As you likely know if you’ve read this blog for any length of time, I’m a huge Jane Austen fan, and my particular love is for Pride and Prejudice. Consequently, I’ve read a LOT of retellings that run the gamut from books reframing the story within the novel’s time period to ones set in modern times. And, of course, there are the ones that transport the characters and plot into a fantasy setting. Probably the most well-known of these is Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. I’ll be honest, though–there are much better books out there that use fantasy elements. One of my current favorites is Pemberley: Mr. Darcy’s Dragon.
What makes dragons work and zombies flop? Over time, I’ve realized that one of the things that determines whether or not a retelling works is whether or not it can adhere to the original story and yet still bring something to it that is fresh and different. Authors need to make sure that they don’t deviate too far from the tale’s events. Once you do that, your claim to be retelling the original falls apart, and in my opinion, that’s the fatal flaw in P&P&Z. I remember reading an article about the book when it first came out. In it, author Seth Grahame-Smith said that the idea behind the book came when he noticed how often characters in the original novel would be “off-stage” for long periods without a good explanation. (They were traveling by carriage over rough roads, which took time, but okay…) He started imagining explanations, and one of the things he dreamed up was that travel was often interrupted by zombies. And thus was born his book.
Now, I’m not saying that idea can’t work. I’m sure that it can. However, as far as I’m concerned, Grahame-Smith completely botched the execution. In the original, fancy dress balls were not interrupted for any reason, much less for zombie attacks, just to pick an example. In the end, the book was little more than large chunks of Austen’s original text lifted wholesale and interspersed with random zombie elements. It means that the book lacks coherence, and it also lacks the delicate touch that would be required to weave a zombie narrative into the existing plot.
A far better book is Pemberley, which I recently found after a recommendation in a Jane Austen Facebook group. Author Maria Grace takes pains to make sure that the original story is not changed, but she is also able to use dragons as motivation for many of the novel’s events. For example, the reason Darcy is with Bingley at Netherfield is because he’s using Bingley’s renting of a house in Hertfordshire as a cover to allow him to search for a stolen dragon’s egg. The parts of this new story that wouldn’t easily fit with the original, such as searching for that egg, take place at times when the characters in Austen’s story are “off-screen” (what Grahame-Smith was trying to do) and therefore don’t disrupt anything. The story progresses as expected, characters are in the places that they should be in, and the author is free to play in the spaces in between.
So, in conclusion, I don’t think that you can’t be wildly creative with a classic retelling, but you need to honor the original work instead of just using it for your own ends.
Michelle McNamara, late wife of actor Patton Oswalt, passed away from cancer before finishing this book, but her hard work has paid off. Today, more than forty years after the suspect began his spree of killing and raping, DNA has confirmed the identity of the man responsible and he is now in custody in Sacramento, CA. McNamara, along with others, pursued evidence that had baffled police and the FBI for decades, showcasing the power of determination. Did McNamara’s book make the difference and lead to the arrest? We may never know. But isn’t it a coincidence that the book came out February 27 and the killer is now in custody? I’d like to think that this book helped to give the victims and their families some peace.
Description of the book nicked from Goodreads.com.
“A masterful true crime account of the Golden State Killer—the elusive serial rapist turned murderer who terrorized California for over a decade—from Michelle McNamara, the gifted journalist who died tragically while investigating the case.
“You’ll be silent forever, and I’ll be gone in the dark.”
For more than ten years, a mysterious and violent predator committed fifty sexual assaults in Northern California before moving south, where he perpetrated ten sadistic murders. Then he disappeared, eluding capture by multiple police forces and some of the best detectives in the area.
Three decades later, Michelle McNamara, a true crime journalist who created the popular website TrueCrimeDiary.com, was determined to find the violent psychopath she called “the Golden State Killer.” Michelle pored over police reports, interviewed victims, and embedded herself in the online communities that were as obsessed with the case as she was.
At the time of the crimes, the Golden State Killer was between the ages of eighteen and thirty, Caucasian, and athletic—capable of vaulting tall fences. He always wore a mask. After choosing a victim—he favored suburban couples—he often entered their home when no one was there, studying family pictures, mastering the layout. He attacked while they slept, using a flashlight to awaken and blind them. Though they could not recognize him, his victims recalled his voice: a guttural whisper through clenched teeth, abrupt and threatening.
I’ll Be Gone in the Dark—the masterpiece McNamara was writing at the time of her sudden death—offers an atmospheric snapshot of a moment in American history and a chilling account of a criminal mastermind and the wreckage he left behind. It is also a portrait of a woman’s obsession and her unflagging pursuit of the truth. Framed by an introduction by Gillian Flynn and an afterword by her husband, Patton Oswalt, the book was completed by Michelle’s lead researcher and a close colleague. Utterly original and compelling, it is destined to become a true crime classic—and may at last unmask the Golden State Killer.”
Confession time: I am an unapologetic Austenite, and yet I can’t remember precisely when I first encountered this eminently readable author. I know that the first book of hers that I read was Pride and Prejudice, but for the life of me, I have no idea when that was. I think it may have been in junior college, but I’m really just guessing. Regardless, read her I did, and I fell in love with not only the story, but the characters and the setting and the writing and… well, you get the idea.
Given that my love of this novel is best described by a Kermitflail gif, it might be a little difficult to pin down all the cool things about the book that inspire my devotion. Not only that, but the novel has become pretty much inextricable from the movie/TV versions, so separating them is challenging. But, here we go.
This has become one of my “comfort books”—you know, the ones that you turn to when you’re stressed or upset, and when you read them they just make you feel good. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve read P&P, because I often jump in and out of it at random points. It’s a book that I keep on tap for when I’m having trouble sleeping—not because it’s boring, but because it’s so familiar that it’s soothing to my often overactive brain. Lizzy and Darcy, Jane and Bingley, and all the rest of the characters have turned into old friends over the course of many, many years.
Speaking of the characters, this book contains some of the best ones in literature. I’m mostly drawn to the witty ones, like Lizzy. I think most female Austenites want to be like Lizzy at one point or another. She’s energetic, quick to defend herself or her loved ones, intelligent, and self-assured. I also like that she gains a better degree of self-awareness over the course of the story, as she turns that intelligence to analyzing her own actions. Another one in the “witty” category is Mr. Bennet—I absolutely adore his wry humor, and Austen’s descriptions of him feed that profile (such as him being “fatigued with the raptures of his wife”).
In a slightly more complicated way, I love Mr. Collins. It’s not so much him that I love him as the fact that I love watching the other characters interact with him. Mr. Collins is smarmy in the highest degree, often to the point of being ridiculous, which gives Mr. Bennet ample fodder for poking at him during several scenes. His high self-opinion and lack of true social graces is a great foil for Lizzy, especially during the Netherfield ball.
Much of what attracts me to this book, and to Austen’s writing in general, is the writing style. She sets her scenes in such a way that Austenites would be willing to live in the Regency world despite the terrible lack of things like women’s rights and indoor plumbing. Austen’s books paint a softened picture of the Regency period, one that is romantic and genteel, and it’s hard not to feel an attraction to a portrayal of such a time. We imagine ourselves in lovely gowns, dancing in an elegant country dance (which I’ve done, and they’re great fun), and being introduced to polite gentlemen who bow and compliment us. I’m not one for dresses and fripperies, and even I sometimes wish for a world like this.
I guess what it boils down to is that, for me, this book has it all: romance, humor, drama, great characters, beautiful writing, and above all else, the familiarity of an old friend. It will always be one of my all-time favorite novels.
For the first time ever, I’m doing a book review as a feature, because I feel strongly that this book has issues that should be addressed. I got so angry after reading this that I decided to sleep on it and see how I felt in the morning. My anger has not abated. If you check out this title on Amazon or Goodreads, you’ll see a bunch of good reviews for it. You’ll also see some passionate one-star reviews, and they all focus on much the same thing: this novel uses sexual assault to promote character growth. In my opinion, this is a dangerous trope that needs to be dealt with. Worse, the author himself has no understanding of what he has done and actively refuses to consider that what he wrote was non-consensual. We’ll get to that later, but first, let’s start from the beginning. And, by necessity, this review contains major spoilers.
“Fifteen-year-old Jeff wakes up on New Year’s Day to find himself in the hospital—specifically, in the psychiatric ward. Despite the bandages on his wrists, he’s positive this is all some huge mistake. Jeff is perfectly fine, perfectly normal; not like the other kids in the hospital with him. But over the course of the next forty-five days, Jeff begins to understand why he ended up here—and realizes he has more in common with the other kids than he thought.”
Okay. I’m not sure where to begin with all the things that bothered me about this book, but I’ll try to do this in some kind of logical order. Let’s start with Jeff. If you’ve read past reviews of mine, you know that I’m not averse to unlikable main characters. You don’t always have to like the person you’re reading about, as long as their story is well told. In this case, I deeply disliked Jeff, and there really wasn’t anything in the story that–for lack of a better word–redeemed him in my eyes. He comes across as an unrepentant jerk for much of the book. He backs that off a little towards the end of the novel, but for me, it was too little, too late. There are scenes of him making fun of other teens in his ward, and although the author tries to counterbalance those with his kindness towards a young patient named Martha, it didn’t work very well. Basically, I didn’t believe Jeff’s change of heart, as he isn’t show experiencing any real growth–he just gets tired of fighting the people who want to help him and gives in. To me, there’s a big difference.
My next complaint concerns the depiction of the hospital. There are several things about it that are not true to real life. I have had occasion to visit someone in a psychiatric ward, and I can tell you for a fact that, in a facility with teen suicide risks, other patients would not be allowed to possess or use a razor unsupervised. The teens would not have had such lax supervision as to allow them to sneak into each others’ beds. And when you’re given medication, you have to swallow it in the presence of a nurse, so building up a stash of pills with which to commit suicide wouldn’t happen. If by some extreme event that did occur, the aforementioned supervision would have that patient down in the ER and their stomach pumped within a short period of time. Staff would not leave patient files in a patient’s room, nor would it be tolerated for security guards to gossip about patients with other patients.
In this story, Jeff forms a friendship with another patient named Sadie. He sneaks into her bed one night and they fool around, but he realizes that he’s not sexually attracted to her and leaves the room. Later, after some other events happen (which we’ll get into later), Jeff’s psychiatrist blurts out in the middle of a session that Sadie killed herself. The manner in which he broke the news was just… no. Doctor finds out that patient fooled around with another patient, and then feels that it’s imperative to immediately tell him that said other patient offed herself? What the hell?
And now we get to the big thing that made me scream “Oh hell no!” at this book, and the thing that forms the title of this post. A patient arrives named Rankin. One night, Jeff catches Rankin masturbating in the shower. (Showering without supervision? Nope.) Rankin notices Jeff watching and isn’t fazed. He sneaks into Jeff’s room, gets into bed with him, and start masturbating Jeff. Jeff says “Don’t,” but Rankin continues. They eventually pleasure each other, although Jeff is disgusted by the whole thing. The next time they meet in the bathroom, Rankin has obviously twigged into the fact that Jeff may be gay and disrobes in front of him and beckons Jeff into the shower with him. Jeff, rather confused by everything, goes. Rankin pushes Jeff to his knees and orders him to perform oral sex on him. He doesn’t ask Jeff what he wants, he just does it, and again he’s disgusted. And then, one night, Rankin sneaks into Jeff’s room, and Jeff wakes up with Rankin trying to penetrate him from behind, and when Jeff seems about to say something, Rankin covers Jeff’s mouth with his hand. Jeff is portrayed as struggling to get away when they are interrupted by the staff. Later, the encounter makes Jeff come to terms with the fact that he is gay.
Now, I can understand sexual confusion. I imagine many gay teens go through a period of confusion and possibly even disgust as they come to grips with their sexuality. But there are two major issues here: one, that last scene is definitely rape and is never characterized as such, nor does Jeff ever come to that realization; two, it is dangerous to portray a sexual assault as a way for a teen coming to grips with their sexuality to make that leap and admit who they are. This is a damaging trope that shows up in far too many books. An author that I read, Seanan McGuire, has received e-mails from fans asking when her female main character is going to be raped, because too much fiction portrays this act as crucial for someone to grow in strength and understanding. In this book, Rankin is transferred to a different facility, presumably with no warning that he’s a rapist. Jeff doesn’t deal with the trauma at all. It’s glossed over as just an unfortunate sexual encounter or something.
And somehow, this manages to get worse.
After reading this book–and wanting to throw it against the wall–I hopped onto Amazon to look at the reviews. I didn’t think I could be the only one to feel this way. Sure enough, there were other reviews pointing out what I’ve talked about above. One of those reviews was graced by comments from… the author himself! And may I just say, it would have been much better for him to do the traditional author trick of ignoring the comments. He accuses “I am going to go out on a limb here and guess that you haven’t actually read the novel and the so-called ‘rape scene’.” He continues, “It might interest you to know that the industry review journal including PUBLISHERS WEEKLY and BOOKLIST–both of which have a deep understanding of young adult literature and its readers–have given the novel rave reviews.” He doesn’t stop there, and goes on to address the scene in question: “[s]omething happens to Jeff that he wants to happen (in the sense that he longs to experience sex with another boy) but that he’s afraid of because it means accepting who he is. He can’t express what he wants. He’s not violated. He’s not raped.” As evidence to the contrary, I offer the following excerpt:
“I was sleeping, and then I felt something pressing against my back. Rankin had pulled my shorts down, and he was pushing himself against me. I was still only half awake, so I didn’t realize what he was doing at first. He put his arms around me and pulled me closer. I could hear him breathing in my ear.
Believe it or not, that’s not even the bad thing. If that was all, I could probably handle it. Probably. But that was just the beginning.
Like I said, Rankin was holding on to me and trying to… I don’t think I can even say it right now. But he was getting close. As soon as I realized what he was doing, I woke up fast. I even opened my mouth to tell him to stop.
And that’s when the screaming started.
At first I thought it was me screaming. Then I realized it was a girl’s voice. I don’t know what Rankin thought was going on, but he pulled me closer to him and put his hand on my mouth. Maybe he thought I was the one screaming too.”
That right there? That’s sexual assault. It doesn’t matter if Jeff is scared of admitting that he’s gay, it doesn’t matter if can’t accept that part of himself. The simple facts of this scene are as follows: Rankin initiated sex with Jeff while he was asleep, and therefore, unable to consent. When Jeff woke up, he didn’t want the encounter to be happening and he tried to say no, but he’s prevented from doing so by Rankin physically muffling him. None of those facts are overshadowed by what Jeff does or does not think about his sexuality. What matters is Rankin’s actions. What also matters, in this case, is the author’s attitude towards this scene. He implies that, because Jeff is curious about having sex with a boy, he must necessarily be ready for sex with any convenient boy, regardless of circumstance. No, he doesn’t say that, but that’s the implication of his statement that Jeff “wants to happen”. Also, implying that teenagers can’t “express what they want” strips them of a lot of agency. None of this is in the book itself, of course, but it does provide some backdrop to how the author was thinking about this situation while writing it. And I firmly believe that thoughts like that will inform an author’s writing. Mr. Ford is conveying a skewed and dangerous view of consent.
Then, to make matters worse, it’s that encounter that appears to be the catalyst for Jeff accepting that he’s attracted to men and beginning to accept himself. Jeff even states that he realizes that he wants to have sex with men, just not with Rankin. That scene I quoted is not just a case of deciding that you aren’t attracted to a particular person. That scene is assault. Jeff never realizes that and never deals with it. His psychiatrist is never shown giving Jeff any assurance that he believes Jeff when he says that he didn’t invite what happened to him. Nor does the doctor do anything to help Jeff deal with the event. It just… gets glossed over in Jeff’s acceptance of his sexuality. I’m sorry, but that’s just not something that teens need to be integrating into their worldview.
I freely admit that after reading this novel, I was angry. After reading the author’s views on what he wrote, I was incandescently angry and disgusted. I laid in bed for two hours fuming over the whole thing and woke up not much cooled down. Mr. Ford, if you ever read this, I sincerely hope that you have educated yourself on rape, sexual assault, and consent and can better convey any such scenes you may write in future books. I don’t fault you for defending your work, but please, please, listen to people who come away with different views of what you think you wrote. You can learn something.
This book was borrowed from the Yolo County Public Library, Davis branch.
(Description nicked from Goodreads.com.)
Today I’m pleased to be hosting a blog tour stop for Julie Czerneda’s newest novel, To Guard Against the Dark! We’ve got an excerpt to share, and two different giveaways. Keep reading for more details!
“The final book in the hard science fiction Reunification trilogy, the thrilling conclusion to the award-winning Clan Chronicles.
Jason Morgan is a troubling mystery to friends and enemies alike: once a starship captain and trader, then Joined to the most powerful member of the Clan, Sira di Sarc, following her and her kind out of known space.
Only to return, alone and silent.
But he’s returned to a Trade Pact under siege and desperate. The Assemblers continue to be a threat. Other species have sensed opportunity and threaten what stability remains, including those who dwell in the M’hir. What Morgan knows could save them all, or doom them.
For not all of the Clan followed Sira. And peace isn’t what they seek.”
Book info –
TO GUARD AGAINST THE DARK by Julie E. Czerneda
DAW Hardcover Original
On sale October 10th, 2017
For twenty years, Canadian author/ former biologist Julie E. Czerneda has shared her curiosity about living things through her science fiction, published by DAW Books, NY. Julie’s also written fantasy, the first installments of her Night’s Edge series (DAW) A Turn of Light and A Play of Shadow, winning consecutive Aurora Awards (Canada’s Hugo) for Best English Novel. Julie’s edited/co-edited sixteen anthologies of SF/F, two Aurora winners, the latest being SFWA’s 2017 Nebula Award Showcase. Next out will be an anthology of original stories set in her Clan Chronicles series: Tales from Plexis, out in 2018. Her new SF novel, finale to that series, To Guard Against the Dark, lands in stores October 2017. When not jumping between wonderful blogs, Julie’s at work on something very special: her highly anticipated new Esen novel, Search Image (Fall 2018). Visit www.czerneda.com for more.
About the Series:
The Clan Chronicles is set in a far future where a mutual Trade Pact encourages peaceful commerce among a multitude of alien and Human worlds. The alien Clan, humanoid in appearance, have been living in secrecy and wealth on Human worlds, relying on their innate ability to move through the M’hir and bypass normal space. The Clan bred to increase that power, only to learn its terrible price: females who can’t help but kill prospective mates. Sira di Sarc is the first female of her kind facing that reality. With the help of a Human starship captain, Jason Morgan, himself a talented telepath, Sira must find a morally acceptable solution before it’s too late. But with the Clan exposed, her time is running out. The Stratification trilogy follows Sira’s ancestor, Aryl Sarc, and shows how their power first came to be as well as how the Clan came to live in the Trade Pact. The Trade Pact trilogy is the story of Sira and Morgan, and the trouble facing the Clan. Reunification concludes the series, answering these question at last. Who are the Clan?
And what will be the fate of all?
#againstthedark Giveaway Details
Enter your comment below to be entered to win the latest book in hardcover, To Guard Against the Dark, plus a mass market of The Gulf of Time and Stars. (US and Canada unless otherwise stated) Last day to enter is next Friday, October 13.
To enter the tour-wide giveaway of the entire nine-book series, click here: https://sweeps.penguinrandomhouse.com/enter/clan-chronicles-series-giveaway
Fingers interlaced, her hair stroking his cheek, they’d walked the nights of ninety-nine worlds. Floated in space to watch planets spin. Lain naked on mossy ground, lost in one another, under so many stars—
Those had been real. These couldn’t be. The ceiling lay beneath a covering of formed concrete, plas, and a significant amount of natural stone, a roof he’d built to keep out more than the night sky. Could be a dune curling overtop as well, it being sandstorm season.
Yet, still, stars twinkled overhead, wheeling in formation as if he watched them through time.
A dream. That was it. He shut his eyes, fingers straying to the cool metal band around his wrist. Touch seemed odd, for a dream.
He opened his eyes. Looked up. Surely only in a dream could a segment of that starry scape flex . . .
Bend . . .
Lean down, closer and closer, those stars about to crush him—
For the— “No more!” he shouted, furious. “Get out of here!”
A heavy arm—something arm-ish— lopped across his chest and slid away. Jason Morgan squirmed in the opposite direction. “On! On full!”
The portlights obeyed, blazing into every corner of the room.
He was alone.
“I heard you the first time.” Huido Maarmatoo’kk emphasized the “first.” “A Rugheran was on your ceiling. The starry kind, like the ones you saw on Cersi, not the dark greasy kind here. Your shout woke me from a most pleasant dream, you know.” A sigh like rain on plas.
His hands wanted to tremble. Morgan wrapped them around his warm cup, guiding it to his lips with care. The kitchen felt strange. Too bright. He hadn’t, he thought abruptly, sat at this table for— e hadn’t, since, that was it. Hadn’t left his quarters.
Hadn’t bothered to move, in case it hurt. Fine plan, that was. All of him hurt.
Most of him stank.
Not that it mattered.
“Yesterday, you saw a Rugheran in the accommodation. You shouted then, too. And threw a jar of something at it, making a mess, at which point it disappeared. Can’t say I blame it.”
Morgan glowered through the steam at his companion. Gleaming black eyeballs, each on their stalk, lined the opening between the gently pulsing disks that served as a head. Unblinking eyeballs. He should know better by now than try to stare down a Carasian. “It’s not my imagination. They travel through—” the M’hir, he almost said, and flinched. “They don’t use doors. You know that. They’re here and they’re real.”
Unlike what else he saw when alone: the curve of a smile, the luxurious flood of red-gold hair, somber gray eyes flashing with sudden heat—
Always, always, no matter how he tried to stop there, stay, the ending followed. The furious boil of waves on an unreal beach—
Her fingers, letting go—
That hollow, inside, where she’d been.
He’d curl into a ball and shiver until he fell asleep or passed out, always cold. So very cold—
A soft chink as clawtips met under his nose. Morgan refocused. “What?” He tried not to snap, wearily grateful Huido bore with his tempers and accepted his silence. He wasn’t ready to talk.
They hadn’t spoken in what might be days, come to think of it.
Something was different. He blinked. His friend’s massive carapace was peppered with gleaming metal fragments, between the usual hooks for weaponry, the fragments from a groundcar that had exploded too close. Huido’d removed the largest to keep as souvenirs—but that wasn’t it.
The black shell was a maze of fresh scrapes and gouges, some deep. “What happened to—” Morgan’s voice broke. Gods. “What did I do?” a whisper.
“You weren’t yourself,” Huido informed him. The big alien eased back, wiggling the glistening pink stub of what had been his largest claw. “Nor am I. After molt, I will be magnificent once again! We need more beer.” In a confiding tone, “Beer speeds things up.”
He’d hit bottom, that’s when they’d last spoken. When he’d— Morgan’s face went stark with grief. “I cursed you. Ordered you to leave.”
“Bah. Why would I listen? Your grist wasn’t right.” The intact claw, capable of severing his torso in half, tugged gently at his hair. “Better. Still stinks.”
“I attacked you.” Morgan remembered it all now, too well. He’d been wild, raving. Huido had squeezed himself into the door opening to seal him in his quarters. Morgan had struck out with whatever was in the room—until he’d collapsed, sobbing, at Huido’s feet.
Eyestalks bent to survey the marks. “You tried,” the Carasian corrected smugly, then chuckled. “I’m glad you didn’t hurt yourself.”
Morgan reached up. After a second, the centermost cluster of eyes parted, and deadly needlelike jaws protruded, tips closing on his hand with tender precision. “Huido—”
The jaws retracted and Morgan found himself reflected in a dozen shiny black eyes. “The past.” The lower claw snapped. “The present! Why are the Rugherans here?”
The Human dropped his gaze, staring into the sombay. “They’re looking for—” His sigh rippled the liquid. “For her.”
“To the Eleventh Sandy Armpit of Urga Large with them!” Huido roared, shaking dishware and hurting Morgan’s head. “Tell them I said so!” After a short pause, he went on in his normal voice. “You can talk to them, can’t you?”
“I don’t want to.” It sounded sullen even to him, but Morgan couldn’t help that, any more than he couldn’t help but hear the Rugherans: their matrix-like speech, emotion blended with single words or the simplest of phrases, flooded his mind despite his tightest shields. Cruel, to come to him here—
—where he came for peace.
It hadn’t always been so. The first time Morgan set foot on Ettler’s Planet, he’d been dumped there. His own fault, having yet to gain the most rudimentary knowledge of what offended non-humans. The Trants could have removed his limbs for suggesting—well, being dumped had been the best option, suffice it to say, and one reason he’d gone on to learn everything he could about the manners of others.
That sorry day, he’d prided himself on a close escape. Instead, he’d been left in the worst place for a telepath, even one of his latent ability, for this world’s Human population contained more than its share of the minimally Talented: those whose thoughts leaked constantly, without self-awareness or restraint. Morgan’s natural shields protected his mind from others.
He didn’t know how to keep their minds out of his.
Half-maddened by the bedlam, somehow Morgan had taken an aircar and flown out into the desert, unable to stop until he reached quiet.
There—here—he’d stayed to recover. Only Huido had been welcome, the painful maelstrom of Carasian thought patterns at a level easy to avoid.
Later, healed, and having traded with Omacrons, non-human telepaths, for their mind-shielding technique, Morgan was able to protect himself. In space, in the Fox, he hadn’t needed shields at all.
With Sira, he’d wanted none. Her thoughts had been his—her mindvoice the last he’d heard. The last he ever wanted to hear. He’d never open his mind to another’s again.
Till the Rugherans, who had no right—
The Human set down his cup. It tipped, spilling dark liquid. Unfair. Huido kept the kitchen spotless. “I’ll get that.” He rose and was forced to grip the table to steady himself. It took longer than he remembered, walking to the counter, and he had to concentrate: pick up the wipe, return, clean the mess.
Eyestalks twisted, following his slow progress. “You need a molt, too.”
“Wish I could.” Something about molting— “Order as much beer as you want.”
A chuckle. “Fear not, my brother, I’ve taken care of it—and a case of Brillian brandy, for variety.” A less happy, “If not the storms.” The Carasian loathed sand, claiming grains worked into the seams of his shell. He cheered. “While we wait, I could take care of your unwanted visitors.” With a disturbingly coy tilt of his carapace, Huido indicated the weapons, most illegal even here in the Fringe, housed on the pot rack.
Morgan shook his head. “Let them poke around till they’re satisfied.” No need to point out the unlikelihood of any weapon affecting beings of the M’hir.
As for the Rugherans’ reaction . . . should more than a jar be tossed at them?
He’d prefer not to—
The kitchen tilted. The Human lurched into his chair, sending the rest of his sombay, and cup, to the floor. He cursed under his breath. A newly hatched Skenkran was stronger. “What’s wrong with me?” under his breath.
Shiny black eyes converged on him, then aimed idly—and simultaneously—anywhere else: the weapon-containing pot rack, the ceiling, the floor, the walls.
Done it to himself, that meant.
Morgan let out a slow breath, tasting the stink on it, the truth.
He’d ignored his body’s needs. Refused food. Drank himself to sleep. Refused to move. He’d a vague memory of feeling the pinch of shots. Stims, likely.
For how long?
Judging by the tremor in his hands, it could have been weeks.
Neglect? Cowardice. He winced. Hadn’t he told Sira: Let go and live?
Hadn’t she asked the same promise of him?
Shouldn’t have taught her to be a trader, he told himself, meaning not a word.
Morgan summoned his remaining strength and stood. “Tomorrow,” he announced.
One eyestalk swiveled back to him.
“Tonight, then.” Three more joined the first. Doubt, that was. “Some supper—just not—make anything,” he capitulated. “I’ll eat it.” No guarantees it would stay down.
The full force of the Carasian’s gaze returned. “At the table?”
“Don’t rush me.” The Human pretended to squint at the lights. “Too bright. And the Rugheran ruined my sleep.”
But his lips cracked, stretched by the ghost of a smile. The first—since.
There are few authors whose books I feel comfortable reading–or recommending–sight unseen. Seanan McGuire is one of those authors. Way back in 2009, I picked up a book by an author I wasn’t familiar with and immediately fell in love with the story. October “Toby” Daye was a strong character that I enjoyed reading about, and the book being set in San Francisco made it even more appealing–you don’t often see books set in Northern California! Ten books later (going on eleven), I’m still following Toby and her adventures through the Bay Area and into realms beyond human knowledge. Today, in my very first blog tour, I’m pleased to offer you an excerpt of the newest in the series: The Brightest Fell. Read on for a description of the book and a sneak peek at the first chapter!
Through the generosity of Penguin Random House, I am also able to offer a copy of Rosemary and Rue, the first book in the series, to one lucky person–just comment on this post, and the Random Number Generator will pick a winner! You have until Friday, September 1 at 5pm PDT to enter.
THE BRIGHTEST FELL
October Daye #11
IBSN: 9780756413316 | DAW Hardcover| $26.00
Contains an original bonus novella, Of Things Unknown!
Things are slow, and October “Toby” Daye couldn’t be happier about that. The elf-shot cure has been approved, Arden Windermere is settling into her position as Queen in the Mists, and Toby doesn’t have anything demanding her attention except for wedding planning and spending time with her family.
Maybe she should have realized that it was too good to last.
When Toby’s mother, Amandine, appears on her doorstep with a demand for help, refusing her seems like the right thing to do…until Amandine starts taking hostages, and everything changes. Now Toby doesn’t have a choice about whether or not she does as her mother asks. Not with Jazz and Tybalt’s lives hanging in the balance. But who could possibly help her find a pureblood she’s never met, one who’s been missing for over a hundred years?
Enter Simon Torquill, elf-shot enemy turned awakened, uneasy ally. Together, the two of them must try to solve one of the greatest mysteries in the Mists: what happened to Amandine’s oldest daughter, August, who disappeared in 1906.
This is one missing person case Toby can’t afford to get wrong.
Seanan McGuire lives and works in Washington State, where she shares her somewhat idiosyncratic home with her collection of books, creepy dolls, and enormous blue cats. When not writing–which is fairly rare–she enjoys travel, and can regularly be found any place where there are cornfields, haunted houses, or frogs. A Campbell, Hugo, and Nebula Award-winning author, Seanan’s first book (Rosemary and Rue, the beginning of the October Daye series) was released in 2009, with more than twenty books across various series following since. Seanan doesn’t sleep much.
You can visit her at www.seananmcguire.com.
October 9th, 2013
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell .—William Shakespeare, Macbeth.
THE FETCH IS ONE of the most feared and least understood figures in Faerie. Their appearance heralds the approach of inescapable death: once the Fetch shows up, there’s nothing that can be done. The mechanism that summons them has never been found, and they’ve always been rare, with only five conclusively identified in the last century. They appear for the supposedly significant—kings and queens, heroes and villains—and they wear the faces of the people they have come to escort into whatever awaits the fae beyond the borders of death. They are temporary, transitory, and terrifying.
My Fetch, who voluntarily goes by “May Daye,” because nothing says “I am a serious and terrible death omen” like having a pun for a name, showed up more than three years ago. She was supposed to foretell my impending doom. Instead, all she managed to foretell was me getting a new roommate. Life can be funny that way.
At the moment, doom might have been a nice change. May was standing on the stage of The Mint, San Francisco’s finest karaoke bar, enthusiastically bellowing her way through an off- key rendition of Melissa Etheridge’s “Come to My Window.” Her live-in girlfriend, Jazz, was sitting at one of the tables closest to the stage, chin propped in her hands, gazing at May with love and adoration all out of proportion to the quality of my Fetch’s singing.
May has the face I wore when she appeared. We don’t look much alike anymore, but when she first showed up at my apartment door to tell me I was going to die, we were identical. She has my memories up to the point of her creation: years upon years of parental issues, crushing insecurity, abandonment, and criminal activities. And right now, none of that mattered half as much as the fact that she also had my absolute inability to carry a tune.
“Why are we having my bachelorette party at a karaoke bar again?” I asked, speaking around the mouth of the beer bottle I was trying to keep constantly against my lips. If I was drinking, I wasn’t singing. If I wasn’t singing, all these people might still be my friends in the morning.
Of course, with as much as most of them had already had to drink, they probably wouldn’t notice if I did sing. Or if I decided to sneak out of the bar, go home, change into my sweatpants, and watch old movies on the couch until I passed out. Which would have been my preference for how my bachelorette party was going to go, if I absolutely had to have one. I didn’t think they were required. May had disagreed with me. Vehemently. And okay, that had sort of been expected.
What I hadn’t expected was for most of my traitorous, backstabbing friends to take her side. Stacy—one of my closest friends since childhood—had actually laughed in my face when I demanded to know why she was doing this to me.
“Being your friend is like trying to get up close and personal with a natural disaster,” she’d said. “Sure, we have some good times, but we spend half of them covered in blood. We just want to spend an evening making you as uncomfortable as you keep making the rest of us.”
Not to be outdone, her eldest daughter, Cassandra, had blithely added, “Besides, we don’t think even you can turn a karaoke party into a bloodbath.”
All of my friends are evil.
As my Fetch and hence the closest thing I had to a sister, May had declared herself to be in charge of the whole affair. That was how we’d wound up reserving most of the tables at The Mint for an all-night celebration of the fact that I was getting married. Even though we didn’t have a date, a plan, or a seating chart, we were having a bachelorette party. Lucky, lucky me.
My name is October Daye. I am a changeling; I am a knight; I am a hero of the realm; and if I never have to hear Stacy sing Journey songs again, it will be too soon.