Friday, June 05, 2009
My brian is on vacation- yup, still.
I've been taking a break from this blog, there's been a lot of amazing books published since I last posted, but there's been a lot of really disheartening bullshit too. It's kind of taken the wind out of me, and I've been licking my wounds by reading YA which has some really good shit going on and I don't mean that vampire series turned cultural hysteria. I'll be back soon... if the zombies outside my dungeon door don't bust in first!
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Succubus Dreams
Succubus Dreams Coming in October 2008
Some days, a girl just can’t catch a break……especially when the girl in question is Georgina Kincaid, a shape-shifting succubus who gets her energy from seducing men. First there’s her relationship with gorgeous bestselling writer Seth Mortensen, which is unsatisfying on a number of levels. It’s not just that they can’t have sex in case Georgina inadvertently kills him (generally a turn-off for most guys). Lately, even spending time together is a challenge. Seth's obsessed with finishing his latest novel, and Georgina's under demonic orders to mentor the new (and surprisingly inept) succubus on the block. Then there are the dreams. Someone, or something, is preying on Georgina at night, draining her energy, and supplying eerie visions of her future. Georgina seeks answers from Dante, a dream interpreter with ties to the underworld, but his flirtatious charm only leaves her more confused—especially as the situation with Seth reaches crisis point. Now Georgina faces a double challenge—rein in her out-of-control love life, and go toe-to-toe with an enemy capable of wreaking serious havoc among mankind. Otherwise, Georgina, and the entire mortal world, may never sleep easy again…
Friday, February 29, 2008
Madhouse by Rob Thurman
My Brother has spent a lifetime- mine, at least- telling me that I was normal, that I wasn't a monster. With his help, I'd finally realized that as long as I could remain who I was, I could survive what I was. It was only bad genes....
Half-human Cal Leandros and his brother, Niko, aren't exactly prospering with their preternatural detective agency. Who could have guessed that business would dry up in New York City, where vampires, trolls, and other creepy crawlies are all over the place?
But now there's a new arrival in the Big Apple. A malevolent evil with ancient powers, dead set on making history with an orgy of blood and murder, is picking off humans like sheep. And for Cal and Niko, this is one paycheck they're going to have to earn... if the live long enough to collect it.
This series is on a breakneck pace to fucking Valhalla. I can only compare it's awesomeness to Jim Butcher's Dresden Files. It's completely it's own little entity and the fullness of the story seems impossibly contained by the cover. When you read these books you are completely immersed into Cal and Niko's world. With this book Rob Thurman has, for me, cemented herself in that Murders Row of authors that do not fail, that leave all the others in the dust. Armstrong, Butcher, Harris's Grave Series, Caine, Briggs, and now Thurman!
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Summoning Book 1 of The Darkest Powers and Living with the Dead
The Darkest Powers Trilogy Book 1: The Summoning by Kelley Armstrong
Meet...
Chloe Saunders, she sees dead people. Yes, like in the films. The problem is, in real life saying you see ghosts gets you a one-way ticket to the psych ward. And at 15, all Chloe wants to do is fit in at school and maybe get a boy to notice her. But when a particularly violent ghost haunts her, she gets noticed for all the wrong reasons. Her seemingly crazed behaviour earns her a trip to Lyle House, a centre for 'disturbed teens'. At first Chloe is determined to keep her head down. But then her room mate disappears after confessing she has a poltergeist, and some of the other patients also seem to be manifesting paranormal behaviour. Could that be a coincidence? Or is Lyle House not quite what it seems...? Chloe realizes that if she doesn't uncover the truth, she could be destined for a lifetime in a psychiatric hospital. Or could her fate be even worse...? Can she trust her fellow students, and does she dare reveal her dark secret? (visit her website and unlock the hidden pages with her darkest power). Due out July 1, 2008.
Otherworld Book 9: Living With the Dead
When Robyn Peltier—a very human PR rep—is framed for murder, the two people most determined to clear her name are half-demon tabloid reporter Hope Adams, and necromancer homicide detective John Findlay. And suddenly Robyn finds herself in the heart of a world she never even know existed—and which she is safer knowing nothing about.... October 28, 2008 according to amazon.com, her website says November so keep an eye out.
As for Personal Demons will be a huge test for the character Hope Adams, like Paige before her, she is very difficult to warm up to. But Paige came through in spades eventually, and I am really betting that Hope will as well. Lucas is like adding a wet blanket onto a struggling fire for me when what I want is a fucking inferno from this book, but Kelley has NEVER disappointed (um... wait, let me clarify, the Otherworld series has never disappointed. It remains a perfect series unmarred by author-brain-malfunction syndrome).
(There will hopefully be liberal servings of Carl Marsden throughout this story, honestly he is the only bite of excitement for me so far. But I am so far beyond biased toward the Werewolves in Armstrong books. I want them all the frigging time. It's a total irrational desire. After the payoff in No Humans Involved, I am in full Necro/Were mode. I'll get over it... kind of.)
Living With the Dead looks exciting in that we will be introduced to a new Male of the Otherworld Universe. We constantly get new Women, after all it is the Women of Otherworld Series, but they wouldn't be half the books they are without the incredible men in their lives. And a Necro homicide detective sounds pretty cool even if he won't have super human strength or a longer lasting youth. But Armstrong has already proven to us (and will continue to do so in The Darkest Powers Series) that Necromancers has the most terrible power of them all.
And here is what I am positively fucking foaming at the mouth over:
October - story "The Ungrateful Dead" in the anthology, Blood Lite. This is a Jaime story. October 21, 2008 (This means Jeremy and I am totally freaking.)
Monday, February 04, 2008
Mercedes Thompson- Homecoming
Reasons why Mercy Thompson's Comic will be FUCKING awesome:
1. The book's success was first due to people picking up Moon Called because of that amazing book cover. Each book since has equalled the level of coolness and has remained true to the story inside. Just imaging the comic being up to par makes my mouth water.
2. The book starts just as a younger Mercy comes to work for Z, "When she takes the job, she finds herself in a mess of trouble. Vampires, werewolves and an ancient fae are all out to get her-".
3.Hopefully we'll see her introduction to Adam! I live in hope...
4.Homecoming will be a four part book and is slated for release late in 08.
Cry Wolf has it's cover and official release date, yay! Sure it's been out for a few weeks, I'm so damned behind! Sure the cover art is pretty ga-ga-gay, but I'm still looking forward to reading it.If you haven't read Alpha and Omega short story in the On the Prowl anthology, here's an excerpt: http://www.patriciabriggs.com/books/onthepowlChapter.shtml
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Black Magic Woman by Justin Gustainis
Black Magic Woman, it totally lives up to the hype.
I had this baby pre-orderd from amazon as of
"Order Date: November 16, 2007" just on the strength of Jim Butcher's blurb on the book, "Black Magic Woman is the best manuscript I've ever been asked to read. Keep an eye on Justin Gustainis. You'll be seeing more of him soon." - Jim Butcher. There was no other description but that.
"Order Date: November 16, 2007" just on the strength of Jim Butcher's blurb on the book, "Black Magic Woman is the best manuscript I've ever been asked to read. Keep an eye on Justin Gustainis. You'll be seeing more of him soon." - Jim Butcher. There was no other description but that.
Butcher does not dissapoint. Ever.
Rarely can authors carry off and capture a reader into 4 different storylines all paralleling and diverging into this multufasceted ending that gave each storyline it's own conclusion, spotlite, and unique and compelling scene. This book will claw it's hooks into you and you'll be thinking about it for days.
Black Magic is full of cover to cover pleasant surprises, one being that Gustainis is a fanstastic character creator. I hope that he's able to spread out and create spinoff series of some of his "gust stars", and even to the cast he alluded to. Barry Love and the "Jack" Morris replaced in the prolgue, are great examples of Gustainis's fine-ass craftmanship.
The entire books is a breath of fresha air, it proves that the genre is not played out. It proves that if an author has enough creative juice, they can still blow you away with a series about witches, vampires, werewolves, and all that jazz. I am officially a fan for life.
So go buy this book, help a new author out and you will hopefully be rewarded with great books through your support! Here's the latest news from his website:
Exciting News!
My publisher, Solaris Books, has offered me a contract for Evil Ways (excerpt of this at the end of BMW), the second Quincey Morris Supernatural Investigation. Publication date: January, 2009.
In addition, Solaris has taken an option on two more books in the "Quincey Morris" series.
When I gave this news to a friend of mine, he congratulated me and then said, "Now all you have to do is write 'em."
Gulp.
My publisher, Solaris Books, has offered me a contract for Evil Ways (excerpt of this at the end of BMW), the second Quincey Morris Supernatural Investigation. Publication date: January, 2009.
In addition, Solaris has taken an option on two more books in the "Quincey Morris" series.
When I gave this news to a friend of mine, he congratulated me and then said, "Now all you have to do is write 'em."
Gulp.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Small Favor, small excerpt...
Proving why he is still the Master, and we all should bow down to him and empty our wallets for Dresden Files Book 10, Jim and his minions at jim-butcher.com are parceling out sweet sweet chunks of heroin-like excerpts from the new book. Each Tuesday until it's release April 1st will bring a new installment. Here is part 1 of the 4 installments from Small Favor (all from jimbutcher.com):
Chapter One
Winter came early that year: it should have been a tip-off.
A snowball soared through the evening air and smacked into my apprentice's mouth. Since she was muttering a mantra-style chant when it hit her, she wound up with a mouthful of frozen cheer—which may or may not have been more startling for her than for most people, given how many metallic piercings were in suddenly in direct contact with the snow.
Molly Carpenter sputtered, spitting snow, and a round of hooting laughter went up from the children gathered around her. Tall, blond and athletic, dressed in jeans and a heavy winter coat, she looked natural in the snowy setting, her cheeks and nose turning red with the cold.
"Concentration, Molly!" I called. I carefully kept any laughter I might have wanted to indulge in from my voice. "You've got to concentrate! Again!"
The children, her younger brothers and sisters, immediately began packing fresh ammunition to hurl at her. The back yard of the Carpenter household was already thoroughly chewed up from an evening of winter warfare, and two low "fortress" walls faced one another across ten yards of open lawn. Molly stood between them, shivering, and gave me an impatient look.
"This can't possibly be real training," she said, her voice quivering with cold. "You're just doing this for your own sick amusement, Harry."
I beamed at her, and accepted a freshly-made snowball from little Faith, who had apparently appointed herself my squire. I thanked the little girl gravely, and bounced the snowball on my palm a few times. "Nonsense," I said. "This is wonderful practice. Did you think you were going to start off bouncing bullets?"
Molly gave me an exasperated look. Then she took a deep breath, bowed her head again, and lifted her left hand, her fingers spread wide. She began muttering again, and I felt the subtle shift of energies moving as she began drawing magic up around her in an almost-solid barrier, a shield that rose between her and the incipient missile storm.
"Ready!" I called out. "Aim!"
Every single person there, including myself, threw before I got to the end of "aim," and snowballs sped through the air, flung by children ranging from the eldest, Daniel, who was seventeen, down to the youngest, little Harry, who wasn't yet big enough to have much of a throwing arm, but who didn't let that stop him from making the largest snowball he could lift.
Snowballs pelted my apprentice's shield, and it stopped the first two, the frozen missiles exploding into puffs of fresh powder. The rest of them, though, went right on through Molly's defenses, and she was splattered with several pounds of snow. Little Harry ran up to her and threw last, with both hands, and shrieked merry triumph as his bread-loaf sized snowball splattered all over Molly's stomach.
"Fire!" I barked belatedly.
Molly fell onto her butt in the snow, sputtered some more, and burst out in a long belly laugh. Harry and Hope, the youngest of the children, promptly jumped on top of her, and from there the lesson in defensive magic devolved into the Carpenter children's longstanding tradition of attempting to shovel as much snow as possible down the necks of one another's coats. I grinned and stood there watching them, and a moment later found the children's mother standing beside me.
Molly took after Charity Carpenter, who had passed her coloring and build on to her daughter. Charity and I haven't always seen eye to eye—well, in point of fact, we've hardly ever seen eye to eye, but tonight she was smiling at the children's antics.
"Good evening, Mister Dresden," she murmured.
"Charity," I replied, amiably. "This happen a lot?"
"Almost always, during the first real snowfall of the year," she said. "Generally, though, it's closer to Christmas than Halloween."
I watched the children romping. Though Molly was growing quickly, in a number of senses, she reverted to childhood easily enough here, and it did me good to see it.
I sensed Charity's unusually intense regard and glanced at her, lifting an eyebrow in question.
"You never had a snowball fight with family," she said quietly, "did you?"
I shook my head and turned my attention back to the kids. "No family to have the fight with," I said. "Sometimes the kids would try, at school, but the teachers wouldn't let it happen. And a lot of times, the other kids did it to be mean, instead of to have fun. That changes things."
Charity nodded, and also looked back at the kids. "My daughter. How is her training progressing?"
"Well, I think," I said. "Her talents don't lie anywhere close to the same areas mine do. And she's never going to be much of a combat wizard."
Charity frowned. "Why do you say that? Do you think she isn't strong enough?"
"Strength has nothing to do with it. But her greatest talents make her unsuited for it in some ways."
"I don't understand."
"Well, she's good with subtle things. Delicate things. Her ability at handling fine, sensitive magic is outstanding, and increasing all the time. But that same sensitivity means that she has problems handling the psychic stresses of real combat. It also makes the gross physical stuff a real challenge for her."
"Like stopping snowballs?" Charity asked.
"Snowballs are good practice," I said. "Nothing gets hurt but her pride."
Charity nodded, frowning. "But you didn't learn with snowballs, did you."
The memory of my first shielding lesson under Justin DuMorne wasn't a particularly sentimental one. "Baseballs."
"Merciful God," Charity said, shaking her head. "How old were you?"
"Thirteen." I shrugged a shoulder. "Pain's a good motivator. I learned fast."
"But you aren't trying to teach my daughter the same way," Charity said.
"There's no rush," I said.
The noise from the children stopped, dropping to furtive whispers, and I winked at Charity. She glanced from the children to me, amusement evident in her face. Not five seconds later, Molly shouted, "Now!" and multiple snowballs came zipping toward me.
I lifted my left hand, focusing my will, my magic, and drew it into the shape of a broad, flat disc in front of me. It wasn't a good enough shield to stop bullets, or even well-thrown baseballs, but for snowballs it was just fine. They shattered to powder on my shield, revealing it in little flashes of pale blue light as a circular plane of force centered on the outspread fingers of my extended left hand.
The children laughed as they cried out their disapproval. I shouted, "Hah!" and lifted a triumphant fist.
Then Charity, standing behind me, dumped a double handful of snow down the neck of my coat.
I yelped as the cold ate my spinal cord, jumped up out of my tracks, and danced around trying to shake the snow out from under my clothes. The children cheered their mother on, and began flinging snowballs at more or less random targets, and in all the excitement and frivolity I didn't realize that we were under attack until the lights went out.
The entire block plunged into darkness—the floodlights illuminating the Carpenters' back yard, house lights in every nearby home, and the streetlights were all abruptly extinguished. Eerie, ambient werelight reflected from the snow. Shadows suddenly yawned where there had been none before, and the scent of something midway between a skunk and a barrel of rotting eggs assaulted my nostrils.
I yanked my blasting rod out of its holder on the inside of my coat, and said to Charity, "Get them inside."
"Emergency," Charity said in a far calmer voice than I had managed. "Everyone into the safe room, just like in practice."
The children had just begun to move when three creatures I had never seen before came bounding through the snow. Time slowed as the adrenaline hit my system, and it felt like I had half an hour to study them.
They weren't terribly tall, maybe five six, but they were layered with white fur and muscle. Each had a head that was almost goatlike, but the horns atop them curled around to the front like a bull's rather than arching back. Their legs were reverse-jointed and ended in hooves, and they moved in a series of single-legged leaps more than running. They got better air than a Chicago Bull, too, which meant I was dealing with something with supernatural strength.
Though thinking about it, I couldn't actually remember the last time I'd dealt with something that didn't have supernatural strength, which is one of the drawbacks of the wizard business. I mean, some things are stronger than others, sure, but it wouldn't much matter to my skull if a paranormal bruiser could bench press a locomotive or if he was merely buff enough to juggle refrigerators.
I trained the tip of my blasting rod on the lead whatsit, and then a bunch of snow fell from above in my peripheral vision, landing on the ground beside me with a soft thump.
I threw myself into a forward dive, rolled over one shoulder and came to my feet already moving laterally. I was just in time to avoid the rush of a fourth whatsit, which had knocked the snow loose just before it dropped down onto me from the treehouse Michael had built for his kids. It let out a hissing, bubbling snarl.
I didn't have time to waste with this backstabbing twit. So I raised the rod as its tip burst into scarlet flame, unleashed my will and snarled, "Fuego!"
A wrist-thick lance of pure flame leapt from the blasting rod and seared the creature's upper body to blackened meat. The excess heat melted snow all around it, and sent up a billow of scalding steam. Judging by the tackle hanging between the thing's legs as the steam burst up from the snow, it probably inflicted as much pain as the actual fire.
The whatsit went down, and I had to hope that it wasn't bright enough to play possum: The Carpenter children were screaming.
I whirled around, readying the rod again, and didn't have a clear shot. One of the white-furred creatures was running hard after Daniel, Molly's oldest brother. He'd begun to fill out, and he ran with his fingers locked on the back of the coats of little Harry and Hope, the youngest children, carrying them like luggage.
He gained the door with the creature not ten feet behind him, its wicked-looking horns lowered as it charged. Daniel went through the door and kicked it shut with his foot, never slowing down, and the creature slammed into it head-on.
I hadn't realized that Michael had installed all-steel, wood-paneled security doors on his home, just as I had on mine. The creature probably would have pulverized a wooden door. Instead, it slammed its head into the steel door, horns leading the way, and drove foot-deep dent into it.
And then it lurched away, letting out a burbling shriek of pain. Smoke rose from its horns, and it staggered back, swatting at them with its three-fingered, clawed hands. There weren't many things that reacted to the touch of steel like that.
The other two whatsits had divided their attention. One was pursuing Charity, who was carrying little Amanda and running like hell for the workshop Michael had converted from a free-standing garage. The other was charging Molly, who had pushed Alicia and Matthew behind her.
There wasn't time enough to help both groups, and even less to waste over the moral dilemma of a difficult choice.
I turned the rod on the beastie chasing Charity, and let him have it. The blast hit him in the small of his back and knocked him from his hooves. He flew sideways, slamming into the wall of the workshop, and Charity dashed through the door with her daughter.
I turned my blasting rod back to the other creature, but I already knew that I wouldn't be in time. The creature lowered its horns and closed on Molly and her siblings before I could line up for another shot.
"Molly!" I screamed.
My apprentice seized Alicia and Matthew's hands, gasped out a word, and all three of them abruptly vanished.
The creature's charge carried it past the space they'd been in, though something I couldn't see struck its hoof and sent it staggering. It wheeled around at full speed, kicking up snow as it did, and I felt a sudden, fierce surge of exaltation and pride. The grasshopper might not be able to put up a decent shield, but she could do veils like they were going out of style, and she'd kept her focus and her wits about her.
The creature slowed, head sweeping, and then it saw the snow being disturbed by invisible feet, moving toward the house. It bawled out another unworldly cry and went after them, and I didn't dare risk another blast of flame—not with the Carpenter's house in the line of fire. So instead, I lifted my right hand, triggered one of the triple-layered rings on it with my will, and send a burst of raw force at the whatsit.
The unseen energy struck it in the knees, throwing his legs out from under him with such strength that his head slammed into the snow. The disturbance in the snow rushed around toward the front door of the house. Molly must have realized that the deformation of the security door would make it difficult, if not impossible, to open, and once again I felt fierce approval.
But it faded rather rapidly when the whatsit that had been playing possum behind me slammed into the small of my back like a sulfur-and-rotten-egg driven locomotive.
The horns hit hard and it hurt like hell, but the defensive magic on my long, black leather duster kept them from impaling me. It knocked the wind out of me, snapped my head back sharply and flung me to the snow. Everything got confusing for a second, and then I realized that it was standing over me, ripping at the back of my neck with its claws. I hunched my shoulders and rolled, only to be kicked in the nose by a cloven hoof, and an utterly gratuitous amount of pain came with a side order of whirling stars.
I kept trying to get away, but my motions were sluggish and the whatsit was faster than me.
Charity stepped out of the workshop with a steel-hafted ball peen hammer in her left hand, and a heavy-duty contractor's nailgun in her right.
She lifted the nailgun from ten feet away and started pulling the trigger as she walked forward. It made phut-phut-phut sounds, and the already-seared whatsit started screaming in pain. He leapt up wildly, twisting in agonized gyrations in mid-air, and fell to the snow, thrashing. I saw heavy nails sticking up out of his back, and the smoking wounds were bleeding green-white fire.
He tried to run, but I managed to kick his hooves out from under it before he could regain his footing.
Charity whirled the hammer in a vertical stroke, letting out a sharp cry as she did, and the steel head of the tool smashed open the whatsit's skull. The wound erupted with greyish matter and more green-white fire, and the creature twitched once before he went still, his body being consumed by the eerie flame.
I stood up, blasting rod still in hand, and found the remaining beasties wounded but mobile, their yellow, rectangular-pupiled eyes glaring in hate and hunger.
I ditched the blasting rod and picked up a steel-headed snow shovel that had been left lying next to one of the children's snow forts. Charity raised her nailgun, and we began walking toward them.
Whatever these things were, they didn't have the stomach for a fight against mortals armed with cold steel. They shuddered as if they had been a single being, then turned and bounded away into the night.
I stood there, panting and peering around me. I had to spit blood out of my mouth every few breaths. My nose felt like someone had super-glued a couple of live coals to it. Little silver wires of pain ran all through my neck, from the whiplash of getting hit from behind, and the small of my back felt like one enormous bruise.
"Are you all right?" Charity asked.
"Faeries," I muttered. "Why did it have to be faeries."
Tune in next Tuesday for the second installment!
Chapter One
Winter came early that year: it should have been a tip-off.
A snowball soared through the evening air and smacked into my apprentice's mouth. Since she was muttering a mantra-style chant when it hit her, she wound up with a mouthful of frozen cheer—which may or may not have been more startling for her than for most people, given how many metallic piercings were in suddenly in direct contact with the snow.
Molly Carpenter sputtered, spitting snow, and a round of hooting laughter went up from the children gathered around her. Tall, blond and athletic, dressed in jeans and a heavy winter coat, she looked natural in the snowy setting, her cheeks and nose turning red with the cold.
"Concentration, Molly!" I called. I carefully kept any laughter I might have wanted to indulge in from my voice. "You've got to concentrate! Again!"
The children, her younger brothers and sisters, immediately began packing fresh ammunition to hurl at her. The back yard of the Carpenter household was already thoroughly chewed up from an evening of winter warfare, and two low "fortress" walls faced one another across ten yards of open lawn. Molly stood between them, shivering, and gave me an impatient look.
"This can't possibly be real training," she said, her voice quivering with cold. "You're just doing this for your own sick amusement, Harry."
I beamed at her, and accepted a freshly-made snowball from little Faith, who had apparently appointed herself my squire. I thanked the little girl gravely, and bounced the snowball on my palm a few times. "Nonsense," I said. "This is wonderful practice. Did you think you were going to start off bouncing bullets?"
Molly gave me an exasperated look. Then she took a deep breath, bowed her head again, and lifted her left hand, her fingers spread wide. She began muttering again, and I felt the subtle shift of energies moving as she began drawing magic up around her in an almost-solid barrier, a shield that rose between her and the incipient missile storm.
"Ready!" I called out. "Aim!"
Every single person there, including myself, threw before I got to the end of "aim," and snowballs sped through the air, flung by children ranging from the eldest, Daniel, who was seventeen, down to the youngest, little Harry, who wasn't yet big enough to have much of a throwing arm, but who didn't let that stop him from making the largest snowball he could lift.
Snowballs pelted my apprentice's shield, and it stopped the first two, the frozen missiles exploding into puffs of fresh powder. The rest of them, though, went right on through Molly's defenses, and she was splattered with several pounds of snow. Little Harry ran up to her and threw last, with both hands, and shrieked merry triumph as his bread-loaf sized snowball splattered all over Molly's stomach.
"Fire!" I barked belatedly.
Molly fell onto her butt in the snow, sputtered some more, and burst out in a long belly laugh. Harry and Hope, the youngest of the children, promptly jumped on top of her, and from there the lesson in defensive magic devolved into the Carpenter children's longstanding tradition of attempting to shovel as much snow as possible down the necks of one another's coats. I grinned and stood there watching them, and a moment later found the children's mother standing beside me.
Molly took after Charity Carpenter, who had passed her coloring and build on to her daughter. Charity and I haven't always seen eye to eye—well, in point of fact, we've hardly ever seen eye to eye, but tonight she was smiling at the children's antics.
"Good evening, Mister Dresden," she murmured.
"Charity," I replied, amiably. "This happen a lot?"
"Almost always, during the first real snowfall of the year," she said. "Generally, though, it's closer to Christmas than Halloween."
I watched the children romping. Though Molly was growing quickly, in a number of senses, she reverted to childhood easily enough here, and it did me good to see it.
I sensed Charity's unusually intense regard and glanced at her, lifting an eyebrow in question.
"You never had a snowball fight with family," she said quietly, "did you?"
I shook my head and turned my attention back to the kids. "No family to have the fight with," I said. "Sometimes the kids would try, at school, but the teachers wouldn't let it happen. And a lot of times, the other kids did it to be mean, instead of to have fun. That changes things."
Charity nodded, and also looked back at the kids. "My daughter. How is her training progressing?"
"Well, I think," I said. "Her talents don't lie anywhere close to the same areas mine do. And she's never going to be much of a combat wizard."
Charity frowned. "Why do you say that? Do you think she isn't strong enough?"
"Strength has nothing to do with it. But her greatest talents make her unsuited for it in some ways."
"I don't understand."
"Well, she's good with subtle things. Delicate things. Her ability at handling fine, sensitive magic is outstanding, and increasing all the time. But that same sensitivity means that she has problems handling the psychic stresses of real combat. It also makes the gross physical stuff a real challenge for her."
"Like stopping snowballs?" Charity asked.
"Snowballs are good practice," I said. "Nothing gets hurt but her pride."
Charity nodded, frowning. "But you didn't learn with snowballs, did you."
The memory of my first shielding lesson under Justin DuMorne wasn't a particularly sentimental one. "Baseballs."
"Merciful God," Charity said, shaking her head. "How old were you?"
"Thirteen." I shrugged a shoulder. "Pain's a good motivator. I learned fast."
"But you aren't trying to teach my daughter the same way," Charity said.
"There's no rush," I said.
The noise from the children stopped, dropping to furtive whispers, and I winked at Charity. She glanced from the children to me, amusement evident in her face. Not five seconds later, Molly shouted, "Now!" and multiple snowballs came zipping toward me.
I lifted my left hand, focusing my will, my magic, and drew it into the shape of a broad, flat disc in front of me. It wasn't a good enough shield to stop bullets, or even well-thrown baseballs, but for snowballs it was just fine. They shattered to powder on my shield, revealing it in little flashes of pale blue light as a circular plane of force centered on the outspread fingers of my extended left hand.
The children laughed as they cried out their disapproval. I shouted, "Hah!" and lifted a triumphant fist.
Then Charity, standing behind me, dumped a double handful of snow down the neck of my coat.
I yelped as the cold ate my spinal cord, jumped up out of my tracks, and danced around trying to shake the snow out from under my clothes. The children cheered their mother on, and began flinging snowballs at more or less random targets, and in all the excitement and frivolity I didn't realize that we were under attack until the lights went out.
The entire block plunged into darkness—the floodlights illuminating the Carpenters' back yard, house lights in every nearby home, and the streetlights were all abruptly extinguished. Eerie, ambient werelight reflected from the snow. Shadows suddenly yawned where there had been none before, and the scent of something midway between a skunk and a barrel of rotting eggs assaulted my nostrils.
I yanked my blasting rod out of its holder on the inside of my coat, and said to Charity, "Get them inside."
"Emergency," Charity said in a far calmer voice than I had managed. "Everyone into the safe room, just like in practice."
The children had just begun to move when three creatures I had never seen before came bounding through the snow. Time slowed as the adrenaline hit my system, and it felt like I had half an hour to study them.
They weren't terribly tall, maybe five six, but they were layered with white fur and muscle. Each had a head that was almost goatlike, but the horns atop them curled around to the front like a bull's rather than arching back. Their legs were reverse-jointed and ended in hooves, and they moved in a series of single-legged leaps more than running. They got better air than a Chicago Bull, too, which meant I was dealing with something with supernatural strength.
Though thinking about it, I couldn't actually remember the last time I'd dealt with something that didn't have supernatural strength, which is one of the drawbacks of the wizard business. I mean, some things are stronger than others, sure, but it wouldn't much matter to my skull if a paranormal bruiser could bench press a locomotive or if he was merely buff enough to juggle refrigerators.
I trained the tip of my blasting rod on the lead whatsit, and then a bunch of snow fell from above in my peripheral vision, landing on the ground beside me with a soft thump.
I threw myself into a forward dive, rolled over one shoulder and came to my feet already moving laterally. I was just in time to avoid the rush of a fourth whatsit, which had knocked the snow loose just before it dropped down onto me from the treehouse Michael had built for his kids. It let out a hissing, bubbling snarl.
I didn't have time to waste with this backstabbing twit. So I raised the rod as its tip burst into scarlet flame, unleashed my will and snarled, "Fuego!"
A wrist-thick lance of pure flame leapt from the blasting rod and seared the creature's upper body to blackened meat. The excess heat melted snow all around it, and sent up a billow of scalding steam. Judging by the tackle hanging between the thing's legs as the steam burst up from the snow, it probably inflicted as much pain as the actual fire.
The whatsit went down, and I had to hope that it wasn't bright enough to play possum: The Carpenter children were screaming.
I whirled around, readying the rod again, and didn't have a clear shot. One of the white-furred creatures was running hard after Daniel, Molly's oldest brother. He'd begun to fill out, and he ran with his fingers locked on the back of the coats of little Harry and Hope, the youngest children, carrying them like luggage.
He gained the door with the creature not ten feet behind him, its wicked-looking horns lowered as it charged. Daniel went through the door and kicked it shut with his foot, never slowing down, and the creature slammed into it head-on.
I hadn't realized that Michael had installed all-steel, wood-paneled security doors on his home, just as I had on mine. The creature probably would have pulverized a wooden door. Instead, it slammed its head into the steel door, horns leading the way, and drove foot-deep dent into it.
And then it lurched away, letting out a burbling shriek of pain. Smoke rose from its horns, and it staggered back, swatting at them with its three-fingered, clawed hands. There weren't many things that reacted to the touch of steel like that.
The other two whatsits had divided their attention. One was pursuing Charity, who was carrying little Amanda and running like hell for the workshop Michael had converted from a free-standing garage. The other was charging Molly, who had pushed Alicia and Matthew behind her.
There wasn't time enough to help both groups, and even less to waste over the moral dilemma of a difficult choice.
I turned the rod on the beastie chasing Charity, and let him have it. The blast hit him in the small of his back and knocked him from his hooves. He flew sideways, slamming into the wall of the workshop, and Charity dashed through the door with her daughter.
I turned my blasting rod back to the other creature, but I already knew that I wouldn't be in time. The creature lowered its horns and closed on Molly and her siblings before I could line up for another shot.
"Molly!" I screamed.
My apprentice seized Alicia and Matthew's hands, gasped out a word, and all three of them abruptly vanished.
The creature's charge carried it past the space they'd been in, though something I couldn't see struck its hoof and sent it staggering. It wheeled around at full speed, kicking up snow as it did, and I felt a sudden, fierce surge of exaltation and pride. The grasshopper might not be able to put up a decent shield, but she could do veils like they were going out of style, and she'd kept her focus and her wits about her.
The creature slowed, head sweeping, and then it saw the snow being disturbed by invisible feet, moving toward the house. It bawled out another unworldly cry and went after them, and I didn't dare risk another blast of flame—not with the Carpenter's house in the line of fire. So instead, I lifted my right hand, triggered one of the triple-layered rings on it with my will, and send a burst of raw force at the whatsit.
The unseen energy struck it in the knees, throwing his legs out from under him with such strength that his head slammed into the snow. The disturbance in the snow rushed around toward the front door of the house. Molly must have realized that the deformation of the security door would make it difficult, if not impossible, to open, and once again I felt fierce approval.
But it faded rather rapidly when the whatsit that had been playing possum behind me slammed into the small of my back like a sulfur-and-rotten-egg driven locomotive.
The horns hit hard and it hurt like hell, but the defensive magic on my long, black leather duster kept them from impaling me. It knocked the wind out of me, snapped my head back sharply and flung me to the snow. Everything got confusing for a second, and then I realized that it was standing over me, ripping at the back of my neck with its claws. I hunched my shoulders and rolled, only to be kicked in the nose by a cloven hoof, and an utterly gratuitous amount of pain came with a side order of whirling stars.
I kept trying to get away, but my motions were sluggish and the whatsit was faster than me.
Charity stepped out of the workshop with a steel-hafted ball peen hammer in her left hand, and a heavy-duty contractor's nailgun in her right.
She lifted the nailgun from ten feet away and started pulling the trigger as she walked forward. It made phut-phut-phut sounds, and the already-seared whatsit started screaming in pain. He leapt up wildly, twisting in agonized gyrations in mid-air, and fell to the snow, thrashing. I saw heavy nails sticking up out of his back, and the smoking wounds were bleeding green-white fire.
He tried to run, but I managed to kick his hooves out from under it before he could regain his footing.
Charity whirled the hammer in a vertical stroke, letting out a sharp cry as she did, and the steel head of the tool smashed open the whatsit's skull. The wound erupted with greyish matter and more green-white fire, and the creature twitched once before he went still, his body being consumed by the eerie flame.
I stood up, blasting rod still in hand, and found the remaining beasties wounded but mobile, their yellow, rectangular-pupiled eyes glaring in hate and hunger.
I ditched the blasting rod and picked up a steel-headed snow shovel that had been left lying next to one of the children's snow forts. Charity raised her nailgun, and we began walking toward them.
Whatever these things were, they didn't have the stomach for a fight against mortals armed with cold steel. They shuddered as if they had been a single being, then turned and bounded away into the night.
I stood there, panting and peering around me. I had to spit blood out of my mouth every few breaths. My nose felt like someone had super-glued a couple of live coals to it. Little silver wires of pain ran all through my neck, from the whiplash of getting hit from behind, and the small of my back felt like one enormous bruise.
"Are you all right?" Charity asked.
"Faeries," I muttered. "Why did it have to be faeries."
Tune in next Tuesday for the second installment!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
City of Ashes by Cassandra Clare (Spoilers Ahead)
City of Ashes
(The Mortal Instruments Book 2)
Cassandra Clare
March 25, 2008
ISBN-10: 1-4169-1429-3
Clary Fray just wishes that her life would go back to normal. But what's normal when you're a demon-slaying Shadowhunter, your mother is in a magically induced coma, and you can suddenly see Downworlders like werewolves, vampires, and faeries? If Clary left the world of the Shadowhunters behind, it would mean more time with her best friend, Simon, who's becoming more than a friend (BOO!!!! Simon is LAME!). But the Shadowhunting world isn't ready to let her go -- especially her handsome, infuriating, newfound brother, Jace. And Clary's only chance to help her mother is to track down rogue Shadowhunter Valentine, who is probably insane, certainly evil -- and also her father.
To complicate matters, someone in New York City is murdering Downworlder children. Is Valentine behind the killings -- and if he is, what is he trying to do? When the second of the Mortal Instruments, the Soul-Sword, is stolen, the terrifying Inquisitor arrives to investigate and zooms right in on Jace. How can Clary stop Valentine if Jace is willing to betray everything he believes in to help their father?
In this breathtaking sequel to City of Bones, Cassandra Clare lures her readers back into the dark grip of New York City's Downworld, where love is never safe and power becomes the deadliest temptation.
To complicate matters, someone in New York City is murdering Downworlder children. Is Valentine behind the killings -- and if he is, what is he trying to do? When the second of the Mortal Instruments, the Soul-Sword, is stolen, the terrifying Inquisitor arrives to investigate and zooms right in on Jace. How can Clary stop Valentine if Jace is willing to betray everything he believes in to help their father?
In this breathtaking sequel to City of Bones, Cassandra Clare lures her readers back into the dark grip of New York City's Downworld, where love is never safe and power becomes the deadliest temptation.
Read the excerpt from City of Ashes
The Hunter's Moon
Maia had never trusted beautiful boys, which was why she hated Jace Wayland the first time she ever laid eyes on him.
Her twin brother, Daniel, had been born with her mother’s honey-colored hair and huge dark eyes, and he’d turned out to be the sort of person who lit the wings of butterflies on fire to watch them burn and die as they flew. He’d tormented her as well, in small and petty ways at first, pinching her where the bruises wouldn’t show, switching the shampoo in her bottle for bleach. She’d gone to her parents but they hadn’t believed her. No one did, looking at Daniel; they confused beauty with innocence and harmlessness. When he broke her arm in ninth grade she’d run away from home, but her parents had brought her back. In tenth grade, Daniel had been knocked down in the street by a hit and run driver and killed instantly. Standing next to her parents at the graveside, Maia had been ashamed by her own overwhelming sense of relief. God, she thought, would surely punish her for being glad that her brother was dead.
The next year, He did. She’d met Jordan. Long dark hair, slim hips in worn jeans, indie-boy rocker shirts and lashes like a girl’s. She never thought he’d go for her — his type usually preferred skinny, pale girls in hipster glasses — but he seemed to like her rounded shape and soft, coffee-colored skin. He told her she was beautiful in between kisses. The first few months were like a dream; the last few months like a nightmare. He became possessive, controlling. When he was angry with her, he’d snarl, whip the back of his hand across her cheek leaving a mark like too much blusher. When she tried to break up with him, he’d pushed her, knocked her down in her own front yard until she ran inside and slammed the door.
Later, she’d let him see her kissing another boy, just to get the point across that it was over. She didn’t even remember that boy’s name any more. What she did remember was walking home that night, the rain misting her hair in fine droplets, mud splattering up the legs of her jeans as she took a shortcut through the park near her house. She remembered the dark shape exploding out from behind the metal merry-go-round, the huge wet wolf body knocking her into the mud, the savage pain as its jaws clamped down on her arm. She’d screamed and thrashed, tasting her own hot blood in her mouth, her brain screaming: This is impossible. Impossible. There weren’t wolves in New Jersey, not in her ordinary suburban neighborhood, not in the twenty-first century.
Her cries had brought lights on in the nearby houses, one after another of the windows lighting up like struck matches. The wolf let her go, her arm trailing ribbons of blood and torn flesh.
Twenty-four stitches in the arm later, she was back in her pink bedroom, her mother hovering anxiously. The emergency room doctor had said the bite looked like a large dog’s, but Maia knew better. As the wolf had turned to race away, she’d heard a hot, familiar, whispered voice in her ear, You’re mine now. You’ll always be mine.
She never saw Jordan again — he and his parents packed up their apartment and moved and none of his friends knew where he’d gone, or would admit they did. She was only half surprised the next full moon when the pains started: tearing pains that ripped up and down her legs, forcing her to the ground, bending her spine the way a fortuneteller might bend a spoon. When her teeth burst out of her gums and rattled to the floor like spilled Chiclets, she fainted. Or though she did. She woke up miles away from her house, naked and covered in blood, the scar on her arm pulsing like a heartbeat. That night she hopped the train to Manhattan. It wasn’t a hard decision. There was no home to go back to, after all.
It hadn’t been that hard to find a pack to fall in with. There were several of them just in Manhattan. She wound up with the downtown pack, the ones who slept in the old police station in Chinatown.
Pack leaders were mutable. There’d been Kito first, then Véronique, then Anton, and now Luke. She’d liked Anton all right, but Luke was better. He had a trustworthy look and kind blue eyes and wasn’t too handsome, so she didn’t dislike him on the spot. She was comfortable enough here with the pack, sleeping in the old police station, playing cards and eating Chinese food on nights when the moon wasn’t full, hunting through the park when it was, and the next day drinking off the hangover of the Change at the Hunter’s Moon, one of the city’s better underground werewolf bars. There was ale by the yard, and nobody ever carded you to see if you were under twenty-one. Being a lycanthrope made you grow up fast, and as long as you sprouted hair and fangs once a month you were good to drink at the Moon, no matter how old you were in mundane years.
These days she hardly thought of her family at all, but when the blond boy in the long black coat stalked his way into the bar, Maia stiffened all over. He didn’t look like Daniel, not exactly — Daniel had had dark hair that curled close to the nape of his neck and coffee skin, and this boy was all white and gold. But they had the same lean bodies, the same way of walking, like a panther on the lookout for prey, and the same total confidence in their own attraction. Her hand tightened convulsively around the stem of her glass and she had to remind herself: He’s dead. Daniel’s dead.
A rush of murmurs swept through the bar on the heels of the boy’s arrival, like the froth of a wave spreading out from the stern of a boat. The boy acted as if he didn’t notice anything, hooking a barstool towards himself with a booted foot and settling onto it with his elbows on the bar. Maia heard him order a shot of single malt in the quiet that followed the murmurs. He downed half the drink with a neat flip of his wrist. The liquor was the same dark gold color as his hair. When he lifted his hand to set the glass back down on the bar, Maia saw the thick coiling black marks on his wrists and the backs of his hands.
Bat, the guy sitting next to her — she’d dated him once, but they were just friends now — muttered something under his breath that sounded like Nephilim.
So that’s it, Maia thought. The boy wasn’t a werewolf at all. He was a Shadowhunter, a member of the arcane world’s secret police force. They upheld the Law, backed by the Covenant, and you couldn’t become one of them: you had to be born into it. Blood made them what they were. There were a lot of rumors about them, most unflattering: they were haughty, proud, cruel; they looked down on and despised Downworlders. There were few things a lycanthrope liked less than a Shadowhunter — except maybe a vampire.
People also said that the Shadowhunters killed demons. Maia remembered when she’d first heard that demons existed and been told about what they did. It had given her a headache. Vampires and werewolves were just people with a disease, that much she understood, but expecting her to believe in all that Heaven and Hell crap, demons and angels, and still nobody could tell her for sure if there was a God or not, or where you went after you died? It wasn’t fair. She believed in them now — she’d seen enough of what they did not to be able to deny it — but she wished she didn’t have to.
"I take it,” the boy said, leaning his elbows on the bar, “that you don’t serve Silver Bullet here. Too many bad associations?”
The bartender, Freaky Pete, just looked at the boy and shook his head in disgust. If the boy hadn’t been a Shadowhunter, Maia guessed, Pete would have tossed him out of the Moon, but instead he just walked to the other end of the bar and busied himself polishing glasses.
The boy’s eyes gleamed, narrow and shining, like the moon at a quarter full.
"Actually,” said Bat, who was unable to stay out of anything, “we don’t serve it because it’s really crappy beer.”
The boy turned his narrow, shining gaze on Bat, and smiled delightedly. Most people didn’t smile delightedly when Bat looked at them funny: Bat was six and a half feet tall, his narrow features saved from handsomeness by the thick scar that disfigured half his face, where silver powder had burned his skin. Bat wasn’t one of the overnighters, the Pack who lived in the police station, sleeping in the old cells. He had his own apartment, even a job. He’d been a pretty good boyfriend, right up until he dumped Maia for a red-headed witch named Eve who lived in Yonkers and ran a palmistry shop out of her garage.
"And what are you drinking?” the boy inquired, leaning so close to Bat that it was like an insult. “A little hair of the dog that bit — well, everyone?”
"You really think you’re pretty funny,” said Bat. By this point the rest of the Pack was leaning in to hear them, ready to back up Bat if he decided to knock this obnoxious brat into the middle of next week. “Don’t you?”
“Bat,” Maia said. She wondered if she were the only Pack member in the bar who doubted Bat’s ability to knock the boy into next week. It wasn’t that she doubted Bat. It was something about the boy’s eyes. “Don’t.”
Bat ignored her. “Don’t you?” he said, again.
"Who am I to deny the obvious?” the boy inquired. His eyes slid over Maia like water, as if she were invisible, and went back to Bat. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what happened to your face? It looks like —” and here he leaned forward and said something to Bat so quietly that Maia didn’t hear it. The next thing she knew, Bat was swinging a blow at the boy that should have shattered his jaw, only the boy was no longer there. He was standing a good five feet away, laughing, as Bat’s fist connected with the boy’s glass and sent it soaring across the bar to strike the opposite wall in a shower of shattering glass.
Freaky Pete was around the side of the bar, his big fist knotted in Bat’s shirt, before Maia could blink an eye. “That’s enough,” he said. “Bat, why don’t you take a walk and cool down.”
Bat twisted in Pete’s grasp. “Take a walk? Did you hear —“
"I heard.” Pete’s voice was low. “He’s a Shadowhunter. Walk it off, Bat.”
Bat swore and pulled away from the bartender. He stalked toward the exit, his shoulders stiff with rage. The door banged shut behind him.
The boy had stopped smiling and was looking at Freaky Pete with a sort of dark resentment, as if the bartender had taken away a toy he’d intended to play with. “That wasn’t necessary,” he said. “I can handle myself.”
Pete regarded the Shadowhunter with opaque eyes. “It’s my bar I’m worried about,” he said, finally. “You might want to take your business elsewhere, Shadowhunter, if you don’t want any trouble.”
"I didn’t say I didn’t want trouble.” The boy sat back down on his stool. “Besides, I didn’t get to finish my drink.”
Maia glanced behind her, where the wall of the bar was soaked with alcohol. “Looks like you finished it to me.”
For a second, the boy just looked blank; then a curious spark of amusement lit in his golden eyes. He looked so much like Daniel in that moment that Maia wanted to back away.
Pete slid another glass of amber liquid across the bar before the boy could reply to her. “Here you go,” he said. His eyes drifted to Maya. She thought she saw some admonishment in them.
"Pete—“ she began. She didn’t get to finish. The door to the bar flew open. Bat was standing there in the doorway. It took a moment for Maia to realize that the front of his shirt and his sleeves were soaked with blood.
She slid off her stool and ran to him. “Bat! Are you hurt?”
His face was gray, his silvery scar standing out on his cheek like a piece of twisted wire. “An attack,” he said. “There’s a body in the alley. A dead kid. Blood — everywhere.” He shook his head, looked down at himself. “Not my blood. I’m fine.”
"A body? But who —”
Bat’s reply was swallowed in the commotion. Seats were abandoned as the pack rushed to the door. Pete came out from behind his counter and pushed his way through the mob. Only the Shadowhunter boy stayed where he was, his head bent over his drink.
Through gaps in the crowd around the door, Maia caught a glimpse of the gray paving of the alley, splashed with blood. It was still wet and it had run between the cracks in the paving like the tendrils of a red plant. “His throat cut?” Pete was saying to Bat, whose color had come back.
"There was someone in the alley. Someone kneeling over him,” Bat said. His voice was tight. “Not like a person — like a shadow. They ran off when they saw me. He was still alive. A little. I bent down over him, but —” Bat shrugged. It was a casual movement, but the cords in his neck were standing out like thick roots wrapping a tree trunk. “He died without saying anything.”
"Vampires,” said a buxom female lycanthrope — her name was Amabel, Maia thought — who was standing by the door. “The Night Children. It can’t have been anything else.”
Bat looked at her, then turned and stalked across the room toward the bar. He grabbed the Shadowhunter by the back of the jacket — or reached out as if he meant to, but the boy was already on his feet, turning fluidly. “What’s your problem, werewolf?”
Bat’s hand was still outstretched. “Are you deaf, Nephilim?” he snarled. “There’s a dead boy in the alley. One of ours.”
"Do you mean a lycanthrope or some other sort of Downworlder?” The boy arched his light eyebrows. “You all blend together to me.”
There was a low growl — from Freaky Pete, Maia noticed with some surprise. He had come back into the bar and was surrounded by the rest of the Pack, their eyes fixed on the Shadowhunter. “He was only a cub,” said Pete. “His name was Joseph.”
The name didn’t ring any bells for Maia, but she saw the tight set of Pete’s jaw and felt a flutter in her stomach. The Pack was on the warpath now and if the Shadowhunter had any sense he’d be backpedaling like crazy. He wasn’t, though, he was just standing there looking at them with those goid eyes and that funny smile on his face. “A lycanthrope boy?” he said.
"He was one of the Pack,” said Pete. “He was only fifteen.”
"And what exactly do you expect me to do about it?” said the boy.
Pete was staring. “You’re Nephilim,” he said. “The Clave owes us protection in these circumstances.”
The boy looked around the bar, slowly and with such a look of insolence that a flush spread over Pete’s face.
"I don’t see anything you need protecting from here,” said the boy. “Except some bad décor and a possible mold problem. But you can usually clear that up with bleach.”
"There’s a dead body outside this bar’s front door,” said Bat, enunciating carefully. “Don’t you think —”
"I think it’s a little too late for him to need protection,” said the boy, “if he’s already dead.”
Pete was still staring. His ears had grown pointed, and when he spoke his voice was muffled by his thickening canine teeth. “You want to be careful, Nephilim,” he said. “You want to be very careful.”
The boy looked at him with opaque eyes. “Do I?”
"So you’re going to do nothing?” Bat said. “Is that it?”
" I’m going to finish my drink,” said the boy, eyeing his half-empty glass, still on the counter, “if you’ll let me.”
“So that’s the attitude of the Clave, a week after the Accords?” said Pete with disgust. “The death of Downworlders is still worth nothing to you?”
The boy smiled, and Maia’s spine prickled. He looked exactly like Daniel just before Daniel reached out and yanked the wings off a ladybug. “You Downworlders,” he said, “expecting the Clave to clean your mess up for you. As if we could be bothered just because some stupid cub decided to splatterpaint himself all over your alley —”
And he used a word, a word for weres that they never used themselves, a filthily unpleasant word that implied an improper relationship between wolves and human women.
Before anyone else could move, Bat flung himself at the Shadowhunter – but the boy was gone. Bat stumbled and whirled around, staring. The Pack gasped. Amabel cried, “There, on the bar!”
Maia looked up and her mouth dropped open. The Shadowhunter boy stood on the bar, feet planted wide apart, and he really did look like an avenging angel getting ready to dispatch divine justice from on high, as the Shadowhunters were meant to do. Then he reached out a hand and curled his fingers towards himself, quickly, a gesture familiar to her from the playground as Come and get me—and the pack rushed at him.
Bat and Amabel swarmed up onto the bar; the boy spun, so quickly that his reflection in the mirror behind the bar seemed to blur. Maia saw him kick out, and then the two were groaning on the floor in a flurry of smashed glass. She could hear the boy laughing even as someone else reached up and pulled him down; he sank into the crowd with an ease that spoke of willingness, and then she couldn’t see him at all, just a welter of flailing arms and legs. Still, she thought she could hear him laughing, even as metal flashed — the edge of a knife — and she heard herself suck in her breath.
“That’s enough.”
It was Luke’s voice, quiet, steady as a heartbeat. It was strange how you always knew your pack leader’s voice, part of the weird alchemy of the pack mentality. Maia turned and saw him standing just at the entrance to the bar, one hand against the wall. He looked not just tired, but ravaged, as if something were tearing him down from the inside; still, his voice was calm as he said, again, “That’s enough. Leave the Nephilim alone.”
The pack melted away from the Shadowhunter, leaving just Bat still standing there, defiant, one hand still gripping the back of the Shadowhunter’s shirt, the other holding a short-bladed knife. The boy himself was bloody-faced but hardly looked like someone who needed saving; he was grinning a grin as dangerous-looking as the broken glass that littered the floor. “He’s not a boy,” Bat said, defensively. “He’s a Shadowhunter.”
"They’re welcome enough here,” said Luke, his tone neutral. “They are our allies.”
"He said it didn’t matter,” said Bat, angrily. “About Joseph —”
"I know,” Luke said quietly. His eyes shifted to the blond boy. “Did you come in here just to pick a fight, Jace Wayland?”
The boy —Jace — smiled, stretching his split lip so that a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin. “Luke.”
Bat, startled to hear their pack leader’s first name come out of the Shadowhunter’s mouth, let go of the back of Jace’s shirt. “I didn’t know —”
"There’s nothing to know,” said Luke, the tiredness in his eyes creeping into his voice.
Freaky Pete spoke, his voice a bass rumble. “He said the Clave wouldn’t care about the death of a single lyncathrope, even a child. And it’s a week after the Accords, Luke.”
"Jace doesn’t speak for the Clave,’” said Luke, “and there’s nothing he could have done even if he wanted to. Isn’t that right?”
He looked at Jace, who was very pale. “How do you —”
"I know what happened,” said Luke. “With the Lightwoods.”
Jace stiffened, and for a moment Maia saw through the Daniel-like savage amusement to what was underneath, and it was dark and agonized and reminded her more of her own eyes in the mirror than of her brother’s. “Who told you? Clary?”
"Not Clary.” Maia had never heard Luke speak that name before, but he said it with a tone that implied that this was someone special to him, and to the Shadowhunter boy as well. Luke held a hand out. “I’m the Pack leader, Jace, I hear things. Now come on. Let’s go to Pete’s office and talk.”
Jace hesitated for a moment before shrugging. “Fine,” he said, “but you owe me for the scotch I didn’t drink.”
***
"That was my last guess,” Clary said with a defeated sigh, sinking down onto the steps outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art and staring disconsolately down Fifth Avenue.
"It was a good one." Simon sat down beside her, long legs sprawled out in front of him. "I mean, he's a guy who likes weapons and killing, so why not the biggest collection of weapons in the whole city? And I'm always up for a visit to Arms and Armor anyway. Gives me ideas for my campaign.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You still gaming with Eric and Kirk and them?”
"Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
"I thought gaming might have lost some of its appeal for you since…” Since our real lives started to resemble one of your campaigns, she thought. Complete with good guys, bad guys, really nasty magic, and important enchanted objects you had to find if you wanted to win the game.
Except in a game, the good guys always won, defeated the bad guys and came home with the treasure. Whereas in real life, they’d lost the treasure, and sometimes Clary still wasn’t clear on who the bad and good guys actually were.
She looked at Simon and felt a wave of sadness. If he did give up gaming, it would be her fault, just like everything that had happened to him in the past weeks had been her fault. She remembered his white face at the sink that morning, just before he’d kissed her.
"Simon —” she began.
"Right now I’m playing a half-troll cleric who wants revenge on the Orcs who killed his family,” he said cheerfully.
She glanced down, hiding her smile. “What’s your character’s name?”
"Hotshaft von Hugenstein.”
"Simon!”
He grinned. “Who says I can’t steal Jace’s jokes? It’s not like he’s paying attention.”
She laughed just as her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket and flipped it open; it was Luke. “We didn’t find him,” she said, before he could say hello.
"No. But I did.”
She sat up straight. “You’re kidding. Is he there? Can I talk to him?” She caught sight of Simon looking at her sharply and dropped her voice. “Is he all right?”
"Mostly,” Luke said cautiously.
"What do you mean, mostly?”
"He picked a fight with a werewolf pack. He’s got some cuts and bruises.”
Clary half-closed her eyes. Why, oh why, had Jace picked a fight with a pack of wolves? What had possessed him? Then again, it was Jace. He’d pick a fight with a Mack truck if the urge took him.
"I think you should come down here,” Luke said. “Someone has to reason with him and I’m not having much luck.”
“Where are you?” Clary asked, and he told her. A bar called the Hunter’s Moon on Hester Street. She wondered if it was glamoured. Flipping her phone shut, she turned to Simon, who was staring at her with raised eyebrows.
"The prodigal returns?” he inquired.
"Sort of.” She scrambled to her feet and stretched her tired legs, mentally calculating how long it would take them to get to Chinatown on the train and whether it was worth shelling out the pocket money Luke had given her for a cab. Probably not, she decided — if they got stuck in traffic it would take longer than the subway.
"…come with you?” Simon finished, standing up. He was on the step below her, which made them almost the same height. “What do you think?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again quickly. “Er…”
He sounded resigned. “You haven’t heard a word I said these past two minutes, have you?”
"No,” she admitted. “I was thinking about Jace. It sounded like he was in bad shape. Sorry.”
"His brown eyes darkened. “I take it you’re rushing off to bind up his wounds?”
"Luke asked me to come down,” she said. “I was hoping you’d come with me.”
Simon kicked at the step above his with a booted foot. “I will, but — why? Can’t Luke return Jace to the Institute without your help?”
"Probably. But he thinks Jace might be willing to talk to me about what’s going on first.”
“I thought maybe we could do something tonight,” Simon said. “Something fun. See a movie. Get dinner downtown.”
She looked at him. In the distance, she could hear water splashing into a museum fountain. She thought of the kitchen at his house, the water running in the sink, his wet hands in her hair, but it all seemed very far away, even though she could picture it — the way you might remember the photograph of an incident without really remembering the incident itself any longer.
"He’s my —” Clary broke off, and tried again. “It's Jace. I have to go.”
Simon looked as if he were too weary to even sigh. “Then I’ll go with you.” -all from http://www.mortalinstruments.com/
I know I'm most likely tilting at windmills here, but don't you wish Cassandra Clare would pull a double plot twist and have Jace and Clary become UNREALATED! I'm all for nerd love, but Clary ending up with Simon is like making out with an anemic celery compared to Clary and Jace. My totally inept and useless vote is for the ORIGIONAL Hotshaft Von Hugenstein, 4-eva yo!
If you haven't yet, go read City of Bones, it is better than most of the UF out there.Tuesday, January 22, 2008
One Foot in the Grave UPDATE!
You can run from the grave, but you can't hide...Releases April 29, 2008
Half-vampire Cat Crawfield is now Special Agent Cat Crawfield, working for the government to rid the world of the rogue undead. She's still using everything Bones, her sexy and dangerous ex, taught her, but when Cat is targeted for assassination, the only man who can help her is the vampire she left behind.
Being around Bones awakens all her emotions, from the adrenaline rush of slaying vamps side by side to the reckless passion that consumed them. But a price on her head - wanted: dead or half-alive - means her survival depends on teaming up with Bones. And no matter how hard Cat tries to keep things professional between them, she'll find that desire lasts forever ... and Bones won't let her get away again. -from jeanienefrost.com
Excerpt for One Foot in the Grave
One Foot In The Grave
Chapter One
I waited outside the large, four-story home in Manhasset that was owned by a Mr. Liam Flannery. This wasn't a social call, as anyone looking at me could tell. The long jacket I wore was open, leaving my gun and shoulder holster clearly visible, as was my FBI badge. My pants were loose-fitting and so was my blouse, to hide the twenty pounds of silver weapons strapped to my arms and legs.
My knock was answered by an older man in a business suit. "Special Agent Catrina Arthur," I said. "Here to see Mr. Flannery."
Catrina wasn't my real name, but it's what was on my doctored badge. The doorman gave me an insincere smile.
"I'll see if Mr. Flannery is in. Wait here."
I already knew Liam Flannery was in. What I also knew was that Mr. Flannery wasn't human, and neither was the doorman.
Well, neither was I, even though I was the only one out of the three of us with a heartbeat.
A few minutes later, the door reopened. "Mr. Flannery has agreed to see you."
That was his first mistake. If I had anything to say about it, it would also be his last.
My first thought as I entered Liam Flannery's house was, wow. Hand-carved wood adorned all the walls, the floor was some kind of expensive-looking marble, and antiques were tastefully littered everywhere the eye could see. Being dead sure didn't mean you couldn't live it up.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as power filled the room. Flannery wouldn't know I could feel it, just like I'd felt it from his ghoul doorman. I might look as average as the next person, but I had a few secrets up my sleeve. And lots of knives, of course.
"Agent Arthur," Flannery said. "This must be about my two employees, but I've already been questioned by the police."
His accent was English, which was at odds with his Irish name. Just hearing that intonation made a shiver run up my spine. English accents held memories for me.
I turned around. Flannery looked even better than his picture in his FBI file. His pale crystal flesh almost shimmered against the tan color of his shirt. I'll say one thing for vampires – they all had gorgeous skin. Liam's eyes were a clear turquoise, and his chestnut hair fell past his collar.
Yep, he was pretty. He probably had no trouble scaring up dinner. But the most impressive thing about him was his aura. It flowed off of him in tingling, power-filled waves. A Master vampire without a doubt.
"Yes, this is about Thomas Stillwell and Jerome Hawthorn. The Bureau would appreciate your cooperation."
My polite stalling was to gauge how many other people were in the house. I strained my ears, but so far came up with no one but Flannery, the ghoul doorman, and myself.
"Of course. Anything to assist law and order," he said with an undercurrent of amusement.
"And you're comfortable speaking here?" I asked, trying to get more of a look around. "Or is there somewhere private you'd prefer?"
He sauntered over. "Agent Arthur, if you want to have a private word with me, call me Liam. And I do hope you want to talk about something other than boring Jerome and Thomas."
Oh, I had little intention of talking as soon as I got Liam in private. Since he'd been implicated in the deaths of his employees, Flannery had made my To-Do list, though I wasn't here to arrest him. The average person didn't believe in vampires or ghouls, so there wasn't a legal process for dealing with murdering ones. No, there was a covert branch of Homeland Security instead, and my boss, Don, would send me. There were rumors about me in the undead world, true. Ones that had grown during my tenure at this job, but only one vampire knew who I really was. And I hadn't seen him in over four years.
"Liam, you're not flirting with a Federal Agent who's investigating you in a double homicide, are you?"
"Catrina, an innocent man doesn't fret over the wheels of law whenever they rumble in the distance. At least I commend the Feds on sending you to speak with me, beautiful woman that you are. You also look a bit familiar, though I'm sure I would have remembered meeting you before."
"You haven't," I said immediately. "Trust me, I would have remembered, too."
I didn't mean it as a compliment, but it caused him to chuckle in a way that was too insinuating for my liking.
"I'll bet."
You smug son of a bitch. Let's see how long you'll keep that smirk.
"Back to business, Liam. Are we talking here, or somewhere private?"
He made a noise of defeat. "If you insist on traveling this path, we may as well be comfortable in the library. Follow me."
I followed him past more lavish, empty rooms to the library. It was magnificent, with hundreds of new and old books. There were even scrolls preserved in a glass display case, but it was the large piece of artwork on the wall that caught my attention.
"This looksÉprimitive."
At first glance it appeared to be wood or ivory, but on closer inspection, it looked like bones. Human ones.
"Aborigine, nearly three hundred years old. Given to me by some mates of mine in Australia."
Liam came nearer, his turquoise eyes starting to glint with emerald. I knew the pinpoints of green in his gaze for what they were. Lust and feeding looked the same on a vampire. Both made the eyes glow emerald and the fangs pop out. Ian was hungry or horny, but I wasn't going to satisfy either of his cravings.
My cell phone rang. "Hello," I answered.
"Agent Arthur, are you still questioning Mr. Flannery?" my second-in-command, Tate, asked.
"Yes. This should be wrapped up in thirty minutes."
Translation: If I didn't answer again in half an hour, Tate and my team would come in after me.
Tate hung up without further comment. He hated it when I handled things alone, but too bad. Flannery's house was as quiet as a tomb, apropos as that may be, and it had been a long time since I'd battled with a Master vampire.
"I believe the police told you that the bodies of Thomas Stillwell and Jerome Hawthorn were found with most of their blood missing. And not any visible wounds on them to account for it," I said, jumping right in.
Liam shrugged. "Does the Bureau have a theory?"
Oh, we had more than a theory. I knew Liam would have just closed the telltale holes on Thomas and Jerome's necks with a drop of his own blood before they died. Boom, two bodies drained, no vampire calling card to rally the villagers – unless you knew what tricks to look for.
I shot back, "You do, though, don't you?"
"You know what I have a theory on, Catrina? That you taste as sweet as you look. In fact, I haven't thought about anything else since you walked in."
I didn't resist when Liam closed the distance between us and lifted my chin. After all, this would distract him better than anything I came up with.
His lips were cool on mine and vibrating with energy, giving my mouth pleasant tingles. He was a very good kisser, sensing when to deepen it and when to really deepen it. For a minute, I allowed myself to enjoy it Ð God, four years of celibacy must be taking its toll! – and then I got down to business.
My arms went around him, concealing me pulling a dagger from my sleeve. At the same time, he slid his hands down to my hips and felt the hard outlines under my pants.
"What the hell–?" he muttered, pulling back.
I smiled. "Surprise!" And then I struck.
It would have been a killing blow, but Liam was faster than I anticipated. He swept my feet out from under me just as I jabbed, so my silver missed his heart by inches. Instead of attempting to regain my stability, I let myself drop, rolling away from the kick he aimed at my head. Liam moved in a streak to try it again, but then jerked back when three of my throwing knives landed in his chest. Damn it, I'd missed his heart again.
"Sweet bleedin' Christ!" Liam exclaimed. He quit pretending to be human and let his eyes turn glowing emerald while fangs popped out in his upper teeth. "You must be the fabled Red Reaper. What brings the vampire bogeyman to my home?"
He sounded intrigued, but not afraid. He was more wary, however, and circled around me as I sprang to my feet, throwing off my jacket to better access my weapons.
"The usual," I said. "You murdered humans. I'm here to settle the score."
Liam actually rolled his eyes. "Believe me, poppet, Jerome and Thomas had it coming. Those thieving bastards stole from me. It's so hard to find good help these days."
"Keep talking, pretty boy. I don't care."
I rolled my head around on my shoulders and palmed more knives. Neither of us blinked as we waited for the other to make a move. What Liam didn't know was that I was aware he'd summoned for help. I could hear the ghoul creep quietly down the stairs, barely disturbing the air around him. Liam's chattering was just to buy time. -all from www.jeanienefrost.com
Chapter One
I waited outside the large, four-story home in Manhasset that was owned by a Mr. Liam Flannery. This wasn't a social call, as anyone looking at me could tell. The long jacket I wore was open, leaving my gun and shoulder holster clearly visible, as was my FBI badge. My pants were loose-fitting and so was my blouse, to hide the twenty pounds of silver weapons strapped to my arms and legs.
My knock was answered by an older man in a business suit. "Special Agent Catrina Arthur," I said. "Here to see Mr. Flannery."
Catrina wasn't my real name, but it's what was on my doctored badge. The doorman gave me an insincere smile.
"I'll see if Mr. Flannery is in. Wait here."
I already knew Liam Flannery was in. What I also knew was that Mr. Flannery wasn't human, and neither was the doorman.
Well, neither was I, even though I was the only one out of the three of us with a heartbeat.
A few minutes later, the door reopened. "Mr. Flannery has agreed to see you."
That was his first mistake. If I had anything to say about it, it would also be his last.
My first thought as I entered Liam Flannery's house was, wow. Hand-carved wood adorned all the walls, the floor was some kind of expensive-looking marble, and antiques were tastefully littered everywhere the eye could see. Being dead sure didn't mean you couldn't live it up.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as power filled the room. Flannery wouldn't know I could feel it, just like I'd felt it from his ghoul doorman. I might look as average as the next person, but I had a few secrets up my sleeve. And lots of knives, of course.
"Agent Arthur," Flannery said. "This must be about my two employees, but I've already been questioned by the police."
His accent was English, which was at odds with his Irish name. Just hearing that intonation made a shiver run up my spine. English accents held memories for me.
I turned around. Flannery looked even better than his picture in his FBI file. His pale crystal flesh almost shimmered against the tan color of his shirt. I'll say one thing for vampires – they all had gorgeous skin. Liam's eyes were a clear turquoise, and his chestnut hair fell past his collar.
Yep, he was pretty. He probably had no trouble scaring up dinner. But the most impressive thing about him was his aura. It flowed off of him in tingling, power-filled waves. A Master vampire without a doubt.
"Yes, this is about Thomas Stillwell and Jerome Hawthorn. The Bureau would appreciate your cooperation."
My polite stalling was to gauge how many other people were in the house. I strained my ears, but so far came up with no one but Flannery, the ghoul doorman, and myself.
"Of course. Anything to assist law and order," he said with an undercurrent of amusement.
"And you're comfortable speaking here?" I asked, trying to get more of a look around. "Or is there somewhere private you'd prefer?"
He sauntered over. "Agent Arthur, if you want to have a private word with me, call me Liam. And I do hope you want to talk about something other than boring Jerome and Thomas."
Oh, I had little intention of talking as soon as I got Liam in private. Since he'd been implicated in the deaths of his employees, Flannery had made my To-Do list, though I wasn't here to arrest him. The average person didn't believe in vampires or ghouls, so there wasn't a legal process for dealing with murdering ones. No, there was a covert branch of Homeland Security instead, and my boss, Don, would send me. There were rumors about me in the undead world, true. Ones that had grown during my tenure at this job, but only one vampire knew who I really was. And I hadn't seen him in over four years.
"Liam, you're not flirting with a Federal Agent who's investigating you in a double homicide, are you?"
"Catrina, an innocent man doesn't fret over the wheels of law whenever they rumble in the distance. At least I commend the Feds on sending you to speak with me, beautiful woman that you are. You also look a bit familiar, though I'm sure I would have remembered meeting you before."
"You haven't," I said immediately. "Trust me, I would have remembered, too."
I didn't mean it as a compliment, but it caused him to chuckle in a way that was too insinuating for my liking.
"I'll bet."
You smug son of a bitch. Let's see how long you'll keep that smirk.
"Back to business, Liam. Are we talking here, or somewhere private?"
He made a noise of defeat. "If you insist on traveling this path, we may as well be comfortable in the library. Follow me."
I followed him past more lavish, empty rooms to the library. It was magnificent, with hundreds of new and old books. There were even scrolls preserved in a glass display case, but it was the large piece of artwork on the wall that caught my attention.
"This looksÉprimitive."
At first glance it appeared to be wood or ivory, but on closer inspection, it looked like bones. Human ones.
"Aborigine, nearly three hundred years old. Given to me by some mates of mine in Australia."
Liam came nearer, his turquoise eyes starting to glint with emerald. I knew the pinpoints of green in his gaze for what they were. Lust and feeding looked the same on a vampire. Both made the eyes glow emerald and the fangs pop out. Ian was hungry or horny, but I wasn't going to satisfy either of his cravings.
My cell phone rang. "Hello," I answered.
"Agent Arthur, are you still questioning Mr. Flannery?" my second-in-command, Tate, asked.
"Yes. This should be wrapped up in thirty minutes."
Translation: If I didn't answer again in half an hour, Tate and my team would come in after me.
Tate hung up without further comment. He hated it when I handled things alone, but too bad. Flannery's house was as quiet as a tomb, apropos as that may be, and it had been a long time since I'd battled with a Master vampire.
"I believe the police told you that the bodies of Thomas Stillwell and Jerome Hawthorn were found with most of their blood missing. And not any visible wounds on them to account for it," I said, jumping right in.
Liam shrugged. "Does the Bureau have a theory?"
Oh, we had more than a theory. I knew Liam would have just closed the telltale holes on Thomas and Jerome's necks with a drop of his own blood before they died. Boom, two bodies drained, no vampire calling card to rally the villagers – unless you knew what tricks to look for.
I shot back, "You do, though, don't you?"
"You know what I have a theory on, Catrina? That you taste as sweet as you look. In fact, I haven't thought about anything else since you walked in."
I didn't resist when Liam closed the distance between us and lifted my chin. After all, this would distract him better than anything I came up with.
His lips were cool on mine and vibrating with energy, giving my mouth pleasant tingles. He was a very good kisser, sensing when to deepen it and when to really deepen it. For a minute, I allowed myself to enjoy it Ð God, four years of celibacy must be taking its toll! – and then I got down to business.
My arms went around him, concealing me pulling a dagger from my sleeve. At the same time, he slid his hands down to my hips and felt the hard outlines under my pants.
"What the hell–?" he muttered, pulling back.
I smiled. "Surprise!" And then I struck.
It would have been a killing blow, but Liam was faster than I anticipated. He swept my feet out from under me just as I jabbed, so my silver missed his heart by inches. Instead of attempting to regain my stability, I let myself drop, rolling away from the kick he aimed at my head. Liam moved in a streak to try it again, but then jerked back when three of my throwing knives landed in his chest. Damn it, I'd missed his heart again.
"Sweet bleedin' Christ!" Liam exclaimed. He quit pretending to be human and let his eyes turn glowing emerald while fangs popped out in his upper teeth. "You must be the fabled Red Reaper. What brings the vampire bogeyman to my home?"
He sounded intrigued, but not afraid. He was more wary, however, and circled around me as I sprang to my feet, throwing off my jacket to better access my weapons.
"The usual," I said. "You murdered humans. I'm here to settle the score."
Liam actually rolled his eyes. "Believe me, poppet, Jerome and Thomas had it coming. Those thieving bastards stole from me. It's so hard to find good help these days."
"Keep talking, pretty boy. I don't care."
I rolled my head around on my shoulders and palmed more knives. Neither of us blinked as we waited for the other to make a move. What Liam didn't know was that I was aware he'd summoned for help. I could hear the ghoul creep quietly down the stairs, barely disturbing the air around him. Liam's chattering was just to buy time. -all from www.jeanienefrost.com
Dresden Files comic artwork from issue #1
Magic. It can get a guy killed...
Get all you Dresden Files Comic info from Dabel Bros. here, and don't forget to pick up the Kalshazzak Poster here!
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Outlander Graphic Novel
That's right, OUTLANDER Graphic Novel. Diana Gabaldon posted this yesterday:
"Del Rey, an imprint of Ballantine Books at the Random House Publishing Group, announced today that it will publish an original story set in the world of Diana Gabaldon’s bestselling Outlander series, written by Gabaldon herself and illustrated in full color by award-winning artist Hoang Nguyen... The new story, starring Gabaldon’s beloved characters Claire Randall and Jamie Fraser, opens with Murtagh, Jamie’s godfather, awaiting the return of his godson to Scotland, and the fulfillment of a vow made years before. The graphic novel will be approximately 192 pages and will publish sometime in 2009. Gabaldon’s upcoming new Outlander novel, An Echo in the Bone, is expected to publish that year as well...
...Hoang Nguyen’s previous work includes the Robocop movie adaptation for Dark Horse, Alien Legion graphic novels for Marvel Epic, Punisher: War Zone for Marvel and Warstrike for Malibu Comics. His original project Metal Militia was optioned by Dino De Laurentiis for feature film development. More recently he has worked in the video game industry, having contributed to such well-known titles as the Elder Scrolls series for Bethesda Softworks and Xena for Universal Studios. He was the lead artist and character designer on Dead to Rights for Namco and is currently a consultant for Namco Bandai Games."
I am unbelievably excited about this project. I absolutely love the fact that we will get to know more about the story I have adored and memorized all these years. Gabaldon herself said this on her brand new blog Voyages of the Artemis:
"Well, now, mind--this isn't going to be a staight graphic-novel adaption _of_ OUTLANDER, itself. What the publisher asked for was a "new" Jamie and Claire story, set within the timeline/storyverse of the Outlander series.So that's what you'll see. Now, if you're a fan of the series, you'll certainly see events that you recognize from OUTLANDER. But you'll see a lot of things that Claire _never_ saw, and had no idea were happening [g]--and even the things she did see may have had more or different meanings than she realized."
I checked out this artist character Hoang Nguyen's website and I was blown away. They are seriously going for it. His artwork is so detailed and luminous. I am literally nervous to see what their collaborative rendering of what Jamie will be. Don't RUIN it for me PLEASE! Here's a sample of his work.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Gale Force and Feast of Fools cover art!
Gale Force: Weather Warden Book 7
will be released on August 5, 2008
I wait tortuously for Diana Gabaldon, Jim Butcher, Kelley Armstrong, and Rachel Caine to publish. These are the masters of the long standing series. These are the authors who are able to make their series grow into epic tomes of perfection. And while The Weather Warden series will not be as long as others, quality will have won over quantity in this instance.
Feast of Fools: Morganville Vampires Book 4
Drops into our hot little hands June 3, 2008!
Think Amelie is scary? Meet her dad, the terrifying vampire Mr. Bishop. What does he want -- and what will Amelie do about it? Claire's caught in the middle, along with her friends and even her parents, as Morganville's fragile alliance between humans and vampires starts to fracture. Soon, everyone will have to choose a companion for the Feast of Fools ... and a side.
Release date: June 2008
Release date: June 2008
Read the excerpt Morganville minions!
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Iron Kissed by Patricia Briggs
I get seriously invested in the characters in the series I read. When traumatic things happen to them, I feel it in my stomach and I sometimes hate the author, sometimes I still love the author and the series but I can't revisit that book again for a long time. (namely Breath of Snow and Ashes, the memory of it's events still kill me)
This was not either or those. Patricia was able to break my heart and put it back together again. She didn't rush the end, or miraculously make everything okay, but she moved the character along and took the others farther along as well. I cannot express how much I treasure this book and how it has truly surpassed all other new series for me. Briggs has impressed me beyond all measure. Thank you for letting a strong woman be vulnerable without being weak, and for letting her make choices instead of stringing us along without end.
Mercy is a character with honor, heart, and true courage. I am and will always be, a fan for life.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Excerts to Upcoming Books
Coming Febuary 26, 2008 (click cover for excerpt)
Coming Febuary 26, 2008 (Click cover for excerpt)
The Devil You Know(Book 2, Coming August 2008)
The beautiful. The bad. The Possessed.Some people worship them. Some people fear them. And some people—like Morgan Kingsley—go up against them toe-to-toe, flesh-to-flesh, and power against power. An exorcist by trade, Morgan is one of the few humans with an aura stronger than her possessor, even though her demon can tease her body senseless. She's also a woman who has just discovered a shocking truth: everything she once believed about her past, her identity, may have been a lie…With a family secret exploding around her and with a full-scale demon war igniting, Morgan is a key player in an unsettled world. Then a rogue, sociopathic demon enters her life with a bang. His name is The Hunter. And since she is the prey, Morgan has only one choice: to hunt The Hunter down—no matter what heartbreaking truths she uncovers on the way… Read Chapter One.
Romancing the Dead will be out May 6, 2008.
I’m on the top of the world. The Vatican witch hunters think I’m dead, the FBI has closed my file, I might get to buy the occult bookstore I manage, I’m co-founding a brand-new coven—and the vampire I love has just proposed. How lucky can a girl get? Wait, wai—
Oh, crap. I’ve jinxed myself. My fiancé, Sebastian, is missing and I’m worried sick. Has he been kidnapped? Or could he have run off with that leggy blonde from the coven? Now I’ll have to seek the help of my future stepson—the same brat who once turned me over to the Catholics, all for a pimped-out Jag. Plus, the Goddess Lilith, who camps out in my body, has been making embarrassing appearances. Now all I need is some crazy killer on my tail. Hold on, hold— Double crap. Read Chapter One.
City of Ashes is coming out March 25, 2008 Clary Fray just wishes that her life would go back to normal. But what's normal when you're a demon-slaying Shadowhunter, your mother is in a magically induced coma, and you can suddenly see Downworlders like werewolves, vampires, and faeries? If Clary left the world of the Shadowhunters behind, it would mean more time with her best friend, Simon, who's becoming more than a friend. But the Shadowhunting world isn't ready to let her go -- especially her handsome, infuriating, newfound brother, Jace. And Clary's only chance to help her mother is to track down rogue Shadowhunter Valentine, who is probably insane, certainly evil -- and also her father.
To complicate matters, someone in New York City is murdering Downworlder children. Is Valentine behind the killings -- and if he is, what is he trying to do? When the second of the Mortal Instruments, the Soul-Sword, is stolen, the terrifying Inquisitor arrives to investigate and zooms right in on Jace. How can Clary stop Valentine if Jace is willing to betray everything he believes in to help their father? Read the excerpt.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Wicked Lovely, and company
While whiling away the weeks and months (*cough, years) wait for the next books from my Major League Murders Row in Urban Fantasy (Armstrong, Butcher, Caine, Harris) the new authors have been pretty hit and lukewarm for me. So this waiting period has given me an opportunity to explore the YA Urban Fantasy that I normally don’t have time for.
I read constantly. I am also addicted to movies (I see at least 6 a month at the theatres). And I keep my DVR fully loaded with shit I constantly need to catch up on. Add into this a full time job and a social life = me not getting enough sleep. So most often the YA of the genre went purchased but unread. When I finally got to read them, I was surprised to get my socks blown off by quiet a few of these books which are I am excited to say most often the start of a new series.
Here’s the Hits List so far:
*Beast by Alex Flinn (Standalone novel in a new Fairy Tale Retelling series) - I'm foaming at the mouth!
*City of Bones by Cassandra Clare (Book One of the Mortal Instruments Trilogy) -I'm foaming at the mouth!
*Wicked Lovely by Melissa Marr (First in a series) -a fan for life!
*Vampire Academy by Richelle Mead (First in a new series) -a fan for life!
*Glass House by Rachel Caine (Book One of the Morganville Vampires series) - a fan for life!
*Dead Girls Dance by Rachel Caine (Book Two of the Morganville Vampires series) - I'm foaming at the mouth!
*Midnight Alley by Rachel Caine (book Three of the Morganville Vampires Series) - I'm foaming at the mouth!
*The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod: Eighth Grade Bites by Heather Brewer(Book One) -Can I haz more?
*Twilight by Stephanie Meyer (Book One in the Twilight series) - I'm Foaming at the mouth!
*New Moon by Stephanie Meyer (Book Two in the Twilight series) -Can I haz more?
*Eclipse by Stephanie Meyer (Book Three in the Twilight series) - Can I haz more?
*Tantalize by Cynthia Leitich Smith (Book One) *and I’ve placed this series and author on notice, it is hanging on by a thread. Another flop ending and you are dead to me. - this motherfucker is on notice!
*The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl by Barry Lyga (while this is not YA it is a must read for anyone who is a nerd, a geek, an outcast, or if you are all of those but just in the closet about it like Cal and so many others!) -A fan for life!
P.S.
By the way, while I work at a library, I believe in buying the book. I believe in advanced purchases and going to the bookstore the DAY the big titles drop. If books are going to survive, then we have to shell out the cash. If you can, then DO IT. If you can’t, that’s where the library comes in. I believe in first editions, special editions, and buying the series again when the covers have had an overhaul (the latter is reserved for those deemed worthy) .
So for all that I do for the publishing industry, I expect some returns. Amazon takes care of me with its discounts (not found in any store) and it Prime Member benefits. I believe in this awesome wave of authors having to start blogs, and websites as a part of the whole promotion machine. It gives the fans a way to feel connected to the books and the authors- and kudos for those authors who are providing individual feedback to the fans. I know it’s difficult for the big name authors to do that (especially ones like Hamilton who is equally revered and vilified by her past and present minions), but it gives the new authors a way to really garner a hardcore and cult following. Hey, as a fan, if you think and feel like you know and are friends with your favorite author, wouldn’t you go to the mat for that author any day?
Friday, December 07, 2007
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Uhh, I am so irritated.
I really despise when a book has so much promise and hype and then doesn’t deliver. I was surprised, I kept reading thinking it would turn the corner and start kicking ass, but it never did. The only ass that was kicked was me.
I didn’t blog on Tantalize right away, I wanted a few days to settle down and see what my feelings and impressions really were without the immediacy of that first rush of reactionary emotions.
And guess what, I’m still fucking pissed. And I suppose the fact that I have strong emotions means that the storytelling was good, and I’ll grant you that. There was a lot of meat there. There was a lot to love. But the author kept tearing away everything that meant anything to the main character. And since it’s told in first person, the way the main character dealt with everything was so ANTICLIMACTIC!
And I hate hate hate non endings. And this one has a doozy. NOTHING HAPPENS. I do not feel satisfied, not when in the end everything changed for the main character. Just imagine waking up to be that last person on earth, it was sort of like that, and that characters reaction and actions were inadequate to the situation.
They only possible saving grace could be if this is the first book of a series. Otherwise, FUCK YOU.
Although looking up her forthcoming work she has this listed: watch for ETERNAL by Cynthia Leitich Smith (Candlewick, TBA)(ages 14-up). A gothic fantasy novel.
It is obviously the follow up to Tantalize and will (and had better) deliver. Quincy was a lamb to the slaughter in this book, and I like my heroine’s to kick some ass. Like In Richelle Mead’s Vampire Academy, a perfect book. Take note YA authors. (Even the oh so high and mighty Stephanie Meyer should take notice)
I really despise when a book has so much promise and hype and then doesn’t deliver. I was surprised, I kept reading thinking it would turn the corner and start kicking ass, but it never did. The only ass that was kicked was me.
I didn’t blog on Tantalize right away, I wanted a few days to settle down and see what my feelings and impressions really were without the immediacy of that first rush of reactionary emotions.
And guess what, I’m still fucking pissed. And I suppose the fact that I have strong emotions means that the storytelling was good, and I’ll grant you that. There was a lot of meat there. There was a lot to love. But the author kept tearing away everything that meant anything to the main character. And since it’s told in first person, the way the main character dealt with everything was so ANTICLIMACTIC!
And I hate hate hate non endings. And this one has a doozy. NOTHING HAPPENS. I do not feel satisfied, not when in the end everything changed for the main character. Just imagine waking up to be that last person on earth, it was sort of like that, and that characters reaction and actions were inadequate to the situation.
They only possible saving grace could be if this is the first book of a series. Otherwise, FUCK YOU.
Although looking up her forthcoming work she has this listed: watch for ETERNAL by Cynthia Leitich Smith (Candlewick, TBA)(ages 14-up). A gothic fantasy novel.
It is obviously the follow up to Tantalize and will (and had better) deliver. Quincy was a lamb to the slaughter in this book, and I like my heroine’s to kick some ass. Like In Richelle Mead’s Vampire Academy, a perfect book. Take note YA authors. (Even the oh so high and mighty Stephanie Meyer should take notice)
Friday, November 30, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Small Favor
Here is the description for Small Favor:
No one's tried to kill Harry Dresden for almost an entire year, and his life finally seems to be calming down. For once, the future looks fairly bright. But the past casts one hell of a long shadow.
An old bargain has placed Harry in debt to Mab, monarch of the Winter Court of the Sidhe, the Queen of Air and Darkness-and she's calling in her marker. It's a small favor he can't refuse...one that will trap Harry Dresden between a nightmarish foe and an equally deadly ally, and one that will strain his skills-and loyalties-to their very limits.
It figures. Everything was going too well to last...
Butcher never disappoints, one of my favorite Dresden stories has been from the anthology Many Bloody Returns named It's My Bithday, Too.
Also in Dresden news, the Dabel Brothers (of the Anita comic fame) are producing The Dresden Files in comic format. I'm extremely excited, although the concept art is not thrilling me in the least. And the way they depicted Anita and co. left me scratching my head asking, "Why are her thighs so BIG? Why does she look exactly like Jean Claude?" No big, it's still going to be awesome seeing some of Harry's most memorable moments in ink. I've already contacted my source for all my comic needs Lightspeed. I get Anita, Supernatural and Buffy from them. (also see Dean Koontz's Frankenstein art at Dabel Bros. it's a must have!)
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