Tor.com Publishing is offering some cruel, sexy energy in September 2019.
The Monster of Elendhaven—Jennifer Giesbrecht’s dark fantasy about murder, a monster, and the magician who loves both—wraps its glassy fingers around you on September 24, 2019.
The city of Elendhaven sulks on the edge of the ocean. Wracked by plague, abandoned by the South, stripped of industry and left to die. But not everything dies so easily. A thing without a name stalks the city, a thing shaped like a man, with a dark heart and long pale fingers yearning to wrap around throats. A monster who cannot die. His frail master sends him out on errands, twisting him with magic, crafting a plan too cruel to name, while the monster’s heart grows fonder and colder and more cunning.
These monsters of Elendhaven will have their revenge on everyone who wronged the city, even if they have to burn the world to do it.
Buy the Book
The Monster of Elendhaven
Or at your preferred independent bookstore.
From author Jennifer Giesbrecht: “This is my favourite kind of cover. You see it and go, ‘Oh, that’s rad as hell. Trendy, but distinctive. Gritty and hip, with impeccable typography’. Then you read the book and look at it again, start noticing all the subtle little details drawn from the text, and you’re like: ‘Man, this cover is rad as hell, and the artist READ the book!'”
Pale hook-fingered AO3 (Archive Of Our Own) tags include:
- High Quality Sociopath Love
- Hurt/No Comfort
- Gratuitous Violence
- Gratuitous Weather
- Gratuitous Corpses
- Comedy With Approximately As Much Levity As The Depths of the Ocean
- Major Character Death (Over And Over Again ;3c)
- Not Technically Necrophilia
- Technically A Love Story
Along with a carefully cultivated Spotify playlist you can listen to while admiring Jeffrey Alan Love‘s work!
And we couldn’t wait to include a small teaser from the book itself:
For a long time, he didn’t have a name. What he had were long white fingers that hooked into purses and a mouth that told easy lies. What he had were eyes that remembered faces, feet that knew the alleys, palms that grew calloused and soot stained from crawling through the cobblestone streets.
He got the name when he was three feet and four inches tall, kneeling on the dock with a coin in his palm, from a sailor who stank of rum and fish oil. The sailor grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed his head into the wall—once, twice, three times—and then yanked the coin from his hand. His lip split on the dock and his mouth filled with a foul mixture of grease, salt, and blood.
