I’m pootling away on A Furnace Sealed, my urban fantasy about a nice Jewish boy from the Bronx who hunts monsters, which I’m hoping will be out from the fine folks at WordFire Press some time later this year.
Here’s an excerpt from what I’ve written this week:
As I turned right onto the Concourse to head back to the Mosholu, I went on. “No, whoever did this is trying real hard to make us think it’s a vampire. The bat was just a little extra flair. It means whoever did this knows what they know about vampires from watching old Hammer films, not reality.”
“Hey, I like those movies. Christopher Lee’s still the best Dracula, you ask me.”
I chuckled again while I waited at the light to turn onto the Mosholu. “Nah, Bela Lugosi now and forever.”
“You know he was a drug addict, right?”
“If I factored drug addiction into liking actors, I wouldn’t like any.”
“Anyhow,” I said, dragging the conversation back on track, “the puncture wounds, the lack of blood, the bat—it’s all trying to get us to look for a vampire. If we hadn’t been sidetracked by that, we might’ve been on the right track before two more immortals got killed. Now I just gotta figure out what the right track is.”