Creating The Magicians: An Interview with Lev Grossman

The Magicians first hit shelves in 2009 and has soared in popularity since then. The story follows Quentin Coldwater, who gets accepted into a magic college, only to become disenchanted when it’s far from the perfect life he imagined. Lev Grossman has written two sequels, The Magician King and The Magician’s Land. He has also written a thriller novel, Codex, as well as articles for Time and The Wall Street Journal.

Q: You wrote outside the fantasy genre for quite a while before you wrote The Magicians. Are there other genres you’ve thought about giving a try?

A: Science fiction. I’ve read at least as much SF as I have fantasy if not more. But I can’t figure out where my place would be in that genre. When I think about fantasy, my mind is full of ideas for new books that haven’t been written yet, that I want to read. But when I think about SF, all I can think about is how great Iain Banks was. I’m worried I would just end up writing bad Iain Banks fan fiction.

Q: A lot of modern high fantasy has a dark edge to it, but the world of Fillory leans more on the whimsical side. What were your thoughts while you were creating Fillory? Do you feel like there’s still a place for whimsical high fantasy in the current market?

A: That was one of the questions on my mind when I started writing. I’ve always been pulled more strongly towards the non-epic side of the genre, the Lewis/Pullman/Rowling side, which is more whimsical. Plus anything I could ever want to say in epic fantasy, George R. R. Martin had already said. But Pullman and Rowling are doing pretty well for themselves, I figured the marketplace could support one more.

Q: Quentin experiences some pretty traumatizing stuff in The Magicians. Were those scenes especially difficult to write?

And Quentin doesn’t even get the worst of it. I don’t think of myself as a horror writer, or for that matter a horror reader, but there’s always a scene or two in my books that tips over into horror. I write those scenes in a state of icy detachment, almost automatically, and with very little effort. But I find it almost impossible to reread them once they’re done.

Q: If you could travel inside the world of any fantasy novel, which world would you want to visit and why? Which one would you never want to visit?

A: It’s a good question. I was going to say Narnia, but I wonder if after a while it might start to seem a bit chaste and nurserylike there. Westeros, Nehwon… far too rough. Earthsea, perhaps a little too rural. Xanth would probably be good fun, but embarrassingly I would really have to say it’s probably Fillory; I guess I tailored it to my own needs. But Fillory after The Magician King and before Magician’s Land. You wouldn’t want to catch it on a bad day.

I would never want to visit Westeros. I wouldn’t last 5 minutes.

Q: How did it feel when you first sold the rights for The Magicians TV adaptation? Have your feelings changed as the show’s production has progressed?

A: It was a strange experience. It felt great, in that I needed the money, and like a lot of writers I sort of embarrassingly craved the approval of Hollywood. But it was scary too. It was hard to give up control. I panicked a few times along the way.

But now that the series has been picked up, and I’m seeing the various season and episode outlines, I’m just looking forward to it. It’s not my show, I’m really just cheerleading from the sidelines, but it’s definitely a show I want to watch.

Q: Any advice for us fantasy fans who are still trying to explain to our “normal” family and friends just what makes the genre so appealing?

A: I just stress to people that if you look at the history of literature, fantasy just isn’t that weird, in the long view. Since the 18th century the West has been kind of obsessed with realism, but if you go back before that everything was fantasy. That’s just what literature was. Shakespeare wrote about magic and fairies and witches and monsters. So did Milton, Spenser, Dante, Homer … if anything fantasy is a return to the norm.

Q: What’s one question you think would be really fun to answer, but that will probably never come up in an interview?

A: I often get asked about my influences, but people rarely ask about non-book influences. But there are a lot of them. Dungeons and Dragons, obviously, but also video games like Quake and Myth and Halo, and recently the iPhone game Monument Valley. The Bourne movies. The painter Caspar David Friedrich. A band called Metric, to whose music I wrote most of the Magicians trilogy. They all feed into my writing, the same way books do.

A Thing in All My Things by Samuel Marzioli

There’s a thing in my closet, crouched in the dark, black lines accentuating every crease and fold of its shriveled face. A cherry-red eye peeks at me. The slash of a frown hints at untold regrets even as its croaking voice spills into the silence.

You should have died in your sleep and saved me all the trouble, it says.

After taking a moment to compose myself, I slip out of bed and hurry past that raw, corrupted space. In the gloom of the living room, I open the blinds and let the day pour through the slats in glowing strips of light. Breakfast consists of three bowls of cereal and a handful of pills meant – among other things – to squash the thing for good. I unfold the newspaper and try to cloud my brain, stuff the gaps with distractions so that, for one slivered moment, I might forget what’s waiting in the other room.

Not that it does a lick of good. For three years it’s haunted my life and there’s no rhyme or reason for when or where it will manifest next. A week ago, it appeared hunkered beside me on the porcelain ledge of the bathtub, its eyes staring curses – but only visible through the chrome reflection of the overflow plate. A month ago, it hid beneath my pillow, its fingers worming out from the edges like heavy tongues lapping at the air. Before then, it was behind an air vent, scratching and sobbing inside the living room walls, and on and on, through more days and places than I care to remember.

I head to the bathroom and dawdle through my morning routine: brush my teeth, wash my face, scrub my skin in the shower so it shines the pink of old, healed bruises. But after toweling off, there’s no more time to waste. My feet drag across the carpet like dead weights, room to room, until the bedroom closet looms before me.

A chill digs through my skin as I reach into the infected recess of the closet. The thing flattens against the wall, like it’s pretending to be a shadow or a patch of mold. As if it thinks I can’t hear the sound of its spectral lungs pulling in the thought of air. Though I know it will not scratch or bite, it takes some time for me to steady my nerves, assemble my clothes and prepare for work.

#

There’s a thing in the espresso maker of my barista station. It fiddles with the inner workings, making the shots burn too hot or steep too thin. Its scalded fingers wiggle from the spouts, deep red filling the gossamer cracks in its broken, bloated skin.

We’re slammed at exactly 6 AM. The line of vehicles stretches across the parking lot, like the boxcars of two stalled freight trains. My co-workers scurry around – with a manic intensity that makes the Café Stop’s interior feel small as a tomb – all of them barking orders.

On my best days, I can knock out eighty drinks an hour. But my best days never come when the thing is around. Its blood sprinkles into the milk pitchers, and I have to dump them out in the sink to start again. Its spit dribbles down the espresso spouts, forcing me to remove the portafilters and wash them. It even reaches out from the water reservoir and whacks at finished drinks, upsetting their lids and spilling the contents across the counter.

My boss yells at me for the mess. “Damn it, Tom! If you can’t get your shit together, maybe you should find another place to hang your apron!” Like a parent scolding an unruly child. As if I hadn’t trained him the day he stepped through those doors.

I almost say as much, until the thing knocks against the espresso machine’s plastic interior. Its whispered taunts, hidden behind the screech of steaming milk, are as stark as any shouted voice: Can’t you do anything right? You’re useless. A waste of air.

It drains the fight from me. I nod, apologize and promise, “It won’t happen again.”

#

There’s a thing in my cigarette lighter. It wets the wire so it can’t spark and clogs the jet valve so the butane won’t release. Sometimes it sticks its head into the torch stream, infusing my cigarettes with the scent and taste of rotting flesh and burning hair.

My co-worker, Cara, slips out of the Café Stop entrance and heads for the dumpster cage where we’re forced to spend our smoke breaks. She stands aloof, snatches the cigarette from behind her ear and lights it up. She avoids making eye contact with me, same as everyone on any given day. Because I’m intense, they say, and they sometimes catch me talking to the thing even though only I can see and hear it.

“Hi,” I say, to lighten the mood. Because Cara’s one of the good ones – beautiful inside and out – no matter how shy or scared of me she is.

“Hey, Tom.” She pauses to take a drag. “Mike’s a real asshole for yelling at you like that.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Don’t let it get to you. He knows you’re a good worker and it’s not like he doesn’t have his off days too.”

“Maybe.”

“Any plans for after work?”

Now is the perfect time. I take a breath to calm the vicious beating of my heart, assembling the words I’ve rehearsed since the day she and I first met. “Actually, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to–”

But the world around me comes alive, spewing the thing’s vocalized disdain. Lardo, from the gray smoke leaking from Cara’s mouth.

“No.”

“No what, Tom?”

Fatty plumpkin, from the insects burrowed in the dumpster’s rotting food.

“Stop it.”

“Tom, I’m not doing anything.”

Chubby little bastard, from my own shadow wedged beneath my feet.

“Just go away, goddamn it!” I shout, swatting at the voices hording in, crawling all around me.

She runs for the café’s entrance before I can explain, and I’m left alone. Same as always.

It proves too much. Though I’ve managed to push the rage aside till now, the pressure builds, causing my inner parts to tear from all the strain. The thing can’t hurt me, I tell myself. But I know I’m wrong because it always does and nothing – not therapists, doctors, or even pills – can fix it or make it any better.

No more. Today’s the day it ends. After three years, the time has come to put the thing to rest. I flick my cigarette away and head inside, to finish my shift and make my plans for later.

#

When work is through, I fill a cup of espresso dregs and take it with me. Down on Main Street, I stop by the florist and buy a red rose and then drive along Old Sutter Road. Before stepping out of my car onto the sun-baked cemetery parking lot, I ask myself what the point is. But I know the answer all too well: because there’s a thing haunting my life and it will never, ever go away until I finally confront it.

The quarter mile walk to the plot is a winding, deserted path of grass and static trees, all hedged in by a gaudy chain-link fence. Heat bears down like a crack to hell has opened up above me. I find the proper row, skip a few graves over and I’m there.

There’s a thing in my mother’s coffin. It scratches at the inside of the lid, shouting curses reduced to babble by the six feet of dirt above it. Nevertheless, the emotions are clear, stuff I’ve heard so many times I know it all by rote. Utter disappointment. Hate. But mostly regret for the life and freedom ruined by my unexpected birth. She killed herself three years ago. She should be dead and gone and yet she returns as the thing in all my things, a malignant voice manifesting the poison words she fed me all my life.

But now I’ll say my own words, kept locked away because of fear, because of deep-seated self-contempt. Because it hurts too much to voice aloud, no matter how true they are.

“For thirty years, you were a terrible mother. A monster, a hateful, selfish thing. I never said it before because I loved you, but I can’t let you hurt me anymore. You’re dead and buried and that’s all you’re allowed to be.”

I lay the flower on her plot, a symbol of my enduring love. As for the rest of me, the greater part? I dump the cup of espresso dregs, as bitter and cold as was her constant disposition. It drips down her tombstone, trickling across the words, “Loving Mother, Died Too Soon,” etched into its face. Then I spit on the grass above the remains of what has always been her small, decaying heart.

#

There’s a thing in my head, inhabiting the darkest grooves and wrinkles of my brain. It tells me terrible, degrading lies – lies that poke and prod and tear and hurt – and sometimes I still believe them. But now, for the first time since my mother’s death, my memories are the only place it haunts.

Dead Records Part 6

Part 1: http://urbanfantasymagazine.com/2015/03/dead-records-part-i-by-steven-savile-and-ryan-reid

Part 2: http://urbanfantasymagazine.com/2015/04/dead-records-part-2-by-steven-savile-and-ryan-reid

Part 3: http://urbanfantasymagazine.com/2015/05/dead-records-part-3

Part 4: http://urbanfantasymagazine.com/2015/06/dead-records-part-4-2

Part 5: http://urbanfantasymagazine.com/2015/07/dead-records-part-5/

We arrived at Wembley in a rented Jag.

Dolgov had had been remarkably stingy with petty cash, but I’d just received the insurance check for my crushed Jetta and splurged. Image is everything. It’s all about perception. Look the part and people will think you are the part. Me, I was born to be the part. The backup band tailed us in another Fast Chem van, which, in hindsight, I should have taken as a bad omen. I ignored it. I’m not superstitious. Omens schnomens.

I’d been so busy working on Aura’s last few tracks and trying to teach Harvey how to write a compelling press release and doing all that other promotional stuff that I hadn’t thought to check the Stadium’s website to find out who we were opening for.

We got the bad news as we walked down a long, concrete hall in the bowels of Wembley in search of our dressing room.

It was Martine.

Yep, that Martine, the sex demon with a voice of sin.

I told myself this was a good news/bad news situation. The good news was that Martine would fill the stadium, and that meant a lot of eyes would be on Aura. The bad news was that Martine also had a voice that was backed up by magic. I struggled to remember the name of any other band that had opened for her and came up blank. Casterly had screwed us on this one.

Martine wasn’t due to arrive for another couple of hours, so I sent Alice and the rest of the crew to the stage for sound check and then located our dressing room. It was by far the smaller of the two. Simply decorated, we had at our disposal two chairs, a mirror with plenty of light, and an upright piano, which was a nice touch. I’d asked for dinner to be delivered and it was waiting for us on a small table. Though Aura demurred, I insisted she eat. She needed her strength.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted at last.

She looked thinner than she’d been, waif-like. It was a good look on her if you dug the whole heroin-chic thing. I didn’t like it, but now was not the time to talk about it.

In the far distance we could hear ticket holders filtering through the stadium.

“A little stage fright is good for you,” I joked.

She dragged her fork through her tilapia and cream sauce, herding a lump of fish to the edge of her plate and then giving up on it. “It’s just that…when I came ashore I tried to put all that behind me. I became a vegetarian. Of sorts,” she qualified, and I knew what she meant. “I volunteered for two years at the Fishermen’s Mission. And now I’m doing nothing but relive my worst moments night after night.”

“That’s what being a star is all about,” I snapped, and then immediately regretted it. What can I say? I could see the bright lights and was a bit star struck. I was going to be a star. The man behind Aura. I was going to be the Queenmaker. “We can’t have a repeat of what happened at the Broken Doll. If you want to be a star, this is it. This is your one shot,” I said, trying not to sound unkind.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said cryptically.

I could hear a few strained cords as the band tuned their instruments and the sound techs adjusted their amps. Despite my occasional attempts to get things going between us, she remained silent for the rest of the meal and then left for sound check.

My thoughts, however, turned to Martine.

I don’t much mind a bit of healthy competition. I believed in the power of Aura’s voice – after all, I’d experienced it myself. But what I didn’t like was Martine’s magical advantage. If I could just take that away from her, Aura would have a much better chance of outshining the headliner. And that was what I wanted more than anything. For Aura, obviously.

I wondered how Martine’s talents worked. Aura’s voice amplified whichever emotion she was feeling at the time, but she was a siren, not a succubus. Surely, a demon would draw its power from a different source?

So what could that be?

I decided to do a little old fashioned investigative work. First stop: her dressing room. I was thinking that maybe her concert riders would offer me some clue as to how I could work things to Aura’s advantage – and put Martine at a disadvantage, naturally.

I left Aura’s dressing room and crossed the hall to Martine’s.

Since Security guarded the entrances to the dressing room area, the rooms themselves were usually unlocked.

I looked both ways before trying the door handle, and then slid quickly inside when it opened.

Her room was built to accommodate far more people than ours, which made sense. Including Aura herself, we had just the four band members in our group and myself. They had a band, two DJs, a team of managers, assistants, and makeup artists. Lighting stands had been aimed at a white sheet on one side of the room from which Martine would give behind-the-scenes interviews, and a computer station had been set up nearby from which wires spewed like vines. There was also a small area, and when I say small, I mean larger than my living room, with sofas, a television and speakers, and a small kitchenette with a fridge.

This was how the other half lived.

This was what I wanted.

For Aura, naturally.

There was a second room further in that was marked with Martine’s name. The outside space was for the band and its hangers-on. This was the artist’s personal (and private) lair. This door was locked, but the lock itself was more of a gentle suggestion than a deterrent. I was able to bypass it simply by jiggling the handle and then throwing my shoulder into the door.

I’d expected to find the inner sanctum of a sex demon, but was sadly disappointed. Instead of leather and chains I was greeted by the sight of a small television, a Blu-ray player, and a yoga mat. A large stainless steel refrigerator sat next to a small table. It was far larger than the one in the kitchenette and looked brand new. A brown stain marked the carpet at its base, almost as if whatever was inside it had thawed during transport and liquefied.

My hand hesitated above the handle.

Did I really want to see what a flesh-eating sex demon kept in her refrigerator?

I pulled my sleeve over my palm to avoid leaving fingerprints and pulled on the door handle. Slight resistance and then give. Cool air hit me as I bent to look inside.

Nothing but steak. A lot of steak. Two or three cows’ worth. A herd of steak. I’d simultaneously expected something dramatically more horrifying or something completely innocuous. Orange juice or a human head. I didn’t know what to make of the steak. There was no stove in the tiny room, and the kitchenette in the other room sported a hot plate that would struggle with one steak at a time.

It occurred to me that she might eat it raw.

That thought made me yank my hand away from the fridge. I’d assumed it was cow, but a succubus might want something a little more exotic.

I knew on an instinctive level that I’d found the source of Martine’s power. She was a flesh demon eating after all. So she fueled herself on prime rib. Excellent detective work if I do say so myself. Now I just had to do something about it. I thought about wheeling the fridge into Aura’s dressing room, but they’d just send one of their assistants out to the meat department at the local supermarket (or worse) and delay the show until they came back. No, I needed to make sure that Martine would eat this meat and get nothing from it. I couldn’t exactly swap it for Big Macs…

I returned to our dressing room and retrieved Aura’s diet pills from her purse. Hard white pills the size and shape of an Aspirin, I emptied the bottle on the table and banged them into powder with the heel of my shoe. I scooped the result into my hand and returned to the refrigerator.

I was reluctant to touch the meat with my bare hands, but I steeled myself and rubbed the powder into several of the largest.

No matter how much I tried, the white powder was still visible on the meat, so I flipped them over and hoped that either she wouldn’t notice or that she’d think it was salt. I left a tumbler of salt from the kitchenette on the counter, just to help her make the connection. Fiendishly clever, I thought, like a Jedi mind trick.

I emerged from the dressing room just seconds before Martine’s security detail rounded the corner at the end of the hall.

Two large men in suits and sunglasses lead the way, followed by a small army of women and shorter men, all fashionably dressed, most with cell phones pressed to their ears. At the center of the group was Martine.

I got a good look as I pressed myself to the wall to let them pass. She was small, like Aura, but unlike Aura, she bore a full, curvaceous figure. I mean a sex demon would have to, right? Her ample breasts were held aloft with a pink push-up bra that was visible beneath a white shirt, and she wore close-fitting yoga pants that left nothing to the imagination. Her hair was down, and ready for her hairdresser to work his magic, but it had already been dyed an artificial, eye-catching shade of red. Her lips seemed to be perpetually pinched into a sneer, but the sneer deepened when she saw me, as if I was an unpleasant reminder that she was not the only act performing that night.

I had told Dolgov all those weeks ago that I’d give my eyeteeth to represent a woman like Martine, but at a glance I now knew better. She radiated a terrible menace. Aura had repented her former ways, become a vegetarian (of sorts), but Martine had done no such thing. Now I was sure that the contents of her refrigerator wasn’t what it seemed to be.

When they’d all filed into Martine’s dressing room, I breathed a sigh of relief and re-entered Aura’s.

She stood up from the vanity as I entered.

She’d used a mixture of gel and egg whites to emphasize her pixie-cut and it now glittered blue, a glitter that extended across her cheeks and under her eyes. She wore the blue vinyl costume I’d had Harvey fabricate for her, and it made her look like something elemental, a flower that had washed in from the sea.

She was heartbreakingly lovely.

Vulnerable.

“Did you take my pills?” she asked, holding up the prescription bottle I’d lifted from her purse.

“I’ll replace them after the show. They’re diet pills,” I said with a shrug. “I’m sure you don’t need to lose any weight in the next two hours.”

“I lied.” Her face fell. “They’re not diet pills.”

“Okay? Aspirin? A little medicinal herb?”

“They’re antidepressants.” Her hand tightened around the bottle. “I can’t perform without them.”

Antidepressants? Fuck me, Old Harvey had been on the ball. Arse. Bollocks. Bugger. Feck. And lots of other colorful swearwords that help you understand just how much of a fuck-up this was. I’d just laced a sex demon’s meal with anti-depressants. You had to laugh. Well, you did if you weren’t in need of those little white pills to put a smile on your face. How had things gotten so bad for Aura? How couldn’t I have seen? I mean… I’d seen everything else, right down to her most intimate piercing but I’d missed this.

I remembered the Broken Doll. She’d gotten “hungry” and that had come out in her music. Did she also have to get depressed in order to put power behind the album I’d written for her? “There’s nothing we can do about it now.” I tried to adopt a reassuring tone. “We’ll talk about your music after the show. Maybe we can make our second album a little more upbeat.”

It took everything I had to coax her out of her dressing room and onto that stage. I had a plan in my head that would fix everything.

I never suspected that she wouldn’t make it through her set.

City of Fae by Pippa DaCosta Reviewed by Kayla Dean

AugReview2Cover

City of Fae by Pippa DaCosta

Reviewed by Kayla Dean

ISBN: 9781408868720 (Ebook)

Bloomsbury Spark — 336 pages.

When we conjure up a mental image of a fairy, most of us would dream of an ethereal, benign figure with wings. Maybe she can fit in the palm of your hand, or she is tall, lean, and beautiful beyond her years. But there’s something different about Pippa DaCosta’s view of fairies. City of Fae certainly doesn’t read like a typical fairy novel.

If anything, this novel could easily be compared to a comic book. The only difference is that instead of animations, you have three hundred pages of urban fantasy to draw you in. At the center of all the action is Alina, an out-of-work reporter from America. This story, on some level, is like a comic book in that an ordinary person meets up with an extraordinary world. It’s also an urban fantasy based in London. While we don’t get much by way of scenery and deep characterization of the place, we do see that the setting is integral to the plot because the Fae burrow under London, away from the humans.

Alina finds herself on the subway platform with no memory of how she got there. She’s lost and alone, and the guy sitting next to her isn’t who she thinks he is. Enter Reign, the resident bad-boy Fae, who just so happens to be a rock-star. He’s also gorgeous, but there’s just one problem: he’s a public enemy. For some reason, the Fae police are after him, and it’s up to Alina to find out why. If she can get a cover story, she might just be able to get her job back.

But obviously, nothing is simple in a world where Fae and humans are on the edge of an epic clash. It was only a few generations ago that Fae were expelled from their world and sent into ours. Humanity’s only choice was to accept their place in our world. But the cracks are starting to show: someone was murdered at Reign’s party. But who killed her? Alina wants to know.

Things get even hairier when the evil Fae queen sends thousands of spiders after Alina to trap her. Reign and Alina travel to the Fae’s underground city, but that only makes the queen angrier. And the mysteries only keep piling up. Alina starts to wonder if a front page story is even worth it. Worse yet, her dreams and memories make her question her identity. And after some serious hell breaks loose, a local detective gets involved in the case, putting everything at risk for Alina.

The most interesting part of this story was the plot twist that DaCosta gave Alina. I did not see it coming, and it’s honestly too good to share. But I can tell you one thing: Alina is not who you think she is, and the plot to make her believe the lies are elaborate.

Reign is not really a mysterious character in the novel; he really does not have that much depth. While it seems that DaCosta wanted to create a multilayered, intense, and brooding man for Alina to love, what results is an unfortunate trope of a bad-boy millionaire rock star who loves an ordinary girl.

Throughout the novel, DaCosta suggests that Reign and Alina’s love is fraught. Fae harvest something called draiocht from humans, and they need it to live. Unfortunately for the couple, Alina’s touch affects Reign in ways that neither of them can explain. The problem with their relationship is that it isn’t terribly compelling. Since Alina has a shifting, vague identity, and Reign is something of a playboy, we don’t get a strong sense of why they care about one another.

Also, the blurb tells us about the four keepers that were powerful enough to keep the evil queen locked away from the people, yet this seems like a subplot to Alina’s personal issues. While this could have been a great, complex element of Fae history that DaCosta could have explored, it didn’t leave us with a lot of information about why there had to be four keepers. Before the last keeper died, he didn’t really explain to Alina why he was the only one that kept the queen locked up.

If you are afraid of spiders, I can honestly say that you will find the queen terrifying. She’s not a human-shaped Fae: she’s a spider! And if that isn’t terrifying enough, she is larger than a person and has thousands of tiny arachnids following her around.

DaCosta’s vision of fairies will definitely give you the chills. I recommend reading this book if you like evil fairies, spiders, or comic books. This might seem like a strange fusion of ideas, but I would go as far as to say that this book might really be a hit with the right reader. However, go in at your own risk if you do not like bad-boy rockstars as the main love interest. Some people might find the tropes and unusual fantasy elements off-putting, but other people will love its quirky appeal.

After you read this book, you might have a reformed image of fairies, and a different sense of London’s underground tunnels. Maybe next time you crave an urban fantasy, you might want to check out Pippa DaCosta’s City of Fae to get your own spin on events in this cross-genre fantasy.

Loose Changeling by A.G. Stewart Reviewed by Kristin Luna

AugReview1Cover
Loose Changeling by A.G. Stewart

Reviewed by Kristin Luna

ISBN: 9780692356920 (Paperback)

Igneous Books — 340 pages. Ebook also available.

When doorways between the mortal world and the Fae world begin popping up unpredictably, the responsibility lands on Nicole to figure out how to close them, and quick.

The Book

Nicole is a strong-willed 32-year-old woman living in Portland with a lazy husband and a high-paying but dead-end job. Life had been fairly normal for Nicole until she caught her husband, Owen, cheating on her with another woman, and she turned the woman into a mouse.

With the help of a Fae living in the human world (and also a super-handsome stud named Kailen), Nicole discovers that her Fae powers have manifested, making her half-human, half-Fae: a Changeling. And, as Kailen helps her to understand, Changelings are powerful. So powerful that they are outlawed. In order to avoid death, and for her status as a Changeling to be accepted in the Fae world, she must fight in the Arena to the death.

Meanwhile, someone has been opening doorways between the human and Fae realms. Fairy creatures make their way into Nicole’s work, hobgoblins attack her with regularity, and someone or something strange has been murdering people in Portland. As a Changeling, Nicole is the only person in the human world or Fae world that can close these doorways and figure out how to stop them from opening.

Loose Changeling is a fast-paced fantasy told by Nicole in first person. Andrea Stewart’s strong female protagonist is reminiscent of Jay Wells’ heroines, and she’s as competent and confident as the character Kate Beckett from the TV series Castle.

The Author

Andrea Stewart won first place in the Writers of the Future contest, and her short fiction has been featured in Daily Science fiction, Galaxy’s Edge, and Beneath Ceaseless Skies. She lives in Northern California with her husband and likes to tend to her suburban farm when she’s not writing or painting. Her inspirations include many contemporary fantasy and science fiction authors, including Brandon Sanderson, J.K. Rowling, and Jim Butcher. According to her website, Andrea is currently working on the second book in the Changeling Wars series, Spare Changeling.

My Rating and Overall Opinion

On an arbitrary scale of 90’s pop divas, I give Loose Changeling a full-on Mariah Carey. Mariah released nine albums in those ten years, and I can only hope Andrea Stewart can be as prolific so I can keep reading her books. Mariah Carey’s incredibly smooth voice shows off a wide-range. Sure, the lyrics are nothing too serious or heavy, but boy, does she make singing that well look easy. Similarly, Andrea Stewart makes writing a complex story seem carefree and conversational, keeping your interest piqued at every turn. While I see this series appealing more to a female audience, that doesn’t make it any less engrossing or page-turning as a Brandon Sanderson novel. I’m calling it now: Andrea Stewart is the 1990’s Mariah Carey of modern urban fantasy.

Interesting Fact

Merlin was also a Changeling and was Nicole’s predecessor.

Interesting Quote

“Mark [Nicole’s brother-in-law] had given me one of his belts, which I’d repurposed to hold the items I wanted to take into the Arena. I had the butter knife, the metal coaster, a rag from the kitchen, a few of Tristan’s toys, a spray bottle of old perfume, and the gun in a holster. I didn’t feel dangerous, but I felt prepared.”

Echoes by Liz Colter

Edward opened a side gate and followed the stone path to the servants’ entrance at the rear of the house. Samuel lagged behind, staring with the wonder of an eight-year old at the hedges clipped into fantastic shapes. The house was less palatial than the homes on nearby St. James Square, but still the grandest that Edward had yet been invited to visit. He knocked at the back door and a man in the immaculate clothes of a head servant led them to a finely appointed sitting room.

Mrs. Winston remained seated as he and Samuel were announced. She was a stout woman in her middle years, with a large wig of brown hair, a heavily powdered face, and a stern countenance that dispelled Edward’s hope of an easy love potion. He felt for echoes in the room, but emotions usually changed as rapidly as thought and he found no clues to what she might be seeking.

“Mr. Ferris. Thank you for coming,” she said, when the manservant left. Her eyes blew a cold breeze over Samuel. “Perhaps your son would play in the back garden while you and I talk.” She rang a small silver bell without giving Edward a chance to reply. A young housemaid appeared. Her dark eyes swept the newcomers.

“Simone,” Mrs. Winston said, “take Master Samuel to the garden and entertain him while I speak with Mr. Ferris.”

“Yes, ma’am.” A subtle French accent colored the maid’s words.

Simone smiled at Samuel and her crooked teeth gave her a sweetness that tugged unexpectedly at Edward. He watched the swish of her narrow skirts as she moved, the bounce of her brown curls, her thin arm as she reached for his son. A kindness in her face, a vulnerability that followed her like a shadow, reminded him of his Mary. Memories of his wife drifted up from their hiding place, the happy recollections followed inevitably by the sad.

Samuel looked to see if he should go with her, and Edward nodded. He preferred Samuel to watch and learn, but not at the risk of displeasing a client.

At a gesture from Mrs. Winston, Edward took a seat. Coffee had been set out and Mrs. Winston poured for them both. Few of her station would have addressed him by his surname, much less offered him refreshment, but his skills provided him a unique status. He’d been inside many homes that would never have allowed him beyond the kitchen or coal cellar under normal circumstances.

Mrs. Winston wasted no time on pleasantries. “I believe you have something I need, Mr. Ferris.” She stirred her coffee with a tiny silver spoon and rested it in the cradle of the saucer.

“I have the means to get potions,” he said, equally cryptic, “as what some folks need.” In truth, what he sold weren’t potions at all, but clients preferred to think of them as such. Of course, the ripples that rolled from strong emotions weren’t echoes either, but that was what Edward had called them since childhood.

“I see.” She took a sip from her cup. “My needs, Mr. Ferris, are to drive a man to suicide.”

Edward nearly dropped his coffee. He started to protest, but she cut him off.

“Perhaps I should start from the beginning.” Mrs. Winston set her cup down and sat back in her chair. She laced her hands together in her lap like one large fist, crushing one of the bows running down the front of her dress. The frills seemed as out of place on her as they would on a man.

“My husband was a successful banker until he met a man named William Waltham. Mr. Waltham convinced my husband to invest in the construction of a new textile mill, then promptly disappeared with the money.” Her voice was level, her delivery matter-of-fact. “My husband was left with nothing. He drowned himself in the Thames three weeks ago.”

“Mrs. Winston, I’m right sorry for your loss, but…”

“Spare me your sympathies, Mr. Ferris. I tell you this only to convince you my reasons for wanting such a potion are just. I have located Mr. Waltham but he never delivered the promised copy of the contract to my husband, and so I have no proof of the crime. The penalty for grand larceny is death, but without proof the courts will not even investigate my charges, leaving Mr. Waltham free to do to another family what he has done to mine. I wish only to see justice served, one way or another.”

She unknotted her hands and placed them on the curved arms of her chair, like a queen giving audience from her throne. “I have some family money still, not enough to stay in this home, but enough to pay you well for your services.” Lifting her cup again, she watched him over the rim as she took a sip, defying him to deny her this justice.

He had never liked providing clients with echoes for revenge, but this…

Mrs. Winston noted his hesitation. “Mr. Ferris, I have made myself familiar with these potions that you supply. What I ask is little more. Sorrow and regret are close cousins to despair, are they not? Love potions make the paying party happy, but how have you affected the lover? You alter people’s lives all the time.”

Edward flinched at the truth in her words.

“I realize my ultimate goal may not be met,” she continued. “If Mr. Waltham lives out his miserable life feeling only half the despondency my husband experienced, I must be content with that. Word of mouth, however, has given me much faith in the efficacy of your potions.”

He tried again. “Mrs. Winston, the way this works is I have to find me someone of the mindset I need. Someone as has the exact right emotions.” He had never divulged his methods to a client before, but hoped this small revelation would dissuade her. “I don’t know how I’d start for somewhat like this.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Images of his mother flowed like tendrils of mist into his thoughts.

“I see.” Mrs. Winston heaved herself out of her chair and walked to a small box decorated with mother-of-pearl. Removing something from the box, she returned to her chair. “If my situation does not move you to aid me, Mr. Ferris, perhaps this will.”

She leaned forward and placed five gold sovereigns on the table in front of him. “There will be that much again on delivery of the potion. Perhaps that will help you to find what it is that you need.”

The most he had ever charged a client was one pound. She offered him ten. He and Samuel could live for a year on that much. The threat of eviction he received earlier this month could be resolved by this evening; the worry that he and Samuel would be turned out into the street, gone. More important than anything, though, the money could be used to ensure that Samuel learned a proper trade. His son could be spared the need to work with echoes.

He picked the coins up, felt the weight of them in his palm.

“I take it that’s a yes?” she said.

“Yes,” he whispered.

#

“Was she wanting a love potion?” Samuel asked on the way home. He picked up a stick lying in the street and tapped the cobbles as he walked. Edward didn’t answer and Samuel changed the subject. “Miss Simone stayed outside with me the whole time. She showed me the garden an’ we played with a white cat named Bangles. Miss Simone had a son, but he died little an’ her husband died too.”

Simone. She had offered them tea before their walk home and, uncharacteristically, Edward had accepted. She and the cook had chatted with them in the kitchen, yet she never asked why someone of his station had been entertained by her employer. Simone ruffled Samuel’s hair, smiled her crooked smile, and watched Edward with her chocolate brown eyes. It had affected him in a way that nothing else had in a long while. It was all foolishness, though. God had not allowed him to keep Mary and, with his strange life, he was not like to have another wife.

“Did you use a love potion on mother?” Samuel asked.

The question startled Edward from his thoughts. Samuel rarely asked about the mother who had taken her last breath as he breathed his first. Edward shook his head. “I didn’t figure how to make potions until after she passed. I didn’t need none for her anyhow.”

They turned onto Thames Street. Edward reached down and took Samuel’s hand as they entered the bustling crowds of central London. The smells of hot sausages and fresh bread wafted from stalls on the bridge, competing with the sour smell of charnel in the Thames. Out of habit, Edward scanned the myriad faces they passed, looking for donors; someone hinting at deep, obsessive emotions, someone he could shadow for days or weeks until the emotion was as ripe as a summer pear and the echoes from it strong enough to harvest. Samuel was quicker, though. Just past the bridge he squeezed Edward’s hand and nodded.

“He fancies her.”

Edward looked where Samuel indicated, to a trio of people standing at a carriage just ahead. A footman was holding the door as a gentleman helped a much younger woman up to the seat. Edward felt nothing from the man. They were nearly past the group when it struck Edward, the faint waves of yearning rolling from the footman.

“Did you see or feel it?” Edward asked Samuel, when they were beyond the carriage.

“I felt it,” Samuel said, swishing his stick at a rat in the gutter.

A chill skittered across Edward’s bones. He wondered, not for the first time, just how strongly their strange family trait ran in his son. For Samuel’s sake he prayed that it would not be too strong for him to bear.

“When’ll I get to harvest echoes?” Samuel asked, looking up at him.

“I’ve told you afore, not for a long time. Emotions is powerful things.” Echoes he had harvested and carried in his breast came to life again in his memories – powerful lust, painful yearning, crushing sorrow and regret. Gathering them did nothing to the donor, like absorbing heat from the rays of the sun did nothing to the sun, but the thought of Samuel filling his small body with the intensity of those obsessive emotions was horrific.

#

The lamplighters were firing the oil wicks in the streetlamps by the time Edward and Samuel arrived at their narrow row house in the East End. Edward took his coat off and hung it on a nail by the door then held out his hand for Samuel’s coat. Samuel fished a canning jar out of the pocket before handing it to him.

“What’s that, then?” Edward asked.

Samuel looked guilty. “Miss Simone said I could keep it.” He held up the jar for his father to inspect the contents: a green rock and a black cricket.

“O’course you can keep it,” he said, handing it back.

Samuel grinned and ran for the kitchen. He set the jar on their small table and threw an armful of wood on the coals of the kitchen fire. He swung the iron kettle over the flames for tea and set out plates and salt cod for dinner. Edward sat at the table, careful not to rock the uneven legs and tip Samuel’s jar.

It had been hard raising Samuel alone, but at least he was a better father than his own had been. His father’s violence had been hard enough, but the echoes had made it so much worse. Both Edward and his mother had relived the anger and fear of each event over and over, sometimes for days before the echoes dispelled. Over the years, his mother became increasingly withdrawn, though she refused to leave her husband. Edward hadn’t seen her for nearly a year now, not since she’d tried to hang herself.

He wracked his brain for any donor for Mrs. Winston’s potion other than his mother. Harvesting echoes had no ill effect on the donor – no more than collecting their tears or bottling their breath would – but the cost to Edward would be dear. Feeling the echoes of his mother’s hopelessness when he was young had been heartbreaking; to absorb the depth of her current despair into his own body would be hellish. Donors weren’t easy to find though, even for love potions. The emotions had to be strong enough to do the job. It could take months to find someone just right for this. Someone else, at least.

#

The following morning Edward opened the under-stair cupboard and pulled a wooden box from its recesses. Two blue phials containing love and a single green phial holding sorrow were all that remained of his potions. Not only were they challenging to collect, but he didn’t dare sell them frequently enough to attract the attention of the law. Among the empty containers in the box were some clear phials for the occasional odd request but, in general, few people sought anything other than love or revenge.

Edward placed an empty phial in his pocket and left Samuel in the care of a neighbor, then stopped at his landlord’s and paid the surprised man a year’s rent in advance before beginning his journey. He weighed again the personal cost, body and soul, to collect this potion against his and Samuel’s need for the money. Again the scales favored need.

An hour later he crossed Moorfields and the outline of Bethlem Royal Hospital appeared beyond the open fields. Bedlam – as most folk called it – loomed heavy and foreboding, like a pale, stone monster unable to move for the sheer mass of victims it had gorged upon. Multiple eyes of black barred windows dotted the walls, and the shrieks and moans drifting from those windows sounded like nothing human. Somewhere within the bowels of that monster lay his mother.

Edward had never been able to bring himself to visit and dreaded doing so now. The judge had ruled her suicide attempt a moral insanity. He hadn’t believed she was mad then, but she surely would be now – locked for months in this wretched place with the echoes of lunatics all around her.

The front door was open, but just beyond the forecourt stood a metal gate. The smell wafting through the bars was a potent mix of unwashed bodies and human waste, feathered over the odor of dirt and mold that clung to the walls of the old building. Edward stood at the gate, watching the lunatics in the long gallery cavort and cry. There were only men that he could see, but he could hear women’s voices off to his right. Peering that way, he made out a set of bars dividing the inmates by gender into east and west wings.

The echoes drove into his brain like iron spikes. Anger. Fear. Despair. Hate. They pounded on his body like hammers. The inmates were obsessed with their private hells, and the echoes of their emotions filled the long gallery, reverberating again and again off the thick walls. The urge to run from the asylum nearly overwhelmed him. Instead, he rang a small bell hanging at the upper corner of the gate.

The man who approached wore a dirty linen shirt with no coat. His long trousers of faded blue had the look of old sailor’s clothing. Even Edward’s worn black coat and wash-water grey stockings were in better repair.

“Visitors come ‘round Tuesdays and Sundays, mate,” the guard said. “You can watch the lunatics anytime for a penny, though, if that’s what you’re after.”

If he left now, Edward wasn’t sure he would ever return.

“I’m of a need to see someone today. Etta Ferris.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a shilling. “This for your trouble of letting me in on an off day.” He pushed the silver coin through the bars, glad he had thought to bring it.

The guard grinned a wolfish smile. He lifted a hand that was truncated to a thumb and the first two fingers, angling from the second knuckle to the wrist in a long, puckered scar. Grabbing the small coin awkwardly, he slipped it into a pocket and pulled a key from under his shirt to open the barred gate.

At the squeal of the hinges, an inmate in the center of the room stopped pacing and stared. He was silver-haired but sturdy. Suddenly he was moving, grunting wordlessly, legs pumping as he rushed for the gate. Edward stepped back, alarmed. A burly man, another guard judging by the keys he carried, hit the lunatic in the chin with his elbow and the old man crumpled.

“Is she curable or incurable?” Edward’s guard asked, turning back to him from the commotion.

Edward stared at the old man on the floor. Waves of frustration radiated from the inmate as he rolled into a ball and sobbed. “Incurable,” Edward said faintly. That had been the doctor’s diagnosis on her admission.

“Right, then, I think I know her.”

The guard led Edward across the room and unlocked a door just in front of the bars to the women’s side. Edward followed him up a set of stairs, through another locked door to the right, and into the incurable women’s ward.

The smell hit him like a fist, sour and far stronger than below. Some women were chained to the walls or the floor, others were loose. Sores were untreated, feces was smeared about, and Edward’s shoes peeled from the sticky floor with a crackling sound. The echoes beat on his mind and his nerves until he thought he would begin raving as well. He wondered if even ten sovereigns could be worth this hell.

The guard walked ahead, oblivious to Edward’s torment. “Here y’are, mate.” He stopped and pointed. The woman was not chained but lay on her side on the filthy floor, unmoving, eyes wide. She was skeletal. “‘Fraid she won’t last much longer, she won’t eat no more.”

Tears stung Edward’s eyes as he took in the familiar pattern on the torn and faded dress that had once been her best, the brownish-blonde hair unwashed and matted with dirt, the narrow back that had cringed at echoes, but had been straight and strong when protecting him from his father’s drunken outbursts. He crouched down next to her, wondering if Bedlam would be his fate as well someday. He smothered the thought before it turned to Samuel and what his future might hold.

“Mum?” He said it quietly, as if not to disturb her. There was no response, no sign she recognized him.

“She ain’t spoke a word since she come here,” the guard said.

Edward didn’t need to wonder why. He could feel despair tolling from her like a great bell, ringing in his bones and chiming the sadness of her life. At least she wouldn’t suffer much longer. The will to die pulsed within her, stronger than blood. The echoes of it buffeted at him like a sad wind.

He wondered if he was strong enough to handle the intensity of her despair. Taking an echo of yearning or lust into his body was enough to muddle his brains and fill his heart with desire until he could exhale it into a phial; the prospect of taking in a sadness so deep that death was preferable terrified him. He felt for the phial in his pocket, reassuring himself he would only have to carry the emotion in his body until he was out the front door.

Edward kissed his mother gently on the forehead and said a silent prayer for her soul. Anxious to be gone from here, he tipped his head back and unlocked that strange place deep in his chest that he had discovered. The place that allowed him to harvest and hold the echoes.

He took a cautious breath, terrified that the emotions of two hundred lunatics would flood into him like a river finding an open weir gate. He knew his mother’s emotions well, though, and narrowed his focus on them. Her despair sifted into his lungs, sinking naturally to the spot beneath his breastbone. No other echoes followed. He breathed deeper, harvesting her sad bounty. When he had taken all he could hold, he locked the echoes in his chest.

Relief at his success lasted only a second before the echoes took effect. The terrible desolation of spirit was stronger than he could have imagined. It threatened to crush him to the floor. Despair and hopelessness overwhelmed him, suckling on his energy and will. He knew if he didn’t leave quickly, he might not leave at all. Edward pushed himself up from his knees, standing unsteadily.

“I’ll go now.” His voice was a whisper. The guard had seen nothing of his struggle; he nodded and led him back down the stairs.

The distance to the front door seemed twice what it had been before. Edward was despondent beyond tears, beyond words – beyond life. He held fast to the reason he had undertaken this awful task, the money that would help Samuel. He wondered if experiencing this despair was his penance for selling the echoes, inflicting them on the criminal, even if it was the man’s just due. When he finally reached the barred gate, the guard fumbled with the key.

Without warning, Edward was struck from behind. His body crashed into the bars and there was a sickening crunch from his coat pocket where he had placed the small phial. A sharp pain needled into his hip as a sliver of glass pierced the skin. His guard turned and swung at the old man who had run for the door when Edward arrived. The lunatic fell backward and the second guard wrestled the man to the floor.

When the two-fingered guard finally opened the gate, Edward threw himself out into the cool, fall air and stood on the front lawn, shaking. The fright of the incident was nothing to the horror of the broken phial. He slipped his hand gingerly into his pocket and pulled out the shards of glass, dropping them onto the lawn.

The journey home was torture. His mother’s hopelessness and misery dragged at him like a weight, trying to pull him to the ground. It whispered at him to give up, to give in, to lie down and die. It mercilessly nurtured every sorrow he had ever felt and revived them as if they were new. Near home he tripped and stumbled, falling to the gutter. Unwilling to get up again, he lay with his face against the horse piss and offal of the streets, and wished the sludge deep enough to drown him.

A hand pulled at one coat sleeve. “Ist tha’ druffen o’ yonderly?”

The northern accent was almost too thick to understand. “Ill,” Edward managed, crawling to his knees. “Not drunk.”

Strong arms tugged him to his feet. “Tha’s bist git ter ‘oome.”

Home. Samuel.

Edward nodded and waved off further help. He moved forward once again.

When Edward finally reached his house, he groped for the skeleton key. Throwing the door open, he stumbled to the under-stair cupboard. He dropped to his knees and rummaged for the first bottle he could find.

Lifting the glass to his mouth, Edward exhaled the dreadful echoes. Instead of flowing out easily with his breath, they came out reluctantly, thick and sticky. He corked the bottle, folded himself on the floor, and wept.

#

The next morning, Edward was unable to rise from bed. He needed to deliver the potion to Mrs. Winston today to collect the rest of his fee, but even that failed to motivate him. His mother’s despair had been too heavy and he had carried it too long. It had formed a bond with his loneliness, with unhappy memories of his childhood, his wife’s death, and with the gloom that poverty brought. He had become a victim of his own potion, the echoes blending with his native emotions until there was no telling one from the other.

Guilt plagued him over the thought that Samuel would live now with his depression, just as Edward had lived with his mother’s. Samuel brought him tea and pleaded for him to rise. Edward knew he had to get up; he had to get the money for Samuel.

When they arrived at Mrs. Winston’s, Samuel went with Simone to the garden while Edward was shown to the sitting room. He handed the phial to Mrs. Winston.

“And now?” she asked.

“I take no part in giving the potion,” Edward replied.

“Yes, Mr. Ferris, I am aware of that. How do you suggest I proceed?”

“The man must breathe the potion in. It’s best done by placing the open bottle close under a person’s nose when they’re asleep, and whispering them a suggestion.”

“I see,” Mrs. Winston said. Her steely gaze pinned him. “Do you believe this will work, Mr. Ferris?”

“I do,” Edward said, chilled by the thought of the strength of the echoes in that tiny jar.

Mrs. Winston strode to the mother-of-pearl box and returned with the remaining five gold sovereigns. They gleamed when she placed them in the palm of his hand. She saw him to the hallway where the manservant stood waiting, having just called Simone and Samuel in from outside. Samuel was shoving something into his pocket.

“What do you think?” Samuel asked the maid, eyes shining with a happiness that Edward rarely saw.

“I think it smelled like summer,” she replied in her lilting accent, smiling at the boy.

Edward wondered what new treasures Samuel had collected from the garden, flowers perhaps. Simone looked up then and saw him, as did Samuel.

“Come now,” Edward said. “Time to leave.”

“He’s a lovely boy,” Simone said. Her gaze lingered on Edward a moment longer than necessary, appraising him and making him self-conscious. She smiled her crooked smile at him.

They followed Simone through the kitchen. “A cup of tea before you go?” she asked.

Samuel looked up at him with pleading eyes.

Despondency rang inside Edward like a funeral bell and he was in no mood for flirtation. Even if he mistook the look in her eyes, he was not fit company for conversation of any sort.

“I cannot,” he said.

She ruffled Samuel’s hair in farewell and stood watching from the door as they left.

#

Edward awoke the next morning to find Samuel staring at him. The boy was already dressed, standing at his bedside with an anxious expression.

“Can we visit Miss Simone today?”

Simone. The name stirred something warm inside him. It sounded sweet on Samuel’s lips, familiar, as if Edward had just heard her name a moment before. Perhaps he had been dreaming of her. Of her sweet, crooked smile.

“We’ll not be going round to Mrs. Winston’s anymore.” The thought disturbed him. He realized that he wanted to see Simone again.

Samuel continued to stare at him. Edward looked into his young face, tight with hope. “We don’t see clients afterwards, you know that, and anyways they’ll be moving soon.”

“Maybe you could have a note sent afore they go, an’ we could meet her at a tea shop or somewhat, as you could pay with the money you made.” It tumbled out in a fountain of hopeful words.

Yes. What would be so wrong with that?

Edward sought inside for the despondency of the past two days and felt it lessened, diluted. Instead of a depression he had believed would drag him down the same well as his mother, a buoyant anticipation overlay it now. He remembered the appraising look Simone had given him before they left, and smiled to himself.

And then he remembered waking to Samuel at his bedside as he dreamed of Simone.

Edward sat up in bed and stared at Samuel. The boy’s face went wide and guilty.

“I just thought it would be nice to see her again. I liked her so much and she reminded you o’mother.”

How did Samuel know that? He couldn’t have felt the echoes of such a flitting emotion. Or could he?

Edward threw off the bedcovers and hurried downstairs in his nightshirt. He pulled open the under-stair cupboard and yanked the box out. Both love potions were there.

Samuel appeared at his side, looking as contrite as only an eight year-old could. Edward rested on one knee in front of the cupboard, confused. “Samuel, what have you done?”

The boy answered in a mumble. “She liked you, an’ you’ve been so sad.”

“Did you use a potion on her, Samuel?”

“No.” He shook his head emphatically, looking surprised at the accusation.

“Did you use one on me?”

Samuel studied the toes of his boots.

Edward reached forward and fished in Samuel’s pocket, coming up with a blue phial. “Where’d this come from then?”

“I took an empty to Mrs. Winston’s yesterday,” Samuel confessed without looking up. “I talked about you to Miss Simone an’ then told her I was smelling the flowers I held, and then I said I was breathing the flowers into the bottle I brought.” He looked up, pleading. “She’s a’feared to lose her job an’ her home. An’ she does like you. She likes me too.”

“Samuel,” Edward squeezed the phial in his hand nearly to the breaking point, “you’re telling me you harvested echoes from her?”

The boy nodded, tears welling in his eyes.

“What could you o’possibly harvested?” Every echo Edward had ever harvested, even love, had been obsessive, nearly violent in strength. He had felt nothing from Simone.

“The liking you and the hoping I guess,” the boy mumbled.

Edward pushed himself off the floor and sank into the hall chair. He should rage fit to match one of his father’s rages. He should beat the boy for using a potion on him, even though he had sworn he would never raise a hand to his son. Instead, Edward sighed. He was the one who had taught the boy after all.

When he let go of the anger, other feelings drifted to the surface and he recognized them now – hope, desire and anticipation – the gentle aspects of early infatuation. They muted his despair until he hardly felt it. He had never imagined such quiet emotions could counter such brutal ones.

So Simone liked him. Unlikely as it seemed, perhaps it was possible. After all, she had touched something in him just in their brief time together. She missed her son and her husband, and genuinely seemed to like Samuel. Perhaps tea was not such a bad idea.

His voice, when he found it, was gentle. “Put that bottle up where you found it.”

Samuel put everything away and closed the cupboard door. Edward stood, his heart lightened with possibilities. With hope. He pictured Simone ruffling the boy’s hair and felt an urge to do the same.

“Let’s see about having a note sent ‘round to Miss Simone, shall we?”

Welcome to the August 2015 Issue of Urban Fantasy Magazine

The Magicians has been one of my favorite urban fantasy reads so far this year. So when Lev Grossman agreed to be our August interviewee, you could say I was pretty happy. I’m also discovering the joy of reading through the slush pile and discovering those short stories that make me go, “Seriously? No one snatched this up yet?”

In “Echoes”, our first story this month, a man has the ability to bottle emotions. His products can fetch a good price and might give his son a better life, but his latest might cost him more than he can pay.

Our second story, “A Thing in All My Things”, features a monster that we can all relate to — the kind that hides in shadows and feeds your fears that you’ll never amount to anything. It’s the kind of monster that writers fight off every day, even if (unlike our story’s protagonist), they don’t literally have it sitting in their coffee maker.

Our book reviewers dove into some action-packed urban fantasy this month with Loose Changeling by A.G. Stewart and City of Fae by Pippa DaCosta. And of course, we have the next section of our serialized story, Dead Records (part 6 of 9, for those keeping track at home). In the last section, Marcus discovered that his siren singer Aura takes on the emotions of whatever song she is singing. And now her blues songs are her biggest hits.

Here’s to an August filled with many uplifting emotions. Thanks for reading Urban Fantasy Magazine.

-Katrina S. Forest