Michael A. Stackpole's Blog, page 5
March 13, 2013
Used Ebooks: The Sky is NOT Falling
There’s been some growing discussion over the fact that Amazon and Apple have both applied for patents to resell “pre-owned” ebooks. Lots of folks have decried this effort for a variety of reasons (like authors not getting paid). Most importantly, it’s been suggested that discounting pre-owned ebook prices would drop the bottom out of the market for all ebooks.
The market crashes through a race to the bottom, assuming that price is the key factor in book purchases which, if one looks at the history of publishing, it’s never been before. Used books become preferred because of the price savings and the return of money to the owner. New books have to lower their prices to compete on price; a glut of used books kills sales on new books, and the discount price means that as new books sell for less, used books will sell for even less. Pretty soon, in that scenario, prices spiral down to nothing, which hammers the profit margin for ebook retailers. Pretty soon we’re all out on the street wearing signs saying, “Will write for food.”
Which got me thinking: Why on earth would Apple or Amazon discount pre-owned ebooks?
Allowing customers to resell ebooks is nothing but a customer loyalty program for either company. It’s not like they’re going to be writing anyone checks. You’ll have to spend your credit (likely 10% of the price) in their stores. Your used book goes in on the bottom of the pile, and you get a credit when someone buys it off the top of the pile. It’s all very neatly done.
If they were to discount, they’d crash the market as feared. Moreover, publishers and author groups would sue them, with injunctions meaning that plans would get spiked for a couple of years anyway. By charging full retail, they support their profit margins, keep creatives happy, and reward colonies of loyalists. They keep you home and happy in their walled garden. (What will quickly follow, by the way, is renewed incentives for exclusive content from creatives, which makes each walled garden that much more enticing.)
I know that there’s a flaw in my reasoning. I expect, on general principles, for corporations to act in their own enlightened self-interest. I grant that not all corporations are that enlightened, and their self-interest might be different than my interpretation of it. It is entirely possible that a marginal discount (5-10%) might be offered initially just to make a publicity splash when programs are put in place. Price stability, however, is in the best interest of both companies; and once they’ve established their marketplaces, they’ll be happy to crush upstarts that aren’t willing to play by their rules. (Amicus brief, anyone?)
What if I’m wrong? In a previous draft of this post I came up with a handful of strategies authors (and publishers) could use to combat pre-owned ebook sales. None are difficult, many are variations of things being done here and there now; and most are actually useful business strategies to make money anyway. The point being that even if things were to crater because an ebook retailer got hit with a bad case of the stupids, indie writers could survive. (Mind you, a ton of writers would get out of the game, since minimum wage jobs would be more lucrative for them, but some of us would be able to hang in there.)
And if stupidity happens, I’ll trot those strategies out for all of us to play with.
I’m not convinced, at this stage of the game anyway, that the sky is falling. Doesn’t mean I won’t be watching the sky. I will, but I won’t be wringing my hands, wailing and gnashing my teeth while I do. I’ll spend the time writing and figuring out what else to do if disaster strikes. That’s a better way to spend my time, I think, and I heartily recommend it to all other authors who want to continue making a living doing what they love.
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What I love to do is write stories. Turning out essays like the one above is something I think it’s important to do, but it takes away from my time writing fiction. I’d really appreciate it if, having found the above useful, you consider supporting my efforts by buying my latest: Mysterious Ways.
Mysterious Ways comes in three different editions, with the novel itself running around 90,000 words. If you choose to purchase from Stormwolf.com, you get both the .mobi and .epub files, and don’t have to worry about DRM.
Super Delux Edition: This edition includes not only the novel and the essay about how it came to be written, but I’ve also included a novella and two short stories.
Stormwolf.com Super Delux Edition
Amazon.com Super Delux Edition
Delux Edition: As with the Delux Edition of In Hero Years… I’m Dead, I’ve included an essay that talks about the writing of the novel, it’s long journey to publication, inspirations for characters and hints at where the series will go from here. You get to read the novel, then peek behind the scenes.
Basic Edition: The basic edition gives you Mysterious Ways in its purest form—just the novel, no extras.
Click here to join my mailing list.
March 8, 2013
Mysterious Ways: Chapter Six
In this chapter I get to describe a few of the circumstances that caused Connor Moran’s writing career to crater. I’ve never heard of all of them happening to a single book, but I have heard of all of them happening to a book. Publishing can be a very tricky game, and this part was written before the advent of digital publication. Digital makes things better for authors but, thank goodness, not so good that Connor will be moving out on his own. Just thinking about having to replace him in Bloodstone’s world gives me a headache.
Chapter Six
Even with the light traffic on a Sunday, the trip back to the house takes a good forty minutes. “So, what possessed you to come down here and watch soccer?”
“I was a bit curious. I knew you played but had never seen a game.”
I frowned from behind sunglasses. “I don’t remember mentioning playing soccer.”
She shook her head. “You didn’t. I’m an English teacher, remember? A student of mine did a book report on one of your novels. He got that tidbit from your Wikipedia page.”
“You let a student do a report on one of my books?” I hit the gas as a green left-turn arrow lit up, sending us north along 23rd Ave toward Camelback. “There’s lots better books for him to read.”
“The key, Connor, is to get kids to read at all. Besides, the book was good. I read it, too, so I could discuss it with him. You write well, but you’ve not had a book out since Ganelon’s Curse.”
I nodded. “Should have been titled Connor’s Curse. It died, and so did my career.”
The sympathetic look on her face could have melted a heart of stone. Somehow I resisted the impulse to stop the car and kiss her. “But that was a wonderful book. The cover was horrible, but folks know better than to judge a book by its cover.”
“True, unless you’re a chain book buyer. Well, that was back in the day when there were book chains.” I sighed. “That book was just snakebit. My first two did better than expected, so the publisher thought this would be my breakout book. They were going to print a bunch and even promote it; at least, that was the plan. Then my publisher got bought by another publisher and the two science fiction departments got combined. My editor got fired so the book was orphaned. Since it wasn’t acquired by any of the editors at the new house, it got relegated to second class status. The cover was the kiss of death, so the initial orders were low. I knew that would be tough, but I was hoping for good word of mouth.”
“I’ve recommended it to friends. I even wanted to use it in a course, but rounding up twenty copies is impossible.”
“Yeah, well, they’re in a landfill in Jersey somewhere.” I turned left on Camelback and begin the long shot east. “Thanks to global warming, a freak tornado trashed my publisher’s warehouse right after the books had been delivered. I guess a few copies had gone out, but most were sitting there and were sucked into oblivion. There’s munchkins in Oz who’ve made houses out of them. Anyway, the insurance company settled, but the publisher didn’t reprint since there was no reorder demand. I think six thousand copies were distributed and most all sold, but that kinda punched a stake through the heart of my career. Sales figures like that mean nobody wants my books.”
Julia laid a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “It sucks, but those are the breaks of the game.”
“You’re still writing, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, working on an alternate history, right wing American thing. It’ll be a series. I’m calling it Homeland Security Services. I work on it in my spare time.”
“Dr. Bloodstone keeps you occupied doing things?”
“Yeah, but if not for him, I’d have to get a real job, so it’s okay.”
She nodded. “Your bios all talk about you being a skeptic, and the hero in Ganelon’s Curse, he didn’t believe in any of the fantasy stuff going on around him. It was autobiographical, wasn’t it?”
“A bit.”
“So how come this association with Dr. Bloodstone?”
“Started as one of those ‘any port in a storm’ kinda things.” I sighed. “I first met him when there was a psychic surgeon working Phoenix. I was digging through the newspaper archives at the Burton Barr Central Library for the Phoenix Skeptics when he came wandering over, looking for the same articles I was. He had a guy with him then named Mansfield. He was big, ex-special forces, I think. Never said much. I shared the clips with Bloodstone and kept him informed about what I was doing. He did the same with me and the DA finally busted the psychic surgeon thanks to stuff we both sent over.
“After that, I’d hear from Bloodstone from time to time. Articles he thought I might find interesting, little things like that, would appear in snail mail. He never invited me for dinner or tea, but he did come to a book signing I had—the one for Ganelon’s Curse, in fact. Then he went off on that Everest expedition.”
Julia shivered and I could feel it through the hand on my arm. “I read about that online. It must have been horrible. A party of fifteen going to the summit and that storm blows in.”
“And one guy comes out alive.” I shook my head slowly. “Mansfield died up there. Bloodstone never talks about it, just kinda poured all the emotion and hurt into the memoir he wrote about the ordeal. I guess Oprah almost picked it for her club, but she thought the ending was too much of a downer.
“Anyway, after that, which was about six months after Curse tanked, I got a call. He offered me a job as his confidential aide. Generous salary, room and board, light hours which usually give me plenty of time to write. It pissed off the local skeptics when I went to work for him, so I don’t do much of anything with them these days; but it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
I smiled over at her. “Know what the first lesson is in the Author’s-second-career training program?”
“No, what?”
“Repeat after me, ‘Would you like fries with that?’”
Julia giggled and I laughed. “Bloodstone is eccentric, and quite often is a bit much to take. Still, working for him beats making change and selling lottery tickets.”
“Well, I do hope you keep writing. You have a good handle on character. You’re very insightful.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. “So, mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Please.”
“Okay.” I paused for a second as I swung the Cougar into the left turn lane at 44th street and Camelback, narrowly missing a beat up pick-up with Sonoran plates that had the same idea from two lanes away. “How long have you been a witch?”
She covered her surprise quickly, but there was no missing it. “What makes you think I’m a witch?”
“You went to bat for a student who is a self-professed neo-pagan. You asked Bloodstone if he thought there was no validity to pre-Christian religious traditions, and that was a leading question if ever I heard one. You were ready to debate him on that point, which most Christians wouldn’t even be thinking about.” I smiled. “And, on your keychain, you have a Thor’s Hammer amulet.”
“You saw it? Good eye.” Julia settled back in the Cougar’s bucket seat. “It was like the bumper sticker says, ‘Mom, sorry I’ve missed mass lately, but I’ve been studying witchcraft and becoming a lesbian.’”
I groaned.
She smiled. “Sorry. Not like I had any say in the matter.”
“I know.” I gave her a grin. “Any chance you have a sister?”
“I do, in fact.”
“Ah, a reason to live.”
“She’s happily married, five kids.”
“Well, lot of good you’re doing helping me get women for the team.”
“Back to your original question…” Julia smiled warmly. “I was raised Catholic, so have a taste for ritual, but didn’t like the Church’s male domination. I was looking for something else and found Wicca. I practice alone for the most part, trying to stay in touch with what’s natural and pure.”
“Do you work ritual magick?”
“When I started out I was doing that. Bought some books, an athame—it’s real nice, it’s a Jaeger.”
I smiled. “Jaegers are great knives. I have a couple in my collection. He’s the best blade smith in Arizona and probably the southwest. But you don’t do spells?”
“I don’t really feel the need.” Julia pursed her lips for a moment. “I find Wicca spiritually satisfying because it confirms how everything is connected, how Mother Earth really is alive and really is our mother. I like hooking into that feeling, but I have no desire to manipulate it, you know? I guess I’d rather be floating along with the current than in some motorboat, if that makes any sense.”
“Yeah, it does…” I downshifted as McDonald’s speed limit dropped to 25 through the Paradise Valley section. Since there are never any kids playing in the area, my assumption is that the rich folks here had the limit lowered so the rest of us peasants would have to marvel at their expensive houses. What I spent my time doing was calculating how much they shelled out to cool those monsters in the summer.
“What about you, Connor, what do you believe?”
“I’m a philosophical Christian.”
“A what?”
I shrugged. “Catholic by family tradition, but not so sure about all the miracles and such. I like the philosophy, but the theology leaves me cold. I’d probably never step foot in a church again, but I always get good story ideas when I’m daydreaming during sermons.”
Julia laughed lightly. “I get the same effect from curriculum meetings. I take it, from what he said, Dr. Bloodstone doesn’t perform ritual magick, but he does have powers, right?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know what he does in his sanctum: he could be working magick or scraping the numbers off lottery tickets. As for powers, um, care to give me an example?”
“Sure. In his office yesterday he told you what type of tea you’d have.” She turned in her seat to look at me. “Did he pluck that out of your mind?”
“That didn’t take any magick or telepathy.” I reached up and hit the remote control for the gate, then turned left into the driveway and around left to the carriage house. “He was being prickly, which makes me contrary. He ordered tea for the two of you, and for himself. Since he knows me, and figured I’d buck the trend, he assumed I’d go for a tisane—a non-tea tea since it doesn’t contain any tea leaves. Rooibos is one I like.”
“So you’ve never seen any evidence of any powers?”
I pulled the Cougar into bay three. “We’re here.”
“You didn’t answer…”
“Nope, I didn’t.”
We got out and she waited at the southern arc of the circle while I nipped into the house to let the boss know I was back. Phillippe saw me coming in still wearing my goalie gear and swore at me. I didn’t care because, even as sweaty as I was, I smelled better than whatever he was fixing for lunch. I gave him the message to pass along, then returned to my guest.
I ensconced Julia in what passed for my little sitting room and cued the clip up for her from the server. I left her sitting on the couch as I retreated to my room and hit the shower. Toweling off quickly, I pulled on a black t-shirt and pair of jeans. Barefooted, I padded back into the sitting room and discovered she’d helped herself to a glass of water.
She glanced up at me and nodded. “Not good, is it?”
I dropped my butt into the mission-style chair that matched the couch. I twisted around to face her. “Not particularly, no.”
“What are we going to do?”
I frowned. “Well, the first thing, and pretty much the only thing, is to talk to Sara and see if she wants to recant. I’d recommend calling her, doing it from another area code and not holding the phone too close to your ear.”
Julia feigned surprise. “You expect me to do that alone?”
“I’d be glad to help, but I only have your number, not hers. We could send her e-mail, but her reply would melt the net.”
“It would. If she agrees, it all goes according to his plan. If she doesn’t, he hammers on Dr. Bloodstone.”
“Don’t worry about Bloodstone. He’s always got tricks up his sleeve. When we talked about things last night he pointed out that Thickett only wins if we go along with him. We can’t because we’ve got nothing to trade him, nothing to satisfy him. He wants a spectacle. Carmody gives him one, though not much of one. He wants to make Sara into the new Lily, and we know that’s not going to happen.”
“But, Connor, if we do nothing, Dr. Bloodstone will have trouble he never asked for.”
I shrugged. “It’ll be good for him. Builds character.”
She shook her head, her blue eyes narrowing. “It will mean trouble for you, too. Too much work and that means you’ll not be writing.”
“That’s not to worry about, trust me. Remember, there are fights you can win and fights you must win. This is becoming one of those ‘must wins.’ We will win. Bullies like Thickett back down when someone shows some fight.”
“I’d rather there be no fighting at all.”
“Agreed, but doesn’t look like that’s an option, so we’ll do what has to be done.” I stood and gave her a warm smile. “You said something about buying me something to drink. Let me find some shoes and I’ll spring for some eating to go along with your drinking. After we have our last meal, we’ll talk to Sara and play things from there. Sound like a plan?”
“It does, Connor,” she replied sweetly, “And one I think will work very well, indeed.”
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Mysterious Ways comes in three different editions, with the novel itself running around 90,000 words. If you choose to purchase from Stormwolf.com, you get both the .mobi and .epub files, and don’t have to worry about DRM.
Super Delux Edition: This edition includes not only the novel and the essay about how it came to be written, but I’ve also included a novella and two short stories.
Stormwolf.com Super Delux Edition
Amazon.com Super Delux Edition
Delux Edition: As with the Delux Edition of In Hero Years… I’m Dead, I’ve included an essay that talks about the writing of the novel, it’s long journey to publication, inspirations for characters and hints at where the series will go from here. You get to read the novel, then peek behind the scenes.
Basic Edition: The basic edition gives you Mysterious Ways in its purest form—just the novel, no extras.
Click here to join my mailing list.
March 7, 2013
7 Traits of Enduring Characters
Most folks reading this know me as a writer. A smaller percentage know that I also teach writing at workshops and conventions. I really love teaching writing. I was lucky enough to have had a number of older writers who shared their wisdom with me as I was starting out. It is a great thrill to watch the light go on behind someone’s eyes as something in a class clears away an insurmountable problem they’ve been having with a story. What I teach is highly practical, not long on literary theory—the difference between being taught plumbing and Hydrodynamic Systems design.
In preparing a class, I came up with a short list of traits shared by highly memorable characters. It’s something to think about as you design your main characters, especially if you looking at a series character you want to develop and grow over a bunch of books. These traits give characters purchase for emotional engagement, and that’s critical for keeping readers engaged in the story.
Seven Traits of Enduring Characters
1) The characters are a bit of a mystery, so we want to learn more. In short, piece out your big reveals, and don’t lay the character open like a dissected frog. Mystery gives you more to write about in the future, and room for the character to grow.
2) The characters are worthy of redemption, even if it slow in coming. The desire to believe in and predilection toward liking characters who have fallen from grace and are struggling to rise again is very strong in most folks. After all, who is without sin? Their struggle is one with which we can identify, even when it has starts and stops. If you’re beginning with a bad person and want to make them right, show us they are worthy of redemption in some little act early on.
3) These characters score high on the loyalty/treachery scale. One way or the other, no ambiguity here. Either they are fiercely loyal, or utterly treacherous.
4) Are internally consistent and reliable; yet have the capacity for surprise. This ties strongly into point 1—if we don’t know everything about the character, we can be lulled into believing we do by providing a routine set of behaviors, and a known pattern of coping mechanisms for anything they encounter. When something causes them to break routine, or causes a reaction we’ve not seen before, this is a big shock for the reader. The event clearly has to be momentous, therefore exploring the source and the growth of new coping behaviors becomes very intriguing and memorable.
5) Such characters score high on the self-sacrifice scale—willing to put the best interests of others before their own, even when it causes them a great deal of pain. Characters who act against their own best self-interest simply for the sake of others are epically heroic, almost messianic. We’ve been bred since birth to admire those traits. Moreover, because the reader likes the character, and because the character is enduring undeserved pain, the readers will want justice for the character, and will admire his taking that burden unto himself.
6) These characters have a massive romance/love story attached to them. This could be in an ongoing, adult and passionate relationship, or it could be in the haunting and bittersweet aspect of having let the love of their life get away. This is especially strong when coupled with the point above—see the first Tarzan novel or the film Casablanca. Having the capacity to love, and having felt the pain of losing love, are two personality aspects which foster a great deal of sympathy and empathy in readers.
7) These characters are able to succeed at tasks which we not dare attempt ourselves. James Bond is a classic example of this sort of character: bold, sexy, snappy dresser, great gambler, ice water runs through his veins save when he’s passionately in the pursuit of the fairer sex, and he’s more lethal than the Ebola-virus. Hell, his just placing an order at a Starbucks would be an adventure. Allowing characters to perform as wish-fullfillment, empowerment fantasies, just for a moment or two, will endear them to readers everywhere.
Your characters don’t have to do all of these things—at least not all at once. Pick out a couple to build the character around, then see where they fit with the rest of them. If you have an ensemble cast, you’ll have some who score highly in one or two areas, and the slack in other areas will be taken up by their companions. And don’t be afraid to start someone low on one scale and work them up through stories. That’s character growth and a good way to work on that redemption angle mentioned above.
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I’ve prepared a lot of how-to write material, sharing my thoughts, insights and the advice I’ve learned from other writers down through the years. One such project is 21 Days to a Novel. It consists of 21 days worth of writing exercises that you can complete quickly and painlessly. Many writers have had the problem of leaping into a novel with great enthusiasm, just to find the project grinding to a halt ten pages or ten chapters in. The 21 Days to a Novel exercises will step you through all of the preparation and pre-writing work that prevents that sort of thing from happening.
If you’re looking for a way to jumpstart your next project, 21 Days to a Novel is perfect for you. Click on the above link to buy the PDF from my webstore, or you can get it from Amazon here: 21 Days to a Novel
March 6, 2013
Mysterious Ways: Chapter Five
There are three things hidden in this chapter which have greater meaning. In theology, that would have something to do with Gnosis, which goes to the Gnostic Christian Cults, and that concept would drive T3 nuts. The first is Connor’s driving a Cougar Coupe. At the time I wrote the novel, I’d just bought one of them. Before the last page had been printed, Ford/Lincoln discontinued the line. I still have the car. It works great, but after a dozen years, finding all the plastic parts that break and fall off is kind of tough. The second thing is mentioning a writer named Dennis who lives in Tucson. Dennis L. McKiernan is one of the best fantasy writers out there. I’m lucky enough that he’s a friend. He lives in Tucson (along with a lot of other great writers), and has been kind enough to offer me a place to lay my weary head when a run back up to Phoenix might be too much. (If you have not read his work, what are you waiting for?) Third, and perhaps the most fun, is that the pizza place (Chizona) mentioned late on still exists. I’d actually never eaten there until 2012, but I’ve been back several times. It’s always great to have good food within walking distance.
Chapter Five
Bloodstone remained quiet on the ride home. The scowl on his face made it clear that while trying to lighten his mood might not be impossible, failing would definitely be painful. Not having forgotten the past, I wasn’t doomed to repeat it. I kept my mouth shut. I happily dropped him at the front of the house and drove the Jag into the carriage house.
The prospect of facing one of Phil’s creations was something I just couldn’t begin to deal with. After locking the Jag, I got the Cougar Coupe—my usual ride—and sped onto the 101 and eventually I-10 heading south. I got gas in Casa Grande and phoned a writer friend down in Tucson, told him I’d be there in an hour or so and offered to take him and his wife out to dinner. This invitation was greeted with some surprise, but also enthusiasm, so I had my course set. Earliest I could be back in Phoenix would be 8 or so, and I could probably make it later.
Like a month from Tuesday.
The whole meeting with T3 had gone wrong from the start, and I should have seen that it would. If I’d been thinking, I’d have volunteered to go over there by myself. That way Bloodstone could have avoided the direct confrontation and found some solid ground from which to negotiate. He’d said it very well, that he was negotiating from a position of weakness, and T3 just pounced. It would have been fine if he’d mauled me because Bloodstone could have then moved in for the kill.
A huge chunk of my being upset came from how easily Thickett had gotten under my skin. The Papist remark drilled in deep and stung. You hear that coming out of someone’s mouth and just want to slap some sense into them. The thing of it was I should have expected that sort of shot, but I’d been enjoying his duel with Bloodstone and had let my guard down. I had only myself to blame for sounding like an idiot with my riposte.
Lots of thoughts like that bounced around the old think-box, but the run south provided enough time for them to burn out. Not knowing Tucson at all, I had to call for directions once I hit the city. I found the house pretty easily after that. My friends directed me to a little Mexican restaurant. The food made it easy to imagine I’d traveled a lot further south than I had.
Dinner was good. Dennis’ writing career was everything that mine wasn’t—writing was what I did back when my mom would ask me when I would get a real job. Dennis didn’t rub it in or lord it over me. After dinner we went back to his place for coffee and got talking about the business, which meant I listened a lot and realized how far out of it I’d really gotten. I did mention that I was working on a new set of stories, things I’d probably just publish digitally myself, and that was greeted with praise. It was just the sort of encouragement I needed, especially after how the day had gone.
It was late when I went to start back—they offered me the guest room, but I had soccer the next morning, so I didn’t want to hang out and deal with that drive before the game. I called Julia on the drive back. I left her voicemail saying that we should talk. I told her I should be back at the house about midnight, and that it would be fine for her to call. Then I pointed the Cougar a whole lot north and a little west and cruised toward the glowing horizon that was Phoenix. The drive let me think about my story, and that meant I almost forgot about Thickett.
The Cougar made good time. I got back to Casa Chaos at a quarter to Sunday. I parked the Cougar in its appropriate bay, then headed over to the guest house. I still had ten minutes before I expected Julia might call, which meant the day might not be a total loss, even though what I’d have to report wouldn’t be pretty.
Any hopes I had of getting into my home before her call died when I saw Bloodstone. There he was, in the middle of the sand pit, when any sane person would have been asleep. He moved slowly and with painstaking precision, practicing his t’ai chi. He went through the fluid twists, turns and sweeps as if it were the middle of the day.
I sighed.
At least he wasn’t naked this time.
He drew his arms and legs together, black gi as dark as the night, and bowed in my direction. “You enjoyed your evening?”
“Up ‘til now, sure.” I crouched at the white stone circle’s edge. “About this afternoon…”
He raised a hand to forestall my comment. “There have been developments.”
A shiver ran down my spine. Merlin Bloodstone makes a very good living as a ‘spiritual advisor’ to all manner of folks. One of the reasons we have private investigator licenses is because corporate Boards of Directors will blanche at paying money for a psychic counselor, but don’t think twice about paying for security consultants. What all of his clients appreciate, whether private or corporate, is his ability to inject calm into the most disastrous of circumstances. From his words I knew someone had done something insane, but his face and the tone of voice masked that reality perfectly.
“Thickett or Piper?”
Wordlessly he turned on his heel and waved me toward the main house. I drifted in his wake into the kitchen to the little TV machine Phil the Pill uses to study TV ads for inspiration. Bloodstone turned it on and gave me the remote.
“I realized Reverend Thickett was quite mercurial, and various portents suggested a grand capacity for vengeance. I had Phillipe record the rebroadcast of the show we watched. Set it to 25:11, please.”
I played with the buttons and called the rebroadcast up from the media server. The show began toward the end of the Carmody interview. On the small screen Tommy turned and looked at the shield. T3 appeared as he had before. As the image spread out I saw him sitting at his desk. An array of shiny knives, brass chalices, a dog-eared copy of the Necronomicon, a voodoo doll and other occult debris had been artfully scattered over the blond surface.
“Brothers and sisters of our prayer family, the assault on sister Rachel is more dire than any of you could ever imagine. I’ve just had a visit from one of Satan’s Generals. Merlin Bloodstone is a Satanist so foul that if the blood of our Savior were to pour over him, it would bubble and boil off. He came here, this theo-terrorist, to continue his assault on the Twin Towers of family values and Christian morality. He threatened me, threatened to kill me because of our dealing righteously with this witch girl. Brothers and sisters, this conspiracy of evil, this dark, unholy conspiracy, cannot be allowed to prosper. Deuteronomy 18: 11-12, we have no choice, God gives us no choice, so we rejoice. We need your prayers, fervently and earnestly, and we need your financial support. We are waging war against the devil, and the first battle we wage shall be with Bloodstone and his followers. Monday I will have for you a dramatic announcement, so you should all make sure to be here for that. The Great Deceiver shall be unmasked. Tomorrow, at the Garden Cathedral, I shall teach a lesson on girding your loins for this titanic battle. Together, brothers and sisters, we shall vanquish this foul foe, and save souls for God, praised be His name.”
I slumped back against the butcher-block island in the center of the kitchen. “That son of a bitch… Man, I knew he was so low he had to look up to see bottom, but this is new for him. Put him and Charlie Manson in a cage, add blunt instruments, and I’ll be cheering for a fifteen round tie.”
“This strategem was not wholly unanticipated. I’ve taken steps to deal with his actions, at least those I know of. His announcement of a surprise, this puzzles me. Does he think we will still convey his message to Ms. Piper?”
I growled, then wandered to the fridge and pulled out a Diet Pepsi. Popping it open, I drained half the can and relished the cold bubbles raking down my throat. I wiped my mouth off on the back of my hand. “What are the chances that by Monday we can convince Sara to appear on his show on Friday, accept Jesus, recant her paper, embrace her teacher, play nice with others and become…um,” I was going to say “Jan Brady,” but TV sitcom references just skate past Bloodstone “…Mother Theresa? I’d say slim and none, so he might be positioning himself to say he offered us a chance, but we refused. It will play well to his audience.”
“And they vote their support with dollars, yes.” Bloodstone shut off the TV. “I am surprised he construed my comment as a direct threat.”
“You didn’t mean it that way?” I drained the rest of the can and tossed it into the recycle bin. “What is Deuteronomy 13:5, anyway?”
Bloodstone’s head came up as his dark brows arrowed together. “‘And that prophet or dreamer of dreams shall be put to death…’ The Old Testament was always rather direct and efficacious in dealing with false prophets. The verses he applied to me both there and on tape are more lenient and only call for me to be driven from the family of the righteous.”
I covered my mouth with a hand as the soda came back on me. “What are we going to do?”
“We are under some obligation to tender his offer to Sara, even though we know she would not accept it. He wants a call one way or the other by Monday. He wins if she accepts. He wins if we do his bidding and call to say she refuses. Only by refusing to play by his rules do we gain any leverage, so we will wait on this front and see what his message is on Monday.”
“You think he is bluffing?”
Bloodstone shrugged. “The man is an opportunist. We will decline being the sort of opportunity he wants and see how he reacts to that. This is far from over, but we will transform it into a fight that will cost him more than it is worth to win.”
“That would be nice, but fighting him is like fighting a pig: you might win, you will get dirty, and the pig loves it.”
“And sometimes the pig ends up as pork chops.”
“Speaking of which…” I jerked a thumb at the Sub-Zero fridge. “I don’t know if yeast counts as animal protein, but if it doesn’t there’s none of it in this kitchen. How long are we going to put up with one from column soy and one from column kelp?”
Bloodstone’s face closed up. “You would have found this evening’s offering rather purging for the soul.”
“Uh-huh.” I rolled my eyes. “This time of night it probably would only take a half-hour to get a pizza here. New place opened up just east of McDonald and Hayden a month or two ago. We could give them a try.”
He sniffed. “And upset Phillippe?”
“Deep dish, kalamata olives, goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes and anchovies.”
“Not while Phillippe is under this roof.”
“He’s in the garage, for crying out loud.”
“Enough, Connor, go to bed. Your game is early tomorrow.” He waved me away. “Get going but…don’t lose the number of that pizza place.”
I got a text from Julia saying she wanted to stay up to talk to me, but was tired and was heading to bed instead. She said she’d call the next morning, which would be when I was at soccer, so I expected we’d be playing phone tag all day. While I would have much rather talk to her, texting would work. I hit the sack and was out like a light, drifting into a weird dream where she was a waitress serving pizza. Topless. The pizza, that is, which is why the dream was weird.
I got up late enough that I didn’t eat breakfast before my game. I dressed at home and drove across town to the Phoenix Sports Center on West Indian School. The building had once been a bingo parlor, but had switched over to indoor soccer in the early 80s. I started playing there in the early 90s, and fairly recently joined an over-thirty, co-ed, non-competitive team—meaning that if we drew blood, it was supposed to be by accident.
Indoor soccer is played in a hockey-style arena, with goals cut in the end-walls of the field. Walls run about twelve feet high and the playing surface is astroturf. In our league you’re not allowed to slide-tackle unless you’re a goalie, which is a good thing. Sliding on astroturf is like sliding across a cheese grater.
I play in the goal for most games and I’m not bad. I’m good at stopping close-in shots and have a good arm for tossing the ball out. Hardly a game goes by when I don’t have an assist on a goal—owing more to the fact that my offensive players are good than my passes are accurate.
We played against a team we had a bit of a rivalry going with. One guy on their team, Greg, is from the UK. He has the reputation of writing down complete descriptions of his goals in his diary. Knowing this, I really get up for stuffing him, and the fact that he goal-hangs most of the time provides plenty of opportunity. As it was, he scored two off me, but I stopped twice as many by him, and we scored a bunch, so ended up winning.
Outside the player area after the game, I slumped down against the wall as I usually do. Everyone on the team exchanged congratulations and recounted the best plays of the game. There’s a lot of “Well, this is what that play looked like to me…” or “I couldn’t believe it when you…” comments made—some in praise, others needling, but never acrimonious.
“You played well.”
At the sound of her voice, I looked to my right and saw the knees of jeans. Craning my head back, I looked up to see Julia smiling down at me. “What are you doing here?”
“I called and Dr. Bloodstone told me where you were. I came down to watch. It was fun.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
Darius, our leading scorer, came over and kicked my feet. “You had a good game.”
“Thanks.”
He looked at Julia and smiled. “Do you play?”
“Never indoor. Played outdoor in college.”
Darius nodded down at me. “Date her. We need women.”
“No assists for you next week.” I climbed to my feet as Darius peeled off to harass someone else. “Don’t mind him. He’s harmless, except on the field.”
“I noticed.” She gave me a big grin. “Can I buy you something to drink?”
I slumped back against the wall, wringing wet from the game. “Sure, but not here. If you’ve got the time, you can follow me back to the house. I can get cleaned up, and there’s a video clip you should see before we talk.”
“I’ll have to ride with you. I lent my friend my car so she could visit friends. I can call a cab if there is a problem.”
“Nope, no problem.” I stripped off my goalie shirt and pulled on a dry t-shirt from my bag. “Let’s go.”
Next Chapter
________________________________________________
Mysterious Ways comes in three different editions, with the novel itself running around 90,000 words. If you choose to purchase from Stormwolf.com, you get both the .mobi and .epub files, and don’t have to worry about DRM.
Super Delux Edition: This edition includes not only the novel and the essay about how it came to be written, but I’ve also included a novella and two short stories.
Stormwolf.com Super Delux Edition
Amazon.com Super Delux Edition
Delux Edition: As with the Delux Edition of In Hero Years… I’m Dead, I’ve included an essay that talks about the writing of the novel, it’s long journey to publication, inspirations for characters and hints at where the series will go from here. You get to read the novel, then peek behind the scenes.
Basic Edition: The basic edition gives you Mysterious Ways in its purest form—just the novel, no extras.
February 28, 2013
Mysterious Ways: Chapter Four
In the first draft of this novel, Chapter Four was considerably different. Merlin Bloodstone did not appear in it at all. My agent, Howard Morhaim, pointed out that the book read more like a Connor Moran novel than a Merlin Bloodstone book. I did a quick breakdown of chapters where Bloodstone appeared, and then compared that breakdown to several of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe mysteries. Howard was right. I had the mix off, so I put more Bloodstone in and that changed the tenor of the book. (That same breakdown idea governed how much Bloodstone appears in Perfectly Dead, the second Homeland Security Services novel, which will be out later this year).
Chapter Four
Paranoia might have colored my perception, but Miss Bracken seemed to have a bit of spring in her step as she led us back to the office. We passed through her domain and the open door into a sumptuous office suite. Thurston Tom Thickett waited behind his desk, in the far right corner of the room. As we entered, he emerged from behind it with the air of a king grudgingly welcoming a rebel prince to a parlay.
“Dr. Bloodstone, the peace of Christ be with you.” He kept his voice pleasant, but weighted with gravity. “And you would be Mr. Moran.”
I nodded, but said nothing. I was just there to serve as Bloodstone’s second. Or alibi.
Thickett started toward the corner of the room to the immediate left left of the doorway, waving us toward the trio of chairs set around a coffee table. Bookshelves lined the entire left side of the room. Shelves bowed beneath the legion of weighty and impressive leather-bound tomes. I guessed a decorator bought most of them by the linear yard, save for Thickett’s own books. They took up a lot of space in the corner, backstopping an alternate set. Thickett used it when he wished to impress his viewers with the fact that he could read.
The only unusual features in the office, aside from the obvious pieces of TV set, were the two doors that led into the studio corridor and a panel of glass set high above the main door into the office. Behind it lurked two small video cameras. It seemed clear they were used for the insert shots, but I had that creepy feeling that anything we said might be recorded for posterity.
Or a fund-raiser.
Bloodstone moved toward the conversation nook, feinting a drive at the largest chair, set with its back to the corner. The widening of the reverend’s eyes indicated that chair was meant to be his, but he said nothing as Bloodstone laid a gloved hand on its back. For a half second it seemed as if Bloodstone would appropriate the throne, but instead he took the chair at what would be Thickett’s right hand. That left me a chair that put my back to the library corner and gave me a good view of the area immediately to the right of the door. It had been set up with a big computer desk and a nice rig. That looked to be Thickett’s working area and was messier than the show desk.
Thickett took his place, then glanced past Bloodstone to Miss Bracken. “May Laurel get you anything? Coffee, perhaps? We also have tea, sent by some of our missionaries in India.”
Bloodstone smiled politely. “The offer of tea is most accommodating, but I would not want you to go to any trouble. Water will suffice, thank you.”
“Mr. Moran?”
“Just water, thanks.” I leaned on the arm of my chair and smiled at her. “Tap is fine, bottled if you must.”
She looked at me strangely, departed, but left the door open. T3 sat back and smiled. “So, shall we discuss the witch girl first?”
Bloodstone crossed his left leg over his right, then tugged at the trouser crease at his knee. “Her name is Sara Piper. She asked me about possible solutions to the situation at her school.”
Thickett rested his elbows on the arms of his wingback chair, then pressed his hands together as if praying. “Are you her high priest? Is she a member of your coven?”
Bloodstone blinked, briefly. “From that question it would seem you have an incorrect impression of me. I am neither witch nor warlock; not a high priest nor a heretic. Until this morning I had not met Ms. Piper. Prior to her statements to the press, I was blissfully unaware she existed.”
“You almost make it possible for me to believe you.” Thickett nodded as Laurel set a bottle of water in front of each of us, and accompanied his and Bloodstone’s with a cut-glass tumbler with the TSN logo etched on it. As she left, the reverend closed his eyes, laying his right hand on the bottle, and murmured a prayer. Straightening up a bit, he poured his water into the glass.
Had it been Phoenix tap water, I could understand praying over it—anything might improve the taste. Thickett waited to see if Bloodstone would reciprocate with some sort of invocation, but my boss demurred. It seemed unlikely that bothering God with a water quality issue would add much to the meeting, so I just opened my bottle and drank straight from it.
“Reverend Thickett, which is it that you choose not to believe?” Bloodstone kept his voice even, and held up the half-filled tumbler, staring at the water or Thickett’s distorted reflection in it. “I have no reason to lie about the girl.”
“None, save that your type find deception to be second nature.” Thickett shook his head. “Even here, in a place of holiness, you can’t refrain from lying. It’s the demonic influences.”
“Is it?” Bloodstone’s head came up. “Then you, in your capacity, could bind my demons in the name of Jesus and bar them from influencing me, couldn’t you? Then I would be unable to lie.”
“I could bind your demons, yes, in Jesus’ holy name, but you could still lie. The man in you could.” Thickett snorted mildly, adding an air of experience that Sara Piper’s snorts lacked. “I doubt your claim to not being a High Priest. I know you call yourself an occultist and don’t make any religious claims, but that’s like the president advocating socialist policies, but denying he’s a Red. Your grimoire is a staple in every witch and warlock’s library. It’s a Pandora’s box of evil. You’re responsible for all of it.”
“But, of course, you’ve never read the book.”
“A doctor does not need to have a disease to be able to diagnose it.”
“True, but he needs to have studied a disease, to know its signs and to recognize it, before he diagnoses it.” Bloodstone set his glass down with a click. “I have no desire to be abrupt, but this bantering serves neither of us well. You hold me in utter contempt and have told me that you believe nothing I say. Perforce, any negotiation conducted between the two of us then leaves me at a gross disadvantage. Further persiflage has no value. You will instruct Rachel Carmody to change Ms. Piper’s grade to a passing one.”
Thickett chuckled slightly and swirled his water as if it were a thirty-year-old single malt. He studied the roiling water, watching the light sparkle therein for a bit as he turned the glass around. Finally he graced Bloodstone with a glance. “Why would I want to do that?”
“The grade was unfair. This you know as well as I do. Giving her that grade was a vindictive act, an unchristian act. One of your flock was over zealous in pursuit of Christian ideals, therefore it falls to you to redress the problem.” Bloodstone’s eyes tightened slightly. “For Sara Piper, this is a serious blow. It robs her of something she’s worked very hard for and justly deserves.”
Thickett frowned. “As I understand it, she willfully deceived her teacher, didn’t do the assignment, and now would like to have things changed in her favor.”
Having his words echo those of Bloodstone made my heart sink.
Bloodstone continued on undaunted. “While accurate, that read of the situation is immaterial.”
“Is it?”
“Clearly. She is a child. Children make mistakes. The punishment being exacted is grossly inappropriate.”
“You say she is a child, but I disagree. She wants this change without any sacrifice on her part, without acknowledging she was wrong. She does not want to pay any penalty.”
“No child does.”
“So aiding and abetting her transgression will help her think more clearly in the future?” Thickett waggled a finger at Bloodstone. “You and I both know it won’t.”
Bloodstone stroked a long-fingered hand over his jaw. “And on that principle you’re willing to ruin her life?”
T3’s white-maned head came up and I saw something flash through his eyes. “Her life is not my concern, her soul is, Dr. Bloodstone. It is my primary concern.”
Bloodstone started to say something, but Thickett waved him to silence, then pointed off toward the outside. “Do you know what I see when I travel in this city, Dr. Bloodstone, in my city? I see palm readers and fortunetellers. I see occult bookstores. I see Goth kids and punks. I see gang graffiti. I hear gunshots, I see blood. In my city. This city, named after a pagan deity, is full of Satanism. It’s everywhere.”
Thickett had a point. I’ve joked with friends that they’ll know when I’m diagnosed with a fatal brain cancer because that’s the day Molotov cocktails explode in all of those places. Sure, folks could get hurt but, hey, if they’re really psychics, they’ll know to be out of the place when I come through, right?
“Well, Dr. Bloodstone, I choose not to put up with it. This is my city, my home, and I will fight for every soul here. Your witch girl included.”
Bloodstone sat back stiffly. “You’re saying there’s no room for compromise?”
Thickett stabbed a finger in his direction. “Compromise? How can there be compromise in a war against the devil? You said yourself you were at a disadvantage, and you are, because I have the Lord with me. You cannot win. Your liege lord cannot win. The Lord is very clear in this regard. We cannot give the Prince of Darkness any quarter, cannot allow him an earthly inch lest he take a celestial mile. It is just not possible.”
“So, in the name of Jesus, you’ll deal a harsh blow to a girl that ensures she will loathe Christians and Christianity for the rest of her life. Your lack of Christian charity will drive her even further away than she is now. You will fail to win with pressure what a little mercy could easily purchase.” Bloodstone cocked his head to the side. “Your shortsightedness in this regard is astounding.”
“Is it?” His voice took on a husky tone, laden with suppressed fury. “Perhaps there is room for some sort of a deal, and here it is. She wants her mark brought up to an A, very well. By Monday, in time for the show Monday evening, you will have her agree to appear with me on the following Friday, to accept Jesus Christ as her personal savior. She will ask to be forgiven by her teacher. She will embrace the student who would have given the Valedictory speech in her place.”
My jaw dropped open. “That’s not a compromise, that’s a complete surrender.”
Thickett swept an incendiary gaze over me. “This girl, Mr. Moran, is under a death sentence. This is the only way it can be commuted.”
Bloodstone stood. “Thank you for your time. Clearly there is nothing further to discuss.” Bloodstone didn’t offer his hand—he didn’t want to have to burn the gloves afterward.
“Sit down, Dr. Bloodstone! I am not finished with you.” Thickett’s eyes blazed. “When I said I saw my city as an unclean place, the most festering wound in it is you. There you are, rich, famous, successful: a recruiting poster for the Satanic Legions. I will make one of your minions bow before God. You will command this witch girl to submit.”
There was a hint of irony in Thickett ordering Bloodstone to submit in much the way Bloodstone had commanded him to make Rachel Carmody change the grade. That same irony died in the blaze of Bloodstone’s violet eyes. “Apparently you missed what I said before. I cannot command her, nor would I.”
A note of menace entered Thickett’s voice. “You know not the forces with which you play, for I will not be denied in this. I have let you exist far too long. Deuteronomy 18, verses 11 and 12, Bloodstone, they give me no choice. I must drive you out of this city. The pickets I have organized outside your house will be as nothing. I will pray, loud and long, for the clients who are clearly under your Satanic influence. I will have pickets at their appearances and movies, shaming all of them for trafficking with you. They will abandon you. You will be broken unless you make the girl submit.”
Bloodstone snorted, then slowly shook his head. “I do not treat with those who badger, bluster and threaten. Do what you must. Connor, we are leaving.”
I stood, and made to follow Bloodstone, but Thickett’s voice, growled low, stopped me. “Your soul is in jeopardy, too, Mr. Moran. You may think your Papist upbringing makes you immune, but you are a fool. As you are his thrall, you are Satan’s thrall. Don’t make your foolishness the death of you. Jesus asks me to tell you that.”
I turned to face him, forcing my fists open before I could throw a punch. “I know you. I’ve studied you. I know how you work. You can claim this is about saving souls, but we all know it’s not. Having Sara Piper find Jesus on your show would provide a gusher of funds the like of which you’ve not seen since Lily blossomed for you.”
In retrospect, accusing him of being a moneygrubbing charlatan was pretty much the weakest attack I could have made. Thickett shrugged it off with a tired air. “You ignore the warnings of Holy Scripture at your own peril, Moran. Your ignorance of it dooms you.”
“I’m not as ignorant as you might think. I’m just not up to taking spiritual advice from the likes of you. As it is written, ‘the devil can cite Scripture for his own purpose.’”
Bloodstone’s hand closed on my elbow as Thickett began to laugh. “Connor, that line is from The Merchant of Venice.”
I blushed. “Shutting up now.”
An edge entered Bloodstone’s voice, cutting through Thickett’s ridicule. “More on point, Reverend, would be Deuteronomy 13:5. Sara Piper might not be of a size to fight back, but I am. A reasonable compromise can be to your benefit, but a war with me will end very badly for you.”
That was such a great exit line I kinda wished we could have gotten out of there easily, but as I turned to lead the way, I just about ran over Tommy and Lily. Both of them looked a bit bewildered at the cold tone in Bloodstone’s voice, and the inarticulate snarl coming from inside the office. I sidestepped, which bumped me up against Miss Bracken. She staggered down into her chair. I turned and squeezed past Lily, raking the corner of the desk against the back of my left thigh. Bloodstone passed serenely through the chaos my bullrush had created, then strolled from the building as if he were without a concern in the world. I tossed the visitor badge to the rent-a-cop at the front and slammed the release bar on the door as hard as I could.
Ghostlike, Bloodstone slipped through before the door could close.
I turned and frowned. “That could have gone better.”
He blinked as if I’d been speaking Urdu. “Do you think so?”
“Well, yeah!”
He considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “No, no, and that is the pity. It really couldn’t have.”
________________________________________________
Mysterious Ways comes in three different editions, with the novel itself running around 90,000 words. If you choose to purchase from Stormwolf.com, you get both the .mobi and .epub files, and don’t have to worry about DRM.
Super Delux Edition: This edition includes not only the novel and the essay about how it came to be written, but I’ve also included a novella and two short stories.
Stormwolf.com Super Delux Edition
Amazon.com Super Delux Edition
Delux Edition: As with the Delux Edition of In Hero Years… I’m Dead, I’ve included an essay that talks about the writing of the novel, it’s long journey to publication, inspirations for characters and hints at where the series will go from here. You get to read the novel, then peek behind the scenes.
Basic Edition: The basic edition gives you Mysterious Ways in its purest form—just the novel, no extras.
February 27, 2013
Mysterious Ways: Chapter Three
In Phoenix, there is actually a religious television station at the location described. I used to live just up the street from it. I’ve never been inside, but back when I had a TV, I would watch from time to time. They used to run Bob Larson’s old TV show back when I was working on the whole Satanic Panic and gaming stuff. So, what follows in this chapter is my imagined interior and set.
Chapter Three
The studio wasn’t bad, if you didn’t mind set-dressing ornate enough to be an embarrassing marriage of cathedral and whorehouse. All the furniture had baroque flourishes, and most were upholstered in satiny cloth. An embroiderer had worked the Trinity Salvation Network logo in gold into the fabric.
It didn’t actually scream bad taste as much as it moaned it pretty loud. Bloodstone winced, but didn’t faint. He did, however, put his sunglasses back on.
A gently sloping ramp ran up to the studio floor, so you entered looking at the bleachers where the studio audience sat. The studio itself opened out to the right, so if you turned to face that direction the stage would be on your right hand, located past a trio of remote controlled TV cameras. The entry ramp had a sister that extended down and into a corridor that ran beneath the bleachers, but from my vantage point I couldn’t see anything save a set of doors in the left wall. Later we found out that was a back way into Thickett’s office. The control booth sat at the top of the theatre-style seating, one story up, and faced the stage with a wall of big windows.
Staying within the dotted-line path painted on the studio floor, we got to the seats and worked our way up to a middle aisle seat. Well-dressed women packed the first three rows. The crowd thinned out as the seats rose toward the dim underbelly of the control booth. I only saw two other single guys, and both of them looked like the proud products of generational inbreeding. The other men were all retirees, there with wives.
Most folks had Bibles on their laps.
Above the camera-line, three large monitors hung over the set. The audience could watch the show and any taped reports in them. A large shield with the TSN logo painted in gold leaf hung above the mantle. The logo consisted of a dove with a halo perched atop a cross. A Bible laid open on the cross, as if it had been crucified, and a lamb with a halo lay at the base of the cross. A scroll along the bottom bore the motto “In God We Trust.”
The left and right wings of the set remained dimly lit. Stage left was set up for music, with a piano at the center, a drum kit in the background. Over on the right side was the preaching arbor, with a podium and some artificial trees surrounding it. Emerald carpeting extended halfway up along the back wall. It made things look very pastoral and T3 tended to use it to deliver the messages that closed the weekday show.
Three people occupied the center stage, with the two seated people greeting the woman who would be that segment’s guest. The big, ostentatious wingback chair that served T3 as a throne had been removed from the set, though the two couches that always flanked it remained. T3’s son, Tommy, filled that vacuum, but positioned himself off-center as if he were seated there on the rightmost couch, next to his wife.
Back when I had been tracking TSN, Tommy had been a firebrand. Tall, slender, very handsome, he would set hearts aflame and was a great draw for the youth ministries. He’d always been attired then as now, in a black suit, white shirt, and electric-blue tie. He was always clean-shaven, with his black hair cut conservatively close. Only now, though he was but five years older than me, he was grey at the temples.
In those days, when he took over hosting for his father, the throne would be removed and replaced with a chair that was not quite so great. Now, two years after the accident that killed his mother, crushed his face and broke his back, Tommy sat in an even smaller chair—a black wheelchair. It wasn’t quite the racing model he used in 10K associated events. Still, it was low-slung and sleek, yet painted a matte black instead of glossy, and had not a trace of gold on it.
Aside from not walking, Tommy had recovered fairly well. The left side of his face had been shattered, and his left eye destroyed. Reconstructive surgery had rebuilt that side of his face, and the glass eye was of a blue that matched his right eye perfectly. When he raced he wore an eye-patch, and that somehow did nothing to diminish his good looks.
Beginning two years before the accident, right after he married Lily, he had started calling himself Thomas, not Tommy, and looked to be emerging from his father’s shadow. Lily, who, it was claimed, had been a survivor of ritual Satanic abuse, had come to know Jesus through Thomas and his ministering to her. Their whirlwind courtship and marriage had carried with it the sort of drama that can only be found in pro wrestling. T3 had initially opposed the union, but had been won over by Lily’s tearful testimony on the show.
After the accident, though, Thomas had been reduced again to Tommy and his meteoric rise had stalled. He still occasionally filled in for his father, and controlled the youth ministry program, but the removal of the throne from the set was as symbolic as it was practical. Whereas he had once been positioned as his father’s heir, his imperfections doomed him.
Lily sat beside him on the couch, the fingers of her right hand entwined with those of his left. Lily looked as if she were a Latina, with dark hair falling in curled waves over her shoulders. Hazel eyes and soft features, with white teeth that shone brightly whenever she smiled, she was a beauty. Her eyes would narrow with concentration as guests spun their stories, then light up as they came to their point. Invariably she would look to the audience and give them a nod, which set them to clapping faster than the applause sign lighting up above the stage.
Lily wore a conservatively cut dress of royal blue, a shade darker than her husband’s tie. Gold earrings, a simple gold chain with a crucifix and her wedding and engagement rings were all the jewelry she wore. More would have been gilding a lily. When she gave her testimony on the air she had been known as Lilith Baxter, but T3 had rechristened her Lily, after the Easter flower, and the outpouring of love for her had been palpable.
The whole deal was not as far removed from pro wrestling as one might want to think, actually.
Tommy waited for the prim and petite woman in a dark skirt and white blouse to seat herself. She wore a gold scarf that was partially obscured by her honey-blond hair. Her light blue eyes dominated a face marred only by an under-abundance of chin, but she was by no means hard to look at. A trim woman, she appeared to be in her late twenties.
Tommy extended a hand to her and she shook it. Tommy looked out to the audience. “You all know our final guest on today’s show, Rachel Carmody. We’ve known each other for a year and a half, isn’t it?”
Rachel nodded solemnly. “You remember, brother.” With practiced ease she turned to face the camera focused on her. “I run in 10K events, or try to, and had pulled a muscle in my leg. I couldn’t go on, I was just limping there, feeling sorry for myself as all these racers in wheelchairs went by. And then there you were, Tommy, you had cut out of the lead and come around to talk to me, see how I was. We talked and talked and later you led me to Jesus, praise the Lord.”
A smattering of applause and Amens rippled through the audience.
Tommy smiled and rested his left hand on top of his wife’s right. “Yes, you did come to Jesus and you have been tireless in His service, sister. I know you’ve recently had a trying time. Why don’t you explain to our prayer family what has been going on in your life.”
“As you know, I teach high school history at Saguaro High School. There I’m teaching the advanced history class for seniors. While we cannot teach religion in schools, it cannot be denied that Christianity is key to world history, so I am able to share that history with my students.”
“Praise God.” Lily rich voice quickly punctuated Carmody’s comment.
“Thank you, sister, yes, praise the most high.” Rachel’s indulgent smile came to her face after a second’s hesitation, suggesting she didn’t like interruptions. “I asked my students to write their theses on the cultural contributions of Christianity to world history, and I got many wonderful papers. I have some Catholic students and they wrote about the Vatican’s preservation of art. Those papers were very good and I think those children can yet be saved. And the little Jews I have, well, their Talmudic tradition is so strong, they are just so smart, their papers were wonderful. But then I had this one girl, well, she’s a witch.
“She wrote such a hateful paper. She accused Christianity of murdering millions, using the Crusades and the Inquisition and the witch burnings as evidence.” Rachel shook her head. “She willfully ignored the evidence of John 8:36 and Ezekiel 18:20.”
Tommy plucked his bible from the coffee table before him and flipped it open. “Praise God, for in Ezekiel he says, ‘The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father.’ You’re so right, sister, the sins of the Church from those days do not attach to us because, as it says in John, ‘the Son has freed us, therefore we are free.’”
“Yes, brother, that’s it exactly.” She reached out and patted him on the knee. “I wrestled with what to do, because this witchgirl was to be the valedictorian of her class. Her commencement address… well, you can all just imagine what foul mouthings a Satanist would spew on such an occasion. I came here and prayed with you and your wife. Your father ministered to me and God laid upon my heart what I had to do. I gave the paper an F, which gives her a D for the course and she will not be valedictorian. That will fall to Diana Grant, whom you know.”
Tommy’s face lit up. “Yes, Diana is a young woman who was in the hospital when I was. She came to Jesus and now is tireless in His service. She works with our youth ministry here. It’s clear, isn’t it, prayer family, that God wanted one of His anointed to give that commencement address?”
Gentle applause greeted this idea. Bloodstone refrained from joining in. He frowned, but stopped short of a glower. It’s the same sort of look elders give children who are obsessed with trivial matters.
Tommy waited for the applause to wane before continuing. “So now, sister, you’re facing hardship because of your decision. But there are also some blessings in your life, aren’t there?”
Rachel fairly beamed. “Yes, Tommy, there are. First, I’ve completed a book that TSN is publishing. It’s a look at the role of Christianity in American History and it answers all those questions atheists ask. More importantly, and I am so excited about this, your father is letting me put together a series of half-hour programs to air here on TSN. They will be history lessons, teaching the sacred history of America. Anyone who is home-schooling their children can DVR or download these programs—we’re taping the first next Monday for broadcast on Friday—and use them for their history curriculum.”
“Praise God, sister, for your hard work in His name.” Tommy took her hand in his right and smiled. “I’d like to have our entire prayer family join us now in praying for blessings on our sister, Rachel, and her ministry. Dear Lord, in looking at Your life, in looking at history, we see Your hand in everything. You were born into this world, ignorant of Your true role, but came to discover You were God as we come to discover we are Your children. You knew happiness, as we do. You knew frustration and sadness, as we do. You had friends die, as we have had; and You faced death as we will. And, in You, we will know life everlasting.”
Lily and Rachel whispered, “Amen” in unison, then Tommy hugged their hands to his chest. “And now, prayer family, I get to announce something which Rachel does not know. We’ve gotten the first proof copies of her book from the printers and they are wonderful. We’re going to ask her autograph them. For a love offering of just $25, we’ll send you a copy. We also have a special edition, a leather bound edition, with a foreword by my father, signed, yours, free, with a gift of $100. We need you to support Rachel’s ministry, so she can combat the diabolical forces at work in our school systems today. Don’t hesitate, call the numbers at the bottom of your screen, and help us help her do God’s work.”
Tommy released Rachel’s hand, then pressed his fingers to his right ear. Given the angle I was viewing him at, I missed the earpiece doubtlessly relaying instructions from the control booth. He looked down for a second, then back up, a huge smile pasted on his face. “I’ve just been told my father is ready with his message for you.” He turned his chair halfway around and looked up at the shield above the mantle. “Hello, father.”
We couldn’t see it on the set, but in the monitors above the stage we saw T3’s face superimposed over the shield. “Hi, Tommy and Lily. So good to see you again, sister Rachel. You keep doing God’s work.”
The image bled out to fill the monitor screen, showing the white-haired patriarch of Trinity Salvation Network. He wore a light grey suit, blue shirt and dark tie. The camera pulled back enough to show him sitting at a desk, and behind him was a window looking out at a landscape that seemed connected to that behind the set. Big bushy eyebrows rode over dark eyes that fairly blazed. While not as handsome as his son, mainly because he was carrying more weight, he still had rugged good looks. His skin had that leathery quality of someone who had been in sun a lot, but the resulting wrinkles just gave him character.
“Brothers and sisters, God has blessed me more than you can ever know, but there are times when He lays a burden on me. Last night, well, as the widows and widowers among you know, there are times that the bed is cold in the night. After so many years you half-wake and, feeling chilly, roll over to draw warmth and comfort from your partner. My Doris, having been taken from me two years ago, was not there; but her being in heaven with Jesus and all His angels, that did bring me comfort.
“As I lay there, though, I realized that so many of today’s messages in the media, in movies, on the radio, on the Internets, just emphasize the negative, when what we need to hear is the positive. I would like to invite all of you, this weekend, to join us at the Garden Cathedral in Scottsdale, or to tune into our live broadcast of Sunday services there. We’ll have Mitchell Wilson with us once again—Heaven’s Harlequin—to deliver his own humorous message. His deliverance from evil, his being a Satanic High Priest then his coming to Christ, well, he has seen it all and shares so eloquently…”
T3’s message went from that subtle plug to a series of not so subtle plugs offering videos, books, tape courses, and geegaws of every tacky stripe imaginable. I tuned that out and watched the trio on stage. Rachel was turned away from Tommy, glancing past the music area to the wings where a monitor flickered. Tommy had turned back around to face halfway toward the audience, though he had his eyes closed and his hands clasped in those of his wife. She, likewise had closed her eyes and they sat there, foreheads pressed together, praying silently, but moving their lips in unison.
On the monitor the credits began to roll as T3’s face gave way to the TSN logo. On stage Rachel Carmody began to unclip the mike from her blouse, but Tommy and Lily remained praying even as the lights shut down. The audience began to filter out. I made no move to leave as Bloodstone seemed to be relishing a moment of peace in the cool darkness.
It was not to last.
Ms. Bracken stemmed the tide of the departing audience, and gave us a cold smile. “Come this way, please, Dr. Bloodstone. Reverend Thickett will see you now.”
________________________________________________
Mysterious Ways comes in three different editions, with the novel itself running around 90,000 words. If you choose to purchase from Stormwolf.com, you get both the .mobi and .epub files, and don’t have to worry about DRM.
Super Delux Edition: This edition includes not only the novel and the essay about how it came to be written, but I’ve also included a novella and two short stories.
Stormwolf.com Super Delux Edition
Amazon.com Super Delux Edition
Delux Edition: As with the Delux Edition of In Hero Years… I’m Dead, I’ve included an essay that talks about the writing of the novel, it’s long journey to publication, inspirations for characters and hints at where the series will go from here. You get to read the novel, then peek behind the scenes.
Basic Edition: The basic edition gives you Mysterious Ways in its purest form—just the novel, no extras.
February 20, 2013
Mysterious Ways: Chapter Two
Here’s the second chapter of Mysterious Ways, my Merlin Bloodstone novel. Though it was written a dozen years ago, and rewritten and modernized last year, it amazed me at how much remained unchanged. Technology references required the the most updating. Human behavior, not really that much at all. Our toys get faster and smarter, but the same doesn’t necessarily hold for people.
If you missed it, you can read Chapter One here. (Sales info has been appended after the sample.) Enjoy!
Chapter Two
Sara Piper watched, mouth agape, as Bloodstone gave the both of them a curt nod, then walked out of the office. She half turned, almost as if planning to pounce on him. “Wait, I want to go. I want to be there.”
Bloodstone ignored her, so she turned back to me and stamped a foot. Her scowl had returned with a vengeance. “So that’s it? He’s dealing with this and I’m out of it?”
“‘Pears that way, doesn’t it?” I emptied my saucer into the cup, then sipped my rooibos. “Frankly, it’s a better result than I expected.”
Sara blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you got real lucky, Sara. Most folks avoid guys like Thickett because there is no winning with them. Now, Bloodstone says there are only two types of fights to fight: those you can win, and those you must win. You thought your fight fell into one or both of those classes. It didn’t fall into the first class. You knew from the outset you would catch it in the GPA for writing that paper. Why whine when things worked out the way you knew they would?”
Sara tried to meet my gaze openly, but shifted her eyes to her teacup.
I rubbed a hand along my jaw. “Bloodstone knows it’s a fight that needed to be won. Since he’s always searching for enlightenment, he really has a hate on for ignorance-based intolerance. A confrontation with Thickett over something was inevitable. You’re that something. Bloodstone’s probably up in his Sanctum, looking for signs that will tell him exactly when to throw down, OST.”
Julia raised an eyebrow. “OST?”
“Occultist Standard Time: two hours before or after any arbitrary point in time, give or take a century.” I glanced at my watch. “Not quite noon in this world. I’d invite the both of you to stay to lunch, but he didn’t and visiting Thickett might serve as an excuse to avoid it altogether.”
The teacher looked surprised. “Dr. Bloodstone has the reputation of being a foodie, and the chefs who once worked here now staff some of the finer restaurants in Phoenix. Why would you want to avoid lunch?”
“Bloodstone prefers the term ‘epicure,’ and goes through a lot of kitchen staff. There have been guys who put a pot of water on the stove to boil and get replaced before there’s steam. The chef de jour, well…” I couldn’t help myself. I shivered. “I ask you, how likely is it that the right mix of soy protein and kelp is God’s perfect food?”
Julia shook her head. “Dethrone chocolate? Not possible.”
“Chocolate, exactly.” I laughed lightly and set my tea cup on the table. “Which can substitute for anything on that pesky pyramid.”
Julia agreed and laughed, then Sara abruptly stood. “This isn’t funny. My future is torched and you’re flirting! I’m out of here.”
She cut to her right, coming around the far end of the couch, which allowed me to leave my chair directly and intercept her before she reached the front door. Had her eyes been full of madness, I might have recoiled from the snarl she gave me; but because she was just angry and not insane, she stopped well shy of being the scariest thing I’d seen in Bloodstone’s employ.
“It was stupid to come here.”
“It’s smarter than a lot of what you’ve done so far.” I paced her out into the foyer. “Look, you were impulsive and headstrong in doing your assignment and then dragging Bloodstone into this. Impatience is the only thing that’s going to hurt you here. It’s Saturday. He’ll talk to Thickett today and let you know what he said.”
Sara turned and jabbed a finger into my chest. “I’m not a kid, don’t talk to me like I am. There are things I can do, you know.”
“Miss the point about impatience, did you?” I narrowed my eyes. “You came here needing help. You’ve got it. Hang on and let us see what we can do. Until then, low profile. No Facebook, no Twitter, nothing.”
“Whatever.” She jerked the door open and snarled her way though it.
I started to close it after her, but the jingle of car keys stopped me. I turned and smiled as Julia Ellswood emerged from the office, her keys dangling from a leather strap in her right hand. “You’re going to get an earful on the drive.”
“It won’t be the first time.”
I smiled. “You know, I could get the chef to fix her a quick lunch. That would keep her quiet.”
She smiled, and a virulently infectious smile it was. “From what you said, getting him to make a plate of brownies for Reverend Thickett might be a quicker solution.”
“True, but as messy as this all is, murder would be more so.” I sighed. “Sara wouldn’t be prone to doing anything that silly, would she?”
“I don’t think so. We’ll talk. I’ll calm her down.” She handed me a slip of paper. “Connor, this is my cell. Let me know what Reverend Thickett says.”
“I can call you, or, if you want, we can meet up. I’ll buy you dinner.” I jerked a thumb toward Casa Chaos’ upper reaches. “Not everyone here is anti-social.”
Breath hissed in. “I have a date tonight—dinner plans. I’ll be home by eleven. Call then, or just leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
“Done.” A bit disappointed, I waved her to the door. “We’ll find a way to make this work.”
“I know. I trust you will do everything that can be done.”
I closed the door behind her, albeit slowly and reluctantly, after making sure she got to the car. Sara boosted herself off the hood and waited for the doors to be unlocked. I hit the switch that opened the gate, then watched from the foyer window until they were out to shut it. The protesters parted and Sara saluted them again. If the look on one jowly woman’s face was any indication, Sara was giving free vent to her anger.
Never good to keep that bottled up.
I turned from the window and initially attributed the sour taste in my mouth to the prospect of visiting Reverend Thicket. The scent—no, make that miasma, fetid miasma—drifting from the kitchen told me the truth. It even suggested Julia’s plan to poison Thickett had merit. We had the means, but no one in his right mind would ever eat anything that smelled so bad.
Then again, no one had ever accused Thickett of being in his right mind. The image of Thickett turning purple and swelling up planted a smile on my face, but then I realized that just smelling that stuff might make me do the same. Fearing for my safety, I bolted for the back of the main house, flashing past the kitchen, and made it out into the backyard.
There was no telling what the chef du jour was preparing, but a ragout of Namibian corpse flower was a leading candidate. Phillippe Dragovic is from some Balkan nation, has the ego of a surgeon and the mouth of a sailor—though he curses in tongues on the far side of incomprehensible. He has this insane vision that cuisine for the new century must be an amalgam of the previous century. This has him envisioning and reinventing everything as it might be presented at McDonalds. He actually served his first meal in those little cardboard trays reserved for greasy fries at local drive-ins. Luckily Bloodstone drew the line at sipping Zin from a dixie cup—unluckily Phil the Pill was willing to compromise on that one matter and was lasting far longer than most of the good chefs we’d had.
I live in the guest house behind Casa Chaos. A vast circle of crushed white stone touches the back of the main house at six o’clock, and then the guest house at two and the carriage house at ten. Around it, out to the walls, is desert landscaping, with a number of saguaro cacti standing very tall. Ocotillo, mesquite, prickly-pear and cholla spread out over tan earth, with stones of various sizes, from gravel up to boulders, completing the decoration. The landscapers had worked very hard to make it look natural—as if it had never been disturbed at all—and scorpions, black widows and a family of Gamble’s quail out in the back corner approved.
The circle of white stone wasn’t natural in the least, and made less so by Bloodstone’s raking all sorts of patterns through it. More importantly, in its heart lay a circle of sand about thirty feet diameter, ringed by a narrow wooden boardwalk. The planking had been laid down and angle-cut so it sprayed out from the center, as if rays from the sun. Bloodstone used the sandpit for t’ai chi and other more esoteric martial arts practice, on a schedule that only made sense to him.
Bloodstone pretty much does everything on a schedule that only makes sense to him.
Of course, this means that I end up doing things on a schedule that only makes sense to him, too, and they are done by his rules in accord with his sense of decorum. Since today was a formal day, the first step in getting ready was finding a sport jacket. Under normal circumstances, going down to KTRN in just a golf shirt and khaki pants would have worked, but the seriousness of the discussion really did warrant dressing up a bit.
Out of the closet came a nice tweed jacket, very lightweight because spring surrendered to summer fast this year. For all intents and purposes, there are only two reasons to wear a jacket at any time in Phoenix. Insanity is first up—generally defined as the desire to conform to fashion trends set by folks who live in places where triple digit temps are only seen in ovens.
The other reason is to conceal a gun. Arizona has very liberal concealed carry laws. I’d applied for and gotten a permit. It required a background check and a training course, both of which worked out fine. Despite having the permit, the gun stayed in the safe. Carrying a pistol into a place that was nominally a house of worship would be vulgar. Moreover, having seen Thickett on TV for years, the temptation to use it would have been irresistible.
The idea of bringing a spare clip or two likewise had appeal, but I remained strong.
I crunched my way across the white circle to the carriage house. It’s got two stories, with the upper having been converted into several guest apartments. Phil occupied one of them and the other two were empty. Phil and I were the only live-in staff, though cleaning and gardening crews came through on a weekly basis. Twice a month the cleaners would do the guest house, and the last time they were in, Sonia said no one would clean Phil’s apartment. She also gave me her cousin the bug-guy’s card, as a hedge against when we wanted the place deloused and made habitable.
Despite his eccentricities, Bloodstone could connect solidly with the real world in certain areas. A love of cars was one of them. The carriage house had five bays. I skipped one, two and three—Extravagant, Sporty and Rugged respectively—and selected the sedan—what Bloodstone calls his green Jaguar XJ Supersport with black leather interior. I pulled the car around to the front, then got out and opened the door for my employer.
Bloodstone emerged from the house with his costume little modified from before. He’d added gloves, which he does from time to time as armor against the possibility of having to shake hands with an adversary. Uncharacteristically he had donned sunglasses instead of using a hat to shade his eyes.
“Shades?”
His glare, though muted by dark lenses, sufficed to send a chill down my spine. “It would only be polite, out of common respect, to remove a hat in a house of worship.”
Nodding, I shut the car door behind him. By not wearing a hat, he wouldn’t be forced to show disrespect by keeping it on, nor would he give the impression of showing respect by removing it. That he could think through the various ramifications of his projected actions didn’t come as a surprise: he is a certifiable genius. That he did think it through, well, the cost/benefit analysis of that process would have been very interesting.
Bloodstone nestled himself in the back seat and reluctantly put on the seatbelt. “Connor, you know Thickett from before.”
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Yes, sir. Facts or analysis or both?”
“Anything you think will be useful.”
That was the wild card response that really meant he wanted to know everything, but would grant me the illusion of having the sense to sort wheat from chaff. As noted above, formal days were not good days.
Unless you’re Bloodstone.
I’d first become acquainted with Thurston Tom Thickett because of an early career choice—part of the before to which he referred. Well, it would have been a career—and part of now—if it had paid better. As it was, working in the game industry was a hobby that paid for itself and then a little bit more, but not enough to stop my mom from asking when I was going to get a “real job.”
Like many people my age, I’d grown up playing roleplaying games like Dungeons & Dragons. In the late nineties, when I’d entered the industry right out of college, the Religious Right was just coming down from the Satanic Panic. Grand tragedies like the whole McMartin Preschool case put the lives of plenty of folks in real turmoil, but the Right also tagged roleplaying games as a conduit into the occult. The industry initially did nothing to respond to the hits, then a couple of guys put forth an effort to fight back. Several radio shows, some articles and books later, and the Right backed off games since we had the temerity to fight them and the good fortune to do it well. I helped out in the effort and we snatched our hobby from their clutches.
“T3 popped up during some research. I watched his show a lot, bought some of his books, and dissected what he had to say about games. Mostly I just catalogued his internally inconsistent views, half-truths and the like. It was pretty easy to see that he was good at churning a lot of money from just a little bit of controversy. It also seemed that his criticism of gaming was just a passing fad that he’d abandon when something more profitable came along.”
My boss nodded. “This Word Faith theology.”
“Right. Exactly.”
T. Tom Thickett fit in with the school of televangelists practicing Word Faith ministries. They claimed that their study of scriptures and their faith gave them a direct conduit to God. They were able to ask for special blessings and receive knowledge, and were able to perform miracle healings. The focus of these ministries was not so much bringing people to God, but bringing happiness—or the promise of same—to the people as a sign of God’s favor. The people, therefore, showered gifts on these preachers, as if they were agents who just secured a huge contract for the faithful.
Word Faith ministers are pretty easy to spot because they always give the seedcorn lesson. The variations are endless, but all boil down to this: the preacher, or someone he knew, gave away something they dearly loved or needed to someone who needed it more. God, in His loving wisdom, made that sacrifice good a hundred times over. So, dear viewer, send us your last $100, because God will be dropping you a check for $10,000 right around the corner, as long as you truly believe.
That last little caveat was always the killer. If God stiffed you on the check, it was because you doubted Him. Pretty much, as long as there was a balance left in your checking account, you were hedging against God not coming through, so you could really, really show how faithful you were by writing another check. Praise the Lord, pass the loot.
“Yes, he’s managed to synthesize the Word Faith stuff with the whole idea of a Satanic conspiracy to destroy the faithful. He’s been very good at picking his targets, minimizing personal exposure while maximizing the amount of cash he brings in.”
In fact, T. Tom was a champion of turning adversity into big bucks. He was smart enough to avoid the stupidity of other preachers on the national scene. While Pat Robertson and the Westboro Baptist Church were out explaining that God had let terrorists take down the World Trade Center because He was angry about gays, atheists and liberals, T. Tom kept things lower key. He filled his network with programming that demanded prayer for the victims. He rewarded his listeners with brave tales of those who had miraculously escaped death because they had accepted Jesus in the middle of the disaster. If you remember hearing the story of the angel leading folks from the rubble of one of the towers, you were touched by T. Tom’s ministry.
Normally, though, he kept his causes a bit closer to home. Two years ago, when his wife was killed and his son badly injured in car crash, he cried buckets on the air. He was a big enough of a man to allow God to take his beloved Doris, because he knew he’d be rewarded a hundred times over when he was reunited with her in heaven. I don’t want to even guess what he meant by that. He also reminded his dear listeners that his wife’s estate flowed to the ministry, as could their estates, and Doris would be there to greet them at the pearly gates.
The short trip to the station down at McDowell and 36th was long enough for me to give Bloodstone the relevant particulars. Really he was just having his memory refreshed. Though he considers televangelism one of the greatest evils of the 20th century, he has acknowledged its roots being sunk much earlier and deeper into America, so he does not let it or its players pass unnoticed.
He just prefers to pretend none of that exists.
I parked the Jaguar close to the building, shielding it from the street behind a big SUV, and locked it. They taped their Saturday evening broadcast of Salvation LIVE! early—unlike their weekday schedule when it ran live and then again, on tape later that night—so they could be out preaching at one or another of the larger congregations in the Valley that evening, including their Garden Cathedral. The chances, therefore, of catching T3 in were pretty good.
I told the slovenly security guy at the front desk that we were there to see Reverend Thickett. The guard neither went for a gun nor a phone, which was a good sign. He signed us in and we got visitor’s badges as rewards for our good penmanship. Despite Thickett having sent protesters at Bloodstone, his security staff didn’t see us as security risks. He gave us directions to get to the office and wished us a nice day.
I clipped my badge to my lapel, and handed Bloodstone’s to him. He turned it over in his longfingered hands, then vanished it. At things like sleight-of-hand he was very good. The guard could have run a video back and forth dozens of times without having seen the pass disappear.
I shook my head. “Nice, but it’ll take turning water into wine to impress anyone here.”
“Anyone can do that trick. It’s the walking on water that is the tough one.”
Sighing, I led the way back through a maze of corridors, taking us past the theatre-like main studio, to a small antechamber appointed with a couple of chairs, a couch, and coffee table. At the far end sat a desk with computer terminal, and behind it a woman who would have been much prettier if she had smiled in the last decade.
“How can I help you?”
I nodded at the door in the wall behind her desk and covertly scanned her nameplate. “Well, Ms. Bracken, this is Dr. Merlin Bloodstone. He’d like a moment with Reverend Thickett.”
She hit a button on the computer. “No appointment, I see. That minute will only come at the end of a long wait. The Reverend is not seeing anyone right now.”
I gave her a friendly smile. “Dr. Bloodstone would like to speak with the Reverend about a couple of things, including the Sara Piper situation. If you’d just buzz him…” Before I’d even finished the sentence, I knew that was a non-starter with her.
“I won’t buzz him because he’s preparing himself for his message. He sees no one during that time. No one. You will have to wait.”
I frowned. On Saturdays, and weekdays when his son hosted Salvation LIVE!, T3 would deliver a little message from his office and have it digitally married to the set for airing, reminding me more of the Wizard of Oz head in the movie than any sort of Reaganesque chat. Those segments were usually placed at the end of the show, so he could compliment his son on the job he’d done, thank the guests, then deliver his message for the day.
I glanced at my watch. “How long?”
“If he will see you, you have half an hour.” She flashed a smile of merciless triumph. “You’re welcome to join the studio audience until then or sit here and wait.”
Bloodstone glanced at the couch, then her. “You would be here while we waited?”
“Every second.”
“We shall not make you waste them by watching us, then.” He looked up at me. “Come, Connor, to the studio. We shall leave Ms. Bracken to the furtherance of God’s work.”
________________________________________________
Mysterious Ways comes in three different editions, with the novel itself running around 90,000 words. If you choose to purchase from Stormwolf.com, you get both the .mobi and .epub files, and don’t have to worry about DRM.
Super Delux Edition: This edition includes not only the novel and the essay about how it came to be written, but I’ve also included a novella and two short stories.
Stormwolf.com Super Delux Edition
Amazon.com Super Delux Edition
Delux Edition: As with the Delux Edition of In Hero Years… I’m Dead, I’ve included an essay that talks about the writing of the novel, it’s long journey to publication, inspirations for characters and hints at where the series will go from here. You get to read the novel, then peek behind the scenes.
Basic Edition: The basic edition gives you Mysterious Ways in its purest form—just the novel, no extras.
February 18, 2013
Mysterious Ways Chapter One
I finally managed to do it: I have published Mysterious Ways.
Mysterious Ways is a mystery novel with a few occult elements that I wrote back in 2000-2001—though I thoroughly updated it for this edition. Back at that time I wanted to try my hand at writing mysteries. My agent and I liked it, but no editors wanted to buy it. While I wrote a few short stories featuring Merlin Bloodstone and his aide, Connor Moran, other projects kept me from following up. Yet whenever I thought about digital publishing, back in the days before the Kindle even, this was the book I wanted to get out there.
Mysterious Ways is a murder mystery. It’s old school, which you can tell from the first chapter, since we didn’t open with a body. (Perfectly Invisible, on the other hand, gives you a body straight away.) As the essay in the Delux and Super Delux editions notes, a chunk of the background is based on the work I did in the 90s keeping the religious right away from role playing games. Writing the book a dozen years ago was great fun, and reworking it was even more.
I hope you enjoy. (Details on sales and editions are after the sample.)
Chapter One
I’d always known this day would come. I’d kind of visualized it differently. In my fantasy, it was at midnight, with a bunch of peasants doing the whole pitchfork and torch thing outside the big, wrought-iron gates. And they had scythes, too—scythes are a must with these rabble-gone-wild things. That works in the whole Grim Reaper factor. It’s tough to feel threatened without it.
Unfortunately, what we had were retirees in shorts, sandals and t-shirts, or their Sunday-go-to-meeting best, marching mid-morning in the dust by Casa Chaos’ wrought-iron front gate. Off-key hymns replaced the requisite rumble of voices. Instead of farm tools we had placards. The best read, “Bloodstone is Satan’s Minion.” On a scale of one to sharp scythe, that’s pretty pathetic.
Bloodstone’s reaction was a bit better. “Minion, minion? Bah. I am no one’s minion.” He tried to sound gravely offended, but he didn’t even sneer when he said it. Even his heart wasn’t in it.
But, because I am a minion, when the gate intercom buzzed, I answered it. The hymns could not drown out a soft alto voice. “We’re here to see Dr. Bloodstone. Sara Piper and Julia Ellswood.”
Before I had a chance to reply, a harsh younger voice broke in. “Bite me you sanctimonious cow!” The hymn broke for a second, with astonished gasps filling in. Then the singing began again, making up in volume what it lacked in actual musical content.
I glanced to the far end of the office. “Your eleven o’clock is here.”
He didn’t even look up, but simply raised a hand and waved me off to the front door.
“Yes, Master,” I wheezed in my best Peter Lorre imitation and buzzed the gate open. I hunched a shoulder and shambled out, but got no reaction. That’s not because he didn’t notice. He did, but any pop culture reference more recent than the 19th century pretty much went past him.
I straightened up again as I crossed the foyer and opened the front door. A little blue Prius pulled into the parking spot to the left. I got a good look at the driver. Of her passenger all I saw was a single hand raised defiantly and a single finger raised emphatically. It made an impression, both on the protesters and me.
The girl attached to that finger popped from the Prius with the bristling fury of a caged tiger. She pretty much had sullen and brooding down to an art form—skinny arms crossed over her chest, brows arrowed down as she glared hatred at the protesters. Her bottle-black hair had been cut very short on the sides, revealing ears with enough piercings to let her pick up telemetry from the Mars rovers. Her lipstick and fingernail polish were as dark as her hair, though not as dark as the scowl she shot me. Both her tank-top and pants were black—which she wore because she couldn’t find anything darker. Her pale complexion was something really tough to maintain in a desert burg like Phoenix. Scuffed black combat boots completed her outfit, which she’d accessorized with silver jewelry and a Celtic knotwork tattoo ringing her left wrist like a bracelet.
Her companion, on the other hand, emerged far more serenely and even paused to lock the car, despite the gate closing by itself. A slender woman, not too tall, she wore a sleeveless cotton blouse of blue over white slacks and sandals. Her gold tennis bracelet matched a thin necklace. She’d pulled her light brown hair back into a ponytail, the tip of which ended between her shoulder blades. She gave me a polite smile as she extended her hand. The gesture blunted the heat of the emo’s stare. She had a firm grip and one not too moist despite the rising spring heat.
The girl snorted, flaring her nostrils enough that the jeweled stud in one sparkled for a second. She looked me up and down, then twisted to stalk past me. I’d half-turned to grab her, but a hand on my arm had restrained me.
“She’s a bit upset.” The woman upped the warmth in her smile. “I’m Julia Ellswood. That was Sara Piper. We came as requested.”
“Connor Moran.” I ushered her into the foyer and shut the door, both thankful that it cut off the singing and for the fact that I didn’t hear screaming from the office. That would not have been good. “This way.”
Julia stepped crisply along, then stopped in the doorway and gasped. It usually took one more step into the place to stop the first-time visitor. That’s when the full effect hits. Sara had made it a whole two steps before she halted. I gave them both points for their reactions, but managed to hide my smile as I waited at Julia’s side.
Merlin Bloodstone’s office is something of a cavernous affair—he prefers cathedral, but I wasn’t in an accommodating mood that morning. The twenty foot high ceilings and a wall of windows looking southwest toward Camelback Mountain do make it seem huge. His desk sits centered against the backdrop of the northern wall, which, like the east wall, is floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A sliding ladder provides access to the upper reaches on the north, while a catwalk on a level with the second story floor lets you get at the upper level of books. In the southeast corner there’s a doorway that leads to the second floor corridor, and a circular, cast iron staircase to provide easy access. The books vary from old and leather-bound to new, and the sheer volume is staggering.
A bust of Edgar Allen Poe wards the room’s northwest corner, and a square, revolving book rack sits in the northeast corner. The rack is where Bloodstone keeps reference books, but I pretty much only recognize the dictionaries and synonym finder there. Everything else changes with whims. Why someone would have compiled a visual dictionary of depictions of herbs in German woodcuts, 1545-1625 is almost as much of a mystery as to why Bloodstone would need to consult it.
My meager desk is to Bloodstone’s mahogany monster what a surfboard is to an aircraft carrier. Mine occupies the southwest corner of the room, next to the wet bar. The door in the south wall leads into the foyer of Casa Chaos. Photos of Bloodstone with various celebrities, a few family portraits and a number of award plaques cover that south wall. A brown leather couch and several leather chairs, with a coffee table and a couple of side tables, fill the center of the room. That’s where most of his clients cool their heels awaiting his pleasure.
Though he knew we were there, I played his game and cleared my throat. “Dr. Bloodstone, these are Sara Piper and Julia Ellswood.”
He brought his oversized head up with the languid ease of a cobra rising from a basket. Though a small man with a slight build, he had a piercing violet gaze that shook Sara Piper when it swept over her. The protesters, were they looking at him, would agree he was no one’s minion. They likely would have gone on to describe him as wreathed in fire and stinking of brimstone, for such was his presence when he was in a mood. Fury blazed in his eyes for a moment, then he closed them.
Sara, thus released from his stare, managed only to drop her jaw.
Bloodstone moved with a fluid economy that brought him around from behind his desk and effortlessly to the leather chairs. He kept his voice cordial, but his words commanded more than invited. “You will sit. Please.”
As close as Sara’s ensemble had approached urban-trash casual, Bloodstone’s blew to the other end of the fashion spectrum. Beneath his pearl grey three-piece suit, he wore a white shirt with a high collar—so thoroughly starched it could double as armor. A black cravat had been tied in place and secured with a stick-pin featuring an oval fire-opal in a platinum setting. It matched the ring on his right hand. He seemed more attired for greeting a head of state than he was a high school student and a teacher, but Bloodstone had his own sense of decorum about such things. He based it on cosmic variables that I couldn’t even guess existed, much less assume should play a part in the affairs of men and fashion.
It didn’t matter. Today the portents had been easy to read.
Formal dress equals bad day.
Julia Ellswood accepted his invitation and slipped past Sara. Bloodstone nodded to her, using his chair as a breastwork, and pointed her to one end of the couch facing his desk. He waited for the teen to move and when she did not, he cocked his head curiously in her direction. “Ms. Piper?”
“Yeah?”
“Your place is here.” His head seemed a bit too big for his body, and his eyes a bit too big for his delicately featured face. That combination gave him an other-worldly aspect that attracted so many of his clients. The way he narrowed his eyes, however, left no doubt as to why he also attracted enemies. “On the couch, if you please.”
She moved leadenly, as if she did not please at all. Somewhere, deep down, there was enough child in her to make her comply with his directive, though the emo angst encysting that child fought it every step of the way. She slid her butt over the arm of the couch, flumping down, then crossed her arms and legs very tightly.
Impeccably groomed—clean-shaven, with his black widow’s-peak hair slicked back and glossy—Bloodstone glanced at me. “Connor, they will take tea.”
A serious scowl darkened the young woman’s face. “I’ve got better things to do than to be sipping tea…”
“Based on your conduct in this affair, Ms. Piper, I would challenge the veracity of that statement.” Merlin Bloodstone’s voice came razor-edged and very cold. “Your actions brought you here. This is my home. My life. My rules. You injected yourself into my life, so now you play by my rules. You will take tea.”
“Whatever.”
His eyes widened for a moment, then he gave out with a snort—a world-class snort. “Pu-erh for Ms. Piper, Che Sen Lotus for Ms. Ellswood. For me, Ti Kuan Yin.”
I wandered from the doorway to the wet bar, not bothering to hide my distaste for how he was handling things. “And what am I having?”
He spared me only slightly more than a sidelong glance. “Rooibos.”
I grumbled. “Lucky guess.”
Sara would have snorted one more time, but Bloodstone’s snort had already put her previous attempts to shame. She uncrossed her legs and sat forward. “I know all about you and your tea. Skip it. I want to get this over with.”
Bloodstone waited for a heartbeat, then appropriated the centermost of the leather chairs. He faced both women, studied them for a second or so, and sat. He tugged at the tail of his coat, seating himself on it so the jacket would not bunch up at the shoulders, then rested his elbows on the chair’s arms. His hands came together, pressed fingertip to fingertip, with his thumbs an inch away from his breastbone.
“Tea, Ms. Piper, is a metaphor for life. It is chosen at the right time. It is treated properly in processing. When treated properly in preparation, it is most rewarding. Tea, like life, can be spoiled by impatience. Tea also has other properties that I would imagine you can appreciate. You will indulge me, as I have been forced to indulge you.”
Her snort might have won a prize at the state fair. “Fine.”
“Having been coerced, you thought coercion acceptable?” His voice came more quietly than before and both women sat forward to hear him. “Let me see if I understand your situation correctly. You go to Saguaro High School here in Scottsdale. You’re a good student. You work hard. You post good grades.”
“I’m getting straight As. My average is high enough to make me valedictorian of my class, but only if I get at least a C in Advanced World History.”
Bloodstone’s eyes shifted to Julia. “This is not the course you teach?”
“No. Ace history is taught by Rachel Carmody. I teach English and looked Sara’s paper over before she submitted it.”
“Ah, yes, the paper.” His violet eyes glittered like moonlit snowflakes. “Tell me about the paper.”
Sara snarled harshly. “That bitch Carmody bases half our grade on our final research paper. She asked us for an analysis of the greatest philosophical movement in the history of mankind. What she meant by that was that she wanted a puff piece on Christianity, about how great it is, and how great it is that Christian soldiers are fighting terrorism in the Middle East.
“What I wrote was a paper detailing the deaths down through history due to Christianity’s intolerant attitude toward diversity and native cultures, starting with the wars against heretics, moving to the Crusades and hitting hard on the Burning Times.”
Bloodstone’s chin tilted up when she invoked ‘the Burning Times.’ “It was not the assignment your teacher expected.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Bloodstone’s eyes narrowed. “Connor, Carmody is the teacher who has been fighting for the right to organize prayer meetings as extra-curricular activity, yes? She has been supported by the Trinity Salvation Network?”
Arranging things on a tray, I glanced toward them. “Correct on both.” I wanted to add, “As you well know,” but he was in charge, so I didn’t spoil things.
The young woman nodded solemnly and began to smile. “That’s the bitch. She’s a full fledged disciple of Thurston Thickett and has preached at his Garden Cathedral over here. She’s even angling to get a TV show on his network. Ms. Carmody thinks I’m a menace and that I shouldn’t be allowed to represent my graduating class. She failed my paper, saying it was poorly written and researched, which means I get a D in her class, which means I’m not the Valedictorian anymore. That goes to Diana Grant, one of her little followers.”
“Of course, the conspiracy against you is complete.” Bloodstone tapped his index fingers together. “Now to the heart of the matter. You knew of Ms. Carmody’s predilections before you undertook your assignment?”
“Hell, yes. I even told her I was working on a different theme so she wouldn’t forbid me from writing it.”
Bloodstone steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. He said nothing and stared past the girl. I’d seen him go into that sort of fugue state before, which I knew could last from a second to the second of next month. I took the opportunity to start delivering tea to all and sundry.
Before I’d started working for Bloodstone, tea was something that came in a bag and was drunk iced in the summer. Not so to Bloodstone. He quickly acquainted me with the rituals of tea. The wet bar, for example, has three different hot-nozzles for dispensing water: boiling for black teas, not quite boiling for green, and somewhere in between for oolong. And the rooibos was not called tea in Casa Chaos, but a tisane, since it is an herbal infusion containing not a hint of actual tea.
I passed cups and saucers to their appropriate recipients. Bloodstone’s I put on the little table at his right hand, then left the tray with sugar and honey on the low table before the couch. Being careful not to spill my tisane, I took up the leather chair opposite the girl.
The scent of Bloodstone’s tea seemed to revive him. He looked down at the cup of the green-gold liquid on the side table, then nodded slowly. He didn’t smile, which he usually did with Ti Kuan Yin. I felt badly for Sara Piper. I’d been hoping that he might have been in a forgiving mood after reflection, but hopes for that quickly died.
Bloodstone’s voice, though remaining quiet, recovered its edge. With serrations. “You deliberately decided to provoke a reaction from her.”
“Duh!”
“‘Duh?’ You say ‘duh’ and you are to be the valedictorian?” Bloodstone sipped his tea and nodded toward Julia. “My admiration for your dedication to your vocation swells, Ms. Ellswood.”
The girl’s blue eyes narrowed as Bloodstone’s attention shifted away from her. “Look, she was trying to use class assignments to promote her own agenda, and I wanted to show I couldn’t be manipulated.”
“No, indeed, that would not do, would it?” Bloodstone’s nostrils flared for a moment. “Realizing you made a mistake, you tried to get help. You called here for an appointment, and I told Connor to say no.”
“I know.”
“You say that now, but you apparently failed to comprehend what I meant by ‘no.’ I rejected your request for aid. You called a press conference, claimed you were being censored, and then added you were receiving support from the community and specifically mentioned me. You, you who sought to prove you could not be manipulated, you sought to manipulate me?”
Bloodstone’s tone ablated some of Sara’s self-assurance. “It wasn’t like that. I thought that because she was going on TSN and talking about the situation that I’d fight back. I called some reporters and they came, then there was someone there from TSN and it all got out of hand.”
“Thus always when those using fire to fight fire are irresponsible pyromaniacs.” Bloodstone slowly shook his head. “You clearly were not thinking.”
“I’m not stupid, but it got crazy and they were treating me like a kook, so I used your name.” Sara hammered a fist against the couch’s arm. “That wasn’t how it was supposed to turn out. I just wanted to tell them I wasn’t going to write lies.”
Bloodstone’s amethyst gaze landed full force to her. “Then you would deny Christianity has ever done any good in the world?”
She started to reply, then closed her mouth and looked down at her hands. “Not any good, just not all good. It has done bad things—really bad things—and it will do them in the future unless we do something to stop them.”
Bloodstone nodded coldly and set his tea down. “Never again the Burning Times, yes?”
“Exactly!” A gleam ignited in Sara’s eyes and her spirit surged fire into her voice. “If I can show that I’m a good person, if I can help break their fundie influence, I can help prevent that from happening.”
Bloodstone waved that hope away dismissively. “You have already failed on that account. You picked a fight where you did not need to pick one. You fought with an authority you could not possibly have hoped to defeat. You lost. You sought to change the results of a fight you never should have entered into in the first place. Had you come to me earlier, I would have advised against this course of action. It may seem self-serving on my part to say this, since I have the benefit of hindsight, but it is also the truth. After the fact, there was nothing I could do for you, which is why I refused to see you.
“You ignored my refusal and attempted nonetheless to coerce me into helping you.” Bloodstone rose fluidly from his chair and pointed toward the front of the house. “Your invocation of my name prompted Reverend Thickett to direct people to picket in front of my home. This intrusion upon my life is your fault.”
“Welcome to the real world.”
Bloodstone’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Should be obvious, if you’re as smart as you think you are.” Sara stood and looked down at him. “This is a case of discrimination, Dr. Bloodstone, religious discrimination. They’re after me. They would have come for you eventually. You know that. You’re not immune. It’s the ‘Burning Times’ all over again. You have to help. You’re one of us.”
“One of us.” Bloodstone fell to stillness for a moment, as his words evaporated. “By ‘one of us’ you mean a witch, like you. A practitioner of a non-traditional, non-patriarchal, pre-Christian religious system that emphasizes life and the worship of same? It professes a belief in the ability to manipulate this world by the use of magick, following very specific laws and precepts?” The cold tone in his voice didn’t allow for the possibility that she could conceivably disagree with him.
Sara, befitting someone of her intelligence, mutely nodded in agreement.
“Please, be seated, Ms. Piper.” Bloodstone waved her back to her place on the couch but remained standing himself. His eyes hardened for a second, and I was ready to call 911 for someone to mop up what would be left of her. Maybe it was something in the way she sat, a bit meekly, that caused him to relent.
His voice dulled ever so slightly.
“Because you are intelligent and because you are young, I will explain why I am not ‘one of us.’ You, being a witch in, if the tattoo on your wrist and your jewelry are any indication, a neo-pagan Celtic, pseudo-Druidic tradition, have accepted as fact certain things I do not. You accept, philosophically, things I do not.”
Bloodstone pressed his left hand to his breastbone. “I am an occultist. I study the occult—that which is hidden—seeking knowledge and truth. I choose to delve into things that others find superstitious and even bizarre…” He glanced at me. “What’s the expression you skeptics favor, Connor?”
“Was ‘totally whackoid’ the one you were thinking of?”
“Indeed, totally whackoid.” Bloodstone let the phrase hang in the air for a moment creating a mirror to let Sara Piper see herself as many others did. “I choose to study a great deal, but I invest faith in very little; and on far stronger evidence of efficacy than you do.”
Sara blinked, then her lower lip quivered. “But you wrote that book—the grimoire. It has everything. How can you not believe?”
Bloodstone’s face darkened but the note of innocent surprise in her voice deflected him from his usual grimoire tirade. “Ms. Piper, this… book of mine that you reference was only ever meant to be a study of the various magickal traditions practiced in Europe from before and during the Christian era. For my thesis, I researched all I could, catalogued spells, analyzed them, broke them down into common elements and repeated themes, applying to them the same methodology folklorists have to faerytales. No one suggests Katherine Briggs or Joseph Campbell believe elves and faeries exist, but my cataloging of spells has somehow painted me as a practicing witch.”
“But everything I’ve read references your book.”
“Yes. New Age authors have managed to plagiarize my work rather effectively. What they miss, of course, is that their non-traditional, non-patriarchal religious systems are based on myths created out of whole cloth by bored members of the British intelligentsia a century ago when the rites of Masonry were not sufficiently exciting or lucrative for them.”
Julia Ellswood looked up at him. “You’re not suggesting there is no validity to pre-Christian religious traditions, are you?”
“To the tradition, no. Most embrace the Golden Rule in one form or another, and that they provide spiritual fulfillment to the practitioners is wonderful.” Bloodstone nodded to her. “But no religion is or should be transformed into a political movement, which is, in essence, what Ms. Piper was trying to do with her paper.”
I rattled my cup in my saucer. “As you said, she was just fighting fire with fire.”
All three of them glanced at me as I sipped my tisane, which had the rich scent of old, dried pine needles that have been nesting in the corner of a log cabin for a long time. Sara regarded me anew, as if I weren’t a moron. Julia gave me the hint of a smile—the kind you give a tennis partner after a nice kill shot.
Bloodstone just frowned. “This is a valid point, and one that should not be lost.”
I nodded. “And Carmody was really bullying her students.”
“Yes, Connor, I see that. Point taken.” Bloodstone resorted to a nose-sigh—one of those slow-speed snorts that just ooze resignation. “I am loathe, Ms. Piper, to reward your misuse of my name. I would not, in fact, do that save that Reverend Thickett is an opportunist who has used you and your statement to strike at me. This situation must be dealt with. The resolution of it may be to your benefit.”
The girl’s face brightened immediately. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“That is the most intelligent thing you have offered in my presence. Do not feel constrained to even try.” He clasped his hands at the small of his back. “Connor will inform you of the results of our consultation with Reverend Thicket. I would offer you the hospitality of the house, but I would hate to detain you further. Connor will see you out.”
________________________________________________
Mysterious Ways comes in three different editions, with the novel itself running around 90,000 words. If you choose to purchase from Stormwolf.com, you get both the .mobi and .epub files, and don’t have to worry about DRM.
Super Delux Edition: This edition includes not only the novel and the essay about how it came to be written, but I’ve also included a novella and two short stories.
Stormwolf.com Super Delux Edition
Amazon.com Super Delux Edition
Delux Edition: As with the Delux Edition of In Hero Years… I’m Dead, I’ve included an essay that talks about the writing of the novel, it’s long journey to publication, inspirations for characters and hints at where the series will go from here. You get to read the novel, then peek behind the scenes.
Basic Edition: The basic edition gives you Mysterious Ways in its purest form—just the novel, no extras.
June 20, 2012
Clutching at Relevance
As some of you may have noticed, my blog has been rather quiet of late, especially in terms of addressing digital publishing. Lots of reasons for that, like Wasteland 2, Secret Project #1, Secret Project #2, conventions, teaching classes, figuring out how to do two POD books for conventions, and so forth. I’ve been kind of busy, which is good, especially when you’re a freelancer.
Today, however, I read something which really demanded I comment on it.
Before I launch in, let me point out that I almost didn’t. The essay which I will comment about is in the currently rising, Second Wave of arguments floated by Traditional Publishing to justify their existence. We went through the First Wave a couple of years ago, with the attack phase of it laying into indy writers about a year ago. That subsided over this last holiday season when everyone was hoping that Amazon’s Fire would save us all. Now that it hasn’t, the Second Wave starts rolling in.
In an essay titled “Making E-books is Harder Than It Looks,” Andrew Zack (agent, editor and now publisher) holds forth on why ebooks actually cost publishers more to make than any of us believe and, therefore, why ebook prices should not fall. In fact, they likely ought to rise.
To put it kindly, Mr. Zack’s understanding of business is why the money-men in every industry just wish that “creatives” would shut up and let the adults get down to business. He offers no new insight into the problems of production or its real costs. He fully betrays his ignorance with the nuts and bolts of producing an ebook, making it available for sale, and the economics involved therein—at least on an indy scale, though he notes his company’s efforts are classified as “self-publishing” as far as Tradpubbers and Amazon are concerned.
There are dozens of problems with his arguments. I’m sure smarter people than I will point them all out. Three, however, are so demonstrably false that I couldn’t resist.
1) The cost of production software:
Adobe software, used to create e-books, doesn’t come free. In fact, one copy of InDesign is $699. Add in Photoshop and other software required to create and edit e-book files and you’ll easily be spending thousands just on the software.
He’s right. Solution?
Don’t use InDesign or Photoshop.
There are hundreds of graphics programs other than Photoshop which cost a fraction of it—not to mention all the free, trial copies of parts that come with any scanner you buy. In terms of software to actually make ebooks, I do quite well with Michael Zapp’s Legend Maker. There are plenty of other open source and free software packages for making epub files. Publishers like Amazon and Smashwords and B&N all have conversion software that doesn’t cost a cent to use. People like Michael Zapp will even do the conversion for you (he at $15 a book if you don’t want to buy his software), all without you having to shell out for InDesign.
Likewise you can purchase rights to art from an artist and get them to do the graphic design for you, probably faster and cheaper than you could do it yourself. There are tons of talented artists who are willing to do covers for ebooks. Or there are other authors with graphics skills who will barter editing help for graphics work.
2) The price of internet commerce.
Then, of course, you have to host the e-books somewhere so they can be sold. Large publishers may be able to buy servers and maintain them themselves (more tens of thousands of dollars), but many publishers and small publishers in particular use third-party hosts with experience in ecommerce and pay four- or five-figure set-up fees and then a piece of every eBook sold (twenty percent to twenty-five percent is not uncommon) via that host. Now this does not include Amazon or Barnes & Noble or other sellers. This is just for sales directly by the publisher using a third-party hosting service.
Let me state this clearly: only a moron who hates money would pay “four- or five-figure set-up fees and then a piece of every eBook sold…” for hosting and commerce.
First off, the vast majority of ebooks hosted by Amazon, B&N, Apple and other retailers, so never incur a hosting cost. The books are sold of their servers, which they maintain, etc.. Second, if a writer does want to retail his own books he can do what I do, which is to run my own store off my website, for which I pay a whopping $10 a month, unlimited storage and bandwidth, and no set-up fee. Or, third, if you want something in the middle, you go to a place like 3dCart.com (which my friend Brian Pulido uses), which charges a reasonable monthly fee and doesn’t take a piece of the action.
In all seriousness, someone who can’t find a good, inexpensive and effective ecommerce solution just isn’t trying.
3) Who is to blame for the perception that ebooks are too highly priced?
Self-published authors. That’s right, he’s looking at you. You’re the reason we can never have nice things.
In a brilliantly twisted series of passages, Mr. Zack notes that while ebooks do save publishers money, and that ebook sales actually do produce better royalties for authors even through the traditional publishing system; that the savings do not justify the appropriate reduction in prices. Why? Because those lower prices hurt publishers. And who is hurting publishers? All those self-published authors who are pricing their books lower than the prices which the Traditional publishers are charging.
Or, to break it down into a simple argument that I think even Mr. Zack could comprehend: ebooks are priced too low because indy authors, who are in competition with traditional publishers, have priced them that low.
The concept here is, wait for it, price competition. When publishers were the only game in town, they set prices that suited them, which covered their overhead and the like. They were content. Kind of the way Detroit’s carmakers were complacent back before the 1970s gas crisis. Now that there is competition, the traditional publishers are feeling the squeeze. So, instead of cutting fat, moving out of Manhattan, learning to run a leaner machine or actually adding a retailing component to their business; they lobby to keep prices artificially high.
Or did more than lobby. Ask the DOJ how that strategy works.
Mr. Zack should learn that asking for higher prices isn’t going to mean anything when he spends thousands on software where he could have spent tens of dollars; spends thousands of dollars plus a percentage of his business where he can get away with a flat fee; and spends valuable time lamenting the passing of a system that did not serve him in the past over well, nor is positioned to help him at all in the future. Stupid business decisions are stupid business decisions.
Do you want to publish Ulysses or do you want to make a profit? Sure, you can do both, but it requires that you run lean; and learning how to do that may take more creative effort than ever goes into a novel.
Why this new wave of criticism retreading arguments that we’ve all debunked countless times before? Because traditional publishing is now faced with the crisis of finding relevance in the new market. They seem to have forgotten that they, by giving the big chains favorable terms, drove independent bookstores out of existence by and large. Why did they do that? Because it was easier to sell to a handful of buyers for chains than it was to have a sales force that visited every little store on the planet. And then they, fearing the power of the chains, encouraged Amazon, so it could be a counter-balance. Not only did Amazon move product, but it returned very little of it. All sorts of win there.
And by encouraging all us authors to do our own publicity via blogs and Facebook and Goodreads.com and Twitter; they put writers in command of our audience. As I’ve noted before, the digital revolution is less about sales than it is about determining who has access to the community of my readers. Tradpub forced me to build that community, but they don’t want to pay me to access them. That doesn’t fly, and by going independent with some work, I’m able to capitalize that asset for my benefit, not their benefit.
But there are some people out there, Mr. Zack apparently among them, that sees a benefit in promulgating the myths of a dying business model. I can’t imagine why. I certainly can’t imagine his belief in such patent nonsense bodes well for his clients or business. But, then, I guess folks will say all sorts of silly things when they’re clutching for relevance and find it slipping softly from their grasp.
May 15, 2012
Upcoming Convention Specials!
Convention season begins in less than ten days, with Phoenix Comicon here in Phoenix. This is a great show, which has gotten bigger each year, and I’ll be in attendance once again. Not only will I participate in some panels, but I’ll be teaching my 21 Days to a Novel seminar and, for the first time ever, I’ll be offering a show exclusive.
It’s pictured to the left, and is the first time that my superhero noir novel, In Hero Years… I’m Dead, will appear in print—physical print, that is. I’ve produced a very limited run of the books (6×9 trade paperback, 358 pages) using the deluxe edition copy. That means not only do you get the novel, but you get the essay about how it was written, too. I only have twenty-five of the books coming, all are emblazoned with the Phoenix Comicon logo. I won’t be selling them off my website, so your shot at getting them will be at the convention. The book retails for $15, and is the perfect book to be reading while you wait for your 17th viewing of The Avengers.
In Hero Years…I’m Dead is also available available for the Kindle and in the epub format for all the other readers, including the Nook, iPhone, iPod Touch and iPad.
The Origins Game Fair takes place the first weekend in June in Columbus, Ohio. This is the premier gaming convention of the year. In the past couple of years we’ve been beefing up our author program, known as The Library. We’ve pulled together over a dozen published authors who, throughout the convention, offer classes on writing and the business, as well as do readings. Classes vary in price from $2 to $10, and when writers are not teaching, they can be found in The Library section of the exhibit floor.
This year we’ve put together an anthology, Time-traveled Tales, with samples of work from all of our authors. Jean Rabe edited the book and the lineup is impressive: Aaron Allston • Maxwell Alexander Drake • C.S. Marks • Sarah Hans • Donald J. Bingle • Janine K. Spendlove • Kelly Swails • Jean Rabe • Jennifer Brozek • Daniel Myers • Bryan Young • Michael A. Stackpole • Tracy Chowdhury • Gregory A. Wilson • Dylan Birtolo • R.T. Kaelin • Steven Saus • Bradley P. Beaulieu • Timothy Zahn.
This book is limited to a printing of 500 copies and we’re already expecting to have all of them gone before halfway into the convention. It’s shaping up to the convention’s must-have collectable souvenir, especially with so many authors there to sign it. The book is a 6×9 trade paperback with 200 pages. It will sell for $10.
