9780553590951

Bone Song

by
  • ISBN13:

    9780553590951

  • ISBN10:

    0553590952

  • Format: Trade Book
  • Copyright: 2008-12-30
  • Publisher: Spectra
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Summary

The first book in an exciting new series of suspense, "Bone Song" is a dark urban fantasy set in the bone-fueled city of Tristopolis, the ultimate noir city where horror lurks beneath the city streets.

Author Biography

John Meaney is the author of four previous novels. His novelette Sharp Tang was short-listed for the British Science Fiction Award, and To Hold Infinity and Paradox both appeared on the BSFA short lists for Best Novel. Meaney has a degree in physics and computer science and holds a black belt in Shotokan karate. He lives with his wife in Kent, where he is at work on his next novel, Black Blood, the sequel to Bone Song.



From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpts

Chapter One


Donal sketched a fingertip salute to the shadows beyond the stone steps. Stuffing his hands in his overcoat pockets, he looked up at the two hundred stories of police HQ rearing upward, dark and uncompromising. It was late and cold and the sky appeared deep purple, heavily opaque.
Somewhere near the top, Commissioner Vilnar's office waited. And reading between the lines of this morning's phone call, the commissioner had a new job lined up for him—something Donal was not going to enjoy.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

From the shadows came a low growl.

"No offense," Donal added.

Donal unbuttoned his coat and moved easily up the steps, two treads at a time, passing between the glowing pillars that lined the stairway. He stopped at the big bronze-and-steel doors.

"Lieutenant Donal Riordan." He spoke clearly. "Badge number two-three-omicron-nine."
A tingling swept down Donal's skin, then huge locks rotated and clunked, and the doors swung inward. Donal passed inside, into the vaultlike reception area.

To the right, the duty sergeant, Eduardo, was a shadowy figure above the imposing granite block of his desk; otherwise, the place was deserted. Donal's footsteps echoed back as he headed for the bank of cylindrical lifts at the rear, his coat swirling capelike in the mixed cool and hot breezes that swept through this place.

He stepped into an empty elevator shaft.

"Hey, Gertie. Floor One Eighty-seven, please."

For a moment, nothing. Then:

*Anything for you, hon.*

The words felt like a caress.

Donal's stomach tipped as he shot upward.

Ten seconds later, he stepped out into a half-lit corridor.

*Later, darlin'.*

"See ya."

In the reception offices, Commissioner Vilnar's secretary, known to every cop as Eyes, was sitting with her back to Donal. Slender silver cables hung around her switchboardlike console. Without turning, she waved her pale hand, which Donal took as a signal to go straight in.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Lieutenant."

Donal strode past a row of ordinary-looking filing cabinets. Each was marked secure, imprinted with a tiny fist-shaped sigil. He wondered what they contained. Probably the commissioner's expense sheets.

The black doors in front of Donal pulled apart, and he stepped through into Commissioner Vilnar's office. There was a lone visitor's chair made of black iron set before the imposing desk. Behind Donal, the doors closed with a faint screech.

On the other side of the desk, the big chair rotated, revealing the commissioner's bald head, the wide shoulders of his black suit.

"Sit down."

"Thanks."

"Have you ever been to the opera, Riordan?"

"Sir?"

"That"—the commissioner's flat features moved; a sketched rehearsal for a smile—"is what I thought you'd say. Read this."

A desk drawer slid open, and Commissioner Vilnar pulled out a broadsheet newspaper. It looked like a luxury edition, warm yellow vellum bearing a curlicued violet script: a copy of the Fortinium Times. Its layout was similar to the Tristopolitan Gazette, though not the flimsy edition that Donal read: the plebeian version shredded apart within hours.

"Um . . ."

There was a gangland killing featured on the bottom of the first page. A blue-and-white photograph showed an innocent victim, a passing nurse who'd stepped between a slowing car and the real target, Bugs Lander.

"Try the Culture section," said the commissioner. "Under Theater."

"You're kidding." Donal turned the heavy pages. "This? About the opera singer?"

Purple ink shimmered as his gaze moved across the description of Maria daLivnova

Excerpted from Bone Song by John Meaney
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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