My copy of BLOOD AND IRON: A Novel of the Promethean Age, by one Elizabeth Bear, came today.
So why blog tonight when I can just quote her opening paragraph (and then see who gets kicked off So You Think You Can Dance, and then write late into the night on my awesome new laptop because the husband is away and I can keep the light on as long as I damn well please)?
(Also, I like how Ms Bear* dedicates the book to something called ‘The Bad Poets’. Heh. If I had a rock group, that’s what I’d want to call it.)
Matthew the Magician leaned against a rough iron lamppost on Forty-second Street, idly picking at the edges of his ten iron rings and listening to his city breathe into the warm September night. That breath rippled up from underground, a hot draft exhaled in time with the harsh pulse of subway trains. A quiet night, as nights went in the belly of the beast…
…until his hands grew cold under the rings that focused his otherwise senses, and he raised his eyes to the night. Trip trap, trip trap. Who’s that tripping across my bridge, Brer Fox?
Even before the vague sensation of cold resolved into something more defined, he had an idea who might have come to trouble him.
He tugged the placket of his camouflage coat together and stepped out of the shadows, into the dapples and patterns of light that were the substance of New York City at night. The coldness gave him direction….The stronger chill, the one that sank into the bones of his left hand, had the flavor of age and wildness about it. Ancient hunger, and the musk of a predator.
*What a great last name. Why refer to her as Elizabeth when you can reference her while also invoking a majestic shaggy animal?