ŷ������

Q: What’s more rewarding than reading what is probably the defining* novel of a generation?

A: Reading the defining novel of a generation AND getting $50 bucks!

How, you must be wondering, do I get me some of that action??

Simply undertake the following steps by March 1, 2015, and you—yes, YOU—will have a chance to win:

1) Read The Camelot Shadow by yours truly (available on Kindle, iBooks, Nook, Kobo, and other fine e-reading platforms)

2) Write a review** on Amazon, iTunes, Barnes & Noble, ŷ������, or any other relevant ebook marketplace

3) Send an email to me at [email protected] with a link to the review and let me know you want to enter the contest

It’s that easy! And, to give you even more chances to win, you’ll get an extra entry for each additional platform you post your review on, and for posting links to your review on Twitter/Facebook/LinkedIn/etc.

For those of you who have already very kindly done these things, just shoot me an email to remind me that you’ve done so and you, too, will be entered into the contest without further effort (aren’t karmic rewards wonderful?).

The winner will be selected and notified on March 2 (and, with the winner’s permission, announced on my blog).

Please pass this along to anyone who may be interested, and thanks for your support. Happy reading!

*Note that “defining�� does not necessarily mean “good��

**While I hope that you love the book and can’t wait to slather it with lavish praise, I’m not looking to buy good publicity—please be honest in your review; not digging the book and telling the public that won’t disqualify you from winning the gift card (though I would ask that you avoid personal attacks, such as referring to the author, even if fairly so, as a “jackanapes�� (unless you precede such libel with an offsetting adjective like “winsome��))

I generally write for personal pleasure. Occasionally, I write for financial gain. Beyond hoping that something that dribbles out of my digital quill might strike someone as entertaining, however, I have rarely thought of writing as something I do, or could do, to help people directly. Not so much because I’m a selfish jackass, but because I never really considered that my writing might be used to achieve that goal. And then we lost Sarah.

Dr. Sarah Pettrone passed away on July 25, 2014, at the unjustly young age of 38. She was a surgeon, and she was passionate about what she did—so much so that rather than vacation at the beach with a Mai Tai (well, okay, she might occasionally have done that), Sarah undertook several trips with Surgicorps International, an organization that provides free surgical and medical care to disadvantaged individuals in developing countries (see surgicorps.org for more). She joined a cadre of other doctors who volunteered their time and talent to travel, at their own expense, to places like Bhutan, Ethiopia, and Honduras to perform procedures that immeasurably improved the quality of people’s lives. Sarah had a gift, and she used that gift to do good in the world.

As I’m sure Sarah herself would have attested (no doubt gleefully, given her penchant for needling me), I’m by no means as skilled with the keyboard as she was with the scalpel, and I can’t use words to fix a cleft palate or restore function to a shattered hand. But, I can tell a pretty good story. And I can use that skill to help people in need.

I’ve pledged to donate $1 to Surgicorps for every copy sold of The Camelot Shadow—not just in memory of Sarah, but also to recognize and give thanks for her inspiration. I have every intention of telling many more stories in my life, and I am committed to donating some portion of the proceeds of everything I ever publish to organizations that enable people to leverage their talents to do something good for the world, whether that’s feed the starving, aid the sick, or fight for justice on behalf of those who cannot do it themselves.

I fear that Surgicorps is unlikely to reap a substantial windfall from my meager pledge (I mean, how many people out there really want to read a Victorian-set pseudo-historical mystery involving Arthurian lore?), but what if we all commit to doing something we love, something we’re good at, to make the world a better place? Everyone does something well—maybe it’s not something as immediately impactful as being able to heal the sick and injured, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find a way to use our gifts to benefit others.

Individually, our efforts may register as little more than barely discernible pinpricks of light in what feels like an increasingly dark world. Multiply those small but significant efforts by a few thousand, or a few million, or a few billion people, though…now we’re a vast constellation stretching across the night sky, one whose brilliance can inspire and guide those struggling through even the darkest nights.

That’s a pretty cheesily melodramatic metaphor (my stock in trade), one that I have no doubt would have made Sarah roll her eyes. But that doesn’t change the fact that she was one of the bright lights in that constellation, and there’s no better star to steer by than the one that never fades, the one that is an ever-present reminder to keep dreaming of something beyond ourselves.

The sky is vast and there’s plenty of room for us all. Here’s hoping we all make it up there together.

There are a few things that the world desperately needs right now: more unity, tolerance, and empathy; more clean drinking water; a better means of protecting against catastrophic storms; and mint chocolate deodorant. (How amazing would it be to smell like the world’s most delicious flavor combination?)

Does it NEED a prequel to The Camelot Shadow, particularly if the implication of the publication of said prequel is that there may subsequently be a sequel (or sequels)?

Goodness, no.

Ah, but did it WANT one?

Well, no, not as far as I’m aware.

But, guess what, world? YOU’RE GETTING SOMETHING YOU DON’T NEED AND MAY NOT WANT! So, you’ve got that going for you, which is nice��

The Camelot Shadow was conceived as a stand-alone tale, one that, hopefully, gave readers a full story arc and a sense of closure. Shortly after I finished writing it, though, I missed the characters. (Those that survived, at least—man, that book was a bloodbath, wasn’t it? Sometimes authors can be real assholes when it comes to protecting the health and well-being of your favorite characters.)

So, I started thinking about where things might go next (or before), which resulted in the forthcoming short story prequel The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, set to hit the (virtual) shelves in early December (exact release date to come).

If you’ve read The Camelot Shadow, you know that it was as much the story of Will Upton as it was Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam, and so what better way to continue to explore stories in The Camelot Shadow universe than by chronicling a notable incident from Will’s early days as a bookseller? Here’s the pitch:

Decades before the events of The Camelot Shadow, a young William Upton is intent on ensuring that his late father’s bookstore continues to thrive, even if that means taking a commission from a mysterious client who tasks him with finding an arcane—and possibly magical—tome. With time running out and a large reward hanging in the balance, Will chases down every possible lead, braving the macabre underground laboratory of a sadistic nobleman before embarking on a daring, late-night library break-in.

Told through Will’s own diary and with his characteristic wit, “The Strange Task Before Me�� is an intense race against the clock that mixes action, humor, and a bit of magic—all while laying the groundwork for momentous events to come, expanding on the mythology of The Camelot Shadow, and introducing a key new character in the unpredictable Baron Frederickson.

Intrigued? You’re gosh darn right you are—get this story on your to-read list posthaste! Watch this space for a preview of the story in coming weeks and a giveaway closer to the release date. In the meantime, go read The Camelot Shadow—you’ll thank me. Or not.

But, at least one of us will be happy.

Mark your calendars, gird your loins (ideally not in front of others because, you know, propriety), and hide your Scotch—the forthcoming The Camelot Shadow prequel short The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton is set for release on November 20. You can now, but only if you're exceptionally awesome. (For you non-Kindle readers out there, stay tuned for details on how you get your sweaty little mitts on a copy in other formats.)

“But, strange-looking man who keeps popping up in my update feed to shamelessly promote himself…will there be giveaways?��

Well, duh—what better way to shamelessly self-promote myself (hmmm…I think that’s redundant, but, hey—more me, so yay for that) than by flinging my wares out willy-nilly for all to grab? So, stay tuned for that, too!

In the meantime, here’s a brief preview of the story. Happy reading!

THE STRANGE TASK BEFORE ME
Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton

18XX

11 June
My friend Alfie tells me that keeping a diary is all the rage in these early years of the reign of Queen Victoria, our revered paragon of moral virtue. Noble lords and shopkeepers alike are caught up in the frenzy, and so I feel compelled to set down certain facts to ensure that when they are entered into the historical record, as they undoubtedly will be, given the likelihood of my future eminence, I am portrayed in the most positive possible light. Of course, the good Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam also suggests that an intimation of intimacy directed toward a serving girl one has only just met when she placed before him a savory plate of mutton is inappropriate, and so I’m not entirely convinced of the veracity or wisdom of his counsel.

Two sentences into my inaugural entry, one written in secret but, like all others of its ilk, ultimately for the purpose of public consumption, and I’ve already suggested that I’m a lascivious cad. It’s not far from the truth, I suppose, at least insofar as my actions are considered, but it’s as representative of who I am at heart as I suspect the totality of this “private�� document will be.

But, I didn’t purchase this beautiful calfskin-bound volume (from my own shop, naturally, albeit at a handsome discount extended to me by the handsome owner) to set down my innermost thoughts with respect to the scandalous (and, I confess, often unfulfilling) manner in which I behave toward the fair sex, as I find deep self-examination as comfortable and appealing as the prospect of having my leg amputated in an army field hospital. Rather, unlike the self-absorbed navel gazers or gluttonous gourmands intent on tracking their daily food intake who tend to purchase these volumes from my shop, I hope to use it with purpose. This, of course, presumes I have something worthwhile to record.

Which, at the moment, I do not. And so, surcease.

18 June
It would seem that interesting events in one’s life occur in inverse proportion to one’s desire to record them in one’s diary. One week in, the most notable thing that has happened is that I managed to snag a pair of trousers on a rather pernicious nail jutting from the door of the shop, resulting in the ruination of said trousers and a rather vigorous pounding of the offending piece of metal with the business end of a hammer.

I emerged scarred from the encounter, certainly, but victorious, and unbroken. Let us see what the next week shall bring��

25 June
I begin to question whether my diary is responsible for the recent lack of notable anecdotes in my life, or whether my life has ever been devoid of noteworthy events, and it only seemed to be filled with them because I wasn’t actually counting the days between the rare occurrences of interest. Regardless, last week’s incident with the nail begins to grow more and more epic in the retelling, having nothing to displace its pride of narrative place in my life since it transpired.

The nail will soon be a harpoon, if not a lance, by the end of the summer.

29 June
Today marks two years since Father’s passing. I feel as though I should commemorate the occasion, but I could think of no suitable way to do so other than to open the shop as normal and down an extra Scotch at the public house. Father would have appreciated that tribute, I don’t doubt, and would have been uncomfortable with anything more elaborate.

I wonder what Mother would want me to do to mark the occasion of her passing? Not that I can do so on the day it happened, of course—Father was always vague about the precise date she left us as well as the circumstances. Was it the day I was born? The following day? Weeks later? Perhaps I should simply mark her death the day on my birthday. I suppose the celebration would be the same—imbibing an ungentlemanly amount of liquor—though perhaps I’d refrain from spending the evening in the company of a member of the fair sex. I suspect Mother would disapprove.

Though, how would I know, having never met the woman? Or, at least, having not known her at an age at which I was capable of forming memories��

Yelling “free books!�� on ŷ������ is a little bit like yelling “free greasepaint and giant shoes!�� at a clown convention; before you know it, you’ve got some very colorful people swarming all over you.

(Fortunately, I have a thing for being underneath a pile of sweaty clowns (don’t ask), so I’m okay with what I’m about to do.)

*Clears throat*

FREE BOOKS!

Or, at least, free virtual books. Though I won’t guarantee they’re good ones. And you need to do something to earn them. Skip to the “Here’s How You Get the Free Books�� part below if you’re impatient and don’t want to read my blather on the way to finding out how to get ‘em.

On November 20, The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, a short prequel to The Camelot Shadow, will be released. I would love nothing more than to put this story into the seltzer bottle-filled hands of a bunch of sweaty clowns—except maybe to put this story AND its predecessor/descendant (that’s a weird combo) into their hands as well.

“All right, Gibson, we’ll bite, even though we resent being called sweaty clowns, except for those of us who are actually sweaty clowns—we’re not convinced your drivel is worth our time, but, let’s say we were really bored one day and wanted to give it a go; how would we get our white-gloved hands on these stories?��

Lately, I’ve gotten increasingly frustrated with the divisive state of the world and the fact that, at least if the news and social media is to be believed, 1) everyone hates everyone else and only horrible things ever happen; 2) no one can accept or gracefully deal with the fact that others might have a different point of view on a controversial topic (and one worth understanding, even if you don’t agree with it); and 3) we will forever be judged and defined solely by the worst thing we’ve ever done in our lives, with no hope of forgiveness, change, or redemption.

Now, I don’t believe all three of those things are true—at least, I hope they’re not, because that’s not a world I want to live in, and it’s certainly not a world I want my kiddos to inherit. But, I could use a little restoration of my faith in humanity.

HERE’S HOW YOU GET THE FREE BOOKS

So, in order to score free copies of BOTH "The Strange Task Before Me" and The Camelot Shadow, I’m asking you to do three simple things between now and November 17:

1) Add both books to your GR TBR if you haven’t already (just so your friends know that you have quality taste in stories, not that they doubted you);

2) In the comment section below, share one instance you’ve seen in the past few weeks of someone doing something nice for someone else for no particular reason other than it was the right thing to do, being empathetic toward someone with a different point of view, or otherwise just acting like, you know, a human being toward another human being; and

3) Share this blog post on GR, Twitter, Facebook, or your social media platform of choice to encourage others to come share their stories. (After you’ve done that, I’ll send you a message to ask about format/email/etc.)

Honestly, I don’t even care if you don’t want to read the books (I get that not everyone is that cool)—just share your stories. Generate some collective love, hope, and peace. Help remind me, to paraphrase the redoubtable Samwise Gamgee in The Two Towers, that there’s some good in this world—and it’s worth fighting for.

I’ll give you one good example to get the ball rolling: a couple of weeks ago, when I picked up my son from daycare, he was grinning from ear to ear. Before I could even ask him why he was so happy, he held up a little action figure. Naturally, I expressed my surprise that he would be in possession of something so cool and asked him how he got it. It turns out that one of his teachers had given it to him for doing such a good job helping the teachers clean up while the other kids ran around like crazy people (as kids do, mine generally included). What’s remarkable about this story isn’t that a kid got rewarded at daycare for good behavior; what’s remarkable is that, as I later found out, the teacher supplied the toy herself, and she routinely brings in little toys for similar purposes.

So, here’s a woman who’s hardly being adequately compensated for doing what is, for me, the single most important thing imaginable—taking care of my kids—spending her own money to help reinforce my son’s good behavior. I was simultaneously proud as a dad—my son didn’t help clean up for the promise of a reward, because he had no idea it was coming; he just did it because he saw that his teachers needed help—and so incredibly touched as a person that his teacher would do that.

One small act of kindness can’t undo the horror of a mass shooting. It can’t allay fears of nuclear war. It can’t protect the rights of all people and ensure that they get a fair shake in life regardless of gender, ethnicity, religion, or sexual identity.

But, damn it, we’ve got to start somewhere. I’m tired of seeing people tear each other down. I’m sick of seeing the worst of humanity.

Share your story today—or, even better, go out and make your own story. Be kind. Do something nice for someone, no matter how small. Instead of spewing vitriol at someone you disagree with, take a breath and try to empathize and understand. When you hear about something horrible someone did, condemn the act but be open to the possibility that they can learn and grow and change and be a force for good in the world eventually.

And then go read "The Strange Task Before Me." You’ll like it—and you’ll have earned it.

And now that I’ve got your attention��

I feel about Giving Tuesday a little bit like how I feel about Valentine’s Day: you shouldn’t have to pick a day to help other people, just as you shouldn’t have to pick a day to say I love you and be nice to your significant other, because the implication is that it’s okay to NOT do those things the rest of the year. (On the plus side, Giving Tuesday doesn’t involve the giving or receiving of bad chocolate—that’s what kills me most about Valentine’s Day; the chocolate is terrible, and every time you eat bad chocolate, and angel gets stabbed in the earhole by a devil.)

That said, I’m all in favor of something that gets people thinking about how they can be a force for good in the world, and if Giving Tuesday is the mechanism that makes that happen, then I’ll, um, mechanic it up (I have no idea what that means).

For reasons detailed here, I like to donate a portion of the (meager) proceedings from my books to worthy causes. In the case of The Camelot Shadow and The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, it’s Surgicorps.org (for reasons described in the link above), and in the case of The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, it’s ProLiteracy (for reasons that should be obvious to anyone on ŷ������).

HELP ME GIVE MORE!

In an effort to augment my usual annual donation to those groups and the book proceeds, I’m going to donate an extra dollar to each cause for every copy of my books sold between now and Friday. Is that going to enable both organizations to completely fulfill their missions and close up shop? Of course not. But, maybe we can throw a little extra good their way and, in the process, provide essential medical care to those in need and help some people learn to read (and gain all of the power (and great responsibility) that knowing how to do that entails).

If you want to participate, just pick up a copy of one of the books (or multiples—they make great gifts) and let me know that you made a purchase, either in the comments below or by messaging me directly; I’ll make the donation on Saturday.

Regardless of what causes you support and how you do that (sometimes money is tight, but time, old clothes, food, and other commodities can always help), thanks to all of my GR peeps for being rays of light in an increasingly dark world.

Happy Holidays to all!

There's something to be said for original ideas. There's also something to be said for copycatting unoriginal ideas that work just dandy.

Last year, to celebrate mystery/thriller week on GR, we did a giveaway of The Camelot Shadow that was so wildly successful, virtual bookshelves everywhere started groaning under the weight of the tomes given away. So, let's run it back and do it again for the millions of adoring would-be fans who have added the book to their TBR since then. (I'm even liberally copying my own text from last year's post.)

The best part about this giveaway is that EVERYONE IS A WINNER, I’m not even going to make you read through all of my rambling, turgid prose below before telling you how to get your copy (though you’re more than welcome to continue reading my rambling, turgid prose, which is essentially what you’re committing to doing if you’re reading The Camelot Shadow anyway).

So, what do you need to do? Two simple things:

1) Add The Camelot Shadow to your “to read�� list on GR so all your friends can see what good taste you have in handsomely-nosed independent authors; and

2) in the comments section below, list your favorite mystery or thriller (if you’re feeling effusive, please feel free to tell us why). (Also, I wouldn’t be upset if you shared this link with your GR friends.)

The only catch: you’ve got to do it by midnight (Eastern) on Sunday, April 8.

Once you’ve commented, I’ll send you a private message asking which format you’d like the book in (Mobi/ePub/PDF) and what email to send it to. It’s that easy, folks!

Now, if you’re only here for my goodies, you can stop reading (and, let’s face it, who DOESN’T want my goodies?).

Now then…you there—in the back. I see you waving your hand frantically. What is it?

“But, Mr. Handsomely-Nosed Independent Author—is The Camelot Shadow REALLY a mystery/thriller? I mean, come on—it’s set in Victorian times, when they didn’t even have cell phones or Snapchat or Dippin�� Dots ice cream, and there’s magical stuff going on, and it’s got King Arthur references that don’t have anything to do with the Guy Ritchie movie (I mean, what’s that all about?), and the pacing is kind of slow out of the gate. Also, your nose isn’t all that handsome.��

Well, I’m glad you asked that, Mr. Bludgeoned Repeatedly and Enthusiastically With the Ugly Stick. The Camelot Shadow is something of a cross-genre hodgepodge, mainly because that’s exactly the kind of thing that I like to read. While I dig fast-paced, straight up thrillers on occasion (more on that below), I’m an even bigger fan of a slow burn mystery that builds up as characters are simultaneously built up and clues revealed, where an unexpected twist throws you off track and, before you can recover, you get twisted right back around, and where the characters can’t rely on high-tech gizmos to help save the day (not that there’s anything wrong with stories where that happens; I just love the dramatic tension of characters not instantly being able to communicate with each other across distances or find an answer to an unsolvable mystery in less than two seconds by Googling it). Throw in elements of history, fantasy, bromance/buddy movies, and a Victorian setting and you’ll literally see me drool. (Not that seeing me drool is a particularly unusual occurrence, incidentally, as all of my stained shirts will attest.)

So, sure—The Camelot Shadow isn’t a mystery/thriller in the same way that a Janet Evanovich or Nelson DeMille book is a mystery/thriller, but it’s got enough of such elements for me to use this week as an excuse to give you free books, so be quiet. If you dig mixing all of those genre elements together, you might like the book (and, if you don’t, I promise I won’t be mad if you have to publicly trash it in your review—reading is subjective, and we can still be friends). And, I have no idea what that Guy Ritchie/King Arthur nonsense was all about. Let's pretende it never happened.

As for MY favorite mystery or thriller? First off, I think those are two different things—a book can certainly have elements of both, but a story can also just be a straight mystery (that’s not so thrilling, and I don’t mean that pejoratively), or a straight thriller (where the reader knows what’s going on but the characters don’t, and it’s a pulse-poundingly, rip-roaringly paced yarn). Putting that aside, though, and with nods to more contemporary writers like Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child (the Pendergast books never fail to entertain), Dan Brown (The Camelot Shadow borrows from the formula that Brown has popularized so adeptly in his Robert Langdon books), and John Saul (that man writes some creepy thrillers), as well as masters of the genre like Agatha Christie and Edgar Allen Poe (arguably the inventor of the genre), I have to go with a tale featuring a certain deerstalker-wearing detective: The Hound of the Baskervilles. The combination of Holmes and Watson (the best detective duo ever, for my money), a haunting setting, the intimation of supernatural chicanery afoot, and some of Doyle’s most effective pacing makes for an unforgettable reading experience.

Now then—let’s hear from you��

I should note that I am, literally, sitting on my ass, if only because it’s more comfortable than sitting on my face, though, when so doing, my nose does make for a nice, one-legged George Jetson-like chair support.

Of late, I’ve had a few folks politely inquire as to when I’ll be putting out some new stuff (and by “politely inquire,�� I mean eloquent inquiries such as, “Hey, jagoff, stop being a lazy asshole and write something new, will you? There are only so many times I can torture myself with your prior mediocrities.��). (Being a writer is the best, I tell you. And I mean that sincerely—no matter offensively phrased, when someone wants to read more of your stuff, it’s a good feeling.)

So, I thought I’d provide a quick and probably unsatisfying update (stow it, peanut gallery, before you start cracking jokes about how my updates are like my lovemaking—being correct and being nice aren’t always the same thing, you know). When you’ve got a crazy-busy full-time gig and little ones, as many of you know, free time is at a premium, which makes the writing process a lot slower than I’d like it to be. And, even when stories have been written, the whole trying-to-get-a-book-deal thing means that they spend a lot of time circulating amongst agents who, I think, look at my work like I do asparagus at a dinner party: smile politely, shake your head, and say, “Wow, that looks great, but I really don’t like it when my pee smells.��

So, while I do have a new Heloise book written, it’s not yet ready to share with the general public, though maybe I’ll post a few pages at some point in the near future if enough people indicate that it’s likely that they will die if they’re unable to read it (I mean, the Hippocratic oath applies to writers, right?). I’m hard at work on a new story as well, and I’ll provide some updates on that when and if I think it’s going to stick. (No, it’s not the long-awaited Camelot Shadow sequel, but I promise that will happen down the road.)

“Well, that’s all well and good,�� I hear the polite inquirers saying, “but what am I supposed to do in the meantime if I need to read something soporific on those nights I’m tossing and turning in bed?��

Were I a less well-mannered individual, I might suggest that you suck it; fortunately, I’m exceedingly courteous, so I will provide a few helpful suggestions.

If you’ve already worked your way through The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, The Camelot Shadow, and The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton (and I hope that, if you’ve read and enjoyed The Camelot Shadow, you’ve checked out Strange Task—it sets up some things that will bear fruit in future sequels), you might want to check out the following reviews, which are basically short stories/scripts. I like to exercise the creative writing muscles on GR now and again, so keep your eyes peeled (but not literally, because gross) for similar output in the future.

A pilot script for "Doctor, Doctor," a sitcom starring Doctor Strange and Doctor Doom

A pilot script for "Days of our (Future) Lives," a teen dramedy starring the Uncanny X-Men

An account of my abduction by aliens who wanted me to explain human mating habits

If you’re still incredibly desperate for reading material, I’d also suggest digging through the archives of this blog, where you’ll find flights of wit, fancy, and wonder, mainly from the commenters who are taking shots at the material.

I am so incredibly grateful to all of you who have taken time to hang out with my stories and who continue to support me and show an interest in future work—I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: every writer, no matter what they say, writes to be read, and the reason I do that is because I’m so indebted to the many incredible writers who have made me think, laugh, cry, or just generally entertained me over the years. If I can do the same for someone somewhere along the way, then I’m a happy cat.

As Stan Lee famously said in Mallrats, “You keep reading ‘em, I’ll keep writing ‘em.��

Given how many people said they appreciated getting a preview of The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton (if only so they could confirm that they want to avoid it like flesh-eating bacteria, colonoscopies, and circus peanuts), I thought I’d post the first few chapters of The Camelot Shadow—I’m in the business of giving people what they don’t want.

As a reminder, you can also still check out the first installments of The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple—get it while it’s hot, or at least tepid. It's the only way to get properly prepared for The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True.

THE CAMELOT SHADOW

PRELUDE

He grimaced as he watched the last of the men flee into the cave, threadbare tunics flapping over woad-streaked bodies. It was a trap, of course, and a poorly disguised one, but he was not concerned—though they outnumbered him five to one, the men, little more than tangled thickets of hair draped atop emaciated limbs, posed as little risk to him as a fly alighting on its back might threaten a highland cow.

Still, he knew that she was involved. Nimue. The cowards huddled in the cave would offer scant resistance, true, but the same could not be said of her. He should have killed her decades before, but he had chosen to be merciful; he would not make the same mistake again.

The man rubbed a hand across his jaw, dirty fingertips leaving dark smudges that stood in stark contrast to the light brown stubble they covered, as he stepped out from behind the hedge where he had concealed himself. They would expect him to enter boldly, and so he would.

As he crossed the threshold of the cave, he detected a faint flutter, like a shadow glimpsed from the corner of sleep-encrusted eyes, but he had no time to consider the sensation, for the men—“druids,�� he thought with a sneer—attacked instantly, chanting and gesticulating wildly. Before their energies could coalesce, however, he raised his right hand, barked an arcane syllable, and sent crackling blue light bursting from his extended fingertips to strike the nearest man before it arced to the second, creating a chain lightning that quickly consumed all five and left them nothing more than withered husks.

The man shook his head with contempt, the smell of charred flesh a satisfying testament to his foes�� weakness. His attention did not linger long on their corpses, however, for he sensed that the woman was near, and he would need all of his remaining strength to face her.

He turned warily, eyes darting from side to side as he prepared to exit the cave. He did not see her, but he knew she was there. Balling his fists at his side, he stepped forward.

Everything shattered. His body collapsed as his mind splintered into tiny fragments, each one embedding itself into the cave’s jagged walls. He screamed, a raw, primal howl, as his nerves caught fire. He whimpered as his power, the very fiber of his being, fled from the cave, beyond the desperate grasp of the last conscious bits of his essence.

As he drifted into darkness, a dreamless slumber he knew could last for decades, perhaps centuries, he took grim satisfaction in knowing that he had prepared himself even for this unlikely outcome. He could recover what he had lost—he would simply need to find it. When he awoke��

CHAPTER ONE

As companions went, they were quieter than most, but their silence did little to diminish the pleasure he took in their company. To the contrary, their tranquility, interrupted occasionally by a satisfying crackle or whispered hint of friction, enhanced their appeal, as they never offered advice unsolicited, yet never failed to provide information. The ancient tome that currently rested in his lap was among the most prized in his vast collection, and as he carefully turned a vellum page, he marveled once again at its smooth feel, like the leaf of an orchid, and at the elegant script that covered its surface.

Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam had spent countless hours amidst the towering bookshelves and sliding ladders of his library, which housed one of the most impressive private collections in all of Queen Victoria’s England, his mind ranging far afield while his body remained ensconced in the worn leather chair in which he now sat, its creased surface conforming to fit the contours of his body with the familiar touch of an intimate companion. It was with the certainty that he would spend much of his life in this very room that he had first cultivated his well-manicured beard, hoping that it would give him the distinguished look of an academic. A sheepish smile crossed his lips as he recalled the youthful notion that a man’s appearance was indicative of wisdom, though the beard—now snowy white, save for a few persistent brown rivulets—remained.

He raised his eyes to the window to watch as snowflakes fell from the sky with a nonchalance that seemed defiantly at odds with their short lifespans. The blowing wind made him grateful for the warm glow that emanated from the library’s fireplace, an antique structure surrounded by a bronze relief that depicted a parade of ancient gods. In the evening, the fire would cast shadows across the wall, presenting a fierce struggle worthy of those same gods, one that raged until the blaze had burned itself out. Despite his failing eyesight, Alfred often read by the light of the fire alone, as he found the combination of ancient knowledge and flickering flames even more intoxicating than the Scotch—the Macallan, always—that fueled his late-night reading vigils.

Tonight, however, rather than reading, he would instead embark on a cold carriage ride to a dreadfully dull dinner party at the estate of another of the county’s most prominent families. Though bored to the verge of catatonia by such proceedings himself, his wife, Ellen, was fond of such galas, and it was in deference to her wishes that he continued to attend them, despite the fact that she was no longer well enough to accompany him.

Alfred rose and stretched. He heard a crack and felt a discomfiting pop, prompting a symphony of groans. Years had passed since he could rise without pain in one extremity or another, though, on the whole, he remained remarkably fit, his slender figure devoid of the extra carriage so common to his contemporaries. The pallor in his cheeks, however, indicated too many hours spent in the library. Earnest, blue-gray eyes peered out through pince-nez spectacles, and his neatly trimmed beard conveyed a stately elegance that his frequently arched eyebrow quickly dispelled. His voice, a deep baritone only just beginning to roughen from the rigors of long discussions, was warmly authoritative, and it was not uncommon even for people he had only just met to defer to his judgment.

Alfred moved toward the fireplace, picked up a poker, and prodded the logs, shifting them to smother the flames. Unlike his neighbors, he did not retain a retinue of full-time servants, relying instead on the many talents of his manservant, Stephen, and his house-maid, Sally. Sally did her best to keep the house, far too large for her alone to tend, free from cobwebs, though she had given up on the rooms her master and mistress no longer frequented, brokering an uneasy truce with the dust mites that had taken up residence within them in exchange for their tacit agreement to refrain from inhabiting the rooms they did use.

With the fire extinguished, Alfred walked to the window and gazed out over the grounds of his estate. Though scarcely mid-afternoon, daylight had already begun to fade. He watched as a stiff breeze gave the snowflakes free reign to flutter about before they alighted on the ground atop their predecessors. They reminded Alfred of the people with whom he would dine this evening—at a glance, they appeared identical, their clothes and mannerisms muted echoes with a shared origin, but a closer examination revealed the idiosyncrasies each possessed. A wry smile touched his lips as he considered the fact that “flake�� served as such an apt descriptor for those same individuals.

After casting a last glance over his shoulder at the shelves where his bound companions rested, Alfred slowly descended the spiral staircase that led to his bedroom. Though dinner invitations came less frequently of late, social functions still took place far too often for his liking, and each time he received a summons, he gave serious consideration to ignoring it and taking up the hermit-like existence his peers predicted for him after Ellen inevitably succumbed to her illness. Doing so, however, would only further distance him from the last vestiges of the life they had enjoyed together, and there was always the hope that this evening would prove different.

Alfred shook his head ruefully and smiled as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His father had once upbraided him for being too much of an idealist, but Alfred had never quite given up on believing in something beyond the practical, though he tended to ignore such feelings. With his father long since gone, however, Alfred supposed that, at least for a night, he could allow his more quixotic side a temporary victory. Perhaps this evening would be different.

CHAPTER TWO

Alfred stepped down from the coach and pulled his long coat tightly around his body. The snow had ceased, and the calm of the winter landscape was broken only by the squeaking arrival of other carriages. Judging by the steady stream of people spilling out from those that had already arrived, the inclement weather would have little effect on attendance.

“I would prefer not to make it a late evening,�� said Alfred, turning to face his servant. “Would you return in, say, three hours?��

“Yes, sir,�� replied Stephen, snapping the reins and turning the coach back toward home.

Alfred glanced over his shoulder, savoring the majesty of the tableau before him. The moon hung low in the cloudless sky, and the stars flickered like the flames of the fire he had so recently snuffed. Despite the temperature, he would almost have preferred to remain outside.

Shaking his head and exhaling, he turned and walked to the front of the house, a stately manor well suited to one of the nation’s more prominent families. That its current occupants included the recently deceased Duke of Welshire’s widow and her frivolous brood brought a grimace to Alfred’s face, an expression he nimbly turned to a smile as the door opened in response to his soft knock. “Good evening, Lord Fitzwilliam,�� said the Duchess’s butler, a thin man dressed immaculately in livery, as he took Alfred’s coat, hat, and muffler.

“Evening, Geoffrey. You are in for a long night, I fear.�� Alfred inclined his head back over his left shoulder, indicating the arrival of yet another carriage.

The butler’s expression remained impassive. “So it would seem, my lord. The guests who have already arrived have availed themselves quite freely of the Duchess’s sherry, and if she continues to allow it to flow so liberally, I’m afraid many of our dinner guests will also be joining us for breakfast.��

Alfred chuckled. “Were it my party, I might suggest—purely as a hypothetical, mind you—that you water down the drinks halfway through dinner. By then, most of the guests will be past the point of noticing, and perhaps they will be more amenable to the prospect of departure if the water serves the dual purpose of sobering them up.��

The butler allowed himself a brief smile. “An excellent suggestion, my lord, but one I will have to give you full credit for if we’re forced to implement it and the Duchess finds out.��

“I shall happily take responsibility—if she blames me, perhaps I will be fortunate enough to be omitted from the guest list in the future.�� Alfred patted the man lightly on the shoulder and moved past him into the hallway.

Nearly a score of people occupied the drawing room when Alfred entered, and voices from the adjacent room told him that more were present. He spotted the Duchess on the far side and began to make his way over to pay his regards, eager to discharge the onerous task. Before he could reach her, however, a bulky man blocked his path.

“Waltzing by without even a nod, old man?�� The statement was accompanied by a wink and an outstretched hand.

Though the speaker appeared older, he was, in fact, two years Alfred’s junior. The man’s ample midsection, red cheeks, and gleaming pate contributed to his prematurely aged appearance, and a slight stoop only added to the perception that he was well into his dotage rather than just beginning it. His smile was warm, however, and the woman standing next to him, a wispy and wrinkled matron with a shock of gray hair that hung limply to one side, beamed when she saw Alfred.

“Benjamin! Lucille!�� exclaimed Alfred as he grasped the man’s hand. “I thought your affairs would keep you away until next week.�� He sketched a small bow to the woman, who laughed and extended her own hand, palm down, to Alfred, who kissed it lightly.

“I managed to complete a few deals early, and the weather was simply dreadful, so we decided to return home,�� replied Benjamin. He offered a wry grin. “And, of course, Lucy wouldn’t have missed the Duchess’s dinner for all the tea in China, though I did my best to purchase it in place of actually having to attend.��

Alfred laughed. “A transaction from which you would have no doubt prospered.�� He had never met anyone as shrewd as Benjamin Bradshaw, a man whose business empire, begun with a fruit cart when he was six years old, was built on the foundation of his ruthlessness in procuring the best deal. Alfred’s father had invested in some of a much-younger Benjamin’s more adventurous schemes, most of which, despite their seemingly scant chances for success, resulted in a healthy return for their investors. Over the past decade, Alfred had granted Benjamin the right to manage his own fortune, a decision he had no cause to regret.

“I am glad you are here,�� said Alfred, looking around the room and shaking his head, “though I suspect that the truest of the bluebloods do not share my sentiment.��

“There will come a day when new money will simply be money, but until then, I will take great pleasure in offending with my presence.�� Benjamin smiled as Lucille patted him gently on the arm. Though she had never possessed great beauty, a charming blend of common sense and a nurturing nature had won over her pragmatic husband who, with his philandering days long past, appreciated her more every day.

“At least we seem to have timed our arrival well,�� noted Alfred as the guests began to make their way to the dining hall.

“True—if nothing else, the Duchess sets a fine table. And, she spares no expense when it comes to purchasing the finest brandy,�� said Benjamin.

Alfred arched an eyebrow. “I suppose she procures it from you?��

Benjamin winked. “If I’m going to have to tolerate these people, the least I can do is ensure that I have something worthwhile to drink.��

After paying Duchess O’Malley the necessary compliments, the trio took their seats in the dining room. Servants poured libations with such efficiency that glasses rarely dipped below half full, despite the high rate of consumption. Alfred was seated across from Benjamin and Lucy, who sat at the end of the table, as far away from the Duchess as possible.

To Alfred’s right sat a man he had never seen before. The man was clearly younger than Alfred, but how much younger he could not say, for though the man’s clean-shaven face lacked age lines, wary brown eyes made him appear older. His closely cropped black hair complemented attire that was so fashionable as to make the man appear out of place at a gathering that consisted primarily of wizened matrons, curmudgeonly widowers, and overfed, elderly couples.

Though seated, Alfred could tell that the man stood several inches taller than he, and the cut of his suit hinted at an impressively broad-shouldered physique. Despite the din of conversation around him, the man stared silently down at the table, idly swirling the dregs of a glass of wine and apparently oblivious to Alfred’s examination. Lucy sought to draw the man from his solitude, but he responded only with small nods or in a monosyllabic monotone, though Alfred thought he detected an Irish accent. The only truly useful information he divulged was his name, Brendan Quinn, and the manner in which he distinctly pronounced the two syllables of his first name and rolled his r’s at least confirmed Alfred’s speculation as to his nationality.

Dinner proved unexpectedly enjoyable. The couple seated to Alfred’s left, a stodgy old pair whose contempt for egalitarianism so far exceeded the bounds of decorum that it was charming, provided ample entertainment. Benjamin took great pleasure in goading the couple into increasingly vehement exclamations as he went deeper into his cups. It was shortly after the old man had banged his fist on the table and shouted, “Those born without money do not deserve money!�� that Alfred began to notice that Brendan Quinn was watching him.

At first, he thought that the man was looking past him to the couple on his left, either entertained, or appalled, by the conversation; as dinner progressed, however, Alfred realized that Quinn focused on him alone. Lucy continued her efforts to engage the stranger, but each time she tried, he deflected her attempts. After a while, she gave up and turned her attention to the conversation taking place between her husband and the old couple, leaving Quinn to continue his observations uninterrupted.

Alfred began to strategically place objects, such as a napkin or fork, in positions that allowed him to use reaching for them as a pretext to turn toward Quinn, but each time he did so, the man contrived to be looking away, or down at his plate. Though he felt his eyes on him all night, not once did Alfred successfully catch Quinn in the act of staring at him.

At the meal’s conclusion, the guests separated, the women to the parlor to gossip and the men to the drawing room to smoke pipes and “talk business,�� a euphemism for their own unsavory brand of gossip. Benjamin yawned theatrically and announced that he was rather fatigued from their travels and ready to depart immediately. A grateful Lucy smiled at her husband before turning toward Alfred. “Will you remain, dear?��

Though Stephen would arrive soon with the carriage, Alfred had observed Brendan Quinn heading into the drawing room with the other men, and the stranger’s odd behavior had piqued his curiosity. “I will undoubtedly regret this decision, but I believe I shall.�� He kissed Lucy’s hand once again, earning him a smile in response before she wandered off in search of the Duchess to say goodbye, leaving Benjamin and Alfred alone.

“Wonderful, isn’t she?�� said Benjamin, beaming as he watched his wife disappear.

Alfred shook his head, a gesture his friend missed. Benjamin’s unabashed tenderness toward his wife stood in such stark contrast to the coldness of his professional demeanor—not to mention the wandering eyes and hands that had plagued him in his younger years—that it never failed to surprise him. “You are a most fortunate man, Mr. Bradshaw.��

Benjamin placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish Ellen were here too, old chap. No change in her condition, then?��

“None for the better; none for the worse. For the latter, I suppose I should be thankful.��

“While I was away, I obtained the names of a few more doctors—don’t give up hope.��

“I appreciate your efforts, my friend.�� Alfred appeared as though he wanted to say something more, but no words followed.

Benjamin smiled sadly. “You’ll join us for supper Tuesday as usual, I hope?��

Alfred managed a nod. “Of course.�� They shook hands, and Benjamin turned to depart. Alfred grabbed his arm before he managed to take more than a step. “Before you go…what do you make of this Brendan Quinn?��

“It’s unlike a stranger to show up to one of these dinners unaccompanied, or at least without some bloody toff trying to introduce him to everyone.��

“I could not rid myself of the notion that he was staring at me throughout dinner.��

“I know you’re lonely these days, old man, but don’t flatter yourself—he’s too young for you. And, terribly sorry to say, considerably more attractive.��

“He is hardly my type. Obviously, I prefer men with money.�� Alfred leered, and both men laughed.

“You will…�� began Benjamin.
“…let you know what I discover, yes,�� replied Alfred, his eyes bright.

CHAPTER THREE

Alfred nodded to familiar faces as he entered the drawing room, his nose wrinkling as he caught the pungent scent of a particularly strong—and cheap—cigar. Under normal circumstances, he would make a quick circuit of the room to exchange pleasantries and then depart. Tonight, however, he was determined not to leave until he had satisfied his curiosity, and to do that, he would need to draw Brendan Quinn into conversation.

He spotted the man by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle, his face expressionless as Alfred approached. “Mr. Quinn.��

Quinn seemed not to have heard, as his eyes remained fixed on some unknown object across the room. After a moment, however, he glanced furtively from side to side, as if seeking to ensure that no one was listening. At last, he responded, his voice both stern and lilting. “Perhaps you would do me the favor of joining me on balcony for a brief conversation?��

Alfred’s eyebrow shot up. “You do realize that it is the middle of winter, and hardly a pleasant evening. Men of my age find that their aches and pains, even if momentarily dulled by the cold, tend to worsen with prolonged exposure to it.��

“I’ve no wish to cause you discomfort, but it would be better if our discussion took place in private. I ask only for a moment, my lord—it is of the utmost importance.��

Curiosity warred with caution and, after Alfred stared at Quinn for a moment, the former won out. He nodded his assent and followed Quinn.

Alfred marveled as Quinn made his way across the room. The man moved with fluid grace, each foot lightly skimming the floor’s surface as he walked. He navigated a meandering path through the maze of brandy snifters and pipe smoke so subtly that their exit went unnoticed. Emerging onto the balcony, Quinn led them to a spot that offered no clear lines of sight from either the parlor or the drawing room, and together they stood gazing out over the darkened grounds. Alfred’s breath clouded before him, and he savored the crisp chill in the air. The bitter cold of the afternoon had diminished, replaced by a mild night draped in a velvet-black sky punctured by gleaming star bits.

Alfred did his best to force the rapidly forming questions from his mind, focusing instead on the majestic landscape before him. At last, Quinn spoke. “I understand you are a highly regarded scholar.��

“I suppose you might say that I know quite a lot about very little of consequence,�� replied Alfred, confused. “I think ‘highly regarded�� does me more credit than I deserve.�� Alfred crossed his arms as the cold seeped into his bones. “I confess, however, that I am puzzled as to why this discussion could not have taken place indoors. My scholarly efforts are hardly a topic worthy of secrecy.�� Something in Quinn’s voice put Alfred on edge, and he could not be sure if the chill he suddenly felt so keenly could be attributed solely to the temperature.

Quinn paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Your particular area of expertise involves our Roman and Anglo-Saxon roots, with a particular emphasis on the so-called ‘dark ages,�� correct?��

Alfred rubbed his forehead with his right hand, perplexed. “In my youth, I had the privilege of studying under Professor Eric Aubrey, one of the finest Anglo-Saxon scholars that ever lived, at Cambridge, and his tutelage sparked a life-long interest that—��

“And your expertise extends to the subject of King Arthur?�� interrupted Quinn, leaning in close, his voice low.

Alfred was taken aback at the man’s sudden intensity. “I have published a few trifling monographs on the subject.�� Alfred had amassed an impressive collection of Arthurian lore in his library, including some exceedingly rare and coveted tomes. He began to worry that Quinn had somehow learned of his collection and was, perhaps, a book hunter in search of his fortune. Now on guard, Alfred glanced toward the house, hoping an inebriated guest might stumble out onto the balcony, but no such aid arrived.

“Your country, and your Queen, have need of that knowledge,�� said Quinn, interrupting Alfred’s thoughts. “Do you consider yourself a patriotic man, Lord Fitzwilliam?��

“I take pride in Britain’s rich cultural heritage, and in her tremendous achievements in the arts and sciences. As for the Queen, she is a benevolent ruler.�� He was not especially enamored of the Crown’s rampant colonization efforts and attempts to “civilize�� indigenous “savages,�� but, under the circumstances, Alfred felt that withholding that particular opinion might prove a wiser course of action.

“A suitably cautious answer.�� Quinn looked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. “I seek your assistance in a matter that I’m sure is close to your heart.�� He paused. “Your wife…she is ill?�� The pause sounded rehearsed, as though the man needed to practice sounding sympathetic.

Alfred’s face hardened. “You refer to a matter I do not wish to discuss.��

“My intent is not to bring you discomfort, Lord Fitzwilliam,�� said Quinn, “but instead to offer you a chance to help prevent others from experiencing your pain.��

Alfred turned away, placed his palms down on the balcony, and leaned forward. He breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, his breath forming a misty cloud. “I am not in the habit, sir, of assisting those who would use my grief as a means of coercion.��

“I’m not a diplomat, my lord—I’m a soldier,�� replied Quinn, sounding almost contrite. “As it stands, however, the member of my organization who wishes to speak with you was unable to come himself, and so he sent me instead.��

“Who is it who wishes to speak with me, then, Mr. Quinn?��

“This will explain all.�� Quinn reached inside his jacket and produced a sealed envelope. There was no writing on the outside, nor was there anything remarkable about the seal itself. He held it out to Alfred.

Alfred stared hard at Quinn as he accepted the envelope. Alfred opened the letter, turning back toward the balcony to make better use of the moonlight.

The letter was dated three days previously.

My Dear Lord Fitzwilliam,

Please accept my most sincere apologies for sending this missive in lieu of calling upon you in person. I am afraid that I am confined to my quarters, and Tuesdays are such irritable days anyway—I have yet to experience one that was not, for one reason or another, particularly unsociable. Generally speaking, they are terrible days for travel.

In my stead, I have sent Mr. Brendan Quinn, a man of great intelligence and even greater accomplishment, particularly on the field of battle. He is a loyal servant of Her Majesty, but he is not, I fear, the most cordial of men. Mr. Quinn possesses a rather unique ability to transform mundane interactions into confrontational exchanges, for such are of the type with which he is most familiar.

This would, perhaps, be an ideal moment to introduce myself. My name is Henry Milner, and I belong to an organization that, though secret, falls directly under the Queen and her cabinet’s purview. Our group has existed for nearly 300 years and, God willing, will survive long after we are gone. Our raison d’être is simply stated: protect the British government and expand its power, influence, and magnificence. The endeavors we undertake, however, are often far more complex.

I shall not go on at length about the history of our organization, though I strongly suspect that you would find it fascinating. In fact, I refrain from sharing not from any reticence on my part or any potential lack of interest on your part, but simply because I am not allowed. Perhaps, if you are kind enough to acquiesce to the proposal outlined below, I may be able to reveal a few tidbits of interest at some point in the near future.

While our initiatives vary widely, and I confess that some are distasteful to men of honor (one of the reasons, perhaps, that men like Mr. Quinn are in our employ, though perhaps I treat him unfairly), there are times when I have the privilege of undertaking a task that has the potential to provide such benefit to the Empire, and the world at large, that I sink to my knees and give thanks to my Creator for allowing me the opportunity to be a part of this organization, one that has the resources and wherewithal to achieve the impossible. I am currently engaged in such an undertaking, one that it is my greatest hope you will be willing to assist us with.

When God calls upon men to make sacrifices for the greater good, we cannot help but heed the call, no matter how much pain we must endure. Were it within my power to make this request without bringing you sorrow, I would do so. Alas, however, it is only by reminding you of the horrible pain you now endure that I can convey to you the sanctity of our mission.

Consumption and other wasting diseases plague our nation. Each year, thousands of individuals, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives, lose their lives while our most brilliant physicians wring their hands helplessly. I understand that your wife has been suffering for some time; I myself lost a cousin just last year.

There is hope, however. Our organization may have the means to stem the tide of consumption, and we may be able to prevent the spread of other illnesses as well, ensuring that no one ever need suffer the tragic and premature loss of a loved one again.

These claims undoubtedly sound outlandish, and I do not doubt that you will regard them—rightly, I might add—with skepticism. I, too, had doubts, but I now believe it not only possible, but, in fact, most probable that we can achieve this goal. In order to do so, however, we must recover a long-lost artifact, and it is for this reason that I seek your assistance.

Like you, I was fortunate enough to study under Professor Aubrey, though my tutelage occurred several years after yours; he always spoke most highly of you. When I read your recent monograph speculating on the final resting place of our legendary King Arthur, I knew at once that you were the right man to assist us in our endeavor.

I understand that this must be quite perplexing, and I can practically hear you wondering aloud what your knowledge of Anglo-Saxon England has to do with curing disease. I assure you that the two are inextricably linked, and that, with your aid, we may very well be able to accomplish the unthinkable and make miracles an everyday occurrence.

I pray that I do not ask too much of you by seeking an audience, a chance to convince you of the veracity of our claims and to ascertain whether you have the knowledge to assist us in our search. On the back of this letter, you will find an address. If it pleases you, I would be honored to host you at that address at the hour of 4:00 PM on Friday, 17 January. Fridays are very agreeable days, perhaps owing to their position in the week. Whatever the reason, I find them very accommodating, days that one can depend upon to provide succor no matter what ignominious events Tuesdays and those dastardly Thursdays have wrought.

You needn’t respond with any indication as to whether you have chosen to come; your appearance, or lack thereof, at the appointed hour will provide sufficient response. While I feel that are many compelling reasons for you to come, I certainly have no wish to coerce you.

Regardless of whether we meet next week (a meeting, incidentally, that I would look forward to greatly, as it is always pleasurable to converse with a man of such scholarly reputation, particularly one who is as esteemed a peer of the realm as you, my lord), I pass along my kindest regards and admiration for your academic accomplishments.

Warmest Regards,
Henry Milner

Alfred turned back toward the house as he finished reading, but was not surprised to find himself alone on the balcony.

Like so many of us, Heloise the Bard was conceived in the backseat of a car.

Not in the usual way, perhaps. I mean, nothing conjugal occurred, except possibly betwixt a few axons and dendrites obscenely cavorting about in my gray matter, the naughty little minxes. But, the idea for Heloise really did begin in the backseat of a car——during my commute several years ago, when I decided to see if I could make use of those short minutes of blessed quiet time to try to fit some writing into my otherwise insane life.

That ultimately begat the serial adventure The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, published on my ŷ������ blog (dip your toes in it here). It was a tale directly shaped and influenced by the choices of fellow Goodreaders, which made it even more ridiculous than it already was. It was fun. A lark. I ultimately published it as a collected work, but it doesn’t have a lot of narrative cohesion (though, to be fair, neither does its author).

Still, Heloise stuck with me, and I eventually decided that she needed a proper story, one planned from start to finish, in which she could shine even brighter and, perhaps, burnish the legends of some other adventurers who really needed the help.

And thus was born The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True.

The good folks at have made the questionable choice to publish it coming up on December 15. It’s available for preorder in and preorder on , and will be available in other formats (including audiobook) as we get closer to release date.

It’s both a love letter to and a deconstruction of the many fantasy stories I’ve consumed in my life, and if you have ever enjoyed Terry Pratchett (his work, I mean, you perverts), cracked a joke while playing D&D, done your own MST3K-style commentary over Lord of the Rings, or dig bad puns and grammar jokes, well, you might not hate it. It comes highly recommended to me by myself, but I don’t trust that asshole much, so take that with a grain of salt.

Given how incredibly important ŷ������ was to launching Heloise, and to celebrate Fantasy and Sci-Fi week, I want to share a few digital ARCs of the book with you all. To be eligible to win one, just do the following: name your favorite fantasy book in a comment below this blog post by Sunday, July 19. I’ll pick 5 winners and contact them on Monday, and they’ll soon find themselves rolling their eyes and cursing my (not that) good name because they made such a terrible choice.

The world is an awful and scary place sometimes. Especially right now. It feels good to escape into a fantasy world every once in a while, and especially to laugh. I hope Heloise can help you do that, and maybe realize that light and hope still exist and that we’ll find our way back to them.

There are innumerable amazing people in this world and so many wonderful things. All of you, and your love for and amplification of the power of story, make my life infinitely better.

Thank you, and keep reading, my friends.