Seven Secrets

I knew someone was following me!  The hairs on the back of my neck kept standing up.  I saw fleeting shadows dart away from the corner of my eye.  Furtive footsteps fell faint on the forest floor.

I kept finding cast-off marshmallow bags in the strangest places.

That should have been a clue.  For who else consumes raw marshmallows, other than famed romance writer and occasional nurturer of bats Jane Lovering?

If you don't know Jane, you should.  She writes great books that also genuinely laugh-out-loud funny.  I love her wit, which is very British and always spot-on insightful.  You should check out her From Behind the Keyboard site and then swiftly and with a keen sense of determination click your way to a purchase of one of her books.  I suggest Slightly Foxed, which is printed (yay!) and therefore universally compatible with all standard-issue human visual equipment and has an infinite battery life to boot.

When Jane isn't being intentionally hilarious, she roams the net handing out Versatile Blogger awards.  Yesterday she awarded one to me, which is displayed below for your edification.

Fig. 1, the award.  

Now, by the Immutable Laws of the All-Reaching Internet, I am required to post in observance of this Award (see Fig. 1) seven things you do not know about me.  

Jane posted her Seven Things here.  You should probably click that link and read hers instead of mine, because hers are funny and mine will probably (and quite predictably) devolve into a discussion of zombies or the terrors of lawn care.   

Anyway, here goes:

SEVEN THINGS YOU NEVER KNEW ABOUT ME

1) I detest shaking hands. It's a stupid custom, and trying to determine how much pressure to apply and how long one should hold a stranger's hand are both decisions I can happily live without.  I'm so fed up with handshakes in general I've decided I'll just look puzzled at all those outstretched hands.  Or maybe fill them with random pamphlets.  Perhaps I'll just take the whole procedure to its next logical step and instigate a spirited round of crotch-sniffing.  That should soon eliminate further offers of handshakes.

2) I have all the ABBA albums.  I have them, and I sometimes listen to them.  Don't act so shocked.  You know you've got a Backstreet Boys CD hidden in a sock drawer somewhere...

3) I write my blogs wearing a Richard M Nixon mask.  Hey.  You have your  foibles, and I have mine.

4) I was bored absolutely to literal tears by this SF classic.  I'm still a bit ashamed of that, but a more impenetrable and muddled book I have never encountered (I refer to the first book in the series; I never got past that).  Read the glowing reviews concerning the book's complexity, its use of metaphor and theme, its exploration of philosophy and theology.  Then consider how all that obviously went straight over my head, because my impressions of the book ranged from 'Huh?' to 'WTF?'.  If you must think less of me, I understand.

5) I'm 47, and sometimes I still wonder where my childhood 'GI Joe' action figure is, and how he's doing.  That's probably a sign of some deep-seated neurosis.  Or the result of lingering emotional scars inflicted during my attempt to finish the book mentioned in #4.  

6) I hate mirrors.   I've never liked the things.  That's not me reflected there.  Ditto for photographs.  I don't want to see those either if I'm anywhere in them.  

7) I assign mental nicknames to people I meet because I forget their real names almost instantly upon being introduced.  Especially if I have to shake hands with them.  Especially if I have to shake hands with them in front of a mirror while being photographed.  Thus my inner landscape is populated by the likes of Bad Hair and Pig Eyes and Mister Coffee Breath.  If I become friends with someone, of course that changes, but given my warm and caring nature that seldom happens.

So, there you have it -- seven secrets revealed, and the Law of the Internet fulfilled!  

I shall wear my Versatile Blogger award with pride.  

Your Monday Horoscope, with Additional Gauze Bandages

The fickle stars have spoken!  Read below to learn your fate, if you dare.  Looks like the stars have been watching way too much CSI yet again...

ARIES (March 21-April 20)

Don't act so shocked at all your media attention.  Multiple amputations are seldom associated with petting zoo mishaps.

TAURUS (April 21 - May 20)

Your feeling that you are being watched is tragically validated in later weeks as dental records confirm your jawbone's identity.

GEMINI (May 21 - June 20)

Suddenly, your attorney's insanity defense strategy is dealt a fatal blow.  On the bright side, you've lost eight pounds during the trial!

CANCER (June 21 - July 22)

This is a good time to study the habits and behaviors of the Eastern Diamondback rattlesnake, which is being forced from its natural habitat and into your sock drawer.  

LEO (July 23 - August 22)

As you soon learn, what is called 'bullet-proof' glass is actually better labeled 'bullet-RESISTANT' glass. 

VIRGO (August 23 - September 23)

Even the FBI can't quite determine how a highly toxic pufferfish wound up alive and intact in your small intestine.

LIBRA (September 24 - October 23)

Focus on the positive!  None of your friends will ever wind up with an obituary featured in its entirety on 'News of the Weird.'

SCORPIO (October 24 - November 21)

Some say every knock at your door might be that of Opportunity.  As the police will later state, however, sometimes it's just a lunatic with a wrecking bar and the strong conviction that you are Satan, Lord of the Underworld. 

SAGITTARIUS (November 22 - December 21)

You have to laugh every time you hear someone say 'That which does not kill you makes you stronger.'  And man does it hurt to laugh with all those new stitches.  

CAPRICORN (December 22 - January 19)

Turns out you were wrong to so easily dismiss the stories of anal probes performed during alien abductions.

AQUARIUS (January 20 - February 19)

You will eventually receive proper scholarly recognition for your unfortunate involvement in proving that piranhas have indeed migrated well into North American waterways.

PISCES (February 20 - March 20)

They will never quite piece together your final few moments, leaving your recorded comments about 'the knuckles, the horrible knuckles' an enduring mystery in the field of paranormal research.

SPECIAL NOTE TO SUZANNE IN MEMPHIS:

Not until 2018, when a cold case unit orders the exhumation of your remains.

Have a nice week!

Box O' Books!

Just my luck.

I get my box of author's copies of THE BANSHEE'S WALK the very day the world ends.

Pic is below!

You can get your copy from Amazon (or your favorite brick and mortar bookstore) starting on June 7.  Or you can pre-order from Amazon here, if you're impatient -- and why shouldn't you be?  Readers who have gotten a sneak peek of THE BANSHEE'S WALK report the following side effects:

* Weight loss
* Reading granted powers of flight, invisibility
* Overall physical attractiveness increased on average of 754%
* Shoes polished, undergarments dry-cleaned and folded

Can you afford not to read THE BANSHEE'S WALK?  Is my repetition of the title THE BANSHEE'S WALK creating within you a well nigh irresistible urge to purchase the aforementioned full-length novel?

Okay, okay, I get the hint.

I would like to thank the hard-working people at Samhain Publishing for making BANSHEE look so good.  Cover artist Natalie Winters did a great job, and of course without the patient and long-suffering attention of my editor Beth, BANSHEE would be 140,000 words of meandering muddle and it would still be making its sole home on my PC's hard drive.

June 7, print book hits the stands, shutting up now...

Last Day Before the Last Day

I shouldn't be making fun of the May 21 Doomsdayers.  It's never sporting to shoot fish in a barrel, or make fun of the mentally challenged.

And the May 21sters are some profoundly challenged fish in a very shallow barrel.

But I have a headache and they're easy targets, so here goes.

TOP TEN EXCUSES WHY THE WORLD DIDN'T END ON MAY 21, 2011 (For use on May 22):

1) Forgot to factor in Leap Years.  Math is hard.
2) Oprah's final show doesn't air until next week.
3) Oops, wrong planet.  It was Urth that was destroyed Saturday afternoon.  Urth, not Earth.  But man did they have it coming.
4) 2011?  Wait a minute, the t-shirt shop printed it wrong.  I meant 2211.  Yeah.  May 21, 2211.  Just wait, I tell ya!  Just wait!
5) It did end, right on schedule, and was immediately replaced with the back-up copy.  You won't notice any difference, since the backup is is is perfect.
6) Knew the date was bogus, was just tired of Mormons getting all the media attention.
7) I just wanted my van painted.
8) It did end, but the liberal media refuses to report it.
9) Gay marriage.  No, we're not sure how it relates, but we're sure it does, somehow.
10) Can we have all our stuff back?

TEOTWAWKI The End of the World As We Know It

I've watched the world end a dozen times during my perusal of the Internet.

Aussie Bloke predicted a major cometary strike a few years back.  A dowdy nutjob named Nancy Lieder spent years blathering away on sci.astro about a mysterious 'Planet X,' which was to swoop past the Earth in 2003, killing all but the usual chosen few.  More recently, there were the anti-CERN people, who believed we'd all be sucked into a black hole the instant the supercollider came online.

Despite being killed over and over again by rogue comets and sudden black holes, I still seem to be more or less alive.  Yes, the Earth is a ravaged, increasingly-barren wasteland populated by desperate hordes of humanity struggling for survival, but it's been that way for quite a while and so far we haven't seen fit to do much about it but gripe about switching to florescent light bulbs now and then.

So I hope you'll pardon me if I am less than terrified by the latest end-o-the-worlders, who claim Doomsday is scheduled for May 21, at 6:00 PM (Eastern, I think).

I haven't looked into their reasoning, since I'm pretty sure I've seen it all before, one place or another.  Pour up a base of religious wackery, add a dash of deeply flawed numerology, stir in a pinch of outright paranoia, season with ignorance and a dim-witted world-view more appropriate to mollusks than primates, and viola!  It's the end of the world.  Again.

Like every day before it, May 21 will dawn, proceed, and end at midnight.  People will be born.  People will die.  A far greater number of people will dress poorly and fail to pay sufficient attention to their personal hygiene.  There will be ill-conceived marriages and nasty divorces and whirlwind romances and somewhere young love will blossom.  In short, humanity will be up to its usual tricks, and will be no more or no less successful than it usually is with them.  The only constant will be humanity's steadfast refusal to learn from its mistakes.  And bacon.  We'll eat lots and lots of bacon.

Somewhere in that mix, I guess a couple of hundred people will exchange 'What was I thinking' looks before quietly going home to remove all the WORLD ENDS MAY 21 stickers from their cars.  And quite a few of those people will soon replace their failed May 21 stickers and placards with whatever date pops up next.  That's the whole live and don't learn bit I mentioned before.

So here's to May 22nd, which I predict will begin right on time, and with all the usual activity days generally bring.

Now, if you are one of the May 21sters, and you're reading my blog, you have 3 days to prove the sincerity of your faith by immediately arranging a significant PayPal cash transfer from you to me.  Details provided upon request....but hurry, this is a limited time offer!

Monday Horoscopes!

Horoscopes?

Why not?  I'm perfectly willing to believe that the positions of celestial bodies billions of miles away can have a direct influence on the most mundane facets of my life.  So if Jupiter is in the House of Mars, I'd better watch my interactions with public officials, right?

As long as we're willing to assume that Neptune is keenly aware of my financial dealings, let's take the next logical step and assign to me personally a variety of divinatory and predictive powers!  I was an Indigo Child, after all, one raised by Gypsies, tutored in the Mystical Arts by Jeanne Dixon, and well-read from the dread Necronomicon (Volume II, will vars. Illustrations)!

So let us see what the stars, quasars, pulsars, and various nebula have to say to you today, dear reader...

ARIES (March 21-April 20)
They say that being decapitated doesn't hurt, but you'll have to wait for Tuesday evening to know for sure.

TAURUS (April 21 - May 20)
Good friends are priceless.  The best you can probably do, though, run about $200 per night.

GEMINI (May 21 - June 20)
You know that fortune cookie you got, the one that read Good things await you?  Yeah, well, if by 'good things' they meant 'flesh-eating bacteria,' then man, they nailed that one.

CANCER (June 21 - July 22)
This is a good week to consider your finances, because after Sunday evening's prison riot, you won't be needing money anymore.


LEO (July 23 - August 22)
If you don't want to wind up going viral on YouTube, don't kick and scream while the grizzly bear mauls you. And if you do kick and scream, don't say we didn't warn you.  Pansy.


VIRGO (August 23 - September 23)
You laughed at the warning label that said DO NOT IMMERSE IN WATER WHILE IN USE, but who's laughing now, huh?  


LIBRA (September 24 - October 23)
Statistically speaking, being struck twice by lightning is highly improbable, and that's exactly what the coroner will note in her report.


SCORPIO (October 24 - November 21)
Look, sometimes hostage negotiations just fall apart.  


SAGITTARIUS (November 22 - December 21)
Despite the media attention surrounding your post-surgical appearance, air travel is still the safest way to travel.


CAPRICORN (December 22 - January 19)
That fear of needles you have?  Considering the events of next Friday, that is a bad, bad fear to have.


AQUARIUS (January 20 - February 19)
All those times you used the phrase 'an arm and a leg' take on an ominous new meaning when you regain consciousness Sunday.


PISCES (February 20 - March 20)
Nine times out of ten, a charging rhinoceros will turn away at the last moment.  Guess you wish now you'd been keeping a much better count.


SPECIAL NOTE TO LARRY IN SEATTLE:
Yes, you did adjust the rear-view mirror with your bare right hand, and yes, fingerprints are the most-used physical evidence type used in murder trials.

Sightings, Smashwords, and More!

It's been a good day, as far as my writing is concerned.

First, I got a sneak peek at the cover for All the Paths of Shadow (coming soon!).  The cover is going to be beautiful.  The model looks just like I pictured Meralda, the heroine in the new book.  And, unlike the Markhat covers in which you never *quite* see Markhat's face under the brim of his hat, Meralda has the courtesy to look right at you.

All the Paths of Shadow will probably be out in September of this year.  The publisher is Cool Well Press, and I'll post links and so forth as soon as the information for All the Paths of Shadow  is publicly available.

Paths of Shadow is my first full-length YA novel.  YA stands for 'Young Adult,' which is authorspeak meaning 'for the love of all that is holy please shelve my book next to the Harry Potter books kthnxbye.'  I will stress that it's not a children's book.  Not that children couldn't read it -- in fact, they should read it, twice a week -- but when I say YA I don't mean it's filled with talking animals and rhyme and whimsy.  Paths certainly isn't as dark as the Markhat series, but I didn't shy away from including some pretty weighty themes, either.  There are, though, far fewer instances of gleeful decapitation conducted solely for humor in Paths.

Seeing a stunning piece of cover art with your own name plastered across it is always gratifying.

Finding your book in another bookstore is cool too.  I spotted two copies of The Markhat Files on the shelf in the campus bookstore -- so all my Oxford and Ole Miss pals, they're at the Union bookstore, in the SF/Fantasy section, right next to Gene Wolfe.

Go buy the last two so they'll order more, won't you?

Anthology 1: The Far Corners hit #8 on Amazon today in the fantasy short story anthology category.  That's a pretty hefty jump in a very short time; I have the good folks at DailyCheapReads to thank for that.  They put up a post for the anthology and sales took a huge leap.

Lastly, today marks my debut at Smashwords!  If you're not familiar with Smashwords, you should be, because no matter what kind of reading device you prefer (Kindle, Nook, Kobo, iPad, PC, etc.) they've got ebooks in your format of choice.

I've just placed Wistril Compleat there, and it's on the virtual shelf already.  Mallara and Burn: On the Road and The Far Corners anthology are awaiting placement now.  They should be up and for sale in a day or two.

I can't wait for everyone to see the cover for All the Paths of Shadow!  Hurry September!

Belfast Buffoonery, Part II: Councils Without Character

Poor Lennox.  His story gets sadder and sadder with each new development.


For those of you unfamiliar with the story, you can catch up by reading here.  The short version is this -- Lennox is a big black dog who is NOT a pit bull.  Pit bulls are prohibited in Belfast.  This shouldn't be a problem since, as I said, Lennox isn't a pit bull.  He had a license granted by the Belfast City Council.  He had vet records.  He had a lifetime of good behavior.  And, as I stated, Lennox isn't a pit bull at all, so there was no reason to seize him.


Sadly, such leaps of logic are simply too formidable for the Belfast City Council and their duly-appointed dog abusers, the Belfast City Council Dog Wardens (who shall be referred to hereafter by their more commonly known name, The Complete and Utter Worthless BASTARDS).  A year ago, the Dog Wardens, aka the Mouth-Breathing Inbred Cone-Headed Simpletons, mis-read a warrant and went to the wrong freaking house and grabbed poor Lennox, who is big and black and must therefore in the eyes of Belfastian law be a pit bull.


Remind me never to travel to Belfast.  Not that I plan to.  Aside from being Europe's biggest exporter of goiters and halitosis, Belfast's only other claims to fame are its open sewers and proliferation of readily-available child pornography.  The Romans once conquered Bronze-Age Belfast, only to return it to its barbarian inhabitants because, as Plutarch put it, '...seriously, there's no hope for the place or those furry, nasty little people.  We tried burning it but the stench made vultures gag.  What they do to goats...no, I can't describe it, let's move on."


After being seized by the Dog Wardens, or as they are known to Interpol 'the suspects in a number of ongoing bestiality investigations,'  Lennox was kept, for a year, in a tiny little enclosure filled with his own feces.


Because in Belfast, apparently, being surrounded by your own body wastes is known as 'what, is there a problem?'


Finally, poor Lennox had his day in court.  DNA evidence proved he wasn't a pit bull.  His spotless record of good behavior was entered into evidence.  The Council's reasons for seizing him boiled down to 'look how black he is.'


If you're new to this case, predict the outcome of that hearing.  No evidence of wrongdoing.  Clear evidence Lennox isn't a prohibited breed.  Wrongful seizure.  Appalling standards of care.


You'd think Lennox would be returned to his home that day, wouldn't you?


And you'd be right.  Right, that is, if the hearing was held anywhere but merry old Belfast, where parents have been first cousins since the dawn of time itself.


No, in a stunning decision seemingly designed to prove that Belfastian judges simply won't be bound by mere facts when there's plenty of ill-will to go around, Judge Ken Nixon sentenced Lennox to death, for the crime of being big and black and born in Belfast.


Way to go, Judge Nixon!  What's next for your amazing display of jurisprudence?  Going to mandate that sparrows are wyverns, and must be harpooned on sight?  Thinking about passing an ordinance requiring a dozen kittens to be stomped on the courthouse steps every Arbor Day?


I'll just bet you are.  Because that's how things are done in Belfast, and you don't need any uppity foreigners telling you how to slaughter your own innocent animals.


So, after His Lack of Honor rendered his decision and then toddled off to the nearest pet store to torture a Schnauzer with a pointed stick, Lennox's owners appealed the decision.


Amazingly, the court granted them an appeal.  I'm sure this was a mistake, because to the clerks in the Belfast Courthouse all those word-things on the forms look pretty much the same.  Belfast does rank 1,265,487, 365,546th in literacy, which is in itself quite an accomplishment since doing so required them to be ranked among not just Earth for twenty-seven other inhabited planets, including one populated entirely by beings who use mud for brains.


The appeal was set for May 4.  I had high hopes that perhaps a judge who did not require the services of the bailiff to wipe drool from his chin would be presiding.


Hoping for even the least smidgeon of competence among the City Council or courts of Belfast, though, is a fool's errand.


The appointed time came and went.  Lennox's family was there.


The Belfast City Council and their minions simply elected not to show up.


That's right.  They skipped the proceedings entirely.


Now, even in countries where the officials sport necklaces made of human teeth, that would mean an automatic loss for the Belfast City Council and the Dog Wardens.


But not in Belfast.  Oh no.  In Belfast, the failure of the prosecution to stumble from the pub to the courtroom gets you nothing but a 'ere, what's all this, then?' and a big wet sneeze.


So poor Lennox is still locked in his cage.  His family is still in limbo.


And in Belfast, this is what passes for law and compassion and justice.


Screw you, Belfast.  Plutarch had it right.  You're a nasty, obnoxious bunch of sadistic little puppy-stranglers, from your City Council to your goose-stepping Dog Wardens to your pox-ridden courts.  I'd wish all manner of pestilence and plague upon you, if I thought the onset of such could even be detected amid the filth and decay that you call your disgusting little city.


Not one of your elected officials has a shred of decency.  Which shouldn't come as a surprise, considering your actions in the past.  One can't expect too much from the descendants of the creatures Plutarch named 'Europe's version of the dung-sucking manure monkey.'


Hang in there, Lennox old boy.  


Belfast -- not fit for man nor beast.

Shocking News! With Teaser!

It wasn't so very long ago I finished the new Markhat book, which by the way will be entitled 'The Broken Bell.'


Now, I'm done with an entirely new novel.  Not a super short one, either -- we're talking a hundred thousand words here.  It's not a Markhat adventure.  It's not even set in Rannit.


No, this is (gasp) a young adult novel called 'All the Paths of Shadow.'  


But Frank, you ask.  Where may I obtain, purchase, procure, and/or otherwise come to posses this new novel of which you speak?


I smile knowingly.  All in good time, I say.  For plans have already been laid.  Deals have been struck.  Dates have even been discussed (September of this year).  


I'll provide all the relevant details soon -- we're talking a few days here, no more.  Honestly, I'm exhausted right now, and I've still got miles to go before I sleep tonight.  Have to save my energy for the manuscript I'm working on.


But I'm very excited about this new venture.  YA fiction is a genre I myself still enjoy, and to be working in the field is a huge thrill.  I hope to find a whole new audience.


No, I'm not stopping the Markhat series!  The next one is already laid out.  I'll be starting it any day now.  My goal is to finish it and get it to market before the year is out.


That would be three novels in 2011.


Not bad at all, for a slow writer like me.


But man, am I tired!

Hold the Dark

Bang! Bang! Bang! 

I jumped, spilled warm beer and felt my head begin to throb.

Mama’s voice rang out. She tried the latch, cussed and shoved hard at the door.

I threw the bottle in the trash bucket and managed to get out of my chair and to the door before Mama broke it down.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I said, fumbling with the latch. The daylight through my bubbled-glass door-pane was faint and yellow, more blush of dawn than actual morning.

I yanked the door open. “Damn, Mama, it’s barely daylight—”

She pushed her way in beside me. The look on her face—it’s never a good look, mind you—was worried and grim and if I didn’t know her better I’d say it was frantic.

“Boy,” she said, huffing and puffing. “Boy, where you been?”

I shut the door.

“Right here sleeping. Why? Where’s the fire?”

She fell heavily into my client’s chair, her hands tight around the neck of that big burlap sack she sometimes carries. Once she let a little snake crawl out of it and get loose on my desk. I’d told her to leave it at her place from then on.

“You ain’t been here all night.” She opened the bag and started rummaging around inside it as she spoke, and I got that lifted-hair-on-the-back-of-my-neck feeling I’d always gotten when the Army sorcerer corps had aimed new hexes at us troops.

“Whoa,” I said, harder and louder than I meant to. “You got mojo in that sack, Mama, you’d damn well better leave it there. I took hexes in the Army because I had to, and you’ve slipped a few on me because I didn’t see them coming. But hear this, Mama Hog. No hexes. Not today. Got it?”

She clamped her jaw and met my stare. I could see her hands moving, see the beginning of a word form on her lips.

Then she sagged and let out her breath.

“Wouldn’t do no good anyhow.” She pulled her hands out of the bag and tied it shut with a scrap of twine. “Wouldn’t do no good.”

When she looked back up at me, she had tears in her eyes.

“Mama, I didn’t mean—”

“Ain’t you, boy. Ain’t nothin’ you said. Ain’t nothin’ you done.”

My head pounded. I took a deep breath and ran fingers through my hair, which was wild and stiff and probably bleached white from Mama’s soap.

“What is it, then? What’s got you so upset?”

“I seen something. Last night. I seen something bad.”

“I thought your cards were clueless where Martha was concerned.”

“Wasn’t about Martha.” She wiped her eyes and leaned close. “Was about you.”

“Tell me.”

She shook her head. “No, I can’t tell. Can’t tell ’cause I still can’t see real clear.” She shuffled in her seat, and I knew I’d caught her in a lie.

“Tell me what you can.”

“Cards. Glass. Smoke. Bones. All come up death, boy. I called your name and a whippoorwill answered. I burned your hair and saw the ashes scatter. I caught blood on a silver needle and saw it turn toward your door.” She shivered, and her eyes looked tired. “Ain’t never seen all them things. Not the same night. And then, when I saw them dogs tearin’ at your clothes—well, I thought you was dead for sure.”

“I’m not surprised. I came pretty close, just after midnight. Maybe that’s what you saw.”

She shook her head. “I reckon not. Something still ain’t right about all this, boy. I oughtn’t to be seeing some things I see, and ought to see things I don’t. We got a sayin’ in Pot Lockney—it’s them things under the water what makes the river wild. Somethin’s messing up my sight on this. You reckon you know what it might be?”

I shook my head. I had suspicions, but they weren’t for anyone but Evis to hear.

“I don’t know, Mama, but I will tell you this. The Houses are mixed up in this, somehow.”

She snorted. “Figured that.”

“Maybe not that way. At least not all of them.” I gave her just enough of the night’s festivities to steer the Watch and the Hoobins toward Avalante, should I have a fatal boating accident in the next few days.

None of that helped her state of agitation. “Running around after Curfew with vampires?” she shouted. “Boy, have you hit your fool head?”

I had to agree, at least partly. But I’d lived. Thanks partly to Evis, who was probably pacing anxiously in a well-appointed crypt across the river.

“Look, Mama, I’ve got to go. But there’s something you can do. For me. Maybe for Martha.”

She gave me a sideways look, nodded.

“I’ll need a hex. A paper hex. Something I can tear. Something you’ll know I’ve torn, just as soon as I’ve torn it. From twenty, thirty blocks away. Can you do that?”

She frowned. “I reckon.”

“Good. And I’ll need you to talk to Ethel. I need you to tell him we may need men to get Martha. Men who’ll break Curfew. Men who’ll fight. Men who’ll keep their mouths shut.”

“How many?”

“All you can get.” I was hoping for fifty.

Mama nodded. “You think you know where Martha Hoobin is?”

“Not yet. But when I find out, we won’t have much time. She’s got maybe four days left. That’s all.” A thought struck me, and I held up my hand to silence Mama’s unspoken question. “Humor me, Mama. What’s special about the night four days from now?”

She frowned. “Special what?”

“I mean is it some old rite of spring or solstice or something. Is there going to be an eclipse? Will the skies turn blood red and rain frogs—that kind of thing?”

“Nothing special about it at all. It’s Thursday. There’s a new moon. Might rain.”

“That’s it,” I said, aloud. “New moon. No moon. Darkest night of the month.”

Vampire picnic day.

Mama saw, and the same thought occurred to her.

“Damn, boy,” she piped. “I done told you I seen death! Death on your name. Death on your blood. Don’t none of that mean nothin’ to you?”

I rose. “It does. But look again. You see me telling Ethel Hoobin I quit? You see me leaving Martha Hoobin at the mercy of those who have her? You see me just walking away?”

She gathered her bag. She rose, and she was crying when she hit the door.

I sat. “Whippoorwills,” I said, to my empty chair. “There aren’t any whippoorwills in Rannit. Haven’t been in years.”

None sang. Ogres huffed and doors began to open and slam outside and old Mr. Bull’s broom started its daily scritch-scritch on his pitiful small stoop. Rannit came to life, sans portents and whippoorwills, vampires and doomsayers.

I listened for a while and then got up, combed my hair and headed across town to speak with Evis about corpses, new moons and ensorcelled silver combs.


-- end excerpt.

The above is taken from Hold the Dark, a pivotal novel in the Markhat series.  Pivotal because Markhat meets Darla; 'Hold the Dark' is very much a boy-meets-girl-then-loses-her-to-vampires sort of romance.


I'm aware, by the way, that film noir detectives have less than stellar track records with the ladies.  Bogart sends his up the river in the final moments of 'The Maltese Falcon.'  Archie Goodwin never quites solidifies things with Lily Rowan.  Mike Hammer -- well.  Enough said there.


If you've read any of the Markhat books, though, I think you realized right away that Markhat wasn't going to continue in the love 'em and leave 'em tradition established by many of his predecessors. Frankly, for a long time, I wasn't sure what Markhat was planning on either. 


Until he met Darla.  Then it became obvious, to Markhat, at least.  


Does Darla survive the events in Hold the Dark?  If so, does she pop back up in The Banshee's Walk or the upcoming 'The Broken Bell?'


It'll cost ya to find out.  But not much, and most readers agree it's 
well worth the price of admission.


Follow the links below to find your preferred version of Hold the Dark, including old-school print!


Hold the Dark, various formats - Nook, Sony, pdf, etc.
Hold the Dark for the Amazon Kindle
Hold the Dark in print!