A little amuse-bouche to get you ready for the main course, which arrives in February — an excerpt from the beginning of my new modern fantasy novel The Initiate (now available for pre-order on Amazon, or at your friendly local bookstore):
"It wasn't a bear, was it?" The voice on Samuel Arquero's phone was reedy and precise. Whoever it was hung up before he could answer. Sam tried to call back, but got a recorded voice telling him the number was not in service. He tried again with the same result. Then he just sat there in the dark living room, looking at the fire in the wood stove. A half-empty pitcher of Bloody Marys stood on the coffee table in front of him.
That was how Sam spent most of his evenings, trying to drink himself to sleep without incurring a crippling hangover. He made his Bloody Marys with V-8 juice, so they were almost good for him.
Half an hour later the phone rang again. Sam had it on the couch next to him and snatched it up before it could ring a second time.
"Mr. Samuel Arquero?" asked the same voice.
"Who are you?"
"I want to meet with you. Name a time and place — but it must be private."
"Can you come here? Now?"
The voice chuckled a little bit. "If you wish. Expect me in half an hour. Needless to say, you will be alone." The call ended.
It had to be a prank call. A very nasty one. Sam was sure the joker wouldn't show. He'd have to be crazy to do that.
But . . . Sam turned on the porch light and tried to tidy up the living room a bit, just from habit. Since he spent most of his time there it was pretty messy, but by shoving things behind the couch and making neat piles he got it marginally presentable. There was nothing he could do about the front window — pulling down the pink insulation stapled over it would just expose the bare plywood nailed to the outside. Probably ought to get that fixed, he thought yet again.
Of course it had been a bear. Probably rabid, according to the cops. It was crazy to think otherwise. Just his memory playing tricks. Sam knew enough about psychology to figure the bizarre image in the doorway (which never went away, never) was just a manifestation of his guilt. If he'd just looked through the window before opening the door, if he hadn't frozen in astonishment that first instant, if he'd done something the house might not be so silent and empty right now. But he never spoke of what he'd seen — what he thought he'd seen — to anyone.
Twenty-nine minutes later there was a knock on the door. Sam hadn't heard a car pull up. He opened the door three inches, with his foot planted to keep it from swinging wider, and his right hand just touching the kindling hatchet he'd placed with the coats and boots.
The man on the doorstep was nearly Sam's height, with sparse gray hair. He was smiling, and wore dark glasses despite the late hour. Except for the glasses, his appearance was so utterly nondescript that if Sam looked away for a moment he thought he'd forget what he looked like. The visitor pulled his hands out of his overcoat pockets and held them up for Sam to see.
"Good evening, Mr. Arquero," he said. "May I come in?"
"Who are you?" Sam's mouth was dry.
"I'm the man who has taken an interest in what happened to your family last summer. You can call me Mr. Lucas."
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