hc.newton

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Walker thought, police work for Sharpe was an intellectual pursuit, a mind game, analyzing the clues to get to the bad guy. It wasn’t about the chase. It was about being smarter than his quarry and everybody else.

For Walker, police work was all about the hunt, and the risk that came with it. As long as he was wearing a badge and carrying a gun, there was no way to truly mitigate the risk that came with a job in law enforcement, which was something Carly either didn’t understand or didn’t want to.

What’s Malibu Burning About?

There are essentially two stories in this novel charging full-steam ahead until they inevitably collide. The first is a heist story—with a good revenge motivation in addition to the “let’s steal gobs and gobs of money” angle. The second is about an unlikely partnership between an experienced arson investigator and a rookie investigator (but former US Marshal, so he’s not that green and has habits to unlearn). It’s not a spoiler for me to say that these stories will converge—for one, what’s the point of them not? Secondly, that’s not the way Goldberg works—there’s no way his robbers aren’t going to be chased by some cops.

The Robbers

Let’s start off, like the novel does, with Danny Cole. If you’re familiar with Goldberg’s oeuvre, think of Nick Fox—only not as outlandish, and you’re pretty much there. If you’re not that familiar, Cole is a con man/thief—he has a few specialists (hackers, hitters, etc.) that he works with to pull off his heists and con jobs.

In the beginning of the book, we see him alllllmost get away with something—and if he hadn’t been forced into a good deed,* he just might have. Instead, he’s arrested, tried, and convicted. He gets his lawyer to push for him to serve his time in one of the convict firefighters’ programs. He spends years fighting fires for the State, forming bonds with others on the front lines, and starting to begrudge the state for how they treat those convicts. Also, he gets to case a few luxury homes while serving his time.

* How much was Cole trying to do a good deed and how much was him trying to avoid being charged with a more serious crime is up for debate—and Cole’s lawyer is ready for that debate.

One of his teammates dies because of State policies and one of those luxury homeowners throwing his money and power around. When his sentence is complete, Cole sets out to get revenge on the convict firefighter system, and that homeowner—all the while enriching himself. I mean, the money’s right there, he might as well. To do so, he and his team have to pull off one of the most audacious—and destructive—heists imaginable. The fact that his plan is actually feasible frightens me more than any horror or serial killer novel ever has.

The Cops

“You’ve shot seventeen men.”

“Is that a lot?”

“I’ve never shot anybody in over twenty years in the department.”

That was hard for Walker to believe. “Not even a little?”

“Is it possible to shoot someone only a little?”

“I’m working on it,” Walker said.

Let’s turn our attention to the good guys now.

Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Detective Walter Sharpe is a detective in his fifties—he’s got plenty of experience and is good at his job. He’s not so great with people—particularly those he works with. He’s rarely satisfied with the easy answer, and will find reasons to think arson when no one else does (he’s also good at finding “accident” when the easy explanation points to arson). It’s not (just) that he’s a contrarian, he just cares more about evidence and understanding fire than anything else. This also applies to firefighters.

“Aren’t firefighters the experts on fire?”

“They are the experts on water.”

Pesky firefighters with all that water, washing away evidence. What are their priorities? Saving lives and buildings? In the end, Sharpe says:

Firefighters are the best friends an arsonist can have.

Against his will, Sharpe has been assigned a new partner. One with zero experience in investigating arson—he’s going to have to build him from the ground up. Former US Marshal Andrew Walker’s wife is pregnant and she’s put her foot down—his job is too dangerous, he needs to decide—her or the job. So instead of chasing down criminals (like Danny Cole), he’s now on the safer end of law enforcement—coming along after the crime is committed.

If you ever wondered what TV’s Raylan Givens would be if he prioritized Winona and Willa over Boyd Crowder, you’d get something a lot like Walker. Incidentally, Carly Walker is an entertaining character, and while I doubt the series will ever focus on her too much, I look forward to spending more time with her. The scenes between the couple feature an interaction that we don’t see a lot in Goldberg.

Anyway, Walker has a lot to learn about arson investigation, and Sharpe is just the right guy to teach him. They get along well enough, but both can see that their styles and personalities don’t necessarily mesh. The above glimpse of their first conversation illustrates some of that. But the higher-ups have spoken, so they work a couple of open and shut investigations together. Then they look around the starting point of a couple of wildfires in the area so Sharpe can show his trainee what to look for and what a natural/accidental fire looks like.

But between Walker asking beginning-investigator questions and some of Sharpe’s observations…these wildfires start to look planned. But why would someone put so many lives and so much property at stake?

So, what did I think about Malibu Burning?

Sharpe took out his phone. “Ill start with the front seat and the body, you shoot everything else. With your camera, not your gun.”

“That’s obvious.”

“Maybe to most people,” Sharpe said. “I’m not convinced it’s true for you.”

Oh, I just had so much fun with this. I realize it’s not that shocking for me to say about a Lee Goldberg book—but when he writes things like this, how am I supposed to react differently?

Danny Cole is such a great character—I don’t know if I could take a frequent diet of him and his antics, but a prequel or two to this with him? Shut up and take my money. Between the (arguable) good deeds he performs and the targets of his cons, it’s hard to see him as a real villain—yes, he seems to commit more felonies by breakfast than most people do all day, but in a Robin Hood sort of way.

Then again…when you think of what he does in this book, and the collateral damage he (seemingly) unthinkingly inflicts, it’s hard to maintain any kind of sympathy.

His targets are harder to work up any kind of sympathy or empathy for. Some are criminals, some are just…rich, entitled slimeballs. It is so satisfying to see bad things happen to them. Another target is the convict firefighting system—assuming Goldberg matched the realities of the system to what it promises the participants (and there’s no reason to think he doesn’t come close), something there needs to be addressed.

But the real star of the show is the partnership between Sharpe and Walker—they’re interesting enough characters on their own, sure—but watching them start to figure out how to work together is the best part of the book. I hope Goldberg doesn’t rush (I don’t think he will, because he’s a better writer than that, but I just want to say it)

Also, arson investigation is one of those things that long-running series dip into from time to time, but I don’t remember seeing a series try to tackle that regularly. I felt like I learned so much just from watching Sharpe work a scene and explain things to Walker. It was like watching Gideon Oliver explain something to John Lau or whatever local law enforcement officer he was dazzling. I’ll read that kind of thing any time.

So, great characters—on both sides of the law—an atypical angle for a procedural, interesting ethical questions, a mismatched partnership that will provide dividends both comedically and narratively for a good while to come, and Goldberg’s knack for making almost anything entertaining? What’s not to like about Malibu Burning? Go get it now, so you can say you got in on the ground floor.

The next book in this series is going to be a cross-over with Eve Ronin, apparently. It’s bound to happen—they all work for the same Sheriff’s Department, after all—might as well get to it early. It’s going to be great—if only to see Sharpe and Duncan together, that dynamic is going to be fun to see.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Nasty, Brutish, and Short About?

The official description is:

Some of the best philosophers in the world gather in surprising places—preschools and playgrounds. They debate questions about metaphysics and morality, even though they’ve never heard the words and perhaps can’t even tie their shoes. They’re kids. And as Scott Hershovitz shows in this delightful debut, they’re astoundingly good philosophers.

Hershovitz has two young sons, Rex and Hank. From the time they could talk, he noticed that they raised philosophical questions and were determined to answer them. They re-created ancient arguments. And they advanced entirely new ones. That’s not unusual, Hershovitz says. Every kid is a philosopher.

Following an agenda set by Rex and Hank, Hershovitz takes us on a fun romp through classic and contemporary philosophy, powered by questions like, Does Hank have the right to drink soda? When is it okay to swear? and, Does the number six exist? Hershovitz and his boys take on more weighty issues too. They explore punishment, authority, sex, gender, race, the nature of truth and knowledge, and the existence of God. Along the way, they get help from professional philosophers, famous and obscure. And they show that all of us have a lot to learn from listening to kids—and thinking with them.

Hershovitz calls on us to support kids in their philosophical adventures. But more than that, he challenges us to join them so that we can become better, more discerning thinkers and recapture some of the wonder kids have at the world.

The book is broken down into three sections: “Making Sense of Morality” (covering ideas like Rights, Revenge, Punishment, Authority, and Language); “Making Sense of Ourselves” (surely non-controversial chapters covering “Sex, Gender, and Sports”; and “Race and Responsibility”); and “Making Sense of the World” (Knowledge, Truth, Mind, Infinity, and God—the easy bits of philosophy). While discussing these, Hershovitz will describe the idea(s) he’s focusing on—or the aspects of them, to be more specific; he’ll then illustrate them with questions from or discussions with his sons; give us a brief history of philosophy on the topic; and then his personal take on them. Usually with more input from his sons along the way.

How was the Narration?

Hershovitz was fantastic. If he gets tired of the whole professor/philosopher gig, he could have a new career in audiobook narration. I can only imagine that his classes are great to sit through.

He delivered the material that in the wrong hands could’ve come across as super-dry, or really jokey and kept it engaging, entertaining, and informative—with a little bit of the persuasiveness needed to keep someone listening to a book about philosophy.

I was quite impressed.

So, what did I think about Nasty, Brutish, and Short?

Oh, I have some serious issues with some of the philosophy here. The chapter on “God” (to the surprise of few who read this blog regularly) really bothered me—but it did underline the importance of Special Revelation to go with General Revelation.

The Conclusion, “How to Raise a Philosopher,” was fantastic. Truly some of the best parenting advice I’ve heard/read in ages (and I don’t even need that any more and I still found myself taking notes). For raising more than just philosophers.

Sure, I disagreed with some of his conclusions—but I loved hearing the way Hershovitz thought through the ideas he was proposing and/or discussing, the way he dealt with his kids and their questions, I appreciated the way he explained concepts both basic and complex in a way that non-philosophers could understand, and he managed to be entertaining all along. Some of his witticisms did cause me to react audibly. There’s a good deal of so-called common sense mixed in with the profound as well—always nice to see for a layman like myself.

This book is a strange alchemy of parenting advice (even if largely given by example rather than by precept), Philosophy 101, and humor. It works so well that it’s hard to explain. I can only hope there’s a sequel or three as Hank and Rex age.

All in all, I heartily recommend this for parents, people who want to get a start in philosophy but aren’t sure where (and don’t want to admit that to anyone), and others. The print version might be nice for easy reference, but the audiobook format is a real winner.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Tainted Cup About?

This is a Mystery/Detective novel set in a Fantasy world. But to say that almost diminishes it. This is a Fantasy world you’re not used to seeing—well, I’m not anyway, you might be better read in the genre than I am. At the core of the mystery story are tropes, characters, motives, and twists that anyone familiar with that genre will recognize and resonate with. Combining the two genres here only serves to make them better.

The instigating event is the murder of a significant, but not hugely important, military figure on an estate of one of the most powerful and rich families in the Empire. That’s enough to get the official investigator, Ana Dolabra, and her assistant, Dinios Kol, involved. When you add in the cause of death—a clutch of trees erupted from the Commander’s chest—well, that’s definitely going to get some official notice. And quickly put you in a Fantasy world. Feel free to read that cause of death a couple of times, it’s still not going to make sense.

There’s just so much to talk about with The Tainted Cup—I’m going to talk about some of the best parts of this book as you would an Oreo cookie. The Mystery part is the creamy center (at least a Double Stuff in this case), and then the crispy cookie halves of the World Building/Setting and the Science of this World.

The Mystery

I already wrote a section below that quibbles with the official description, and I feel bad about doing that twice (am I risking future NetGalley approvals by this?), but I have to. It starts off by saying, “A Holmes and Watson–style detective duo.” You can maybe stretch things and call Ana Dolabra a Holmes-type character. Maybe. But outside of being the first-person narrator, there is nothing Dr. Watson-esque about Dinios Kol. I do not know if Bennett is a Rex Stout/Nero Wolfe reader. I suspect he is, though, because Dolabra and Kol are firmly in the Nero Wolfe/Archie Goodwin mold. (there are other versions of this duo, Pentecost and Parker and Jake and the Fatman spring to mind, but there are others).

I mention this because I think the duo of Wolfe and Archie is one of the greatest achievements in Detective Fiction, and will joyously talk at length about them at length at any opportunity. Bennett using these types at the center of this book almost automatically guaranteed that I’m going to enjoy it. Particularly if he does it successfully. And, boy howdy, does he.

Ana Dolabra is a brilliant and eccentric figure. Our Nero Wolfe. She can be pressed into politeness with enough reason, but on the whole, she’s blunt, crass, and solely focused on things that interest her. For a variety of reasons, Ana rarely leaves her quarters, instead, she has clues, interviewees, and suspects brought to her (and frequently, those she reports to, too). More than once she brings suspects and interview subjects together to question and/or to reveal a solution, putting on a show for others.

She has a new assistant, Dinios Kol, to serve as her eyes and ears in the outside world—and to bring back those bits of the world she needs to do her work. Thanks to a special augmentation, he has a perfect and permanent memory and will remember entire conversations and things he sees perfectly, with the ability to describe them to the detail Ana needs. He looks at crime scenes, records, bodies, etc. for her, conducts initial interviews with witnesses and experts, and so on. He also seems to do his best to keep her interactions with others at socially-appropriate levels (although this is a challenge). If this isn’t Archie Goodwin to a T.

They’ve been working together for a while now—mostly on fraud cases. This is their first murder case—and they wrap it up quickly and efficiently. Except, Ana is pretty sure that this murder will be linked to others—something more than murder is afoot here, she’s certain. And she’s right. (I assume this is almost always the case—Dinios certainly does)

Soon, she and her assistant are assigned to help in the investigation in a nearby city where several others have been killed in the same way. Dinios is partnered up with an experienced Assistant Investigator, Capt. Tazi Miljin, who does some on-the-job training and mentoring while working the case.

Soon, they determine that this isn’t just a murder case—nor is it several connected murder cases, there is something much bigger going on. Something that puts an entire city—possibly the entire Empire—at risk.

The World

I don’t know that I want to get too in-depth here, because the discovery of it all* is part of the magic of this book.

* And by “all,” I mean all that Bennett is going to share with us in this book—there’s much more to learn in books to come.

We find ourselves in a minor city in an Empire at the beginning of the novel before we move to a larger city, a major center of military importance. We don’t know a lot about this Empire—it’s centuries old, there are civic religions/cults but we see very few true adherents, and many people are cynical about the government. But it doesn’t matter—they need the Empire to keep them alive. So they push on.

The military isn’t focused on other nations/city-states/bands of roving mercenaries or outside human threats (although they do take the time to focus on bands of deserters). Instead, they’re focused on the seas. Each year, during the rainy season, monstrously large sea creatures they dub Leviathans (both think and don’t think about other Leviathans you’ve come across—other than large, water-bound, and scary) attempt to come ashore and snack on humans, cattle, whatever.

Places like Talagray, where we spend most of the novel, exist to maintain the wall between sea and land—leviathan and Empire—it’s a massive wall (massive in a way I cannot get across to you) with the occasional weapons mounted to attack the leviathan. I saw Talagray as sort of Jackson’s vision of Minas Tirith, but flattened to one elevation. I’m not sure if that’s what Bennet was going for, but that’s what my mind saw. Maybe a little muddier.

While the local canton is concerned with the murders, naturally, their primary concern during this season is the maintenance of the wall. Some of these murders have threatened the integrity of the wall in important ways, threatening all of Talagray. As important as solving the murder is—stopping further murders and therefore preventing further damage to the wall is far more important. Also…they probably have something special in store for anyone who’d risk the wall in any way.

The Science

I’m disagreeing a bit here with the official description—so take my observation with a grain of salt (but I stand by it). There’s no magic in this Fantasy novel—which, sure, happens sometimes. But it’s still strange and notable.

What this novel does have is “sufficiently advanced technology [which] is indistinguishable from magic.” It’s not often that I get to apply Clarke’s Third Law this way, but it works. This is a very technological society, but nothing we’d recognize, really. There are no circuits anywhere, no electricity…horses and carts are the primary means of transportation for those who are going too far or need to go too quickly to walk. But they practice all sorts of engineering feats, genetic manipulation, medical marvels, and so on.

The source of their raw materials? The Leviathans that threaten them all. When these Leviathans die/are killed, the Empire’s scientists harvest blood, tissue, and bone for all sorts of things to accomplish the above. Leviathan bone is difficult to shape, but it results in tools and swords that are beyond the strength and endurance of metal. Tissues can be manipulated and applied to humans to extend their abilities (augmenting strength, enabling them to have memories that are like eidetic memory to the nth power, control of their pheromones to alter the behavior of those around them, and so on).

Especially when it comes to the abilities that some of these people have, or the freakish contamination that the murderer is using, in a Fantasy book featuring people on horseback using swords, this looks like magic. But it ain’t. It’s just a kind of science that’s sufficiently advanced that 21st-century Western Readers can’t distinguish. And I love that. Bennett does such a convincing and thorough job of describing this (without getting mired in the details) that it just comes alive and you believe it all—and want to learn more about it.

So, what did I think about The Tainted Cup?

My reflex reaction ought to be, I want more of the detective-y stuff. How could I not? That’s my default genre, Ana is a fantastic character, Dinios at work is so much fun, and the pair of them being new incarnations of Wolfe and Archie. But when you add in the world-building, the intrigue and politics, and all the cool science-y bits? I wouldn’t have it any other way. You need all of it to make something this good. And it really does—each section above would probably earn 4 stars or so from me. But when you put them together, the accumulated score has to be at least 5.

Also, all the other stuff in the book distracts from a couple of the problems with the mystery story. These aren’t significant problems by any means, but at one point Ana reveals that Person X is Person Y, and her assistants are shocked and amazed. I assumed everyone realized that as soon as Person Y was introduced and described. For it to take umpteen chapters for everyone to catch up astounded me (am pretty sure Ana was as fast as me, for the record). The other thing that I’d consider a problem, I won’t get into for spoiler-reasons, but I was distracted enough that I didn’t see it until the reveal. Also, it’s the kind of thing that Rex Stout himself would do, so I’m never going to complain about it. Mostly, because it worked really well for the story, so who cares?

Regular readers may have noted that I haven’t spent that much time talking about the characters. I chose not to for time/space reasons. If I focused on writing about Ana, Dinios, and Miljin alone—I’d double the length of this post. If I included every major character I want to talk about? I’d triple the length. No one wants to read me going on that long. So I’ll sum it up by saying that his characters are just as good and developed (and strange) as everything else I’ve talked about.

Bennett doesn’t show a lot of flair in this writing. It has almost none of Elmore’s “Hooptedoodle”—although he violates a lot of Elmore’s other rules (and does so for the betterment of the novel). This is a description, not a criticism, you’re not going to be wowed with his style. He doesn’t need that. The descriptions of characters, structures, and monsters are so vivid, so detailed you have no problem seeing exactly what he wants you to see (with just enough room for the reader’s imagination). The action scenes are well-executed. The descriptions of the trees growing from outside of a person are as disturbing as they should be. There are flashes of humor, flashes of hope and optimism in both the characters and the story—but it’s all in the shadow of the imminent threat posed by the Leviathans and weakened walls. So there’s a strong “The World May Be Ending Tomorrow if not Tonight” feel throughout. I was under the spell of the narration and story from early on.

I didn’t set out to rave about this book. I was going to enthusiastically recommend it, but as I started to put my notes into some sort of order and write, I discovered that I really needed and wanted to rave about this. Fantasy fans are really going to get into this. Mystery/Detective Fiction fans who aren’t afraid to play in other worlds are going to go nuts over this. And I want to read the next book in the series today. But I’m willing to be patient—The Tainted Cup won’t even be published for 26 days. So I won’t start complaining about the delay in getting the next volume for 90 days (that seems fair).

Go place your orders or library holds now.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Blacktongue Thief About?

I don’t know how to answer that question in under 8 single-spaced pages (okay, that’s hyperbole…but it feels honest). Also, this is one of those audiobooks that leaves a listener without a clue how to spell just about everything (for example, I just learned how to spell the main character’s name), so you have to factor into my utter inability to write character/nationality/etc. names to my trepidation about trying to sum it up.

So I’m going to just paste what the publisher’s site says…

Kinch Na Shannack owes the Takers Guild a small fortune for his education as a thief, which includes (but is not limited to) lock-picking, knife-fighting, wall-scaling, fall-breaking, lie-weaving, trap-making, plus a few small magics. His debt has driven him to lie in wait by the old forest road, planning to rob the next traveler that crosses his path.

But today, Kinch Na Shannack has picked the wrong mark.

Galva is a knight, a survivor of the brutal goblin wars, and handmaiden of the goddess of death. She is searching for her queen, missing since a distant northern city fell to giants.

Unsuccessful in his robbery and lucky to escape with his life, Kinch now finds his fate entangled with Galva’s. Common enemies and uncommon dangers force thief and knight on an epic journey where goblins hunger for human flesh, krakens hunt in dark waters, and honor is a luxury few can afford.

The Narration

(I’m sure I’ve said this before) It can be dangerous for an author to narrate their own book, but when they’re good narrators, they can bring something special to the performance as they understand the book in a way a hired gun never can. Buehlman is one of those authors who should read his own material all the time. He did a bang-up job with the accents, the characters, the comedy, and the drama.

I don’t know how this would come across in the print version—I’m assuming it would somehow—but in the audiobook, Buehlman makes Kinch speak with some sort of Irish accent (probably safer to say it’s more Irish-ish so he can deviate when he wants), which communicates so much about him. You hear that, and you automatically get his strange cynical optimism, the poverty he came from, his odd sense of humor. I don’t know how quickly that would be communicated with some other accent—but it immediately made sense to me. Galva’s accent is very different, and utterly fitting, too. I don’t know if other narrators would’ve made choices like he did to communicate that all so well—but I have to give him kudos for that.

So, what did I think about The Blacktongue Thief?

I can’t really discuss what I think of this book and the various plotlines/characters without spoiling the whole thing. So let’s stick to overall impressions.

Buelhman can create a character that shows up for a few pages—or recurs throughout the whole book—that is so well-drawn that you could imagine them carrying their own novella (at least). The magic system (systems?) are inventive—or at least used inventively—and I can think of several mages from other series that would be in trouble if they tried to cross some of these. The main storyline for Kinch seems locked-in early on, but also it’s pretty clear (I think) that he’s going to diverge from his assignment early. But the way it happens is enough to make you sit up and take notice (and perhaps mumble something like, “Are you sure about this, man?”).

Among the many subplots here is a love story—and I don’t know if I’ll come across one so effective for the rest of the year.*note It’s so sweet, so real. And really strange in the way that only fantasy can pull off.

* Okay, I wrote that sentence before I got too far into Charm City Rocks by Matthew Norman a day later, I really shouldn’t make statements like that in January.

By the same token, there’s this rivalry between Kinch and someone he knew in childhood. Their lives took very different paths, and Kinch (somewhat rightly) feels guilt over the way things went—Malk feels a lot of resentment about it (somewhat rightly, entirely understandably). Watching them navigate this reunion in various circumstances is a real treat. There’s some good depth, some believable realism to it—and Beuhlman is able to keep it entertaining.

I don’t want this to sound like it’s a comedy or a light-hearted caper kind of novel. It’s not. There’s a lot of darkness in these pages, a lot of tragedy and bloodshed, there’s some kind of duplicity on almost every page, and absolutely no one comes out of this unscathed. Assuming they come out of this at all. But you will be hooked; you will be invested in these characters; you will be mystified, weirded out, and perhaps a bit grossed-out by the magic; and you will probably want to avoid large bodies of water juuuuust in case one of Beuhlman’s krakens are nearby.*

* I know nobody has happy, shiny krakens full of humor and rainbows. But something about his seemed a degree or two worse.

I picked this up on a whim, mostly out of mild curiosity. But now I have to know what’s coming next.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Blood Betrayal About?

On one night, there were two police shootings in the Denver area. One is the shooting of a possible innocent bystander/possible fleeing suspect in a drug raid. The other is the shooting of a vandal by an officer who (claims? he) mistook a can of spray paint for a gun.

Both of the officers were white, and the men who died were young minorities. Both cases will call for the Community Response team to investigate, neither case will be easy for them (and not just because their limited resources will be stretched by simultaneous investigations of a charged nature).

So let’s deal with these in the order we learn about them…

Case 1

Harry Cooper isn’t a fantastic cop—nor is he a bad one. He’s a solid, middle-of-the-road officer, and has been one for years—and now is near retirement. He’s never used his weapon before, but while pursuing some vandals on foot, he fires a warning shot in the air. Then he’s sure he sees a weapon in the hand of the vandal facing him. So he shoots to kill.

It seems like a tragic mistake, but as he’s part of Sheriff Grant’s force, Lt. Seif seizes the opportunity to do a thorough investigation—to ensure that’s all it was, and to maybe get more intel to help his case against Grant.

A number of things start to not add up—mostly around the “vandal.” He’s not one. He’s an art student who isn’t even from Blackwater Falls. He’s taking part in a legitimate street art contest, for one, not someone tagging random private property. Secondly, Seif thinks the physical evidence may point to something bigger. But he’s just not sure what. He wants Inaya Rahman to lead the charge on this.

Case 2

But Inaya has other concerns. She left Chicago after being assaulted by a number of fellow officers, we learned last time. So when one of those officers shows up on her family’s doorstep, she’s disturbed (to understate it). John Broda has come to her for help—his son is a patrol officer in Denver assigned to help a drug raid on a marijuana dispensary that was known to sell harder drugs, too. In the midst of it, a potential suspect was shot. Officer Kelly Broday was arrested for murder, without saying he shot Mateo Ruiz, he is saying he’s responsible for his death.

John Broda wants her to investigate and clear Kell, and in return, John will give Inaya the evidence he needs to close her last case from her days in Chicago.

She starts to look into things in exchange for the evidence, but she’s soon convinced that Kell was set up—possibly by a gang within the Denver Police. But she can’t figure out if someone wanted Ruiz dead (or why), or if it all has to do with the officer. Or is it both?

Meanwhile, the communities both young men belonged to start to organize and protest—particularly the Hispanic neighborhood Ruiz was from—and the Police Department isn’t responding calmly. Time is of the essence for this investigation.

Everything Else

Which is just a pithy way of saying “Everyone’s Personal Lives and the FBI’s Investigation into the Blackwater Falls Sheriff.” We learn more about every member of the Community Response team (and the civil rights attorney they ally with), and whatever arcs we saw or got hints of in the first book progress nicely (well, at least for the reader—I’m making no promises about how the characters feel).

Those aren’t the important parts of these books, but the more we get invested in these characters, the more compelling we’re going to find how the cases impact them and their lives. As a plus, they’re all really interesting characters so the arcs make for good reading.

As far as the FBI Investigation goes? Well…it’s still a thing. I’m not sure how much more I can say.

So, what did I think about Blood Betrayal?

It’d be easy to write this series off as some sort of “woke” thing where a racially diverse group of police investigators find hate crimes everywhere. Especially when white cops kill black and Latino men. That would be a grave error, however. Khan writes complex stories that cannot be reduced to a simple, one-line explanation, never mind a label or two.

In Blackwater Falls we got one murder that led to the uncovering of a web of more crime and corruption. Here we have two murders that end up being about so much more—both cases are about as complex as the one from Blackwater Falls, but the way that Khan weaves the two stories together (if only because the investigators are the same) makes this an even more complex novel. We get two great crime stories for the price of one. Yes, I think one of the cases was easier for the reader to figure out—possibly too easy. But the way that the clues, motives, and solution were revealed more than made up for that. And the other case? You’re never going to guess the solution until Khan shows it all.

But better than that is the way Khan shows (again) how crimes like this can impact entire communities, and the tensions that result and build up (possibly spill over) between those communities and the police rings so true that you could believe it happening today.

But Khan’s not just good at the big, social commentary—the impact that these killings have on the families is obviously bigger than anyone wants to imagine. And, as she did in the previous novel, Khan shows the grief, confusion, anger, and the other emotions that strike a family at this time with sensitivity and keen observation. Over the last few years, I’ve started noticing this part of a police procedural, and I really appreciate it when the author does it well. Khan’s one of the best around in this aspect.

Throw in some strong writing and great characters to all this? You’ve got yourself a winner. One of the best sequels that I read this year. You’d be doing yourself a favor if you grabbed the two books in this series up and doing so soon.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Mayors of New York About?

New York’s first female mayor has a problem. A few months after taking office, her fifteen-year-old son has run away. It’s not the first time, but it’s the first time since she’s been elected. She’s in the middle of high-stakes negotiations with a police union, so Mayor McCann doesn’t feel like she can turn to them without taking some PR hits/weakening in the negotiations.

So, she has her aide hire Bill Smith (who brings along Lydia, of course). It’s not easy tracking down one of the most recognizable teens in the city without letting anyone know you’re doing that—and it almost seems like the “without letting anyone know” part might overrule the “finding the teen” part of the job.

Now, Lydia’s trying to decide if she takes on a case of her own at the same time. Readers know long before they do that these cases will end up intertwined—otherwise, why would Rozan bring it up? And once Bill and Lydia cotton on to that, a hunt for a runaway takes on a whole new layer. Possibly several layers.

The Characters

Nah, I’m not going to talk about Bill and Lydia today—I honestly don’t know if I have anything else to say about them outside how they’re probably my favorite partnership in Crime Fiction (Robin/Cormoran—learn from these two. They trust each other and communicate frankly. Your lives will be the better for it, and the books will be shorter, too. Everyone wins.).

I want to talk about Mark McCann a little bit. At first, he’s just the target. He’s little more than a MacGuffin to get the plot moving. Then we start to learn a little about him and he becomes an actual character—one I want to learn more about. Then we get to meet him, and I like him a lot. And then Mark goes ahead and does some clever and stupid (read: dangerous) things and I want to see more of him.

The wanting to see more of him goes for everyone who’s alive and not under indictment of some sort at the end of the book—the McCann’s household staff, the people who help Mark along the way (and then help Bill and Lydia), and so on. I know it’s not really Rozan’s style, but if we could run across them in future books for a chapter or so just to spend more time with them, I’d really enjoy that. These all have a little more life to them than your typical witnesses, bystanders, and so on in PI Fiction. I particularly appreciated the way they all want some sort of Mayoral favor shown to their neighborhoods/communities and the way that Lydia takes notes to pass them along. A very nice—and real—note.

I feel like I should spend a few paragraphs on the most interesting character in this novel—Aubrey “Bree” Hamilton, the mayor’s aide who hires Bill to look for Mark. She and Bill dated years ago, and it’s clear from Bill’s First-Person Narration that the chip on his shoulder regarding this particular cheating %#&@ has is still pretty deep, no matter what degree of happiness he’s found elsewhere. It’s not just the way she cheated on him—Bill has no sympathy for her former PR clients (lawyers, largely) or the politicians she now works for, assuming everything they do or say is calculated for their benefit. He trusts Bree less than her bosses—and we see that throughout—but something about a 15-year-old boy who keeps running away from home speaks to Bill, so he has to investigate.

I got off target there, but I thought I’d explain Bill taking the case when he can’t stand anyone involved. Bree is a perfectly designed character—the reader can see how she’s good at her job, calculating, smart, and generally three steps ahead of anyone (aside from our protagonists occasionally). It’s impossible to tell how much she believes a lot of what she says, or if she’s saying it out of duty. And then there’s what she says to yank Bill’s chain a little bit. Bill (and therefore his narration) is so jaded against her that it’s hard for us to know how much of our negative reaction to her is justified and how much it is seeing her through Bill’s eyes. A great move by Rozan.

So, what did I think about The Mayors of New York?

The pace is fast without being breakneck. The dialogue is sharp and witty. Bill’s narration has never been more hard-boiled (his contempt for the client/client’s intermediary helps). The characters jump off the page. It’s what you want in a PI novel.

Early on, I had inklings about what was behind everything (and I’m pretty sure Rozan intended readers to). As the plot moved forward and we received more and more confirmation about those inklings, it made me uncomfortable and a little queasy. Why couldn’t I have been wrong? Why couldn’t these have been red herrings? Thanks to some skillful storytelling you don’t get bogged down in the wrongness of everything that’s afoot—it’s there and it colors everything, but your focus becomes on the characters dealing with it all, the reveals to other characters and the nail-biting way this story is resolved.

Yes, I think Rozan could’ve just as easily and skillfully let the characters and readers wallow in the muck of the crimes behind everything—but it would’ve changed the tenor of the book so much that the early chapters would feel out of place, and we probably wouldn’t have found some resolution that’s as satisfying.

Also, just because some things weren’t red herrings, don’t think that Rozan doesn’t toss enough of them at the reader to keep you wondering.

Rozan has been on a hot streak since Paper Son, and The Mayors of New York shows no signs of her slowing down anytime soon. And I am more than okay with that. If you’ve never indulged in this series before—this would work as a jumping-on point. Almost any of them would, really. The trick is to jump on somewhere for some of the best that PI fiction has to offer. A touch of the classic American PI added to a hefty helping of the 21st century. The Mayors of New York is one I heartily recommend to all.

I've been trying to write about this book since April. I know I'm not going to do this justice, and so I keep procrastinating. But with 2 posting days left this year...I can push it off no longer.

What’s Ozark Dogs About?

One of the bigger hurdles for me in completing this post was figuring out what to put here, I toyed with:

It’s by Eli Cranor, which means it’s going to have a Southern Noir sensibility, is probably going to have something to do with family, and is going to be excellent. That’s all you really need to know.

I still stand by that, but figure you need more, I just wasn’t sure what to say. I’ve finally given up and am just going to paste what Soho Crime has on their website (which, frankly, gives away more than I would’ve).

After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.

Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it.

Consequences

Don’t get me wrong—there’s plenty of crime, tension, drama, and all the rest in the novel’s “today.” But in a very real sense the novel isn’t about any of that. It’s about what happened almost two decades before this that set the families on their courses and what the outcomes of those courses are.

This is a book about ramifications, consequences, pigeons coming home to roost—however you want to put it. When you read about those earlier events a part of you is going to ask, “Why didn’t Cranor write about that?” Most—or at least many—authors would’ve, and then some would’ve added something like this as a sequel. Or maybe as Part II in a longer novel.

Cranor’s not about that, though. His focus is on what those events do to the present. How they’ve shaped the lives of those in the present (primarily without their knowledge or understanding), and how the sins of the fathers can be visited on their sons and daughters.

The Author’s Note

Frequent/Regular readers will know that I almost never mention this kind of thing when I talk about a novel. Do read this one after you finish reading about the Fitzjurls, the Ledfords, and the rest.

Unless I miss my guess, you’ll agree with every syllable.

So, what did I think about Ozark Dogs?

This, like Cranor’s first novel, would be really easy to over-hype, so I’m going to try to be restrained here.

The prose is so sharp, so…on point. You can tell every syllable was considered, if you read portions of this aloud (or, I’m sure, listen to the audiobook) you will feel the work that went into it—although it’s so smooth and flowing that it comes across as effortless. You see exactly what Cranor intends you to see, probably feel what he intended, and understand the motivations (even the ones that disgust you) of these people in precisely the way he planned.

The dialogue is so well done that you might find yourself sounding a bit like someone from Arkansas for a day or two after you finish.

These characters—it’s hard to think of them as characters, really, they’re people. People you can imagine seeing on the news or in a documentary about all this. It won’t be the most flattering documentary about anyone, I should add. I think every single one of them crosses a line—more likely many lines—that they’ve known their whole life they wouldn’t cross, at least have resolved they wouldn’t cross again years ago. But they do, sometimes with regrets, sometimes with eagerness. And your heart breaks for them, even for some of them that you hope horrible things happen to by the end of the book. Fully developed, fully realized, very human (read: fallible and flawed) characters on every page.

Earlier I said this book is about consequences, and that’s stuck with me for months. But it’s also about devotion—sometimes devotion that borders on obsession. Devotion to a cause, devotion to an idea, devotion to yourself, or (the most dangerous?) devotion to a person (or group of people). There’s a straight line between every character and what they’re devoted to and those consequences.

But if you don’t want to think about books like that—and you’re just looking for a great read? Ozark Dogs fulfills that, too. It’s a full-throttle, action-packed, revenge-driven, thrill ride with great fight scenes, enough blood and guts to satisfy the reader looking for that, and some twists and reveals that’ll stun you.

Cranor gives us another thriller that you can give to an anti-genre snob, who’ll appreciate it as much as people who only read Crime Fiction/Thrillers will. If you haven’t read him yet, do yourself a favor and get this (and Don’t Know Tough) now and start waiting for his July release while you’re at it.

There are not many people—and as it is desirable that a story-teller and a story-reader should establish a mutual understanding as soon as possible, I beg it to be noticed that I confine this observation neither to young people nor to little people, but extend it to all conditions of people: little and big, young and old: yet growing up, or already growing down again—there are not, I say, many people who would care to sleep in a church. I don’t mean at sermon-time in warm weather (when the thing has actually been done, once or twice), but in the night, and alone.

What’s The Chimes About?

Apparently, the original title of this was: The Chimes: A Goblin Story of Some Bells that Rang an Old Year Out and a New Year In. But for pretty obvious reasons, people shortened the name to The Chimes when talking about it, and this edition went with the short version, too.

The Chimes are the bells in a church steeple–powerful goblin spirits reside in them, (not everyone gets to see the goblins–or this’d be a very different kind of story). Our protagonist, Trotty, is summoned to the steeple by these bells. Bells he’s lived under for years and has come to love their ringing. However, he’s now called to account by them for…essentially losing faith in humanity and disparaging them. Particularly lower-class humanity–like he’s part of.

Trotty is a ticket-porter, barely scraping by–but is a hearty, cheerful man. His daughter is in love with someone who hopes to marry her soon. But Trotty reads something in the news one day (inspired by a true story, incidentally) that makes him doubt people’s goodness. This is followed by him being hired by/interacting with an Alderman and an MP who look down the poor, exacerbating Trotty’s dismay.

These bells show Trotty a future in which he dies that night and how the ripples from his death impact the lives of several of his acquaintances. Very much in a Ghost of Christmas Future kind of way. But these are darker futures than anything Scrooge saw, if you ask me.

Trotty repents of his negative outlook and does something in this vision that proves his sincerity. He’s brought back to the present and life is good–even better than it was thanks to his attitude adjustment.

Oversimplification, I know, but I’m still trying to stay away from details. It’s only been in print for 179 years…

These Guys are The WORST

So this year I’ve read about misanthropes, mass murderers, people who kill without remorse, people who target minorities for fun, demons and other monsters, etc., but I’m honestly not sure that there were people who disgusted me and enraged me nearly as much as Alderman Cute and Sir Joseph Bowley.

Bowley loves to think of himself as a benefactor to the poor, a charitable soul…listen to him brag about it a bit (to an actual poor person),

Every New Year’s Day, myself and friends will drink his [a generic poor person’s] health. Once every year, myself and friends will address him with the deepest feeling….‘I do my duty as the Poor Man’s Friend and Father; and I endeavour to educate his mind, by inculcating on all occasions the one great moral lesson which that class requires. That is, entire Dependence on myself. They have no business whatever with— with themselves.

He does (at least in the vision), bring poor people into a great New Year’s feast with his guests so they can see he and his friends drink to their health and hear paternalistic (at best) speeches about how they need to better themselves, although they probably can’t because if they could…well, they wouldn’t be poor, after all.

Cute dissuades Trotty’s daughter and her beloved from marrying because it’s not like they’ll be able to subsist on whatever money they can eke out–and they’ll just end up having kids they can’t afford to feed, and thereby expanding the need for welfare and whatnot.

Sure, Dickens was probably exaggerating for satirical purposes. But I doubt it was much. And it’d be really easy to imagine these despicable guys as contemporary figures.

Dickens’ Writing

He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him, swarming with dwarf phantoms, spirits, elfin creatures of the Bells. He saw them leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells without a pause. He saw them, round him on the ground; above him, in the air; clambering from him, by the ropes below; looking down upon him, from the massive iron- girded beams; peeping in upon him, through the chinks and loopholes in the walls; spreading away and away from him in enlarging circles, as the water ripples give way to a huge stone that suddenly comes plashing in among them. He saw them, of all aspects and all shapes. He saw them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed. He saw them young, he saw them old, he saw them kind, he saw…

When Dickens first introduced the goblins (and I only gave you a sample), I really enjoyed it. And was reminded that he typically got paid by the word. Not necessarily for this novella–but the impulse was still there. Because the man can go on…never using 5 words when 20 will do.

I have zero problems with it in this novella–but it jumps out at you occasionally.

A few other lines that jumped out at me that I want to bring up…they’re so good.

‘There’s nothing,’ said Toby, ‘more regular in its coming round than dinner- time, and nothing less regular in its coming round than dinner. That’s the great difference between ’em. It’s took me a long time to find it out.’

This gentleman had a very red face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body were squeezed up into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the appearance of being rather cold about the heart.

‘The good old times, the good old times!’ The gentleman didn’t specify what particular times he alluded to; nor did he say whether he objected to the present times, from a disinterested consciousness that they had done nothing very remarkable in producing himself.

(I’m forever going to be thinking of this anytime I hear someone talk about the good old days)

So, what did I think about The Chimes?

I’m told that the hardcover is gorgeous–I ordered this late, so I can’t confirm (I’ll try to remember to update this post when I get it). The cover looks pretty neat, though. I bring this up so you’ll think about getting your hands on this hardcover edition for your own personal use/shelf decoration.

But what about the novella itself? I dug it. I know I don’t read enough Dickens–and never have. But when I’m exposed to him, I regret many of my life choices that lead to this dearth (not so much regret that I see that I’ll change that anytime soon). I really appreciated his writing, his characters (even the ones I spent time hating). I would’ve appreciated a little more time with some of the characters, but we didn’t need it.

The way the bells show Trotty the future really did make me think of the Ghost of Christmas Future, I know they inspired It’s a Wonderful Life, but I got more of the former vibe than the latter. I’d like for people to tell me what I’m missing, incidentally. Either way, I liked the way Dickens uses this tool to get people to change their way of thinking, even if he uses it too frequently.

The social commentary was well done (if heavy-handed), and probably needed as much then as now. And probably as effective then as now. Oh well, would be nice to think otherwise.

It’s a quick read that packs a powerful punch with some clever writing. If you’re like me, and have never heard of this novella before, take advantage of this opportunity to pick it up. If you’re a better-educated reader and are familiar with it–isn’t it about time to re-familiarize yourself?

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Inside Cover Flap of Alexandra Petri’s US History Say?

A witty, absurdist satire of the last 500 years, Alexandra Petri’s US History is the fake textbook you never knew you needed!

As a columnist for the Washington Post, Alexandra Petri has watched in real time as those who didn’t learn from history have been forced to repeat it. And repeat it. And repeat it. If we repeat history one more time, we’re going to fail! Maybe it’s time for a new textbook.

Alexandra Petri’s US History contains a lost (invented!) history of America. (A history for people disappointed that the only president whose weird sex letters we have is Warren G. Harding.) Petri’s “historical fan fiction” draws on real events and completely absurd fabrications to create a laugh-out-loud, irreverent takedown of our nation’s complicated past.

On Petri’s deranged timeline, John and Abigail Adams try sexting, the March sisters from Little Women are sixty feet tall, and Susan Sontag goes to summer camp. Nearly eighty short, hilarious pieces span centuries of American history and culture. Ayn Rand rewrites The Little Engine That Could. Nikola Tesla’s friends stage an intervention when he falls in love with a pigeon. The characters from Sesame Street invade Normandy. And Mark Twain—who famously said reports of his death had been greatly exaggerated—offers a detailed account of his undeath, in which he becomes a zombie.

What did I think about Alexandra Petri’s US History?

There are 76 pieces in this collection–not all are going to be winners. The odds against that are just too great. The tricky thing is (obviously) the ones I consider winners aren’t necessarily going to be the ones that you identify as winners–that’s probably because you have more refined tastes than me. I’m okay with that (and you should be, too). But I assumed that going in, so the question is: are there enough that you’re going to find funny to make reading all of them (or at least starting all of them before occasionally deciding to move on) worth it?

Absolutely.

Some of these start strong and then peter out–like some Saturday Night Live sketches. Some start strong and build from there. Some are duds from the beginning. And a few (to go back to SNL) leave you wanting Matt Foley to yell about the van down by the river one or two more times.

A few of the pieces that had me laughing were:

• the spider in a certain Northhampton church who took umbrage at some of Edwards’ imagery
• a poem about the other guy who rode the night Paul Revere did, but his name is hard to rhyme
• a conversation about writing the song that became the tune for The Star-Spangled Banner
• an abridgment of The Scarlett Letter
• the man who bought his wife yellow wallpaper trying to get a refund
• what would Gatsby have been like if Hemingway wrote it?
• someone from Sun-Made trying to get Lorraine Hansbury to strike up a partnership
• Build-a-Bear’s attempt to commemorate 9/11

I really could’ve gone on there, but I think between that and the above quotation, you get an idea. I could’ve come up with a similar list of ones that didn’t work for me–but why bother?

f any of the above topics/ideas seem like something you’d enjoy, you’re likely to have fun with over half of this book. When Petri is funny, she’s hilarious. When she’s not…well, there are words on the page that you can definitely read. Her highs are so high and her lows are…still above sea level. I don’t think anything was “bad” here, just some pieces that I really didn’t care for.

I’m glad I read this. You’ll probably be, too. I do recommend this, as long as you go in with open eyes.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Such Sharp Teeth About?

The Publisher’s website says:

Rory Morris isn’t thrilled to be moving back to her hometown, even if it is temporary. There are bad memories there. But her twin sister, Scarlett, is pregnant, estranged from the baby’s father, and needs support, so Rory returns to the place she thought she’d put in her rearview. After a night out at a bar where she runs into Ian, an old almost-flame, she hits a large animal with her car. And when she gets out to investigate, she’s attacked.

Rory survives, miraculously, but life begins to look and feel different. She’s unnaturally strong, with an aversion to silver—and suddenly the moon has her in its thrall. She’s changing into someone else—something else, maybe even a monster. But does that mean she’s putting those close to her in danger? Or is embracing the wildness inside of her the key to acceptance?

This darkly comedic love story is a brilliantly layered portrait of trauma, rage, and vulnerability.

How Was the Narration?

Sieh matched the energy and tone of the book—elevating some of the text with her performance.

So, what did I think about Such Sharp Teeth?

If I took the time to make a pros and cons list…I think the pros would win but by a hair.

The way the book is set up—a high-powered businesswoman from “the City” coming back to her hometown, only to meet with her High School friend who’s been carrying a torch for her since then. Things spark up between them and she’s starting to consider leaving behind all the power and money for this humble guy from a small town. I couldn’t help but think of every single Hallmark Movie parody I’ve seen/read when she talked about “the City.” And most of the storyline surrounding them reminded me of those movies/parodies, too.

The pros, however…Harrison delivers some great werewolf fiction here. The initial bite, the transformations…just about everything that Rory does to investigate her new condition…and more is so well done, and in many ways is superior to every other werewolf novel I’ve read. It’s some really solid and creepy work there, and I wish more of the book lived up to it.

In the end, it was good enough. It kept me engaged, the story moved well, and I can’t say enough about the depiction of lycanthropes. I do recommend Such Sharp Teeth, but with a few caveats.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Miles Morales Suspended About?

In the shadow of his victory against The Warden (see Miles Morales for details), Miles finds himself the brunt of his History teacher’s antagonism. Miles is sure it’s a prejudice against him, his skin color, his background, or…any number of other things. There’s a small chance it’s just his teacher being a jerk. It’s probably a combination of the two.

Regardless, Miles stands up for himself—and a few classmates have his back. And they end up serving an in-school suspension for it. The bulk of the novel focuses on that day—the doldrums of serving it, the homework assignments Miles has to try to focus on during the day, and all the ways his mind wanders through the day (his crush sitting in the desk behind him doesn’t help him focus at all).

Little by little, however, Miles becomes aware of a threat to him and others present that day. And eventually, suspension or not, Miles’ alter-ego has to step in and save the day.

The Narration

We have Guy Lockard back from the first book and this time he’s joined by Nile Bullock. I think the former handles the narration and the latter handles the parts of the book from Miles’ POV. Feel free to correct me.

Both of these performers brought this to life—the narration is very in-your-face (as is fitting, also reminiscent of Stan Lee’s voiceovers in various projects), and the characterization of Miles and the rest ring true.

I don’t really have anything to say about the narration other than I would listen to these two (together or apart) narrate an audiobook anytime

So, what did I think about Miles Morales Suspended?

There is very little plot to this (and not just because it’s just shy of 4 hours in length). What’s more, there’s very little Spider-Man action. Both of these are actually good things—at least this time. What we do get is a lot of Miles Morales action, we see the young man behind the mask just trying to survive high school, make connections, and grow up. These are the aspects of the characters that have helped people connect with Peter Parker and Miles since the 60s.

Now, don’t get me wrong—if this had all been Miles serving detention, it’d have been hard to put up with (not necessarily impossible). So I’m glad that Reynolds gave us a fun bit of Spider-Man action at the beginning and a pretty epic fight scene to wrap things up.

But that’s not the heart of the book—nor is it the heart of the character. Reynolds understands what drives Spider-Man (whoever is behind the mask), particularly Miles. Although, I’d like to see him tackle Peter just for fun, too.

Including so much poetry took me aback initially (or, at least when I figured out that’s what he was doing). But it fits Miles, it fits the girl he’s trying to impress, it fits this world, the themes of this particular book…and Reynolds knows what he’s doing in verse (unlike so many fantasy writers that litter their novels with questionable poetry). The same should be said for Lockard and Bullock—they know their way around reading verse so that it hits.

Is this the book I wanted and/or expected about Spider-Man or based on the previous novel by Reynolds? Nope. Do I care? Nope. Because it was fun, inventive, thought-provoking, and true to the character (yeah, a little heavy-handed, too—but that also sort of fits the classic Marvel modus operandi)

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Hey, wait!

Listen to the lives of the long-ago kids, the world-fighters,

the parent-unminding kids, the improper, the politeness-proof,

the unbowed bully-crushers,

the bedtime-breakers, the raspberry-blowers,

fighters of fun-killers, fearing nothing, fated for fame.

What’s Bea Wolf About?

In some generic town, there is a treehouse that deserves every accolade you can think of. Treehart has been the headquarters of several of those long-ago kids, where they played, had fun, ate too much candy, etc., etc. Treehart has been ruled by a succession of kings and queens who ruled with generosity until they started to sprout things like facial hair and acne and had to set aside the grown and (ugh) start growing up.

They run afoul of one of the local teachers

Mr. Grindle he was called, for his father was Mr. Grindle

and his mother was Mrs. Grindle, and that is how names work.

With just a touch, Grindle can bring about adolescence—or, even worse, adulthood. He started periodically raiding Treehart, begeezering all he could. And then, he’d clean it.

Ten kids turned teenaged, tired-eyed, ever-texting

eight turned middle-aged, aching, anxious, angry at the Internet.

Nearby, a former king’s cousin has heard of the adultening and sent her fiercest warrior, Bea Wolf, to come and restore frivolity and childhood to Treehart by defeating Grindle. Epic tales are shared, a lot of soda and candy are consumed, and then the two face off in a battle that can only be described as “epic.”

A Bit About the Art

In the Acknowledgements, Boulet said that he really didn’t have time to do the art for this book, but after reading part of the script, he knew he had to. I’m so glad he found—probably made—the time for it. This wouldn’t be nearly as successful without his art.

It’s playful and silly while not turning the whole thing into a joke. There’s pathos, there’s gravity, there’s danger in his drawings. And yet they’re attractive, winsome, and engaging, too. His art is everything the text is and more—yes, I think the book would’ve worked had it only been the text. But…he brings it to life in a way that words alone can’t.

Boulet and Weinersmith are a potent and nigh-perfect match here. I cannot say enough good about this art.

On The Publisher’s page for the book, there’s a link to “Take a Look Inside!” I’d heartily recommend you giving that a glance so you can get a flavor of the look of the book.

About Beowulf

After the tale (at least the first part of the tale) of Bea Wolf, Weinersmith spends a few times talking about what Beowulf is, its history, and the connection between this graphic novel and the source. It even talks about various translations to help a young reader pick one to try.

It’s written in a way that definitely appeals to crusty old guys like me and very likely will appeal to younger readers, too. I’m not kidding, I’ve re-read it just for the jokes.

This essay ends by applying it to the reader:

If you’ve made it this far, all the way to the end of my notes, reading all these words in a book that’s mostly pictures, you must be either a librarian or a future writer. Or maybe both. If you haven’t read the original Beowulf, you may be asking whether you should give it a shot. The answer is yes. It’s scary and it’s not for kids, so you’ll probably really like it. If you’re a speaker of English, it’s the oldest big poem in something resembling your language, and it just happens to be one of the greatest stories ever written.

At one point, late in the original Beowulf poem, a dragon grows angry because a man steals from his golden hoard. Beowulf is part of the golden hoard of our language. Tolkien stole from it for his stories, and you should too. You might summon up a dragon of your own.

I don’t know if this will inspire a future writer or not, but it worked for me.

(yeah, I strayed from my own topic there, but whatever…)

So, what did I think about Bea Wolf?

I had so much fun reading this, from beginning to end. I was able to appreciate it on a few levels—as someone who appreciates cute and clever comic art, cute and clever comic writing, as a cute and comic take on the epic poem, and as a wonderful and romantic vision of childhood (and a vision of adulthood that hits pretty close to home a little too often). There are probably more levels I enjoyed it on, but that’ll work for a starter.

The poetry itself was dynamite. Weinersmith did a fantastic job of capturing the flavor and spirit of the original and adapting it to a Middle-Grade level (while keeping it engaging for older readers).

I honestly don’t know who the market is for this—sure, it’s supposed to be for Children—but I wonder how many will be intrigued by the idea of it (hopefully, they will be prompted by clever adults/peers). On the other hand, I can’t be the only fan of the original from High School/College/after those who finds the notion of this appealing. Thankfully, I do think both audiences will be pleased with the results and the time they spent with it.

There’s at least one more book chronicling Bea’s adventures. I cannot wait to see her deal with Grindle’s mother.

I don’t know if I’m doing a decent job of praising this—but I think you get the gist. Do yourself, your inner child, and possibly your children a favor and run out to pick this up. You’ll be glad you did.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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… it might be nice for the Thursday Murder Club to have a new project that moved at a gentler pace than usual. Something a bit less murdery would be quite a novelty.

What’s The Last Devil to Die About?

What a nice thought—and for a minute, it looked possible.* But no reader expected it to continue, and it doesn’t. In fact, the murder strikes pretty close to home—a character the reader had met recently, but who had strong ties to Stephen and Elizabeth. Which, of course, is how the Thursday Murder Club gets involved. Since the reader does know him, though, we’re invested from the get-go.

* And I’d absolutely read that.

The Club encounters art forgery, a different group of drug smugglers, and some people who make others they’ve faced down seem downright cuddly. (not all of them, obviously, these retirees have faced off with some scary people) The path they have to follow to find the killer—and the object their friend died over—is probably the twistiest they’ve gone down yet.

Yes, there is the “less murdery” case as well—a fellow resident of Coopers Chase is getting fleeced by an online romantic interest, but he can’t see it. So the Club takes it upon themselves to expose the fraud to protect him before he’s totally broke (and maybe get a little of the money back).

Loss, Grief, and Death

Life continues, whatever you do. It’s a bulldozer like that.

This series has always featured death—not just murder. Given the age and health of the protagonists—and the community they live in—it’s a constant presence. But not just death, going on, grieving, learning to cope with the absence of a loved one—and maybe not learning.

We’ve watched Joyce, for example, grieving for her husband from Day 1. Everyone since that time has lost people that were important to them, talked about losing others, and so on. It’s one of the dominant themes of this series.

In The Last Devil to Die, dominant seems to be an understatement. Osman doesn’t let you get away from it—not in a mawkish, maudlin, or over-the-top manner. It’s just there, it’s what the characters are facing and dealing with in a variety of ways (even some of the bad guys!). It doesn’t leave you (too?) despondent, however. There’s hope, there’s life, there’s a tomorrow for the living. It is a bulldozer.

I’ve always been impressed with the way that Osman treats these subjects, he’s at his best in this installment.

So, all in all, I ’ve had a lovely Boxing Day, and am going to fall asleep in front of a Judi Dench film. All that’s missing is Gerry working his way through a tin of Quality Street and leaving the wrappers in the tin. Irritating at the time, but I’d give everything I own to have him back. Gerry liked the Strawberry Delights and Orange Crémes, and I liked the Toffee Pennies, and if you want to know the recipe for a happy marriage it is that.

So, what did I think about The Last Devil to Die?

That’s the thing about Coopers Chase. You’d imagine it was quiet and sedate, like a village pond on a summer’s day. But in truth it never stops moving, it’s always in motion. And that motion Is aging, and death, and love, and grief, and final snatched moments and opportunities grasped. The urgency of old age. There’s nothing that makes you feel more alive than the certainty of death.

This summer, when I did the Mid-Year Freak Out Book Tag, I said that while no book had made me cry this year, I figured something would by the end of the year. I didn’t think it would be a cozy mystery that did it. Almost twice.

But I was laughing—or at least chuckling—within a couple of pages both times. And it didn’t feel like emotional whiplash or like he was undercutting the seriousness of what elicited the tears or almost tears. Osman was just honestly portraying these characters in all their aspects which brings laughter and tears.

I’ve talked a lot about this book’s “downer” parts. Let me assure you that the comedy is great—watching Ron try to understand his son making Cameos, for example. Other things with Ron, too, actually. I’m having trouble coming up with examples—well, Joyce is a reliable source of humor, obviously. Everyone is, as you know if you’ve read one of these books (and if you haven’t, but are reading this post…there’s your homework, go pick up the first one and thank me later). I’m having trouble coming up with other specific examples that I can use in this post, sadly. But they’re there, I assure you.

As always, the characters are Osman’s strong suit. Our regulars are in fine form, as are the some returning characters (including some I was pleasantly surprised to see), and the new characters are great additions to the cast (however temporary some of them might be). They all practically jump off the page fully formed and it’s hard to ask for more.

The online fraud story goes pretty much like you expect it to—this isn’t a Mrs. Plansky’s Revenge kind of thing. But it was very satisfying. The murder mystery, which is theoretically why people pick this book up, on the other hand…I have mixed feelings about it. But I can’t explain that reaction. Osman knows how to construct a mystery, the red herrings are perfect, the suspects are wonderfully designed, and the reveals and wrap-up were done almost perfectly. I can’t think of a single problem with it. But the entire time I was reading it, something just didn’t click.

I want to stress that this is my only issue with the book—sadly, it’s the A story. Maybe it’s the fact that it didn’t feel like it always. Maybe it’s because everything else in the novel was so good and so emotionally strong, that the mystery couldn’t compete. Maybe the book was just too crowded with storylines and this one didn’t have as much time to develop as it needed? It’s also (very likely) just me. I also thought it was pretty easy to guess the killer’s identity—but the motive and the reveal were so well done that I didn’t care. Also, the herrings were red enough that I doubted my guess more than once.

That ineffable quibble aside, this is the best book in the series thus far. I couldn’t put it down—from the “are you kidding me?” beginning through the emotional body-blows over the course of the book, up to the strong conclusion, and all points in between, Osman kept me guessing, kept me invested, and kept me wondering how he could be so good at this.

I don’t need to tell fans to get this (they’ve probably all read it by now), but I can encourage new readers to catch up.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Continuity Counts

By and large, the Wayward Children books can be read in any order—sure, things will mean more if you read them in order of publication (so far, anyway). It’s easier that way to catch allusions, understand the depth of relationships, come close to tracking what Sumi is talking about, etc. But you can get away with skipping around.

But you really need to read this one after Lost in the Moment and Found. It’s the closest thing to a direct sequel that we’ve had in this series. It’s also kind of a follow-up to Where the Drowned Girls Go (and, as always, touches on several others).

This is largely Part II of Antsy’s story—the story is shared by a group of the students (my favorites in the series) on one of those quests they’re not supposed to undertake—and whoops, I’ve started writing the next section.

What’s Mislaid in Parts Half-Known About?

Antsy is having a hard time adjusting to life at Eleanor West’s School for Wayward Children, almost as much trouble as she’d be having adjusting to anywhere else on Earth. Part of that comes from not being as honest about her circumstances as she could’ve been—understandably so, I think—which just made everything worse.

Still, there are signs that things may get better, helped a little by Antsy being able to find anything for people. Then Seraphina (who can get anyone—with one or two exceptions—to do what she wants) decides to use her abilities on Antsy to get her to find her Door.

Ansty, Sumi, and some others (I’m not going to name them to keep your interest piqued) manage to slip away using Antsy’s ability to find things and her knowledge of how Doors work, eventually getting back to the Shop Where the Lost Things Go. Which wasn’t exactly where Antsy wanted to be—and she learns that things there hadn’t gone as expected when she left and a whole new quest develops.

Not About Jim Morrison’s Band

When I wrote about Lost in the Moment and Found earlier this year, I said:

This entry would be a worthwhile read for fans if only for this one thing—we learn more about the Doors and how they work. I’m not going to go into it, obviously, nor am I going to promise that every question you had about the Doors will be answered—actually you’ll likely end up with new questions, but they’ll be informed questions.

That’s true here, too. In fact, we learn so much about them that I almost don’t want to learn anything more about Doors for another 8+ books so they don’t get too demystified. McGuire being McGuire, I know that if she reveals a whole lot more in the next book, I’ll end up repeating everything I said prior to this sentence—and I’ll be happy and equipped with more questions.

Regardless—what we do learn here is fantastic. It both makes utter sense—in the way that maybe we all should’ve guessed it already (maybe some did)—in terms of storytelling, worldbuilding, and more. I wonder what (some of) the students understanding this is going to do to things going forward. If anything.

Future Continuity

Speaking of things going forward, something major is on the way for Eleanor West. It’s been hinted at before, but so many things in this book point to it happening soon (but in Wayward Children-time, it could take 3-4 novellas for us to get to “soon”). I’m eager to see it, as much as I’m dreading what it might mean.

One Quick Character Note

Every protagonist of these novellas—and a significant chunk of the supporting characters—has been wonderful. With the exception of Seraphina and her crew*, I like all the students we’ve met at the School and want to know more about them all.

* I’m waiting for McGuire to decide it’s time to humanize them so we readers will root for even them, and we’ll feel bad for not doing so earlier.

But…from the moment we met her, Sumi’s been a favorite of mine. I should probably use the definite article there, actually. So I’m not unbiased when I say that in Mislaid in Parts Half-Known she is glorious, but she really is. She’s funny, she’s loopy, she’s brave, and she’s wise. Hard as that last one might be to believe. She’s also rather clever and displays that at the end.

The main parts of the story belong to Antsy and a couple of other characters—but Sumi stole every scene she was in and I really just want a few in a row featuring her.

So, what did I think about Mislaid in Parts Half-Known?

This is not my favorite Wayward Children book, but it’s close. There aren’t one or two big emotional moments like there typically are in these (at least not that hit me…your results may vary). But there were a handful of small emotional moments that worked so well—in terms of what happened to someone, how it impacted the other characters, and the way that McGuire wrote them—that I don’t care. It might even be better this way.

The worlds we saw were wonderful—really, you could set an entire fantasy trilogy in them without reference to any other. The world hinted at on the cover, for example, could easily sustain a 1,500-page trilogy full of whimsy and danger.

There’s probably more humor and smile-inducing moments here than several of these books combined sport. Which was a nice bit of fresh air (in a series that really doesn’t need it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not welcome).

Naturally, there are characters we’re not likely to see again due to the nature of these books, and I’m going to miss them. Although the endings they got were well deserved and well executed.

I almost always walk away from a Wayward Children book feeling satisfied and a little in awe of McGuire—I think that feeling is larger this time just because of the number of emotional and story notes she managed to hit, the storylines she was able to incorporate and resolve, the ones she just moved forward, and…everything else in 160 pages. It shouldn’t be possible. This book (like most in the series) is bigger on the inside.

A few paragraphs back, I said that this wasn’t my favorite in the series—but at the moment, I’m having trouble understanding why (but I’m going to trust my earlier impulse). But it is so, so, so good. I’m having trouble coming up with adequate adjectives at this point.

Go get this in January. Order it now (and/or request it from your library). If you haven’t read these books yet, go. At a bare minimum, get the first, Every Heart a Doorway, and then Lost in the Moment and Found, so you can be ready for this one when it’s released. You can catch up on the others later.

This originally appeared in Grandpappy's Corner at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Saint Valentine the Kindhearted About?

Why do we call our celebration of love on February 14th (St.) Valentine’s Day? Why do we use February 14th, for that matter?

Ned Bustard brings us another picture book Biography to teach young readers about Valentine, who was martyred under Claudius on February 14.

Granted, we don’t know a lot about Valentine and his work, but we have enough to fill this book (and, as I recall from wordier historical treatments, not much more). We get a touch of his early life, a look at his ministry (and the Roman culture), a notable miracle that’s ascribed to him, and a bit about the events leading to his martyrdom. All told in a child-appropriate rhyme.

Let’s Talk about the Art for a Minute

Bustard’s cartoon-y art is as great here as it was in his Saint Patrick the Forgiver. The thing that stands out to me is his inking. (at least that’s what we called it back when I was really into comics and talked about the art, hopefully, it still counts). The way he uses bold lines around his character’s faces/bodies (particularly Valentine’s), really makes them pop off the page and almost look like wooden puppets. (that’s the best I can do as far as describing the pictures)

He’s also able to convey a certain amount of unpleasantness and threat with Roman soldiers without changing the overall feel of the story and its appropriateness for young readers.

Now, in the Patrick book, he worked in a lot of Celtic knots and whatnot to give it a more Irish feel. Here he goes for a lot of differently colored hearts all over the pages. It didn’t even occur to me while reading the book to pay attention to that—it fit the overall Feb. 14th vibe. I should’ve known better—thankfully, he explained it in “A Note from the Author,” so when I read this with the Grandcritter I can seem more knowledgeable. He works in these hearts in different colors to represent the four types of love (eros, storge, philia, and agape) from ancient Greek thought (and a pretty good book by C.S. Lewis), showing how Valentine displayed and interacted with these types of love in various episodes in the book.

You can check out the Publisher’s site for a glimpse at the art and layout as a preview. This will probably give you a better idea than anything I tried to convey.

How is it to Read Aloud?

It’s a nice little bit of rhyming text, and starting off with “Roses are red,” as often as he does, you’re going to get right into the rhythm reflexively, which is a nice touch. Some of the rhymes feel like a stretch to me*, but when you’ve got a good head of steam going as you read you probably won’t notice.

* “ago” and “van Gogh”, really? Also, that only works if you use the American pronunciation—sorry, British readers.

So, what did I think about Saint Valentine the Kindhearted?

I enjoyed this. I do wish we had more history to draw from for Bustard to use here (and, well, other historians writing for older audiences, too), just to fill out some of the details reliably. But this is a good introduction to the figure that’s had such a cultural impact so that even younger readers can know there’s basis to the celebration beyond chalky candies and silly drawings.

I don’t have a lot to say about this beyond that. It’s a fun read for the little folks, it has details and layers that older readers can appreciate and use to talk about bigger ideas with the little ones, too. Color me impressed yet again by Bustard and I’m eager to see what holiday/figure he picks next. Anyone trying to bring Early Church figures to the attention of the pre-K crowd deserves some applause and I’m happy to keep giving it, while gladly recommending you jump on board.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Secret About?

It’s 1992 and Capt. Jack Reacher has been assigned to a task force organized by the Secretary of Defense. He’s the U.S. Army Representative, and there’s someone from the CIA, the FBI, and the Treasury Department. They’ve been brought together to investigate a series of possible murders of scientists from around the country—although there’s the possibility they’re freak accidents or suicides, too.

In the 60s these men were part of a secret project that was abandoned after an accident caused some civilian deaths. But now it appears that someone has found their names and is working their way down a list. Can Reacher and the task force find the killer in time? What’s the purpose of killing them now?

So, what did I think about The Secret?

If this were a thriller about any other character and had someone else’s name on the cover, I might have said it was enjoyable enough.

But it’s about Jack Reacher and Lee Child’s name is on the cover (even if it’s pretty well established that Andrew is doing most of the writing), so there are certain standards that have to be met. The Secret falls far short of them.

I could go on a prolonged screed listing my problems with the book—but I’m going to skip it. Those problems range from minor (there’s no way that a 1992 version—or a 2023 version—of Reacher is going to say “pearl clutching”) to major (there’s no reason for the big multiple attackers vs. Reacher fight in the middle other than it’s been a hundred pages since Reacher’s done anything violent, and that time was pretty quick and undramatic). I’d also say I was disappointed by the use of the rest of the task force, which was subpar at best, the big reveal at the end was lazy, and the concluding chapters were a letdown from the mediocre pages before it.

But for me, it boils down to this—that guy walking around in a uniform wasn’t Jack Reacher. He was a decent Generic Thriller hero who could possibly develop into a character worthy of a series. And that’s a fatal flaw.

The Secret wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t good, either. Reacher deserves better from his creator—and from anyone hired to carry on the character, and he’s not getting it. I’ve tried (and some of my readers have told me I shouldn’t) to give this new arrangement time to develop into something worthwhile, but I think my experiment is over. I’m going to move on to other thriller series now—I may check in with what the Child brothers are doing in a couple of years, but if I’m going to keep a positive regard for Jack Reacher, I’m going to have to focus on my memories (and whatever Alan Ritchson is doing on the show).

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Up on the Woof Top About?

Bernie accompanies his elderly neighbors to a book signing for Dame Ariadne Carlisle, the author of a series of Christmas-themed mysteries. This, as one has to assume, is interrupted by some canine-induced chaos. However, it wasn’t Chet that got out of hand this time. Nevertheless, Chet and his human partner do grab the attention of Carlisle.

She ends up offering the duo a job they can’t turn down. She owns quite the little compound up in the mountains. It’s called Kringle Ranch and has buildings with names like Cratchit House. Carlisle knows her brand and has fully embraced it. As part of this brand, she owns a group of nine reindeer—her favorite, Rudy, has gone missing. For a sizeable payday, successful or not, she wants Bernie (or probably his friend with the superior sense of smell) to find Rudy and bring him back home.

Once they get to the Ranch, Bernie learns that Carlisle is suffering a career-risking case of writer’s block—which is ascribed to Rudy’s absence, but it could be the pressure that book 100 is too much for her. Or a combination of things. But it’s this block that Bernie really focuses on.

Or he tries to, anyway. Shortly after they arrive, the duo finds Carlisle’s personal assistant at the bottom of a gorge, barely alive. It turns out that Carlisle’s one, true love was also found at the bottom of that gorge, murdered, before she started writing. Bernie assumes that there’s a link between the two and plunges into the unsolved murder case as a way of finding the attempted murderer.

A Holiday Sampler

Along the way, we get the occasional excerpt from Carlisle’s Trudi Termaine series—which is interesting enough and does help you understand the character. But…I’ve gotta say, I hope Quinn doesn’t go the Seanan McGuire/A. Deborah Baker route and put out books under her name, I don’t know that I could deal with an entire novel’s worth of it.

(of course I would inevitably try it)

The Holiday Content

Unlike the previous holiday-themed installment, It’s a Wonderful Woof, where I said that it “would be very easy to forget that this is a Christmas/Holiday Themed novel,” it is impossible to forget that about this book. I mean, for crying out loud, Bernie is hired to search for a reindeer named Rudolph.

Christmas just flat-out permeates Up on the Woof Top. Thankfully, not in a cheesy way, or one that should offend anyone, or put off Scrooges. It’s part of the setting, it’s part of every plotline*, and the holiday is discussed frequently.

* I should probably qualify that with a “nearly,” but I can’t think of an exception off the top of my head.

None of this makes this one of those novels/stories that you can only read during the holiday season—like The Nutcracker or A Christmas Carol. Whenever you get to it during the year, it’ll be fine—but you won’t forget for a second what time of year it takes place in. (which makes it different from almost every single other book in the series, which could take place anytime)

Continuing Arcs

Sure, it wasn’t the biggest series-changing moment, but Chet getting out to…ahem…become a father was so subtle that you could be forgiven for missing it. And many of the series’ bigger moments (both for individual novels or overall) are underplayed—thanks in part to Chet not understanding them at the time or his unreliable narration.

That is not the case in this book. Not even close. Bernie does some things here that are going to change the books, his work, Chet’s life, and more in ways that readers can only guess at for now. (Quinn might only be guessing at for now, too)—and they make up the B-story, frequently distracting Bernie and the reader from murders, attempted murders, sleigh-pulling mammals, aging friends (new and old), and so on.

Here’s a fairly non-spoilery way to talk about how big and unusual Bernie’s actions in this novel are—he goes to his regular pawn shop not to hock or buy-back the watch. He goes there to just buy something. It threw me almost as much as it did the owners of the pawn shop.

So, what did I think about Up on the Woof Top?

“You did us proud. You’re the brains of the outfit, no doubt about it.”

Me the brains? That had to be one of Bernie’s jokes. He can be very funny at times. If I were the brains how could the Little Detective Agency be so successful, except for the finances part? Still, it was nice to hear. If only I knew exactly what I’d done I could do it again, and then hear Bernie say “You did us proud,” once more. Or even more than once! But you can’t have everything, which kind of makes sense, because who could possibly carry everything? You could have it, but you couldn’t go anywhere. What would be the point of that?”

I had a blast with this—there’s a subplot or scene or two that I wondered about. But they were either eventually justified or were fun enough that I didn’t care. The rest was just a ball of holiday-flavored Chet-goodness.

I never understood Bernie’s approach to the search for Rudy, I will admit. It really felt like he was just taking a vacation and occasionally remembered he had a chore to do. But that job was just an excuse to put him in this setting so he could look into this murder/attempted murder and associated shenanigans—that was clear from the jump (well, not what he was really going to be doing there, but that a case other-than the Rudy-hunt was in the wings)—so I didn’t worry about it too much. Also, the payoff to that particular gig was dealt with well enough by Quinn, that any quibbles just didn’t matter.

The novel is largely Bernie and Chet getting to play in the snow while doing what they do best while encountering a few characters that the reader will want to get to know better (a former Sheriff and a current deputy for starters). There’s a child that will steal your heart as he does Chet’s. And then there’s the setup for the series change that I mentioned above. Up on the Woof Top delivers plenty of fun from page 1 to 307.

Naturally, we get some healthy doses of what a friend calls Chet the Jet wisdom and other real heartwarming moments (see above quotation) that will flip in a moment to welcome silliness. There’s also a conversation about the lifespan of dogs that hit me right in “all the feels” after my dog’s recent death (it would’ve done it anyway, but the hit landed a bit harder). To be clear: I absolutely loved that moment and would’ve given the book 3 stars just because of it had I been annoyed by the rest of it.

Fans of this series will be very happy to unwrap this gift—and it should win a new reader over as well. If either of those two labels applies to you, I heartily recommend this novel to you.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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…the bowl shifted.

Slowly the crimson crockery began to rise. Twig like fingers curled around the edge. A pair of furry arms followed and then came two frightened golden eyes that blinked rapidly at them. A triangular face with a soft puppylike nose was next. It twitched as a strand of pasta slid off it to the floor. Oversized tufted ears slowly unfolded as the creature spoke…

“Please, we are needing your help.” It repeated, its eyes large and pleading like a puppy begging for a treat.

Jasper rubbed his own eyes in disbelief. “W-w-w…” he stuttered. He licked his lips he tried again. “What are you?”

“We are being the Fuzzwiggs,” the creature replied.

“Whose [sic] ‘we’ and what are, uh, those?” Milo asked, brushing the lettuce from his hair.

The animal made a gesture with his long fingers and several other big-eyed furry creatures shuffled forward, filling the room. They came from behind doors and under furniture. One was even inside a kitchen cabinet. Their rabbit like feet stepped carefully around the food-splattered floor…

What’s Fuzzwiggs: The Switcheroo About?

I’ll try to keep this brief…but no promises.

When we meet them, Jasper (12) and his brother, Milo (10), are moving to a new home. Their father died in a plane crash, and their mother can’t support the family as things are. So they, their mother (Emily) and baby brother (Wyatt) are going to live in tiny little town in Idaho to live with their grandfather and aunt. The brothers really don’t know their family well, but the house their father grew up in is large enough for them and the change will be good for the family (or so Emily hopes).

When they arrive, no one is home. They didn’t expect their grandfather to be there—he travels a lot and doesn’t do a great job of keeping the family updated on his location. But their Aunt Delilah should’ve been there. In her place is a note welcoming them to the house, telling them to choose their own rooms, make themselves comfortable, and to do a few specific things—follow some rules and do some chores. Some of the chores and rules are odd, but whatever.

The house is large and wonderful—the boys really want to go exploring some of the strangeness, but their mother makes them focus on unpacking and whatnot. Perhaps the strangest thing about the house is that there is a large, old tree in the center of it—words like “mega” and “ancient” are used by the boys to describe it. Their dad used to joke about being raised in a tree house. Now they get it. Sort of.

What the family is going to learn, is that the Great Tree is a vitally important object beyond their comprehension. It’s guarded (in part) by some strange and magical creatures called the Fuzzwigs. The odd thing about these creatures (well, one of the odd things) is that their magic comes from their flatulence.

But before they learn that, as is expected in stories where people are given oddly specific instructions and warnings—Emily and the kids don’t really heed them as they should. The consequences of that are going to bring a lot of trouble—and the Fuzzwigs—into their lives.

Fuzzwiggs

This is going to be the crux of the book for (at least) most readers—what do you think of these creatures? Even the Middle-Grade readers of this book are going to be familiar with a lot of the things in the novel—the bickering brothers, the family tragedy that makes them move, the mysterious extended family members they have to rely on, the strange thing in the new house that comes with a lot of rules, etc. And sure, silly intelligent (or at least sentient and capable of communication) creatures will be familiar, too—but the Fuzzwiggs are what’s going to draw the attention and keep it or lose it.

For this reader, they kept it. It helps once you get to the point you can see beyond the obvious comedy and get to something deeper (not much deeper, it’s not that kind of book)—I don’t know how much the target audience will respond to that, probably more than I reflexively give them credit for. Also, this will be easier to talk about when we get to Book 2 in the series and I can talk about some of these deeper ideas without spoiling things.

I think the easiest comparison I can make to help one of my readers to understand the Fuzzwiggs is the lemurs from Madagascar movies and the spin-off movies/show. They have a similar kind of manic energy and attitudes. As I make that comparison, I realize that the humor that comes from them reminds me of DreamWorks Animation movies in general.

We might as well segue to:

The Humor

Yes, it’s largely juvenile. So what? The book is directed at people who are juveniles. Can adults appreciate it? Yes, but only if they are willing to find humor in bodily functions and whatnot.

I think of it similarly to that line of C.S. Lewis’ about Fairy Tales, about one day being old enough to start reading them again. Or, “When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.” Human bodies are silly things that can make gross noises—at a certain age, we pretend it’s not amusing, and at a more advanced age we can chuckle at it again. Sure, I might not find the sounds and this book as amusing as a ten-year-old will…but I’m okay with that. Actually, I’m a little jealous.

So, to get back to the DreamWorks Animation idea—if Shrek and its counterparts are too juvenile for you—skip this book. And give it to someone who will enjoy the humor.

There is one character in particular I’d love to talk about on the comedy front, but it would spoil too much. Let’s just say that there’s a Hollywood hopeful in these pages that deserves a spin-off novella.

So, what did I think about Fuzzwiggs: The Switcheroo?

I really enjoyed the way that the whole family got involved—at least in some way—with the story. It’d have been very easy for Rice to focus on Jasper and Milo—or the boys and their aunt. But Rice got their baby brother rather involved in the story to great effect—Wyatt’s antics elicit some good chuckles and also brought some sweetness into things. I also appreciated the way their Mom was handled—we get a little from Emily’s perspective, we understand how everything we see here is difficult for her and yet she knows it’s best, and so on. And then she’s largely sidelined because this is a MG book and it’s a rule. Or, to put it less cynically, otherwise, the boys couldn’t get into adventures. But it’s a comical sidelining that Rice used well.

The adventure story itself is exactly what you want in this kind of story—there’s a great trek through the wilderness, hazards from within and without, some villains that really don’t realize what they’ve gotten themselves into (they’re both rotten and comical, a great combination for this kind of book), and some great battles (or scenes that are battle-ish and I don’t know how else to characterize them) and some nice story resolutions with hidden life lessons in them. It’s a good balance between comedy and adventure that I’d imagine would appeal to a broad range of middle-grade readers.

I had a few quibbles with the book and feel like I should mention them. There’s a museum in town that was established before Lewis and Clark stumbled through the area. I assume that was an editorial slip, or there’s going to be a great explanation eventually given for that. I do wonder if some of the descriptions of the magic/abilities of some of the creatures could’ve been explained a little better. Some (all?) of the scenes that cut away to things not directly involving the main events of this book were really hard to follow, yes, they’re establishing the world for this series and setting up future books. But I think a little more finesse would’ve helped a lot here. Neither of these are fatal flaws, and I anticipate that Rice will do this kind of thing better as she writes more. But they dampen my enthusiasm a bit.

Just a bit, though. I had a ball with this book and I think my readers would enjoy it—and the kids in their lives would enjoy it even more. I’m eager to see where Rice takes this series and I really want to see the scenes that follow the Epilogue. I imagine most readers will be with me there.

Pick this up—I think you’ll be happy you did.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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We sat there in silence for a few moments, as if each of us were waiting for the other to make the next move. It often went this way with potential clients, like an awkward first date, and just how much they wanted to drop their guard.

“So how can I help you, Mrs. Crain?”

“Please. Laura.”

“So how can I help you, Laura.”

Her blue eyes were so pale as to be as clear as glass.

“That’s the thing,” she said. “You probably can’t.”

What’s Broken Trust About?

From that promising start, Laura Crain—the wife of the US’s 6th richest man—asks Spenser to help. Her husband has been acting strangely, and neither Laura nor his business partner can understand why. Their company is on the verge of completing a merger that will make them richer yet and will secure the company’s place in the electric car market.

The richer part isn’t that important—outside of the increasing opportunities for the very philanthropic couple to give even more money to causes. But strengthening the company to keep doing what it’s been doing is important to the Crains—they’re committed to this kind of environmentally friendly industry.

Spenser has a hard time starting his investigation because it’s such a vague target—maybe he can’t help her after all, but something about Laura Crain makes him want to try. He’s (reportedly, although some downplay this) almost paranoid, having outbursts—one nearly violent one is witnessed by Spenser—and his volatility puts many things at risk.

Then someone tied to the company is murdered. Spenser is threatened. Not long after that, someone else dies, too (probably another murder, even if it’s initially unclear). And now Spenser has a bigger mess to look into, assuming he can keep everyone else connected to the case safe and the target off his back.

The Obligatory Street-Cred Establishment

Each time a new author takes the reins of a Parker series, their first book is full of them establishing their bona fides when it comes to the series. They have to show that they understand the protagonist, the supporting characters, and the history of the series through references to past cases, quick/extended appearances of various supporting characters, etc. And Lupica goes above and beyond with these—almost all of them feeling like they were apropos in the moment, thankfully. I started to keep a mental list of his efforts, then I switched to writing them down when the list got long enough—then I abandoned it because I had better things to pay attention to and it was getting too long to print here.

The punchline? The dude knows his stuff and can show it off.

He even brings in a connection to Gino Fish. Given how long Gino’s been dead, that was nice. And, as difficult as it might be to justify returning to that connection, I’d enjoy Lupica finding a way to do it. I really enjoyed that particular character.

Now, I didn’t think that Sunny Randall’s quick appearance was necessary—nor do I think Richie Burke added much. But I liked how the latter was used (which may contradict what I just said about him), and it was a clever thing to do.

Martin Quirk

Martin Quirk gets a couple of good scenes here and his presence is felt outside of them, too—Belson brings him up a few times, which helps—but Quirk casts enough of a shadow it wasn’t that necessary. Part of that is due to the whole cred establishment, but not all of it, I don’t think. It also fits pretty well with this book—and you’d expect someone with his rank to be getting involved given the prominence of the people involved in these murders.

Beyond that, however, if Lupica wasn’t planting seeds for something major on the Quirk-front in the next book or two, then he faked me out pretty well. I hope he didn’t because I’m pretty curious about it—we haven’t gotten a lot of good Quirk material in a long time (since he got Spenser out of that southern jail cell back in the 90s, maybe?).

Mike Lupica

And what’s going on with Quirk is just one of the moves Lupica is making to put his own stamp on this series. And that’s one of the things I really appreciate about both the Publisher/the Estate’s handling of these authors taking over—they allow them to make changes to the characters. I’d absolutely understand if they had to keep the characters in some sort of stasis from how Parker had left them, like an ’80s TV drama or something.

I’m holding off forming an impression about what Lupica is doing with some of the characters at this point, I need to see it worked out a little more. But I do appreciate him taking ownership and making the moves.

I’ll be frank—I thought he did okay with the Sunny Randall books (the series I have the least attachment to, so I didn’t care too much how he did), and while I thought he was a step down from Coleman, he’s doing okay with the Jesse Stone books. But giving him the keys to the Ferrari of Parker’s series? That seemed like a dangerous move.

However, I think of all his Parker-verse work, this was the strongest. He rose to the occasion, and I’m greatly relieved. I hope he can continue it.

So, what did I think about Broken Trust?

He looked around. “We looking fo anything in particular?” Hawk said.

“What we’re always looking for,” I said. “Something that will make us feel smart when we find it.”

“Could be here awhile,” he said.

One of my favorite parts about almost every Spenser novel is the initial conversation between Spenser and the client. Lupica nailed it, I thought. After that strong start, things kept rolling at or near that level for just about the rest of the book.

It wasn’t perfect, by any means, but it was quite good. For example, some of the Hawk-Spenser banter is a little jokier than usual—Hawk, in particular, seems a little looser as he teases Spenser over a handful of things. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I enjoyed it—maybe too much—but I think Lupica could dial back Hawk a notch or two.

To be a little more pointed: the last page (or so) of Chapter Eighty-Three, all of Chapter Eighty-Four, and the last half of Chapter Eighty-Five (which, sadly is the last half chapter of the book) were let-downs. If you took the first half of Eighty-Five and put it earlier and made Eighty-Tree/the novel end with the conversation in Spenser’s office, I’d have been more satisfied. I can’t remember when I’ve been so specific about this kind of thing (not a habit I’m inclined to get into, either)—but that probably says how much it rankled me. I probably would’ve given the book another half-star (at least) without these pages.

Lupica did a good job with Susan—a character that can frequently be divisive, but he dealt with her well (and the conversations with her about the case didn’t drag the book down). Other than Hawk’s teasing, I thought he did a great job with Hawk and the other returning characters*.

* He did brush off one of the more tantalizing things that Atkins left for him regarding Hawk in less than a sentence, however. I think that was a mistake, but I get it, too.

As for Spenser himself? I give Lupica high marks—both for keeping Spenser vulnerable, fallible, and human while seemingly superhuman at times. There’s a point where Spenser wonders if he’s invented a red herring for himself on one line of inquiry, which was a nice touch. Spenser takes probably the least likely punch he’s received in the series to date—and I believed it (and quite enjoyed the fallout). Basically, he treated the character with the respect due, and I suspect that comes from a fellow fan’s heart.

I really liked the case—and the turns it took. I do wonder if Lupica wrote himself into a little corner and had to use a deus ex machina to get him out of it in the latter chapters. It worked well enough that I’m not complaining—nor am I wholly convinced that’s what happened. It just seems like one (which is bad enough). But the layers to the case, the motives of the potential suspects, how everything played out in the end, and the secrets that came to light (and how they came to light) were really well handled and worthy of Parker at his best.

Color me satisfied with this one, and my trust in Lupica strengthened. I think this would be a decent jumping-on point for someone curious about the character—or the idea of an aging PI still plugging away at things. Check this one out.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s A Good Rush of Blood About?

Creely Nash is almost forty, single, a waitress in downtown Portland, and a drug runner. That last item may be eye-catching, and it’s really the only thing in Nash’s life that could be described that way.

She’s been driving for Animal for long enough for him to trust her implicitly—she gets the job done with no muss, no fuss, and no questions. Pick up from some place in the Western US and deliver it somewhere else. Period. She gets a nice flat fee and goes back to work. She’s started a savings account so that one day she can move south of the border and forget everything else.

And then Animal has her do a job in Palm Springs, California. When she was 16, Creely ran away from her mother there and never looked back. She’d never been back, either. She should’ve told Animal no—it might not have been good for their working relationship if she had, but it’d be better than it ended up being.

One thing leads to another, and she runs into a face from her past who tells her that Creely’s mother is doing life in Chino for murder. The wheels come off at that point—there’s no love lost between Creely and Blossom, but you don’t shake off news like that. Creely delays returning to Portland (angering Animal) to stop in Chino. Blossom tells Creely she’s innocent, but not much else.

Creely decides to stay in Palm Springs and get some answers—at least for herself, but maybe for her mother, too. Animal is beyond angry at this point and promises Creely that if she’s not home soon, she’ll be killed.

She’s about as unlikely an amateur detective as you’re going to find—and this is no cozy where gumption and banter are going to get her anywhere. But luck, making a good friend or two, and a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time just might put her on the right trail.

So, what did I think about A Good Rush of Blood?

I didn’t think of Know Me from Smoke once while reading this book. But I’ve had a hard time not thinking about it every time I’ve thought about the book since then. Briefly—this is a better novel in just about every way that I can think of. But I didn’t care about what was happening or the people it was happening to nearly as much as I did with Know Me from Smoke. This probably says more about me than either book (I’m not sure what it says, however).

Now that I’ve got that out of the way, hopefully, my subconscious will allow me to focus on this book by itself.

The characters are so well-drawn that it’s hard to think of them as characters. It’s common to talk about a well-depicted as “flawed.” These characters are beyond flawed—some of them seem to be nothing but flaws. This is not a criticism in any way—these characters are real. The kind of people that we pass by every day—some of us even are these people.

Throughout the book, Creely accumulates people to help her in one form or another. And she does very little to obtain these helpers—in fact, she sometimes tries to shake them off. But it’s only through the addition of her allies that she comes closer and closer to getting the answers that she’s looking for. It’s not that she’s been friendless before—or ally-less even. But I didn’t get the impression that she’s had this many at once before.

I don’t understand the motivation for two of her allies—the two who end up personally most important to her. The more I consider the novel—and what these two characters say about themselves and their reasons for helping Creely—the less I understand them. It’s not that I find them unbelievable as characters (see what I said above), nor that I think we have to understand the motivations of everyone in life or fiction. But I really want to sit them down and ask, “Why are you putting yourself through this for this stranger? I know what you said, but really, why?” Maybe it’s because they’re easily the most likable characters in the book that their involvement in this mess (to put it succinctly)—and the ones who will benefit the least from it—that I’ve spent so much time thinking about them.

But those are secondary matters—the focus of this book is Creely. The murder mystery and what she (and others) must accomplish and endure to get answers is secondary, too. This is ultimately a matter of Creely understanding herself and getting a better understanding of the world. That is not to say the reader will necessarily agree with the latter—but it’s important. Creely would, I believe, sneer at the notion of “self-discovery” (I’m not sure that Phillips would be crazy about it either), so I won’t say she’s on a voyage of self-discovery here—although that’s the cliché one would appropriately use for any other protagonist in similar circumstances.

Creely’s life has been characterized by survival—I imagine her aspirations have been low, characterized primarily by “different than now” and “less bad.” Even her vague plans for getting out of drug running (eventually) could be seen as “getting by in better weather.” But this news about her mother and how it impacted Creely give her the opportunity to do something that counts. Something that could have a lasting impact for someone (in a positive way). It’s not about making a mark on the world in a way that draws attention to herself, garners fame, or any of the usual things we see in fiction. Creely finds an opportunity to accomplish something that will affect people. She’s not had that ever—and is unlikely to have it again (especially if Animal finds her.

That’s what drives Creely, what drives the novel—and she discovers, like so many of us, that she really didn’t understand much about her childhood, her parents, and what set her on her path. Sure, there’s more tragedy and drama in her past than some experience—and few have as hazardous a path to learn this as she does. But most readers will be able to relate to what she goes through in some way. By the end of this experience, Creely might be able to do more than simply exist, there might be more for her than getting to the next day. I doubt self-reflection has been a big part of her life prior to these events—and it might not be a huge component after. But she does do some now—and that’s no small thing.

I’ve gone on a lot about character, self-discovery, and whatnot—and you may be saying to yourself that this is a far cry from the “sweaty, fast-paced neo-noir” “[p]eopled with bent cops, grizzled reporters, hardened drug dealers, eccentric sidekicks, and sexy librarians” that the back of the book promises. You’re absolutely right to do that. I can only blather on like that because I’m late with this post—if I’d written this immediately (as intended), I’d have focused on that kind of thing and maybe devoted a paragraph to the things I’ve started to explore above. But I’ve had time to ponder.

“Sweaty” is an incredibly apt word. I kept thinking greasy and grimy for some reason while reading—just a present and real sense of wanting to wipe your hands off on something throughout. It’s like that hole-in-the-wall restaurant where you know why the lights are dim and you don’t care what kind of dodgy things happen in the kitchen because the food is great. “Fast-paced: might be an exaggeration, but it is propulsive—once the “murder” comes into play, there’s a momentum that carries you forward and you can’t get off. Like the moment the roller coaster starts to move and you get the sense that nothing can stop it now.

There’s both a rawness and a cleanness to the prose that makes you know that Phillips sweated over every line—possibly every syllable. It was absolutely worth it—it’s been five years since I first read Phillips, and he’s put them to good use (and the memory of the quality of that writing has remained with me longer than other books I read that year). The power of what he’s given the readers is going to linger in your subconscious.

This is one of the noir-est books I’ve read in 2023—a statement that would hold up in almost any year you read it—solidifying my impression of Runamok Crime as an imprint to stalk. Fans of Jordan Harper, Eli Cranor, or Vern Smith would do well to pick this up.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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A Vocabulary Lesson and The Title

Let’s start with the word “Ostler”—what is that? It’s apparently a variant of hostler (which doesn’t help me at all), someone who tends to horses at an inn. Words like “archaic” show up when you look and various dictionaries.

Now, I have to wonder—why entitle your novel with an archaic term that many people aren’t going to be familiar with? There’s a certain charm to using a term like that with a historical mystery. Also, maybe the term is a bit more familiar to readers in the U.K. Still, it seems risky to me. Who’s going to be drawn to that?

Sure, Grossey knows her audience—so it’s probably a smart move. Also, for Grossey fans, they’re going to be drawn to her name rather than the book’s.

Let’s move along to the more important things:

What’s Ostler About?

Our titular Ostler is Gregory Hardiman, a veteran of the war against Napoleon and other things—he has some sort of obvious facial injury, and more than a few memories he’d rather not have. He didn’t return home when his time was up, but took up residence in Cambridge and started working as an Ostler. He has a way with horses that garners him (and the inn he works for) a great reputation.

He’s also a reader—a big one. He’s constantly trying to educate himself—he carries a notebook of words he’s trying to learn with him and is frequently updating it. This, as much as his injury, seems to mark him as an oddity, and endears him to some characters as much as it will the reader.

Anyway, a coworker is found killed and his widow wants answers. Too many people (particularly the officials) write his death off, but neither his widow or Hardiman are convinced. Haridman finds himself assuring her that he’ll get to the bottom of it. On the one hand, she’s desperate for answers, so she’ll take the help of anyone who takes her seriously. But I’m not sure why either of them think he’s the right man for the job.

Naturally, as this is the first of a series, he clearly is, but Hardiman doesn’t strike me as the best candidate at the beginning. He starts by looking into the brother of the dead man—he’s familiar with the outskirts of the law, and just seems shifty.

This leads Hardiman to some dealings with Clement College and officials there—he uncovers some shady dealings and earns the trust of the faculty. While continuing to look into the murder, he ends up taking on another investigation for the College.

Hardiman—and an interesting hodgepodge of allies—uncovers a lot more than he expected to. Including some dangerous men who aren’t intimidated by an ex-soldier.

As Historical Fiction

So, what I know about this time period in England—particularly about the way colleges functioned, life in Cambridge and its environs, and so on would fit on the back of a postage stamp. With room for a florid signature left over. So Grossey could’ve made everything up out of whole cloth and I’d buy it—worldbuilding worthy of Rothfuss, Martin, or Jemisin.

But I’m certain* that’s not what happened here. Grossey paints a detailed picture of life in the time, a robust set of characters from a variety of socio-economic classes and professions. It reeks of authenticity. I want to read whatever books come next in the series just so I learn more. I jokingly told Grossey that I felt like I should ask her for a reading list to understand the time/setting—and she volunteered to provide such a list, but I think I’m just going to let her spoon-feed me things as I spend more time with Hardiman.

*98.7% certain, anyway. I feel like I should leave a little room for cynicism.

So, what did I think about Ostler?

This succeeds on multiple fronts—as a mystery, as a piece of historical fiction, as a showcase for a unique (and potentially fascinating, time will tell) protagonist, and as a series start. I don’t know that this book has it all (few do), but it certainly has enough to heartily recommend.

The story is compelling, the pacing isn’t quite what you’d want in a contemporary Crime Novel, but it fits for the time—which isn’t to suggest it lags at all. You really do want to spend more time with most of these characters again (including most of them on the wrong side of the law)—few more so than Hardiman. The circumstances in his life undergo a significant change by the end of this book, and I’m eager to see how he adapts to them (his life seems to be a series of adaptations already, he’ll do fine).

As a slice of early 19th-century life, I found it most intriguing, and I wager most who at least dabble in historical fiction will as well. As with her Sam Plank series, Grossey is able to bring things to life in a way that gets even the uninformed 21st-century reader to see things and to immerse yourself in the period.

Give this one a shot—at least one thing in this book will appeal to you, probably several.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Mysteries About?

Here’s the Publisher’s Description, if I try, I’m going to end up telling the whole, brief story:

In a fable for grown-ups by cartoonist Bill Watterson, a long-ago kingdom is afflicted with unexplainable calamities. Hoping to end the torment, the king dispatches his knights to discover the source of the mysterious events. Years later, a single battered knight returns.

I’m not going to say more, even though I think we could use a teensy-weensy expansion to really sell the story. But the story isn’t the important part because…

WOW. The Art!

This is why you pick up this book. Period. You’re curious about what Watterson’s been up to for the last umpteen years, how his art has changed and developed. What’s got his attention? And we won’t really know much given how short this book is and how atypical it is, but still, that curiosity is there.

Maybe you know John Kascht’s work and want to see what he’s been dabbling in.

Either way, this is why you come to this book—and you will be well rewarded for it.

I’m not going to try to explain how these black-and-white images capture so much—and yet, leave so much to the imagination. But I’ve already gone through this book a few times just to see the art without caring about the words (which, yeah, I’ve read twice—but not as often). There are a couple of samples here.

So, what did I think about The Mysteries?

Honestly, the story doesn’t do much for me. It’s fine—good enough to justify your time, but that’s it. It feels like the first 50-70% of a Neil Gaiman story (but told in far fewer words). Honestly, anyone who described something like that to me would be enough to get me to pick it up—but I wanted a little more from Watterson.

But the more I think about it, I’m always going to want more from Watterson than he seems willing to give. So I should shut up and be happy about it.

I cannot say enough good things about these images, though—the visual look of the book as a whole, either. I’m so glad I got this just for that experience. And it’s an experience I can repeat frequently.

I’m not going to give this a rating, because…I don’t know. I can’t assign a number to this. I’m just happy to see that Watterson is still out there doing creative things and hope he decides to share some more in the years to come.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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“You make them sound like monsters.” [Grimsby said]

He scoffed. “If only. Monsters are much simpler to deal with than people.” His face grew grim. “Much simpler.”

What’s Long Past Dues About?

Tired of the grunt-work and make-work befitting a rookie and relatively-untested Auditor (despite the heroics that got him his job), Grimsby acts on impulse and hijacks a case assignment from the closest thing he has to a friend in the Department of Unorthodox Affairs. It’s an investigation into the remains of an unidentified ritual. His job is to figure out what the ritual was supposed to do and who was behind it—particularly if the ritual was intended to produce something hazardous to humans. Rayne can’t—or won’t—tell anyone why she was so curious about this particular ritual, but the fact that Grimsby stole the assignment from her is enough to put their already tenuous relationship at risk.

Jumping into something out of his depth and under orders to make sure he’s not working alone, Grimsby tries to shake Mayflower off of his new/renewed attempts at putting the bottle to his head and pulling the trigger. Mayflower eventually emerges to help—not because of anything Grimsby said, or out of a sense of duty. But Grimsby dropped a photo that reminded Mayflower of one of his biggest successes, one of the rare times he shot someone and wasn’t haunted by it. How is anything about it back to rear its head?

Grimbsy and Rayne fluctuate between working together, racing each other, and trying to save each other while on this case.

While Grimsby was waiting for the Huntsman to come around, he spent a little time trying to help Wudge with something. It didn’t go wholly according to plan. Or much according to plan at all, really. Along the way, Grimsby picked up something that twists his magic in a way he’s having trouble adjusting to. And picked up an enemy—or at least adversary—or three. All of which is going to complicate things for him in the immediate future.

Digging Deeper into Mayflower

The first book explored both partners, but we learned more about Grimsby for sure. The accent fell more to Mayflower in this book—at least when it came to backstory and filling out the character—Grimsby was the focus of the plot again, to be sure.

That said, I think most readers would’ve guessed correctly to 95+% of what we learned about Mayflower here. But it’s good to have it spelled out for us—not in a spoon-feeding way, but the kind of confirmation that’s welcome. We also get a better understanding of what Mayflower sees in Grimsby, why he stuck up for him, and did what he had to to get Grimsby recruited by the Department.

Again, we probably could’ve guessed it, too. But I liked actually getting to see it.

I enjoy the way the two partners see themselves and each other—the way those perspectives conflict with each other and the way they roughly match up.

Wudge

It’d be super-easy to consider Wudge as comic relief primarily—with a hint of pathetic. Sure, he’s good for another perspective on the supernatural world and to help Grimsby out in a pinch—but he’s first and foremost someone to laugh at. Like Dobby. (I’m saying that because I’ve slipped into it, and that makes me feel better)

But it’s a mistake to think that—he’s more like Gurgi early on—funny, pitiful, with a hint of malice. Like Hearne’s hobgoblin Buck, but less trustworthy (and less easily amused). He’s dangerous, he’s looking out for himself more than anything—and is perfectly willing to take advantage of Grimsby. You, like Grimsby, can’t help but like him when he’s around. You feel bad for the guy and hope that Grimsby can give him the assistance he needs.

But something tells me that he’s more like the scorpion that stings the frog as they’re crossing the water together—his nature isn’t to pal around with a human. And we’re going to regret chuckling at him in the near future.

Or, I’m way off base and I’m going to have to come along and issue a retraction.

The Anti-Nick Fury?

Without getting into particulars, this book ends in a very similar way to the way its predecessor did. Someone out there is scheming, picking up the pieces from whatever Grimsby, Mayflower, and the rest of the Department left behind (and one has to assume they’re doing this with non-Grimsby cases, too). Exactly what they’re doing with the people and artifacts left behind we’re not told. It’s clearly ominous, but that’s about it.

It’s like the opposite of the post/mid-credit scenes in the early MCU movies where Fury is recruiting people for the Avengers Initiative. It’s more like those scenes in the Garfield Spider-Man movies (although, it’s been a few years so my memory is pretty fuzzy)—everyone, including Spidey, has thought he saved the day, righted the wrongs, and sent the bad guys packing, someone is out there coming along behind him with something clearly nefarious in mind.

Now, if James J. Butcher has really learned much from Jim Butcher, I expect that we’ll see/start to see what this has all been leading up to in Book 5. But I figure he knows that readers might expect that—so maybe it’ll be Book 4 or 6 instead. Whenever he reveals what’s cooking in these last looks, it’s going to be big. And it’s going to be bad news for Grimsby and Mayflower. It’ll be good for the reader, no mistake, but bad for our heroes.

Grimsby climbed out of the jeep and glanced around at the lot of black, mirrorless cars. Mayflower’s rusted-out vehicle stuck out like a mountain crag in the middle of a rolling black sea.

“Didn’t they offer you a car when you came back?” he asked as they entered the building’s concrete facade.

“They tried,” Mayflower said, then scoffed. “Even insisted.”

“And you said no?”

“That jeep has been with me since the start. I’ve rebuilt her from little more than scrap more than once. I know every sound she makes, every grind of every gear. You think I’d trade that for anything?”

“Okay, but have you ever thought about the ship of Theseus?”

“Yes.” The Huntsman scowled. “But Theseus never had a jeep.”

So, what did I think about Long Past Dues?

So, yeah, I picked up on the big twist pretty early on. And then the twist to that twist, too—although I’m not sure I got that earlier than Butcher wanted us to. Being ahead (?) of where we were supposed to be didn’t diminish things at all for me—if anything it amped up the suspense for me because I wondered how long it was going to take for Grimsby and Mayflower to suss it out, and how bad things were going to have to get for them to see it.

I’m rarely that into a twist surprising me—I’m far more interested in how the reveal is executed and Butcher did it just right here—I wouldn’t have minded the heroes putting the pieces together a bit quicker, but I’m not going to complain about how it came about. What I didn’t expect was just how it was going to play out after the reveal—and what the long-term ramifications were going to look at. And…whoa.

So much of what I thought was going to happen to/hoped would happen for Grimsby over the next few books went away in a paragraph or two. I feel so bad for him—and am so filled with anticipation to see what Butcher replaces my expectations with.

I really appreciate the way the partnership between the Huntsman and the rookie Auditor is developing. Whatever their bond in Dead Man’s Hand may have been, they’re not BFF’s by any means at this point. There are growing pains ahead, stops and starts to their partnership, and some pretty big obstacles they need to work through. But at the core—that relationship, respect for, need (?) for each other is a great starting point to see both grow as people and agents. I don’t know that Mayflower will ever get all his issues resolved, all his personal demons exorcised, etc. But he can get closer, he can maybe become really functional again—and that’s enough.

We got a couple of new and potentially recurring characters here that I really enjoyed. The magic—and the magical worlds—are enough to satisfy an Urban Fantasy fan. The monsters—and how they manifest in the real world—are great. The societies—Usual and Unorthodox—are intriguing in all the right ways. The banter is just what a buddy-cop reader wants to read. The moral choices aren’t easy or too clear-cut (which is great). The principal characters are engaging and believable. Basically, this series is really working for me. I can’t list all the things it’s doing right, actually.

I don’t have any major criticisms or complaints—I just want more of this series. Next year and for at least a handful of years to come. Long Past Dues didn’t disappoint and lived up to the promise of Dead Man’s Hand. Can’t ask for much more.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Chaos Terminal About?

A contingent of humans is about to arrive on Eternity—a mix of scholars wanting to interact with all the alien races on board, a couple of tourists, a couple of spies, the detective who had Mallory in his sights for years, and the new ambassador to Eternity. Sadly, they arrive at a bad time—Mrs. Brown, the new host for the sentient space station has left for some training on how to be a better host, leaving Eternity functional, but not optimally so. Mallory has been left as the primary contact for Eternity (which only Mrs. Brown and Eternity seem to think was the right choice)—but she’s not quite herself once these humans arrive.

Now, as is wont to happen around Mallory, one of this group is murdered. Something is going on with the Sundry that no one can quite understand. The Gneiss outside of Eternity aren’t happy with what Tina and Stephanie did in the concluding chapters of the last book—and just might attack the station to express their displeasure. Oh, and among the newly-arrived humans are two people Mallory has had zero contact with for years—her High School BFF, Amy, and Amy’s brother, Parker. Parker is Mallory’s long-lost unrequited love, and it’s pretty clear that he’s never really put the torch he carries for her down anywhere.

Adrian

After what happened to him in Station Eternity (and what he did before that), I really thought we were done with the former ambassador, Adrian. Alas, I was wrong—he’s still around. For a guy who’s not a villain or a real antagonist, he’s really unpleasant as a character. I really wish he was something other than “the annoying human on the station.”

He’s toned down a little bit after his recent experiences, but at his heart, he’s still an arrogant twit who doesn’t contribute much of worth to anyone. At least that I can tell. I really hope that now that his replacement is on board he decides to head back to earth.

(or, fine, Lafferty does something really interesting with him in the next book would be preferable to losing him—she really didn’t this time out—but it’d have to be quite interesting not to get on my nerves)

The Killer

I want to start out by saying that I really don’t have sympathy for the killer and think things wrapped up justly for them (that’s a fairly spoiler-free way to put it, I think).

But once it was revealed what led up to the murder—and how things spiraled out of control afterward—I kind of felt bad for them. They were unknowingly wrapped up in things and fell victim to bad assumptions because of that. Yes, their reactions were utterly wrong—but I can understand how they got to the point where murder seemed like a solution. That understanding lasted until they started taking the next steps to cover up the crime and everything that ensued.

I do appreciate that Lafferty set things up that way for the killer—the alien cultures, the intrigue around the killer and the trip to Eternity, and the least-sympathetic murder victim I remember reading this year—help the reader to be ambivalent about the killer’s actions (at least initially). Not enough writers do that.

So, what did I think about Chaos Terminal?

The one thing I wish Lafferty had done differently was the humor in this book. Not that Station Eternity was a yuk-fest by any means, but there was a fairly steady stream of humor throughout—either in character moments, misunderstandings between the aliens and humans, or just the preposterous nature of Mallory’s abilities and what she did with them. The humor in Chaos Eternity was almost entirely centered on Tina. She was a walking, talking (and/or yelling) embodiment of chaos and slapstick. So much so that it started to be too much a few times (but Tina and Lafferty won me over each time I was tempted to give up).

I do wish Xan had a little more to do, too. But he was integral to so much of the plot, but not in an overt way—I remember him playing a bigger role in Station Eternity than he did here. He was almost as important as Mallory before, and he was demoted to the fourth-most integral character. Here’s hoping that’s not a permanent thing.

While I was engaged, very curious, and entertained throughout—I wasn’t having as much fun as I did with Station Eternity and I will admit I wondered if I misjudged the other book. Then two things happened—1. Mallory and Parker had a good conversation where they both communicated* and 2. The killer was revealed. After that (or in the midst of that) everything clicked into place and almost everything that had me on the fence about this book went away.

* There was nothing wrong with the scenes earlier where they failed to actually communicate, both were distracted, unsure if they could trust the other, getting over baggage, and thinking they could delay the conversation.

I did say “almost everything” there. I’m not wholly on-board with everything Lafferty was doing. I really haven’t had as much time to think about this book as I wanted to between the time I finished and the time I wrote this post—I assume that if I had, a lot of what I’m uncertain about would make sense to me. I really don’t understand some of the relationships in this book, why some of the interpersonal conflicts existed, and just why Lafferty decided to take up so much space with all that. However, most of that provided a couple of red herrings—or at least things that distracted Mallory from what she needed to focus on—which was likely a large part of the point. It could be as simple as Lafferty was using everything possible to add to the titular chaos.

None of this detracts from everything that (eventually) worked about the novel, but it keeps me from raving about it. It’s not really what I expected from this sequel—and that’s such a good thing. What happens in the last few chapters ensures that Book 3 won’t be anything like this or Station Eternity. I’m not sure what’s going to happen—nor am I going to bother trying to guess (although it’s probably safe to assume that a new group of humans will visit Eternity and one of them will be murdered). I will trust Lafferty to come through with a satisfying conclusion however.

And, boy howdy, did this conclusion satisfy. Everything was wrapped up fairly nicely—those things that weren’t really only served to set things in motion for Book 3.

As the dust settled with the book’s events—and as the dust settles in my mind about those events and Lafferty’s plotting—I’m left satisfied and impressed with the way it all went down. I had my doubts, but they were quelled and assuaged, leaving me able to say that those who enjoyed Station Eternity would do well to pick this up—more importantly, those who like a good mystery in an even better SF setting, in the years soon following First Contact should grab both books in this series and prepare for something great next year (or so).