Coyote and I have been working on the final volumes of the series-- we had originally planned it as one book as well, but we've since decided the story would be better served if we break it up, too. So instead of a four-book series, O4S will now be six books.
Unfortunately, I don't have an estimated release date for Books V and VI. We're not as far along on them as we'd like to be. In fact, we've decided to take a bit of a hiatus. Since April, we've been working on a side project that's pure, dumb fun for us. I don't know if the side project will ever evolve into something publishable, but we're having a good time doing it, and I think it's been very good for us, individually and as a team. So when we do come back to the main O4S storyline, we should be nice and refreshed, creatively speaking. I hope we can do justice to the end of this series that we (and, presumably, you) care so much about.
In the meantime, here's an excerpt for The Sacred Heart (Book IV), to wet your whistle. It features my favorite bad boy (and by "favorite," I mean the one that gives me the most nightmares).
Enjoy!
Jack the Ripper by Kansas City horror photographer Joshua Hoffine
Excerpt from The Sacred Heart
For
almost two hundred Corbenese years, Jack had haunted the Crescent. The Crescent
was his paradise. The smell of desperation and the painted smiles. The empty
people trading in their empty pleasures. He walked among them, unseen, in a
place where people made it a point to never see anything. Yet, this is where
all the masks come off. There was no pretension here. No illusions. No hope. And
into this Boschian landscape she came, an angel in a bustier and borrowed
heels, trying and failing to hide her celestial radiance.
Every
night, she came, and every night, he admired her from afar. How practiced was
her fear, how convincing her timidity—every reluctant step, every shaking
intake of breath, every flight from her would-be attackers. Other
streetwalkers, johns, pimps, rapists—all of them looked at her and saw prey,
practically licking their chops at the prospect of such a juicy little morsel. In
fact, she was attracting more
attention than a normal streetwalker would simply because, on some deep,
instinctive level, the natives seemed to sense how much more alive she was than
they would ever be. They sought her out, desiring to avail themselves of a
little of her precious light, if only for a short while. Sometimes she would
let them get near, even put their hands on her. But try as they might, they
could never possess her.
She
was not for them.
Jack
was able to see what the denizens of the Crescent could not– that quick little
graceful move she did when she decided that she would not, in fact, be touched.
When men tried to grab her, she dodged and ran. None of them had any idea, as
they pawed at her and spit and groped, that she gave them back their lives as
she carried on. If she had wanted to paint the entire Crescent crimson with
their unworthy blood, she had but to will it to be so.
But
she spared them. All of them.
Because
it was him that she sought. There
came the point, all too soon, that he could not stay away. And as he drew near,
he witnessed the various responses she’d had to things—the typical goings-on in
a place such as this, the thefts, the assaults, the rapes, the general mayhem. He
savored her shock and revulsion, written clearly in the set of her shoulders,
in the tension that thrummed in her being as the urge to intervene nearly
overwhelmed her, the desire to smite the wicked and avenge the weak. But she
held herself in check, restraining herself for him.
That
she went to such lengths on his behalf. He was truly touched. How much longer
could he deny her? He felt almost selfish, drawing out these long nights.
And
then tonight, when she appeared, he sensed immediately that something had
changed.
She
had been luminous before, but something had stoked her to the intensity of a
small sun. She was so bright now, he could still see her when he closed his
eyes, an ethereal afterimage imprinted on his lids, as if viewing her through a
gossamer scrim, beckoning, dreamlike.
No
more waiting now. The moment he had been waiting for had arrived.
* * *
It
was very late when Alyssa turned down a side street. It was so narrow, there
was no way it could accommodate carriages—only foot traffic. Maybe a horse and
rider if it wasn’t too crowded.
Right
now, it was empty. Normally, the Crescent was full of indigents, drunks and all
manner of unsavories, even at this hour. But not tonight. Between the subzero
temperatures, the murders and Moreau, the streets were utterly deserted. She
wondered where they’d all gone, with the charity wing shut down at Four
Mothers.
Once,
she stopped and turned suddenly, thinking she’d heard footsteps. But there was
nothing. Only the wind-swept cobblestones, the flickering shadows cast by the
green streetlamps. Be cool, she
thought. You’re psyching yourself out.
Tightening
her cloak around her shoulders, she kept walking. Some of her hair had come
loose from its updo and as the wind whispered strands of it off her neck, she
shivered.
Huddling
in a doorway, she tried to light a cigarette. Her lighter was out of fluid. Perfect. Just perfect. Might as well pack it in for the night.
She
was still fiddling vainly with the lighter when a flame appeared out of
nowhere. She jumped, nearly dropping both the empty Zippo and her cigarette in
the snow.
The
man holding the lighter smiled. “Permit me.”
She
stared at him. The man before her was well-dressed and handsome in an
unassuming way. She’d been surprised before, but man, was she off her game
tonight. This guy had managed to sneak up on her—this guy. The whole Moreau thing had her more on edge than she’d
realized.
After
a moment’s hesitation, she touched her cigarette to the flame. “Thanks,” she
said after she took a puff. “Four birds.”
“It’s
terribly bitter out.” Pocketing the silver lighter, the man looked her up and
down. His gaze was not intrusive, just matter-of-fact. “If you’ll forgive my
saying so, you’re not dressed for such abominable weather.”
“Why,
you wanna take me home? ‘Cause that’s extra.”
The
man chuckled. “That’s not what I’m looking for.”
She
exhaled a plume of smoke. “What are you
looking for?”
“What
I am looking for, mademoiselle, is a different diversion entirely. But I assure
you, if anyone could change my mind, it would be you. A lady of your beauty
does not belong here. It is not safe. You know, a man had his purse stolen on
this very corner not two nights ago.”
Alyssa
laughed. “Yeah, well. We both know why I’m out here. How ‘bout you?”
“Just
on my way home,” he nodded vaguely northward.
“And
you decided to stop and chat?”
“I
was distracted. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Nope.”
“Now
what about this whole ghastly business with Lord Moreau?” the man said
conversationally, leaning on his walking stick. “Do you think he really did
it?”
“From
what I hear, the guy was an asshole, but not a murderer.”
“My
word! And here I thought only Lord Ecarteur spoke in such a fashion!”
“I
ain’t in the daintiest of professions, monsieur. Look, you sure you don’t wanna
buy?”
“I
will confess to being tempted,” he drew a bit closer to her, eyes gleaming. “You’re
foreign, aren’t you?”
“Gee.
What gave me away?”
“You
have an accent.”
“Yes.
I am foreign.”
“Ah,
I can always tell.”
Alyssa
shook her head. “You Corbenese always say that.”
The
man laughed again, genuinely delighted. He had a pleasant laugh, a pleasant
voice. “But where are you from?”
“You’ve
probably never heard of it.”
“I
like to think of myself as well-traveled.”
Alyssa
gave him a small smile. “Missouri.”
“I
confess, I know of no world by that name.”
“Told
ya.”
“So
you did.” He pointed to her cigarette. “May I . . .?”
She
tapped ash from the end. “It’s not leaf.”
“That’s
all right.”
She
passed him the cigarette and he took a drag. “Yes, distinctly not leaf.” Still holding the cigarette,
he exhaled, looking up thoughtfully, “Missouri. What kinds of lands do they
have there? Is it like Corbenic, I wonder?”
“Well,
there’s good beef. Otherwise, not really.”
He
examined the smudge of her lipstick on the end of the cigarette. “Such a pity.”
“Not
every place can be Corbenic.”
“No,
of course not. But when you say the name of your home world, it does call to
mind certain images: long rolling hills, vast mysterious caverns, powerful
rivers . . .”
Alyssa’s
eyes narrowed. She plucked the cigarette out of his fingers. “Thought you said
you’d never heard of it.”
“No,
but there is something about you,
mademoiselle. It speaks of mountains and flooding plains. You are a creature of
water and fire. Small wonder that you ultimately found yourself here.”
“Are
you a seer?”
Merrily,
he laughed. “Hardly!”
“So,
what’s your deal?”
If
it was possible, he grew even more amused. “My ‘deal’?”
“Yeah,
I sense I’m not the only one on this street corner trying to sell something. And,
like you, I ain’t buyin’.”
“Forgive
me, mademoiselle,” he said, sobering. “I did not mean to offend.”
“I’m
not offended. Should I be?”
“I
hope not. I would never dream of offering insult to a beautiful woman.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dropping the cigarette, she crushed it out underfoot. “Well, smoke break’s
over. Back to work with me.”
“Of
course. I would not wish to detain you.”
Turning,
she started back towards the main road. “Good night.”
He
tipped his hat. “Good night . . . Sir Calderon.”
At
that, Alyssa spun back around, but he was already gone. There was only one way
he could’ve left so quickly. “Wait—”
She dashed around the corner after him. The corner led into a blind alley. Someone
was lying on the ground.
Alyssa
gasped. It was a woman, a streetwalker. There was blood everywhere, too much
blood. The wound was unimaginable. The woman had been opened from throat to
pubic bone, her insides spilling out onto the pavement, steam still curling off
them. The smell. So much blood, and something on the ground nearby—what was it?
Minutes ago, this had been a living, breathing woman. She’d been killed just
minutes ago. The thing on the ground was a segment of pomegranate, ruby seeds
scattered over the ground, almost indistinguishable from the droplets of blood.
And
Alyssa hadn’t sensed it—any of it. She
stumbled back a few steps, chest heaving, her eyes still registering every
detail of the grisly scene.
No comments:
Post a Comment