a retired FBI Agent with 21 years of street experience. I investigated white collar crime, Italian organized crime, Eastern European organized crime and international money laundering. I was also an 8 year member of the Philadelphia FBI SWAT team. Prior to joining the FBI, I was a Marine Corps Officer. I am the proud father of two daughters. This is my first novel.
Acknowledgments
My editor, Lilith Fondulas, thank you so much for the diligent work on this project and keeping me on the road and out of the ditches. Any typos in the book are my own from post editing work!
My daughters, Catherine and Sarah, thank you for listening to my crazy ideas and reading my rough first drafts. My wife, Amy, thank you for your support and encouragement during this project.
PREVIEW
The Skinwalker (working title),
by D. Werkmeister
Prologue
The New World, 1575
Francisco Bestia woke shivering. He had been warned by his fellow priests that the deserts in this new country were blazing hot during by day and near freezing by night. He reached down to pull his wool blanket up, but realized it was not there. His hands felt along his body, and he was stunned to realize he was almost nude, his clothes mostly torn to ribbons.
The fog of sleep left him disoriented. Before he awoke, he was a child back home in his small Spanish village. It was Christmas and he had just finished a holiday feast with his family. Slowly, the images of his mother, father, and sister blurred away until there was full consciousness. His brain registered the acrid smell of smoke, but there was another aroma under it. A sick metallic smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils. It was an odor he was all too familiar with in his years with the conquistadors.
He forced his eyes open and propped himself up on his elbows. In the dim light of the dawn, he saw several of his fellow Spaniards strewn around the fire, still asleep. As he looked closer at the forms, he realized something was wrong. The way they were lying was not one of slumber. He rose to his bare feet for a better vantage and immediately dropped back to his knees.
Death surrounded him. The entire foraging party, every man, slain. There was no sound save for the occasional pop from the dying coals. He looked where the horses should have been and saw a large heap of flesh with one hoofed leg sticking up into the frigid air. In the orange dawn light, he could see steam rise from the carcass. There was no sign of the other horses. He found a wool blanket and draped it over his shoulders as he walked among the dead, offering blessings.
Moving among the corpses, he noted that several of them had drawn their swords and died with them in their hands. But he found no signs of combat. He had walked enough battlefields in the last several years to recognize a fight with the local tribes. None of those telltale signs were present. There were no broken weapons, no arrows, no lost clothing, nothing. Nothing except dead Spanish conquistadors.
The sun crested the hills in the east and, in the full morning light, he looked closer at the wounds to the soldiers. They were ghastly: deep gouges, limbs removed, heads caved in. This wasn’t the local tribes.
He could not remember any of it. He reasoned that perhaps he had been knocked unconscious during the attack or maybe his mind had blocked all memory of the horror.
He returned to the fire and added more wood. The radiant warmth of the renewed fire finally drove away the chill. He watched the coals glow a deep pulsing orange. As he held his hands near the flames to warm them, he noticed the dark maroon stains up to his elbows. Despite the heat of the flames, a chill ran down his back.
Bestia stared at the fire and thought for a moment. He decided he was wrong. It had been the local tribes who slaughtered these men after all. That is what he would tell the commander back at la fortaleza.
