The Shadow Pavilion, the fourth in the Detective Inspector Chan adventures certainly carries through with the promise of an entertaining read. DI Chen, Shanghai Three’s Police Liaison with Heaven and Hell, is after whatever group is illegally bringing in residents of Hell as cheap labor. He has two of the best working on it when they disappear. Seneschal Zhu Irzh is not only a demon but a terrific operative in his own right and was sent in with Badger, who can take care of himself. Now Chen has to find out where they’ve gone and still get to the bottom of the issue. It doesn’t help when he finds out that the newly crowned Celestial Emperor is under an attempted assassination and that a shortcutting scriptwriter has imported a Tiger demon to impersonate a movie star and that she is now on the loose and in a starlet-sized snit.

Liz Williams has created an interestingly enjoyable fantasy/scifi/adventure. This one sort of defies classification as Singapore Three is futuresque but with her addition of the realms of Hell and Heaven and all their dream- and nightmarescape denizens, the tale takes on a mythological bent that makes for fascinating reading. She has begun to flesh out some of the secondary characters more – we get to see from the perspective of Badger, a Hellish family familiar with fierce loyalties to Chen and his wife; we also get a little more perspective from the Celestial Emperor; as well as Chen’s wife Inari. As usual we have some new secondary characters, new demons, foolish humans, and the most successful assassin of all time to keep us amused.

With all due speed Williams draws us into the intrigue, imbuing our imaginations with vivid images full of color and scent that make her stories come alive. With this descriptive skill she lures us in. Then, like the sticky strands of a spider’s web, we get trapped and held by a story that is so full of life we cannot even decide what to call it. Is it futuristic police procedural? Is it an allegorical fairy tale? Near future occult? Perhaps an alternative historical fantasy? Whatever you would like to call it, I’ll just call it something I want more of. Fans of the previous three will not be disappointed.

Time travel is rebuffed by Josie, a modern career minded ghost-buster who proves or disproves the existance of ghosts in people's homes. When Amelia brings Josie out to her castle she is dependent on a ghost being present- it's all she needs to open her home to the public and save it from falling apart. Weeks are spent searching but to no avail. It's only when Josie is prepared to leave that the ghost reveals himself, and his carefully calculated plan to retain the family home.

Josie finds that the plan is dependent on not only her participation but her ability to act as if she belongs in the past. Meeting her ghost in person is disconcerting at best. His affect on her multiplies in materialized form. Her mission is to reveal someone as a fraud and to find the family jewels. She is the only one capable of preventing a swindle to take the family's fortune. Will Josie live up to Deverell's expectations?

Laurie Brown has outdone herself with her latest historical novel, Hundreds Of Years To Reform A Rake. The Regency time period proves to be a magical setting for Josie and her ghost Deverell Thornton, the ninth Earl of Waite.

Sexual tension starts early and builds throughout the story. The conflict between the ghost of Deverell and the 'real' Deverell is pragmatic writing at its best. Readers will find this struggle between characters to be almost humorous. Josie's interaction with each of these characters is what builds the plot of this story. She is drawn to both of them in different ways but can't stand to be without either of them.

The romantic elements in this story were frequent and awe inspiring. All who read this will be drawn away to the Regency Era. Ball gowns, corsets, secret tunnels, cravats, and carriages abound. The relationship between Josie and Deverell goes from sweet to fated soulmates. Their journey will take your breath away.

You will need to set aside an entire weekend to finish this novel. Once you start reading you'll be transported to another time and won't want to return until the very last page is digested.

The Alchemist’s Apprentice is the first book in a new fantasy series from Dave Duncan. The setting is 16th century Venice, the plot a murder mystery, and the protagonist:

Nostradamus prophesied that danger would come to Procurator Orseolo and that he should “beware the coming of the lover”. Some two years later, the Procurator is mortally poisoned on Saint Valentine’s Day and all eyes look to Nostradamus as murderer in an attempt to keep his soothsaying reputation intact. Somewhat in the fashion of Holmes and Watson, Nostradamus sets out to find the real murderer using his great deductive reasoning, otherworldly connections, and Alfeo’s youthful stamina.


Duncan adds Italian flavor and flair to this Venetian mystery with his liberal use of Italian titles and terms, descriptions of its artwork and architecture, and the detailed dress of everyone from the loveliest courtesan to the stately doge or Duke of Venice.


In this passage, Alfeo is dressing as a nobleman in order to make an impression at a meeting that evening,




The tone of the book seems to be one of amusement and slight satire. Demons are summoned and crystal balls consulted, but their uses are considered only as last resorts and are often unreliable or unfathomable (except, of course, by the great Nostradamus), and play only a minor part in the story. The political machination of Venice is as convoluted and as riddled with insider alliances as any governing body, maybe even more so.




A few twists occur near the end, which kept me guessing as to the murderer’s identity. But the story kind of shuffles along with the frail Maestro Nostradamus as there doesn’t appear to be any sense of urgency to solve a murder which seems to have no motive. I found The Alchemist’s Apprentice to be mildly entertaining, but perhaps a more in depth look at the two main characters, Alfeo Zeno and the Maestro, would have made it a more engaging novel as well.

The initial appearance of the pulp hero in the newspapers, radio shows and cinema of 1920s America was a reassuring affirmation of rugged American individualism in a world that, in the wake of World War I and the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia, seemed suddenly large and uncertain. America's gradual acceptance of an increasingly multicultural world can be seen in the pulp revivals that followed. The campy, tongue-in-cheek revivals of pulp characters such as Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon in the 1970s had become by the 1980s and 90s outright humor, as the Indiana Jones series and later Evil Dead films let audiences know that it was okay not to take their pulp heroes' antics too seriously. Indeed, the self-awareness brought on by globalization made it impossible to do so.

Which speaks to the principal problem with Napoleon's Pyramids, William Dietrich's pulpy new historical thriller. Set during Napoleon's 1798 invasion of Egypt, pyramids are present but this book is best understood as a four-sided construction of a different sort, a dialogue between those original pulp hero adventures of the 1920s, the late 18th-century era of the tale's setting, and both the fact and fiction of the present day. While not without some pleasures, Napoleon's Pyramids is never quite successful at erecting a stable edifice from these different sides. The unrelenting sincerity of its dated pulp sensibility is not only painful to read in itself, but actively works against the other, more thoughtful elements of the novel.

I'm the expert on women. You hold the rifle.
(p. 273)

Poster boy for this is Ethan Gage, the first-person protagonist of the book. Gage, a wholly fictional character amidst many historical figures, is a prototype of the gentleman adventurer pulp hero: he comes from a well-to-do family; studied two years at Harvard before leaving due to impatience with "debates over questions for which there is no answer;" and spent the balance of his 33 years traveling, gambling, learning to shoot, and building an import/export business. He is the period archetype of the ruggedly individualistic, self-made American man.

Now an American in Paris in the years following the French Revolution, Gage wins an ancient Egyptian medallion in a card game. When he refuses to relinquish the medallion to an oily former aristocrat tied to a fringe Masonic sect, he is quickly framed for the murder of a prostitute and finds himself on the run. To escape the authorities, Gage uses his own Masonic connections and his familiarity with the new science of electricity to insert himself into the group of scholarly savants accompanying Napoleon Bonaparte in France's invasion of Egypt. As Gage travels through France to reach Napoleon's fleet, and then journeys in Egypt with the savants as part of the invasion, it becomes clear that the medallion he carries is desired by many, including Napoleon himself, as the key needed to unlock the mysteries of ancient Egyptian knowledge and conquering power.

This clarity arrives slowly: as a first-person narrator, Gage has the fatal flaw of being self-absorbed but not self-aware. We can almost feel his mind overheating in a crisis of identity as on one page he wonders what he's doing in the company of all these French savants, and on another ponders that "because I was a savant, I would have expected my mind would remain occupied with loftier things [than the opposite sex], but it didn't seem to work that way." Indeed, throughout Napoleon's Pyramids Gage's chief source of identity is his American long-rifle, with (it is repeatedly mentioned) its longer barrel than the French equivalents. Devoid of any sense of humor or irony, and with the story lacking the genre deconstruction that could have made his role interesting, Gage is left dreadfully earnest uttering such lines as those quoted above, and worse.

 

Gage is joined in his journey by the standard accoutrements of the pulp hero: the less physically-fit, more cerebral sidekick/mentor figure; an honorable native warrior-guide; and the beguilingly mysterious native woman, powerless in the world of men but for her sex appeal. Together they strive to uncover the secrets of the medallion before those secrets fall into the wrong hands -- those wrong hands embodied on one hand by the aforementioned oily aristocrat and his Arab henchman (who carries a snake-headed staff, so you know he's evil), and on the other by the cold, mechanical ambition of Napoleon. Although Gage, it must be said, spends more time mulling how he'll benefit from the whole affair, and trying to make his female companion like him.

The ruling caste simply could not believe that technology was bringing its reign to an end.
(p.142)

This is a shame because Gage's juvenile self-absorption masks what could have been a fascinating historical travelogue. Napoleon's Pyramids positions Gage as likely the first American to visit Egypt, yet his comments show none of the sense of age and history that one familiar with only the cities of America (at best scores of years old in 1798) and France (at best hundreds) might be expected to feel when encountering locations such as Cairo; show none of the alien otherness of a first experience with a non-Christian, non-European culture; show none of the vastness and wonder of the desert setting. "Sand hissed over the top of sculpted dunes like an undulating sheet," Gage reports of the journey between Alexandria and Cairo, and says no more about dunes or sand. There is also a sameness to many descriptions: several cities are "dirty" and "disappointing." Considering the quantity of words that Dietrich spends on these exotic locales, it is the overall level of description that is disappointing.

What Gage (and Dietrich) do describe well are large-scale military battles, three of which figure prominently in the book. There is a mix here of historical moment -- Napoleon's campaign was the beginning of the end for the Ottoman Empire -- strategy and tactics, technological and cultural clash, and pure visual spectacle. In these moments, if nowhere else in the book, the pulp sensibilities of Gage-the-narrator and the historical appreciation of Dietrich-the-author can work together.

 

Students of history will realize that there is also an unsaid element of irony to be found here. Less than a century later, in the Franco-Prussian War, it would famously be the French with their beautifully colored uniforms, and antiquated weaponry and tactics, who would fall quickly before an opponent's onslaught.

Victory is sometimes more untidy than battle. An assault can be simplicity itself; administration an entangling nightmare.
(p. 101)

To his credit, Dietrich does take up the matter of current parallels in world affairs, as history repeats itself anew. Again a Western nation has achieved a quick military victory via superior technology over a Middle Eastern country in an ostensible effort to liberate it from an oppressive minority rule; again that Western nation has found it more difficult than anticipated to consolidate its victory and to rally native support. That it is now America who owns the military victory and France who is a conspicuous outside observer merely completes the irony.

However, once again Gage as a pulp character is his author's enemy in articulating this forward-looking perspective. Gage's self-absorption is such that to convey such thinking, Dietrich must resort to breaking point-of-view in passages that feel like an author too-cutely pointing out his own cleverness. Ruminates Gage after a river battle between boats decided by cannonball:

 

In other pages of Napoleon's Pyramids, various secondary characters explain to Gage how he can't expect the Egyptian natives to thankfully modernize and adopt the Western advances of their invaders, even if it means "liberation" from their Ottoman rulers. The difficulty is that these explaining characters are Mamelukes and Greeks, two of Egypt's historical oppressors. There is thus again the sense that it is Dietrich rather than his characters speaking to us, and it is again caused by the fact that Gage himself is not a thoughtful enough protagonist to engage with these ideas -- even when his own nation was so recently formed based on the principle of self-governance.

[Masonry] plays with ancient mysticism and arcane mathematical precepts.
(p. 22)

Masonic rites, Knights Templar, the Ark of the Covenant, the idea that the Holy Grail might not be a cup, the Golden Ratio, the Fibonacci sequence...Napoleon's Pyramids at times feels like a who's who of recent archaeological thrillers (there are several brief, wholly extraneous references to ideas from The Da Vinci Code that could have easily been trimmed). Strip away all the name-dropping, though, and the actual plot of the book just isn't strong enough, isn't thrilling enough, to hang the other elements of the story on. The first-person narration removes any degree of tension; we know that Gage will survive. As for the mystery, what exactly the medallion is and why people want it are uncomfortably vague for the first half of the book; what it unlocks is uncomfortably vague for the second half. Does it represent power, immortality, a cure for ED?

Indeed, there is a pervasive quality of cobbled-together vagueness in the mystery that drives the book's plot. It is as if Dietrich himself can't quite visualize what's going on once the tale abandons its historical grounding. As a result, blatant research and logistical issues crop up here, in the thriller portion of the book, that were not present in the historical aspects. An explanation of the Fibonacci sequence takes up several pages of the book; unfortunately, an explanation of the connection between the Fibonacci sequence and the eventual solution to the mystery (for there is one) is bizarrely absent. The constellation Draco, which had wings until 600BC, is depicted in its modern snaky form on Gage's medallion, created c. 2500BC. And in one crucial sequence, Gage counts up the rows of the pyramid's stones from the base when logically he would have needed to count down from the top. In other thrillers, vagueness of plot and small inconsistencies in execution are quickly swept into the background by pacing. Here, the combination of historical detail and Gage's pulpish need to have everything explained to him by various savants results in a slower pace than thriller fans will be happy with. Again, the story elements are working against each other.

This trend continues through the book's unsatisfying, inconclusive ending. While Gage is entreated constantly by those around him to grow, to become more aware, in the end -- in true pulp fashion -- it is his dogged American persistence that outsmarts the intellectuals, defeats the warriors, charms the woman. But always, the conservatism of the pulp hero works against the wider historical perspective that the novel tries to evoke, just as the ponderous self-absorption of the protagonist slows the pace needed to maintain a thriller. How can this conflict in story types be resolved? It can't, and thus Dietrich offers up only a placeholder with that ultimate invention of 1920s pulp: to be continued.

Given pulp's origins in national uncertainty, it should be no surprise to see elements of it making a comeback now. But while history may seem to repeat, America is not the same nation it was in the 1920s -- we've gained an element of global awareness that will not quickly be erased. Napoleon's Pyramids illustrates the incompatibility of the original pulp sensibility with that new worldliness. Hopefully in his sequels, Dietrich will take a larger step towards learning from pulp's past, rather than being content to repeat it.

-- Matt Denault

Stories, like people and butterflies and songbirds’ eggs and human hearts and dreams, are also fragile things, made up of nothing stronger or more lasting than twenty-six letters and a handful of punctuation marks. Or they are words on the air, composed of sounds and ideas--abstract, invisible, gone once they’ve been spoken--and what could be more frail than that?--Neil Gaiman in the Introduction to Fragile Things

Neil Gaiman’s Fragile Things is a collection of short stories. The author is fascinated by stories: where they come from, what they have to say, how they endure for years, even centuries. The majority of these stories were previously published in various anthologies, e-zines, etc, and more than a few are award winners.

The first story, A Study in Emerald, begins:

A beginning that many of the stories share in that the reader is told that something grand but not necessarily good is forthcoming, but then it is explained that the narrator is but a humble man relating the truth of the story as he knows it. This first story was a wonderful pastiche of Sherlock Holmes with a heavy dose of Lovecraft thrown in. Gaiman has a way of combining the practical with the supernatural and coming up with something utterly unique and more than a bit disquieting.


His stories ranged from the adroit, such as October in the Chair where the months of the year are engaging in their annual meeting:




and Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire (Gaiman does seem to have a fondness for lengthy titles) about an author struggling to write,




But, as Gaiman shows us, what’s real is relative. Or irrelevant.


Some stories were violent and disturbing (Keepsakes and Treasures,) while others were quirky and fun (Harlequin Valentine based on the comic servant of the commedia dell’arte and his eternal pursuit of Columbina). And then some were just comically bizarre (Sunbird: an Epicurean club whose goal is to eat everything, and I mean everything!)


Although many of the stories leaned towards horror, Gaiman is a multifaceted writer whose poetic deftness is exemplified in the following passage from How to Talk to Girls at Parties. When Enn comments on Triolet’s name, she explains that it’s a verse form like herself; when Enn questions her meaning she explains further:




My personal favorite was Diseasemaker’s Croup, which was written as an entry in a book of imaginary diseases that was edited by Jeff Vandermeer and Mark Roberts. A clever and ironic piece of medical text that was oddly amusing even though it quickly became evident that the physician writing said entry was also a victim of said ailment.


The last story is a novella based on American Gods. Fans of that book should enjoy this story as it catches up with Shadow some two years later in Scotland.


Only a couple or so of the thirty-one stories fell flat: either nothing remarkable happened (The Flints of Memory Lane) or the author’s intent was too elusive for me (as in Pages from a Journal Found in a Shoebox…Louisville, Kentucky-another one of those really long titles.)


Otherwise, this book is an engaging and varied collection of “short fictions and wonders” as Fragile Things is aptly subtitled.

Soul in a Bottle can be considered to exist in the same universe as Last Call, Expiration Date and Earthquake Weather. It also shares some surface similarities with Three Days to Never. This latter comparison probably owes its existence to them being written around the same time. One imagines that Powers’ research turned up multiple bits of useful information each of which would become its own story.

Soul in a Bottle is on its surface a ghostly love story. George Sidney is a used book dealer. One day while performing a ritual act of kindness for Jean Harlow's prints at the Grauman's Chinese Theatre he meets a strange and interesting woman. Upon being asked about the act he tells her he's just being respectful to which she replies "Are you always so nice to dead people." George goes on to buy a book of poems and realizes that the poet, long since dead, is the woman that he met and that maybe something else was meant by what she said.

As Georges falls for the woman and the specifics of the story play out the central moral dilemma becomes should George bring the ghostly woman that he loves back to life which may potentially sacrifice the life of another innocent woman or does he save the woman at the expense of the one he loves. Given the length of the story the moral implications of such a decision aren’t explored in as great a detail as we would like but the surface is more then scratched before George reaches his decision.

George is a lonely man with an alcohol problem by no means a "bad" man just a man with flaws, flaws that any of us could posses. Powers flirts with the idea that these traits have left him more susceptible to this ghostly intrusion into his life. Especially as more is known about the dead poet and George is forced to admit that noteverything is as it seems with her and that maybe he is getting played for the fool by her.

Soul in a Bottle is more of a success the The Bible Repairman not because of its length but because Powers strips off most other subplots and focuses on propelling the central story forward. Most questions are answered and all story threads are resolved by the end. It feels like a complete story on its own terms instead of just being a splintered piece of a larger story. It is a tight, taunt story that keeps the reader guessing what George’s decision will be until the very end.

Even though this ghost story is well told the same recommendation will be made for Soul in a Bottle as was made for The Bible Repairman. This is for the hard core faithful and collectors only, for all others wait for a collection.

--Brian Lindenmuth

Roman Dusk is the 19th book in Chelsea Quinn Yarbro’s Saint-Germain cycle. This is a series of books about an ancient vampire named Saint-Germain. It is not the 19th in chronological order, however. Yarbro’s Saint-Germain novels tend to spotlight differing periods in this very long-lived vampire’s life. Each one details a period of two or three years as the vampire travels and accordingly a different period of history. These books are almost as interesting for their historical information as for their intrigue and romance and vampire aspects.

Saint-Germain isn’t the typical horror vampire who is feared and abhorrent. He is cultured, humane, thoughtful and caring. These traits set him apart from the rest of humanity almost as much as his long life and need for blood. What sets him apart from your average literary vampire is his ability to receive sustenance from human emotions apart from their blood. In other words, he has no need to kill other humans to keep him alive.

In Roman Dusk, the reader finds Saint-Germain back in third century Rome, utilizing his skills as a physician and a merchant. As a foreigner and a wealthy man, he attracts the overzealous attention of a greedy low-level tax collector. Along with the scrutiny of his affairs by the officials, he also has to deal with the dysfunctional family of an ailing Roman matriarch whose health he is attempting to improve.

There isn’t a great deal of action in this novel. Quite a bit of information is given to the reader through a series of letters from those in Saint-Germain’s employ, his bondsman and another vampire friend. I found this to be the most challenging part of the story. Each letter gives us an idea of the travails of being a merchant trader of the day. However, it isn’t always easy to understand what pieces of information are pertinent or even true. As we find out later, many of the letters have been intercepted by thieves and re-written to provide misdirection from their misdeeds.

While I have found many of Yarbro’s Saint-Germain novels to be interesting and enjoyable reads, I won’t label this as one of my favorites. The actual story seemed rather thin. I felt that the author overused the letter device and let it detract from the telling of her story instead of enhancing it. I normally enjoy the historical detail that she clearly researches meticulously, the characters that she’s created and their complexities, and the fascinating dynamic between Saint-Germain, his bondsman and Olivia another vampire. Unfortunately, these wonderful characters have a well-realized historical setting and nothing to do. It just wasn’t as exciting as most of the tales of Saint-Germain usually are.

Zoran Zivkovic’s novel The Fourth Circle opens quite simply with the following sentence:


"The Circle."


This simplicity and that geometric shape carry throughout the remainder of the book as the mystery of the circle is obsessed over by a rather disparate group of characters (many of whom are well-known historical figures.)

There is Rama, a feminine computer program and her creator, who lives in a remote Buddhist temple.

A humble manservant of a medieval fresco painter who believes himself damned to Hell or ascended to Heaven, poor fellow, he‘s not quite sure which.

The esteemed Sherlock Holmes and his trustworthy assistant Dr. Watson.

Archimedes (I told him not to touch my circles), Stephen Hawking, and Tesla.

There are also dog-like animals, spherical creatures, and a giant radio telescope set to permanently monitor signals from one specific cosmic system.

And as befits these unique characters, each story thread exhibits its own distinctive voice, tone, and style, so that the book almost reads like a collection of short stories, all of which are unified by the ubiquitous circle.

The clarity and simplicity of Zivkovic’s prose was both beautiful and deceptive. More than once I found myself re-reading a passage because it’s seeming straightforwardness contained subtle connections.

The structure of the book was a bit unorthodox in that five more chapters followed the epilogue, but those closing chapters revolving around Holmes and Watson were my favorites. Although I’ve not read any of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s work, Zivkovic acknowledges in the afterword that those chapters were written as a pastiche. Watson’s enlightenment as to the significance of the circle parallels the reader’s own as both are led simultaneously and inexorably to the tale’s end.

By that end, the recurring theme of the round aspect is literally brought full circle (sorry, I couldn’t help myself) as we meet in the end the mysterious character we met in the beginning. The rather anti-climatic finale of The Fourth Cicle will, no doubt, disappoint some readers, but I found the uncomplicated ending to be appropriate. Simple and circular.

In a perfect world I would post a review for Three Days to Never and I would be bombarded with replies that say 'Shut up already, we've already bought it and read it. You’re the one that's behind!'

In a slightly less then perfect world I would say what does Charlie Chaplin's handprints, Albert Einstein's unpublished theories, Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, gold swastika's, astral projection, harmonic convergence and the Mossad all have in common and everyone would cry out in unison 'we don't care, but we trust Tim...' and then run out to the store to buy a copy.

So, since my inbox isn't overflowing with vitriolic messages proclaiming my slowness and since there aren't any joyful voices floating to my ears (except for the ones that are usually there), then I suppose I find myself faced with the unenviable task of trying to summarize the storyline (which is hard) and make my thoughts coherent enough to recommend this book (which I do).

We are introduced to recent widower Frank Marrity and his 12 year old daughter Daphne. Upon the death of his grandmother in 1987 they discover some things in her shed that finds them in the middle of a covert war between the Mossad and a group called The Vespers. The two groups are vying for control of a time travel device that Albert Einstein invented and used a couple of times but kept secret because of the dire ramifications. Charlie Chaplin gets tied into this as well, accidentally using the machine once. A lost movie of Chaplin's is discovered as well that contains such powerful symbolism that watching it evokes a strong response from those who view it, including latent pyrokinetic abilities in Daphne. The Mossad and The Vespers each have different pieces of the puzzle and desperately want the various pieces of that puzzle that the Marrity's hold (whether they know it or not). There is one time traveler from 2006 who gets involved (though I wont say who) in the events of 1987 for selfish reasons, and like many a past character in a Tim Powers novel that mis-uses magic or in this case science, pays a price for it also. All of these story threads come together in a metaphysically action packed climax.

The secret movie that Charlie Chaplin makes that is fraught with hidden symbolism coupled with the books Gnostic themes forced a comparison in my mind to Flicker by Theodore Roszak, which is at least slightly ironic since there were portions of that book that reminded me of Powers. The scenes that were described from the lost Chaplin movie immediately brought to my mind scenes that were described in the films of Frank Castle. To be honest I haven't explored the connection at all to see if any perceived parallels are appropriate or if there is just residual left over's from when I read Flicker earlier this year. Chaplain’s movie is not a major plot point; it acts as a catalyst for Daphne's powers and has an interesting background story, so even if the parallels ARE there then it isn't enough to affect my opinion of Three Days to Never.

There is a scene in the first third of the book that quickly becomes the heart of the story. Due to its importance I'll give a truncated version that doesn’t include the outcome. Marrity and Daphne are eating at a restaurant when she chokes, he unsuccessfully attempts to give her The Heimlich maneuver, when that fails he take a knife and a bic pen and proceeds to give her a battlefield tracheotomy. As to the success or failure of this maneuver I'll not say.

Given the far reaching importance of the event and the wonderful way that Powers threads this event not only through the entire story but through the characters lives as well it’s easy for me to process this scene on an intellectual level. I see how it worked; I know how it worked and why it worked. As a father I can also process this scene on an emotional level, the need to protect your children and keep them safe. But I am having trouble buying into the initial moment where Marrity unhesitatingly asked a stranger for a knife then went on to perform the tracheotomy. Powers in the past has infused his characters with a certain mix of common sense, certitude in the face of danger and a near Boy Scoutish level of practicality that enables them to maintain a certain level of calm in the face of danger. But I see nothing in the character or background of Marrity to indicate that he knows how to do a tracheotomy and more specifically would have the balls to do it. He is a professor of English Literature who was raised by his eccentric grandmother. There isn’t any indication that his deceased wife or even mother had any medical training or that he had read a book on it or that he had seen it on TV or anything.

I'm sure we all remember that very special episode of Doogie Howser M.D. where he was getting burned out by the job, took a vacation, and wound up saving a man's life by doing an emergency tracheotomy, again with a knife and a pen but just because I saw it once on TV and its a bastardized version of the procedure doesn’t mean that I would EVER consider doing it, and I have kids. Now, to wind this little detour down and get back on to the main road. This is not a big detraction from the story and is probably more of my own personal hang up then anything else, I probably spent more time writing this then I spent thinking about the scene when it happened, but it is the one part of the novel that bothers me. As with any perceived missteps that a skilled writer makes, Powers saves the day and the effects that the emergency tracheotomy has on the story and characters becomes a strength as every possible drop of story is wrung out of that situation. If I were to really stretch I could even come up with a possible solution to my dilemma, but to name it would be to spoil it.

Powers has some highly developed and complex characters in Three Days to Never. Marrity and his daughter Daphne become very real as the depths of their relationship is explored especially after the death of his wife/her mother. The Mossad character that we spend the most time with, Lepidopt, becomes a highly sympathetic figure as he struggles to maintain the course that his life has been set on for 20 + years as he tries to reconcile the importance of his work with the emotional and physical distance that he feels towards his family. Even well known figures such as Chaplin and Einstein have a fresh life breathed into them as they become more perceptibly real and less iconic. Some of the lesser characters are painted with broader strokes but since they aren’t as relevant to the story as the other characters this never becomes a problem. Though there are moments when even the smallest of characters surprise us with their actions.

A Magic Unlike Any Other

Over the years Powers has developed his own unique magic system that stands out as the most innovative and original in all of fantasy: I now find myself able to point out and also understand the importance of tame bodies of water; I watch the patterns of smoke from cigarettes; I have carved holes in all of my boots so the silver chain ALWAYS touches the Earth; I also know that when a Pat marries a Patricia you get Pat squared and the importance of just such a paring. What am I talking about, have I finally gone over the edge. Nah, but Powers possess the singular ability to make you believe that everything he tells you isn't just possible but probable. One has to wonder what is actually in the Kool-Aid that he's been serving us over the years, because to read a Tim Powers book is to see the world in a different light. This magic system has consistently maintained its own internal logic over the years. This brings me to what I will call The Lake Scene. There is a scene that occurs in the middle of the book that is a conversation between a Vesper and another character. The conversation takes place in the middle of a lake on a rowboat; on the floor of the rowboat are dozens and dozens of wind up toys. The Vesper is wearing Charlie Chaplin's hatband around his neck as a choker. The rowboat, the water, the hatband and the toys, which both characters have to keep wound, is vintage Powers and my favorite scene from the book. The lake scene works on two fronts. The spy elements that dominated Declare are more subdued in Three Days to Never however there is employed in this scene a slightly demented occultish and spyish rationale that OF COURSE makes sense. The presence of these items is explained, though to the seasoned Powers reader some of these reasons were already known, and the actions are so simple and the reasons are so compelling that you even want to reach down to the floor of the boat yourself and make sure all of the toys stay wound. On the other side the scene also serves as a calm before the storm, prior to this meeting the threads of the story had been concurrently told. After this fateful meeting though the various threads will begin to come together and race towards conclusion. Given all of the action that happened before the meeting and all of the action that still has yet to happen it is a remarkably quiet scene that is powerful and subdued as it comes to its shocking conclusion with one character making an unmentionable deal.

Truth is Always Stranger Then Fiction

As any reader of his work can tell you Powers is a meticulous researcher and this quality shows itself in Three Days to Never. One can’t even begin to imagine the amount of material that he reads in order to present a series of events where all of the elements present can coalesce into a story that works so well on so many levels. One only has to read the after word of Declare to get a glimpse of this. There is an interesting exercise to be had after reading a Powers book. Hop online or go to the library and start to verify the research in the book and disprove the theories that he presents. You'll find that Powers is an excellent, near perfect craftsman, fitting his parts of the story seamlessly into the gaps of history and the lives of the historical figures. Once one see how seamless the integration of the occult is into history one does begin to see that IT IS possible that he is presenting us with the real story, the really real story. That in and of itself may be his greatest strength, I mean no one really believes that Middle-Earth is a real place and that creatures like ogres, elves and hobbits really exist but Powers makes such a compelling case for his version of events that you shake your head and say, well maybe Albert Einstein really did make a time machine, maybe Charlie Chaplin really did make a secret movie fraught with symbols to resurrect his dead son. It is exactly this trepidation that makes a Powers tale so amazing.

Three Days to Never is a very strong book that showcases Powers strengths and even though most readers come to his work through The Anubis Gates, Three Days to Never will serve as a fine introduction to the greater Powers mythos for a much deserved wider audience. It may even be his most accessible book to date.


-Brian Lindenmuth

Infernal Devices is the story of George Dower, a stolid fellow who has inherited his father's clock-repair shop, but not his genius for clockwork. The novel is written as a personal account, an apologia for the life of Dower, and an attempt to set straight the sordid and scandalous rumours attached to his name.

These rumours are brought up in an introduction that tantalisingly hints at the adventures to come: plans to shatter the earth, the unnatural pleasures of the 'green girls', a secret career as a violin virtuoso and debaucher of women, the desecration of a church, and his involvement with:

... reports from the Scottish Highlands of the Book of Revelation's Seven-Headed Beast flapping about and dropping flaming sheep carcasses upon the heads of Sir Charles Wroth's grouse-beaters while the Whore of Babylon laughed and shouted disrespectful comments from her perch aboard the creature...

And those are only a few of the delights contained in this wonderful steampunk book by K. W. Jeter - a friend of James P. Blaylock and Tim Powers (to whom the book is dedicated).

Dower is struggling to make ends meet with minor repairs and upkeep on clocks, but is slipping into poverty. One day a man who appears to be an African, with leathery brown skin, commissions him to attempt repairs on an inscrutable mechanism of his father's.

Soon afterwards he is visited by the anachronistic impresario Graeme Scape, and his accomplice, Miss McThane, who attempt to steal the 'Brown Leather Man's' device.

Dower is drawn into a mystery when he examines the coin the Brown Leather Man paid him with: silver, and engraved with the curiously exophthalmic face of a Saint Monkfish.

His efforts to identify the Saint and his client lead him into a bizarre subculture of Victorian London: the secret borough of Wetwick. And from there, through deeper and deeper layers of intrigue to discover the truth about the machinations of the Royal Anti-Society, his father, and himself.

I particularly liked the idea of the Royal Anti-Society, a crackpot secret society devoted to the pursuit of dark knowledge, locked in an underground struggle with the similarly secret Godly Army. Another favourite was the idea of trying to destroy the earth using sympathetic vibrations, or 'Cataclysm Harmonics'.

Jeter has created a greatly entertaining steampunk novel, full of intriguing ideas and colourful characters. It's written in the style of a book of the Victorian era, but doesn't come across as affected, and is certainly fast-paced.

Infernal Devices is definitely a must-read for steampunk fans, and I recommend it for anyone who enjoys a humorous, madcap adventure - the book is aptly subtitled 'a mad Victorian fantasy'.

Japan, 1966. A secret agency of the United States government is tracking down and killing vampiric creatures around the Yokota Air Force base. Bullets don't kill these hideous monsters: like the vampires in I Am Legend, they need to suffer a major wound. So, the Americans seek the help of Sayu, a samurai-sword-wielding vampire girl.

Dressed in a Japanese highschool uniform (think 'sailor'), this grim and ageless killer is enrolled in the base's school to track down some shapeshifting 'Chiroptera' ...

Even though it's under an hour long, Blood: The Last Vampire is a great anime feature. The thing you notice most about it is the amazing art for the backgrounds and character design. It has a gorgeous, sepia-tinged look to it, and a dramatic use of light and shadow that really makes the most of its mix of digital and traditional artwork.

Due to the film's shortness (I believe it was intended to be part of a three-part series), there's not much room for backstory or character development. But there is plenty of action, and an intriguing twist on vampire mythos in an unusual setting.

Some people seem not to like the way that Blood drops you in the middle of a story, and ends suddenly without much explanation. I question the intelligence of those people. I had no problem understanding what was happening, and didn't find it confusing or disjointed. Anyway: be warned that it is fast-paced, and you might be confused.

I really enjoyed it: a pouty, elfin-looking vampire girl fighting monsters with a samurai sword in a Vietnam-war-era military base in Japan? Awesome! The problem is that it was so short, and it leaves you wanting more.

One aspect of the film that did annoy slightly me was the school nurse. She's really just set up to be a victim, stumbling from crisis to crisis. The best thing about her was the way she looked as she frequently froze in jaw-dropped astonished horror, which had me laughing with delight.

My compliments to character designer Katsuya Terada. The nurse, Sayu, the monsters, all of them were realistic, expressive individuals.

Blood is a really cool and stylish anime, and it should be on your wish list if you're into anime or vampires. Otherwise, I'd suggest maybe checking it out first as a rental to make sure you'd like it.

Following the success of this original, Blood has expanded as a franchise to include games, novels, manga and a TV series.

According to Crow by E. Sedia is a coming-of-age tale set against the harsh backdrop of war. Josiah, tied to both the land Sium and Mer, is considered an outcast in his village so when some mysterious strangers arrive and offer an excuse to leave and see the world, he takes it. Members of the archives, literally walking libraries of ancient history, are being slaughtered so that some memories can be forgotten forever and land can be conquered without question. Josiah's traveling companions, Crow and his guardian Mireille, are archives members, which he must now see to safety all while learning more about his family and, more importantly, where his true place is.

With her debut novel, Sedia moves through a land rich with culture, history, and people with ease. The two lands of Sium and Mer are represented equally, and for the first half of According to Crow I was as indifferent about which side to believe was in the right as Josiah was. Her prose is simple, yet at times lyrical and quite elegant. One example of a favored passage:

I never wanted to move there, but I wanted to travel, to see it for myself—the long stretches of infertile steppes, the rich river deltas, the blue mountains. If a man cannot wander through the streets of his hometown without attracting stares, he might have to travel to a distant land to finally become invisible. That was all I wanted, really.

Relationships are abound in According to Crow, and often, they flourish from unexpected characters. Josiah is young and clearly unaware of what love is, but through his companions he learns many a things and it is done in a way that's never preachy or cliché. The idea of family and kinship is prominent throughout the story, taking importance over all the little things people nowadays use to further themselves from relatives. It's a refreshing and honest take on lineage.

While the book's title refers to the character of Crow, he is not the focus. Josiah and Caleb, his recently discovered kinsman, take front stage with a couple of ladies right behind them. Later on, Crow becomes important, but it is for reasons of what he is rather than who he is. This is Josiah's story, and his alone.

According to Crow is ultimately a haunting tale filled with vivid images and disturbing revelations. With war comes choices, and for Josiah these are the most important ones of his life. He acts with just reasoning, and for that the readers are allowed to watch the cause and effects take place. Not for the faint of heart, but those seeking a story deep with history and brimming with colorful characters that tear at your heartstrings with their actions, then look no further. It is wholly captivating.

Being a fan of historical and literary mysteries, The Athenian Murders seemed just my kind of book - especially with a cover blurb by Julian Rathbone comparing it to The Name of the Rose. The comparison is justified: this is a brilliant and engrossing novel.

As the title suggests, the book is set in ancient Athens, the Athens of Plato and the Academy. Somoza brings ancient Greece to life: pagan, erotic, philosophical and savage. The atmosphere of the book is intensely vivid and absorbing, made more so by strong and dramatic imagery.

The grisly death of a young man, thought to be the victim of wolves, is believed to be murder by his tutor. The tutor seeks the help of the 'Decipherer of Enigmas', Heracles Pontor. Pontor's investigations take him into strange places as more of the Academy's beautiful young men are slain.

Seems like a pretty straightforward historical mystery, right? Well, the author, Somoza, reveals that the investigations of Heracles Pontor are the subject of an ancient scroll which is being translated in modern times.

The Translator at first seems to serve simply to draw our attention to the literary techniques used in the ancient manuscript - particularly the technique of eidesis. This is a device where repeated metaphors within a text combine to form a hidden message separate from that of the narrative.

The translator's footnotes expand to take on a life of their own, and we learn more details about his work and the strange events that begin to trouble him.

For, as the book progresses, the two stories of Pontor and the unnamed Translator begin to intertwine ... the Translator finds messages to himself within the document, it starts to speak directly to and about him, offering warnings, and through his footnotes we learn of his worries that there's someone in his house ...

I wholeheartedly recommend The Athenian Murders - it's one of the best historical mysteries I've read. If you enjoyed The Secret History you'd probably like this as well - it covers similar ground: the struggle between rationalism and the mystery cults of ancient Greece.

You might enjoy it less if you wanted a straightforward detective novel set in the ancient world. For that, maybe try Robert Harris' Pompeii (I'm not saying Pompeii is bad, just more mainstream).

This book's title in Spanish meant 'The Cave of Ideas', which is actually a better one, considering the book's Platonic themes and, heh, simply being idea-filled. If you're of a philosophical bent you'll find it thought-provoking.

The Athenian Murders works as a mystery on several levels, as you're caught up trying to work out what's happening in the two timelines, what the overall mystery is that joins them, and trying to catch the different messages hidden in the repeated metaphors in each of the twelve chapters.

On top of that you're struck by the philosophical concepts. The ending is absolutely incredible, and the book will certainly bear repeated reads. At first I thought the author was being too clever, but trust me - when you finish the book you'll be in awe of his talent and ambition in writing it.

The orphaned Evelyn Todd lives in Edinburgh’s Fountainbridge Institute for Destitute Girls, run by the grim Calvinist, Mr Lindsay. She's recalcitrant girl with a highland spirit. One day Lindsay stops his efforts to suppress her imaginative, artistic tendencies and allows her free reign. This might be because her long-lost father (the Laird of Millenhall no less) suddenly appears to collect her.

Playfully blindfolded, she’s taken to the ancestral home and locked in her room. She’s comfortable, though, and allowed to draw. Slowly she comes to realise that she’s a prisoner, and that the people she’s with aren’t her parents at all. She’s comforted somewhat by her imaginary friend, Leerie, the lamplighter.

Twenty years later, a series of brutal murders terrifies Victorian Edinburgh (O’Neill does a wonderful job in his description of the city – fans of historical fiction will eat it up). Two separate investigations commence independently of the other.

The first is the official investigation, by police inspector Carus Groves, a stuffy and sententious memorialist (the book is peppered with references to the memoirs he’s writing for his retirement). Long in the shadow of his superior, who gets the high-profile cases, Groves worries about being out of his depth. He finds that the highest echelons of the city are taking an interest in his investigation.

All of the murders are done in such a grisly way as to lead to the conclusion that the killer is a beast or a man of supernatural strength.

The second investigation is by the skeptic Thomas McKnight, Professor of Logic and Metaphysics. McKnight is disillusioned by his career, and rather impoverished. He relies heavily on Joseph Canavan, his self-educated Irish friend and foil. The pair are a bit like Holmes and Watson (this is probably part of the reason that the book is set in Edinburgh, not London).

When a fellow professor and rival of McKnight is murdered, his interest in the slayings is piqued. While Groves is doing a lot of footwork, McKnight is working more from metaphysical deductions (in fact, there’s some hand-waving going on to distract you during a few of his leaps of intuition).

Both Groves and McKnight start to encounter a young woman – the grown-up Evelyn – who has dreamt of the slayings. Both suspect that she knows more about the killings than she’s telling them.

The Lamplighter is a Gothic, supernatural mystery, with strong philosophical and psychological components running through it. O’Neill does a great job of establishing his setting without making it cliché. And he’s introduced a new and fascinating subculture of 19th century society for our delight – the lamplighters who nightly activate the city’s gas lamps. I was interested to learn of their habits and concerns (damn electric lights!).

O’Neill’s book is an atmospheric evocation of a city, and his story is an engrossing page-turner. As you progress through the book you find yourself drawn in to the questions of who and what the killer is, whether the answer is to be found in psychology or philosophy … or demonology.

The book has a series of revelatory moments, and it’s one I’ll enjoy rereading to appreciate the skill of the author in crafting his mystery.