Michael Burgin

Howard Andrew Jones’ debut novel was an impressive achievement. An exquisite distillation made from only the finest pulp ingredients, The Desert of Souls introduced readers to Captain Asim and the scholar, Dabir, a potent Watson/Holmes pairing placed in a realm flavored by Arabian Nights rather than Victorian London. (Thank goodness . . . have you tasted Victorian London lately?!) With writing both crisp and evocative and characters both familiar in template yet fresh in execution, The Desert of Souls provided readers with the next best thing to reading the works of Howard, Doyle or Lovecraft for the first time.

But with every sensational freshman effort, there are nearly as many sophomore slumps—could Jones carry over the magic of his debut into the sequel?

Yes. (We’ll forego the suspense.)

The Bones of the Old Ones finds our heroes a little wealthier and a good deal more renowned, thanks to their adventures in The Desert of Souls. Asim and Dabir have mostly adjusted to their new higher-profile circumstances when, as is the case in so many other pieces of good pulp fiction, a mysterious, troubled woman arrives on their doorstep in need of help.

The young woman, Najya, claims to have escaped from a group whose name and description match the members of an ancient cabal of powerful sorcerers. Too ancient to be the same beings, surely, but perhaps of the same origin? Soon enough, Asim and Dabir find themselves facing new foes and relying on old friends (and enemies) in an attempt to stave off an apocalyptic, wintery doom.

Along with the strength of Jones’ storytelling, The Bones of the Old Ones also brings with it what any good sequel must—further exploration of the world at hand that both enriches and expands upon the material introduced in its predecessor. Jones interweaves somewhat obscure figures of myth and legend with arguably the most famous of such heroes, in the process managing to open up a heretofore undiscovered perspective on the latter. As a result, The Bones of the Old Ones is just as satisfying as The Desert of Souls—which leads to the one drawback to the thrill of early discovery: the frustration of having to wait for the next book.

Novelist N.K. Jemisin believes in setting the hook when it comes to world building. Take The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, the first book in Jemisin’s Inheritance Trilogy. Released in February 2010, her debut novel barely had time to land on reviewers’ desks (and garner a host of impressive award nominations) before the second book, The Broken Kingdoms, was released in November. (The third book, The Kingdom of Gods, came out a year later.)

Jemisin (or more to the point, her publisher) must have liked how that worked out—her next two books (aka The Dreamblood Duet) are being released in consecutive months. In the first, The Killing Moon, Jemisin again demonstrates why her fans have every reason to enjoy the Anti-George R.R. Martin pace of it all.

The Killing Moon introduces us to the desert city-state of Gujaareh, whose peace is presided over by the servants of the Dream-Goddess, Hananja. Foremost among these servants are the Gatherers, priests who practice a form of magic called narcomancy and “take final tithes” from the old, sick and maimed, as well as from those deemed corrupt. (Less enlightened cultures might just call the Gatherers “assassins,” though compassionate ones.)

The Killing Moon focuses on two members of this sect. The first, Ehiru, is an established Gatherer who, as the novel opens, has his faith in himself and his order disturbed when a routine “gathering” goes wrong. The second, Nijiri, is an acolyte and then apprentice of Ehiru. Together, the two try to at first unravel and then survive a plot that threatens their order, their city and their lives. 

By Jemisin’s own admission, Gujaareh and its heal-and-kill order of monks are loosely modeled on Ancient Egyptian society, religion and medicine. But “loosely” is the key word here, since ancient cultures are just one of the building materials—along with Jungian psychotherapy—Jemisin uses to build the world of The Killing Moon. Just as not every tree trunk must be part of a log cabin nor every block of stone a castle, Jemisin quickly moves away from “inspired by” to establish a world where only the dedicated Egyptologists out there will still be seeing Gujaareh through pharaoh-colored glasses. 

Above all, the pages turn, and they turn quickly. The dramatic reveals are suitably dramatic, and the characters believable, likable and worthy of respect, be they protagonist or antagonist, main player or extra. It can be tricky introducing a new system of magic—the average fantasy reader has seen most every flavor—let alone yet another iteration on monks and assassins. Yet, taken together, Jemisin’s Gatherers and their narcomancy feel fresh. The series is young, but the Gatherers seem a worthy addition to both monk lit (the Bloodguard of Stephen R. Donaldson) and assassin lit (the Dragaera books of Steven Brust).

Best of all, there’s only a month’s wait until the release of the second book, The Shadowed Sun. Hook, set and match.

When last we checked in with Harry Dresden, the protagonist of Jim Butcher’s immensely popular Dresden Files series, Chicago’s only wizard private eye had overcome daunting odds to save the life of his infant daughter while putting a permanent kibosh on one of his most powerful foes, the vampiric Red Court. Not surprisingly given the tone of this modern noir genre mashup, the victory came at great cost. Loves were lost, troublesome alliances were forged and great personal sacrifices were made.

And then, in the afterglow/wrap-up phase of the story, Harry Dresden is assassinated. Wow. Rough day.

That abrupt ending ensured avid fans were paying attention from the start of Ghost Story, the thirteenth—and perhaps final—chapter in The Dresden Files. As the title suggests, Harry Dresden is now a ghost, but though an ectoplasmic remnant of his former self, no detective worth his dust can let a murder mystery—particularly his own—go unsolved.

As plot devices go, the after-death of Harry Dresden proves a savvy choice by Butcher. Good modern pulp fiction—and The Dresden Files is just that—ultimately depends on a well-balanced mixture of the familiar and the strange. Early in a series, the mixture is understandably heavy on the strange. (“John Carter is on frikkin’ Mars!!!”) But as the series ages, after the “hook” of the strange has been set, the equation shifts back toward 50/50. But if the familiar grows to be too large a part of the formula, a series can become more comfort food than culinary adventure. And while Butcher’s series is hardly Chinese takeout, it was certainly time for a little spice—an upping of the strange and unfamiliar.

With Ghost Story, the reader gets just that. Ironically, a dead Dresden is just what the doctor ordered to liven up the series. Dresden’s ghostly existence casts almost all of the series’ old standbys—the staunch allies, the fearsome foes and the usual array of personal resources and plot-twisting wild cards—in a new light.

Yet, for all the new in Dresden’s plight, there’s ample familiar for a fan to hold onto. Dresden remains an engaging first-person narrator—death hasn’t affected his snark—and he’s surrounded by a rich supporting cast developed over the course of the preceding 12 books (and one anthology). And as he struggles to help his friends and confound his enemies—and perhaps, just perhaps, figure out who offed him—the pace and feel that has made the books worthy of bestseller lists and a television series remains intact.

But there’s also something more. Throughout it all, a whispered question nags at the reader’s subconscious, propelling the pages to turn a little bit faster than they already are. Succeed or fail, could this be the end of Harry Dresden? To find out, all you have to do is read a story. A Ghost Story.