Scroll down for information on all 7 of my novels: EVIL IN ME, SLEWFOOT, LOST GODS, KRAMPUS, The CHILD THIEF, DEVIL'S ROSE, and The PLUCKER.
Reviews
Lost Gods is like Robert Johnson singing ghostly blues on the shores of a haunted river in Hell. It’s like Dante played out in muggy rural graveyards and the depths of Purgatory on the eve of a demonic war. Lost Gods is an adventure tale and a mythic odyssey. It’s the kind of story lovers whisper in stolen cars burning rubber from this world down to the very edge of the Abyss. —Richard Kadrey, New York Times bestselling author of the Sandman Slim series
Brom effortlessly weaves classical mythology with modern nightmares in this beautifully twisted hell ride. Heartwrenching, operatic, and stunningly illustrated, LOST GODS is a dark gem of a novel. —Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling author of SNOWBLIND
It's just not fair, I tell you! I've been watching Brom effortlessly create some of the most beautiful, provocative covers in the fantasy genre for decades now. He's a storyteller with his artwork, and in a very elite class. Now he decided to invade my turf with "Lost Gods," a novel that winds into surprises and unexpected triumphs as much as the corners of his artwork. — R.A. Salvatore, New York Times best selling author
Set in a Dantean world both hauntingly alien and strangely familiar, Brom's LOST GODS sets a harrowing course between damnation and redemption. A hell of a read! —Ari Berk, Author of the Undertaken Trilogy
One of Brom’s many gifts is a vivid, unique imagination that thrives in the dark frontiers where madness and courage meet. In Lost Gods, he drops a flawed but worthy hero into a mythological maelstrom, then sets him fighting for stakes that only grow more desperate and personal with each victory. It’s a thrilling and engaging tale on every level, and the ending will have you digging your fingernails into the book cover. Don’t miss it! —Troy Denning, New York Times best selling author
Krampus, the Yule Lord, can be purchased online from these outlets:
PROLOGUE
Santa Claus...
How vile your name upon my tongue. Like acid, hard to utter without spitting. Yet I find myself capable of speaking little else. It has become my malediction, my profane mantra.
Santa Claus... Santa Claus... Santa Claus.
That name, like you, like your Christmas and all its perversions, is a lie. But then you have always lived in a house of lies, and now that house has become a castle, a fortress. So many lies that you have forgotten the truth, forgotten who you are...forgotten your true name.
I have not forgotten.
I will always be here to remind you that it is not Santa Claus, nor is it Kris Kringle, or Father Christmas, or Sinterklaas, and it certainly is not Saint Nicholas. Santa Claus is but one more of your masquerades, one more brick in your fortress.
I will not speak your true name. No, not here. Not so long as I sit rotting in this black pit. To hear your name echo off the dead walls of this prison, why that...that would be a sound to drive one into true madness. That name must wait until I again see the wolves chase Sol and Mani across the heavens. A day that draws near; a fortnight perhaps, and your sorcery will at long last be broken, your chains will fall away and the winds of freedom will lead me to you.
I did not eat my own flesh as you had so merrily suggested. Madness did not take me, not even after sitting in this tomb for half a millennium. I did not perish, did not become food for the worms as you foretold. You should have known me better than that. You should have known I would never let that happen, not so long as I could remember your name, not so long as I had vengeance for company.
Santa Claus, my dear old friend, you are a thief, a traitor, a slanderer, a murderer, a liar, but worst of all you are a mockery of everything for which I stood.
You have sung your last ho, ho, ho, for I am coming for your head. For Odin, Loki, and all the fallen gods, for your treachery, for chaining me in this pit for five hundred years. But most of all I am coming to take back what is mine, to take back Yuletide. And with my foot upon your throat, I shall speak your name, your true name, and with death staring back at you, you will no longer be able to hide from your dark deeds, from the faces of all those you betrayed.
I Krampus, Lord of Yule, son of Hel, bloodline of the great Loki, swear to cut your lying tongue from your mouth, your thieving hands from your wrists, and your jolly head from your neck.