Cover Art Basics: How to Talk to an Artist

At the recent (fabulous) 20 Books to 50K Conference in Las Vegas last weekend, one of the speakers challenged the 450-odd authors there to think of something they could contribute to benefit their peers. It occurred to me that there is something, as an artist, that I am eminently qualified to speak about – cover design, and how to get the absolute best out of the artist you’re working with so you both end up happy with the finished product.

How not to commission

There are two things all freelance artists dread.

The first one is the “I want a cover that has sparkles and unicorns and bevelled typography and looks like [insert bestseller name here]. Can you do that for $50?” client. Don’t ever be that client. You will not get what you’re looking for, and your artist will be sad.

If you have $50 for a cover, you can expect a $50 cover. That’s the first thing to know: approach artists within your price range. It not worth anyone’s time: yours, or the artist’s. Find someone who probably works for the amount of money you have. Email them, give them a description of what you’re looking for (genre, examples of other covers, the pitch of your book) and ask them for an approximate quote. Most artists will happily reply with a quote, or an hourly rate and the expected number of hours your cover will take.

This leads on to the second thing artists talk about around campfires late at night: the client who has the money, but has no idea what they want or how to describe it. This is actually worse than the cheapskate, because the erstwhile freelancer can tell the cheapskate to get lost. If they have a paying and otherwise awesome client, their heart sinks as a conversation like this gets going:

Artist: “So, what kind of cover are you looking for?”

Client: “I don’t know. Something like… uhh… something with magic in it.”

Artist: “Okay. What kind of magic? Do you want characters? A dragon?”

Client: “I don’t know. It’s fantasy with a female MC. There’s demons and dragons later on in the series.”

Artist: “Dragons. Okay… I can work with dragons.” *creates thumbnail sketches* “Like this?”

Client: “Sure.”

Artist: “You sure you’ve approved this thumbnail sketch? The one with dragon?”

Client: “Sure.”

*Three weeks and 20 hours of painting later, artist returns with a cover.* “Here you go!”

Client: “Why is there a dragon there? I wanted a demon. I write urban fantasy with a demon hunter.”

Artist:

While slightly exaggerated, this kind of exchange is more common than you’d think. There’s also variation of the same string of communication errors where an artist provides exactly what an author thinks they want, but they don’t get the result they were seeking. The author can’t fault the artist, because they delivered exactly what they asked for… but what they asked for just doesn’t work for some reason. They go away feeling disappointed, unsure of why their cover isn’t as great as their fellow’s, even though they both had the same designer.

Here’s why.

How to speak Artist

An artist is capable of delivering within the constraints of two things: their skill and ability to fulfill a creative vision, and the author’s ability to describe their own vision and their needs. So as with all things in Indie publishing, the initial responsibility to form that creative vision of your cover starts with you.

To start with, go to Amazon or Kobo or whatever and pull up books in your genre. Make note of the following things:

  • Even though the characters are interacting, the scene is very ‘still’.

    Are the cover images static or dynamic? These qualities describe movement. Romance covers tend to be static, with half-naked people in various states of artful passion or, conversely, very well-dressed Victorian ladies (for Regency). But static. The people are standing around, sitting or posing, like portraits. By comparison, Action, Thriller, and Urban Fantasy tend to have dynamic covers, with action poses or interactive scenes. So do children’s books. Why do you think that is?

  • Are the cover images desaturated or saturated? Saturation describes the intensity of color in an image. The more saturated an image, the brighter and cheerier it looks. Horror and Memoirs tend to have desaturated, subdued palettes. Urban fantasy and PNR often have highly saturated colors against dark backgrounds, sometimes almost garish. The more desaturated something is, the more ‘dark’ (in terms of emotion’) and the more serious it seems. Very high saturation can make images look psychedelic. Find some desaturated covers and some highly saturated covers within your genre and see how they seem to be selling. Does bright and cheerful work better?

 

  • Look at the way the covers use light. Light is the foundation of all art, and the skill of an artist can be measured in the way they use light to manipulate mood, emotion (yes, they are different – mood is the overall tone conveyed by setting, emotion is something you read in specific parts of an image, such as a facial expression or the placement of objects). The darker the content of the book, the less light there tends to be. What light there is will be seen in ‘slices’, such as flashlight beams or small focused sources (like the helmet above). BDSM Romance will have light used in focused, almost spotlight-like ways. In sweet, uplifting, or Christian Romance, you’re going to see a lot of sunlight, and diffuse, dreamy, yellow and blue light tones.

  • What kinds of colors are used in the covers in your genre? Make a list of five or six (or two or three, if you write Horror. Hint: They’re Red, Dark Red, and Gray).
  • Make note of composition in your example covers. For example, in the Nicolas Sparks covers above, we have a series of very similar images that convey the very specific thing this author writes: emotional, love-focused, uplifting romance. We see that in the way the composition focuses on the people’s faces, closed eyes (a sign of trust), and their hands touching their lovers’ cheeks or necks. Note in all but one it is the man doing the clutching. That’s important – it tells us something about the expectations the readers have of the relationship dynamic between the characters. If you’re trying to indicate intense possession with body language, how would you go about that? What about ‘magic’?
  • Think about the emotion or ‘feeling’ you want to see in your book. If your book is dark, you can communicate this with low saturation, focused light sources, moody composition. If you’re writing contemporary women’s fiction, you probably want a lot of white, light breezy colors.
  • Speaking of colors: Colors by themselves communicate a lot of different emotions and can be used to express personality. Goths wear stark black and red for a reason. So do vampires, for similar reasons. Red, violet, gold, silver… they’re colors that communicate opulence, passion and royalty. Good colors to use if you’re writing vampire regency romance (I assume this exists).

 

When you talk to your cover artist, these are the kinds of things you will want to know. Your artist doesn’t know your audience – not unless they’re a specialist in a certain sort of cover, and even then. Someone like Tom Edwards, who is very well known in the space opera market, produces images he thinks will work as covers. You, as the author, are going to know whether or not your audience prefers battling dynamic spaceships with drop marines dropping from drop ships or majestic whale-like battlecruisers with no people or dynamism at all. Look up Dead Space and Battlestar Galactica, and make note of the similarities and differences. Same basic genre – space opera – but one is horror and one is drama. Note differences in saturation, dynamism, palette, light, and composition.

When you go to an artist, you can use these as frames of reference. Let’s redo our dragon conversation from earlier:

Artist: “So, what kind of cover are you looking for?”

Client: “My book is Urban Fantasy with a female main character who is a demon hunter, and I’m competing with the likes of [this cover] and [this cover]. I’m looking for art with a central character figure, really high contrast and saturation in black plus reds and oranges – ‘Hell’ colors, and some high contrast ‘flash’ somewhere in the piece to indicate that she can use magic.”

Artist: *spontaneously orgasms* “Why yes, I can do that for you. Let me draw up some thumbnail sketches…

That’s the basics of image composition. Next post, I’ll discuss where typography fits in, and how you can correctly identify your perfect font.

Zero Sum Preview!

Zero Sum Now Available for Pre-order!

Hitmage Alexi Sokolsky used to sling spells for the Russian Mafia. That was before the man he loved was murdered, before his boss tried to turn him into his vampire slave, and before he learned about the Organizatsiya’s dirty trade in supernatural children.

He’s still a hitman – but now he hunts monsters.

Join Alexi as he reveals the true nature of the FBI’s witch hunters, finds love, and finally discovers the true reason why the Gift Horse appeared in New York.

Click Here to Pre-Order Zero Sum ($3.99)

 Zero Sum: Chapter One

Revenge is a filthy addiction, a drive as banal and compelling as the craving for sugar, or nicotine. I knew vengeance was bad for me, that it was unsatisfying, but every time I sat by Vassily’s ruined grave trying to think of an alternative, I always arrived at the same grim conclusion: that a bloody zero-zero draw was better than letting the motherfuckers sweep my chips off the table and walk away.

Part of it was that I knew now I’d never have the man I loved, even if there had never been a chance to begin with, and I wanted them to suffer as my family and I had suffered. Part of it was that no matter how far I ran from the Mafiya, it lived on in me. The ecstatic wisdom of a mage is always tempered by the selfish impulses of a wiseguy: the knowledge that I could squeeze a trigger, pull a blade, cast a spell, and find at least a fragmentary relief in the act of destruction.

This selfishness drove me to Wall Street on the morning of October the 25th, 1991. The dreary gunmetal sky was gravid with rain, looming over the four of us – myself, my cat, Jenner and Angkor – as we pulled up in a one-way alley not too far from the New York Stock Exchange. I clambered out onto the narrow sidewalk into a bitter wind that slapped at the vent of my suit jacket. The suit was slightly too large, loose over the padding I’d taped around my midriff. Angkor, seated in the back, held my agitated familiar away from the door and passed me a carry-on suitcase, then a black leather briefcase. I took them with a wan smile.

“All set, soldier?” Jenner had cleaned up a bit to better fit in with the Manhattan crowd, which meant she’d given herself a razorgirl haircut with a bowie knife, worn her best eyepatch, and shrugged on a denim jacket over her ‘Satan Loves Pussy’ t-shirt. She’d tried.

I set the carry-on on the ground and pulled out the telescoping handle, then nodded. “Give me an hour, including walking time. If I’m not at the Charging Bull by twelve thirty, cruise back to this alley and scope the entry to the building.”

Angkor checked his watch and set the timer, idly pushing Binah back from the window as my Siamese suppository tried to follow me onto the street. “It’s 11:35 now. I’m coming up to look for you if you’re not back within seventy minutes.”

“I’m sure I’ll handle it.” I leaned in and rubbed Binah’s sail-like ears, waggling them from side to side. She glowered at me. She did not like being left behind.

“I’m sure you will.” Angkor flicked his dark gray eyes up to meet mine, mouth sly. “Take care up there, and good hunting.”

Something about the look he gave me briefly drove all thoughts of revenge from my mind. Angkor was beautiful enough to stop traffic. I cleared my throat, and offered a quick, stiff smile. “Thank you. I mean it, both of you.”

“No worries. Go kick some pedo ass.” Jenner winked and clicked her tongue. With a final lingering look, Angkor wound the window, and the pair of them cruised off to rejoin the main road.

Stage one complete. Time to find my mark.

Yegor Gavrilyuk, CPA, worked out of a private suite at 44 Wall Street. In a neatly pressed suit and tie and a good-quality wig of fashionably blond, slicked-back hair, I looked like any other yuppie bustling between his office and the New York Stock Exchange, one of many nameless faces pushing through the canopy of black umbrellas bristling in expectation of rain. No one gave me or my carry-on bag so much as a second glance as I entered the atrium of Yegor’s building, stepped into the elevator, and pressed the button for the 28th floor.

Camouflaged in the forest of suits and several inches taller than usual, I read the front page of the Wall Street Journal and listened to the awkward throat clearing, clicking rustle of too many people crammed into a too-small metal box. My stomach gnawed at me, and I was queasy from the press of bodies around me by the time I reached my floor. When the doors opened, I gratefully pushed through and clacked my way across the checkered marble floor to the glass-fronted reception of Weiss & Co. Financial Services.

The lady at the desk – financial executive receptionists were always women, weren’t they? – was a pencil-thin redhead with dark eyebrows and brown eyes. She wore an artfully fitted gray dress that was probably worth more than both my suits: the one in the carry-on, and the one I was wearing.

“Good morning, sir,” she chirped. “How can I help you?”

I didn’t bother smiling, and dialed up my Slavic accent from a three to a nine. “I am here for appointment with Mr. Gavrilyuk.”

The woman’s brow creased slightly. “Sir, I’m sorry, but… Mr. Gavrilyuk doesn’t have any appointments until twelve.”

“Yegor forwards his calendar to my boss in case we need to speak with him urgently,” I replied. “Please call his extension, and tell him that Mr. Chiernenko would like to discuss the AEROMOR accounts.”

The receptionist blinked at me, deer-like and indignant, but she slowly picked up the receiver and began to dial.

While she hung on the line, I nosed around the office, marking the fire escape, the location of cameras, and the orderly geometric patterns of magical energy in the room. Practically every building in the Financial District had wards – good wards, wards that I, a single mage working alone, could not hope to overcome in an emergency.

It is just as well we will not need to.” An inner voice like the whispering of leaves over dry ground broke through my reverie. “They were not made with our kind of work in mind.

Kutkha did not speak aloud. My soul’s voice was an intrusion into my thoughts – a welcome intrusion.

Mm. They’re fire alarms, I think.” I thought back. The wards laid into the building were beautiful in the orderly way that cathedrals were beautiful, and playing my senses out along the elegantly formed web of magic woven through the stone and metal was a good way to stay relaxed before the job. By their persistence, pitch, color, and geometry, I knew these were enchantments laid down by the Adepts of the Inner School – one of the older occult fraternities who’d come to the East Coast with the Puritans. Back in the day, before mages had reason to fear the Vigiles Magicarum and the concept of ‘illegal arcana’, the Orders who were contracted to protect these buildings signed them with special patterns of magical energy, like maker’s marks. I now knew that this energy was called Phi, but those men – mostly men, back then – probably did not.

I tuned back into the material reality of the room when I heard the receptionist talking behind us. “Hello, Mr. Gavrilyuk? Yes, this is Lisa… I have a Mr. Chiernenko here who would like to see you regarding one of his accounts, if you have time? He says it’s urgent. No, he’s alone. Alright, thank you. I’ll let him know.”

I turned as she hung up, and she smiled with double rows of laser-white teeth. “Someone will be out to see you in in just a moment, Mr. Chiernenko. Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you, but I would rather stand.”

She smiled again, a little woodenly this time, and then turned back to her monitor and keyboard.

Five minutes passed before another woman strode around the corner from the same direction I’d first arrived and pushed through the glass door separating the reception from the lobby. She was also well-dressed and startlingly beautiful, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. When she saw me, her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Mister… Chiernenko?” She asked.

“Yes?” I turned, hands jammed in my pockets, shoulders hunched. It was how Nicolai usually stood.

“Oh… I’m sorry. Excuse me for saying so, but I remember someone who was… less well-built.” She spoke Russian. There was an uncertain lilt in her voice, green-yellow.

“I am Anatoly Chiernenko. Nicolai is my cousin. He is thin and tall, and I am fat and short.” I replied in the same language, forcing a small smile and trying to make the most of my temporarily blue eyes. “Like those video game characters, eh? Mario and Luigi.”

Her face suffused with hidden laughter. She gestured with hand and head toward the door. “Yes, well, please come this way, Mister Chiernenko.”

The P.A. – I assumed she was the P.A. – led me back to the elevators. Yegor Gavrilyuk was one of the silent engines of the Yaroschenko Organizatsiya, New York’s largest ‘Russian’ Mafia. He was a man few could name, but many relied on. As Sergei’s American stockbroker and financial manager, he couldn’t be expected to work in the boiler room with lesser brokers and market analysts. No, he had his own private suite: a well-insulated suite, in a building as old and solid as this one. Twenty years of near-anonymous success within and outside of the Organizatsiya had made him king of the castle. He was well-liked, and he had become complacent.

I was led to a solid oaken door in a gold-and-cream corridor. The P.A. swiped her card, knocked, and then opened it a crack, but before she got too far, I gently touched her wrist with one gloved hand.

“Excuse us, please,” I said in Russian, meeting her eyes. “This is a sensitive matter.”

“Oh… of course.” The lady blinked and withdrew from the momentary contact, smiling nervously as she glanced at my hand. I didn’t have any of the distinctive Vory hand tattoos: but I was in the business of letting people think I did.

After she was a good way down the hall, I opened the door myself and then closed it behind me with a sharp click. Yegor looked up from his ledger, then stood in alarm. The blood drained from his face.

“YOU! What are YOU doing here?” He pushed back from the edge of the desk, putting distance between us. “I’ll call security, I’ll-!”

Kaph.” I spoke the single-letter word calmly, forcefully, and made a sign with my fingers.

Magic thrilled through my body and out into the room. The lights blew; the door behind me made a grinding sound as the lock short-circuited. Every other electronic device in the room simply died. We were left in the confines of a strange, humming silence.

Yegor stared at me in desperate shock. He was a soft, paunchy man with a fleshy face, small eyes, and a fluff of brown hair. He’d turned the same color as his yellow linen shirt.

“Please, Yegor Vladimirovich. It does not become an Authority of the Organization to stand. Take a seat.” I motioned to his chair. “And put your hands on the desk where I can see them, or I will speak another word of power and boil your brains in your skull.”

“You can’t.” Shaking, sweating, Yegor dropped back into his chair. He thumped both his hands down on his desk pad, almost petulantly. “You don’t know how. You’re not that good.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’re just a thug with a couple of magic tricks.”

“And I’m well on the way to filling my new spellbook with the names of the dead.” I arched an eyebrow. “Grigori. Kir. Lev. Demyon. All gone. Are you feeling froggy, Yegor?”

His nostrils trembled. He did not reply.

“Let me tell you a story,” I said, setting the briefcase down on the edge of the desk. “After years spent knowing that you piece-of-shit muzhiki called me and Vassily faggots behind our backs, it turns out that all of you were fucking children together.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t be disgusting. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I opened the case, staring at him. Inside was an ordinary ball peen hammer.

“Of course you do. You’re a smart man, aren’t you? Vanya’s Advokat.” I took the hammer out and set the briefcase aside. “His direct adviser and confidant.”

Yegor’s eyes widened, fixated on the weapon in my hand. “All I do is the money for him, Molotchik. Just the money.”

I blinked slowly, and glanced at the far wall of his office. Photos of Yegor, trimmer and with slightly longer hair, standing with a fair woman and two small children, both boys. “You do, in fact, handle the money. And it occurred to me, while I was recovering in hospital, that Vassily was your direct competition.”

He glowered petulantly, like a child. “I didn’t have anything to do with that business. I liked Vassily, and his family.”

“Perhaps. But you had everything to gain by putting him out of the picture,” I said. “So I admit that I’m not sure what disgusts me more: that you accepted whatever Nicolai offered you to support his bid for power at Vassily’s expense, or that you’re a man who fucks little boys on camera while doting on his own sons at home.”

My proclamation was met with resounding silence.

“I have two issues. Firstly, Vanya arranged for someone to rape Vassily in prison,” I continued, walking a serpentine trail away from and around the desk. “Someone who got him sick. Then Vanya and Nicolai got him hooked on drugs. Drugs are expensive, Yegor. Smuggling them in takes money. And what do you do?”

He swallowed. “I didn’t-”

“You handle the money,” I said. “Now. Vanya and Nicolai arranged to kidnap twenty-one kids from a group home last month. Boys and girls, eight to fourteen years old. He and his men fucked them, filmed themselves doing it, sold the videos and photos, then cut up some of them for their organs on the black market. And that’s the other reason I’m here. We only managed to rescue twelve of them. Where are the others?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Yegor’s face flushed dark. “What is this? Alexi Sokolsky to the fucking rescue? What, you think you’re fucking Superman, now?”

“I’m more of a Rorschach, actually,” I replied.

“Like you have clean hands.” He was sweating profusely now. I’d brought zipties with me in case I had to bind him, but he was paralyzed in his fury and fear. “Don’t pretend to be some kind of saint, Alexi. You were part of this.”

“It wasn’t my flabby ass pumping away in a few of the photos of those kids,” I kept my voice low and steady. “Why do you think I came to you, Yegor? Of all the good old boys in the Organization?”

He sneered. “You didn’t see any photos.”

“We pulled them off Moris Falkovich’s computer.”

Yegor blanched.

I smiled. Pleasantly. “You never were a brave man, Yegor. So now, you’re going to answer my questions, or I’m going to break all of your joints, sit on you, and choke you on my fist. Who was buying the tapes?”

“I-I don’t know,” Yegor stammered, but I caught the flicker of desperation in his voice. Reading faces was hit or miss, but sounds had a color and texture that were hard to conceal. His voice had shifted to orange, sharp and tangy. He had what I wanted, but he wasn’t quite ready to give it up.

“You do the money, Yegor. Everything Vanya buys and sells goes through you. Who. Was. Buying?” I grasped the hammer around its rubber haft and leaned across the desk until there was only a foot of space between our noses.

Yegor was breathing quickly. I saw his leg jerk as he hit a panic button with his knee, but it was as dead as everything else in the room.

“They’ll kill me, Molotchik.” His face went from yellow to green. I could smell him now, the acrid pungency of terror in his sweat.

I fixed him with a reptile’s glare. “I’ll kill you, right here in front of GOD and everyone. Answer my question. Who was buying the skin flicks and organs?”

“MinTex Oil and Gas,” he blurted. “Or I mean, that was the shell company. V-Vanya knows more than I do. They-they nearly all used shells, b-but there were some individual clients from Israel for the organs. It was handled by a couple of rabbis. All the money for the porn came from offshore. Now, please just-”

“Do you have a list of names?”

“Ps-pseudonyms.” He pointed at his filing cabinet. “That’s it. Now let me-”

“No. That was the first question” I could see the artificial blue reflection of my eyes in his glasses. “I want to know where Vanya keeps his cash. Physical cash. I don’t care about the Organization’s accounts.”

His jaw trembled, then tensed as he gathered his willpower and his resolve to refuse. I slammed the hammer down on his desktop with a sharp bang, and he jumped in his own skin.

His eyes welled up with tears. “Alexi, please-”

This time, I slammed the hammer down onto the back of his hand. The wet crunch I felt through the handle was drowned out by his piercing cry of agony. Yegor clutched his shattered hand and pushed himself up to stumble away, but he knocked his chair so hard that it tumbled over and spilled him to the floor instead. I stalked around the desk, put my hard-soled shoe down on his broken hand, and twisted.

He squealed, voice raw with pain. “Help me! Anya! Security!”

I glanced back at the door, then down to Yegor. The door was probably armored, thick enough that I didn’t have to worry just yet. “Where is the stash, Yegor?”

“Won’t tell you anything! Fucking suka!” He spat at me, and then squealed as I hauled up on his hair, my foot still pushing down on his hand. “Grrr-AAARGH-I’ll tell Sergei about this-”

I backhanded him with the flat side of the hammer and let go of his hair. He went to the floor, shielding his face as I beat him over the arms and head, but he couldn’t hold his guard up forever. When his arms faltered, I grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him back up to his knees.

“You don’t get it. I want Sergei to know I was here.” I pressed the ball of the hammer against his temple. “So let us reason together, Yegor. Do you really want to die like this?”

His nostrils flared as sweat from his nose and blood from his ears dripped from his face to the floor. He sagged in my hands.

“Where does Vanya keep his cash?” I repeated, calmly.

Yegor squeezed his eyes closed, pushing out a wave of fresh tears. I saw and felt him break, watched the armor shrink and fold away as he went limp.

“We don’t keep cash any more. Not since Rodion died. There’s… there’s guns, drugs. That’s it,” he said, his voice thick with mucus and pain. “I swear, Alexi.”

I wrinkled my nose, disappointed. He seemed to recognize the sign of my displeasure, because he kept babbling.

“It’s all at Kozlowski and Sons, you know, the scrapyard. T-There’s a locked yard where they keep all these old school buses. Vanya u-used it as a switch point. He stores things in the buses… in the floors of the buses.”

“And what kind of security do they keep around these buses?” I knew K&S well enough. Biggest scrapyard in New York. We took our stolen cars there.

“I don’t know! B-barbed wire. Dogs. V-Vanya might have men there, I don’t know. Let me go, Molotchik, I didn’t have anything to do with Vassily–”

Before he could continue – before I had time to get angry – I smashed the ball of the hammer into the side of his head several times, hard and fast. When I felt the steel catch, I tugged it free of his skull, pushed him away and stepped back, letting him fall like jelly to the floor. For several long minutes, Yegor gasped and convulsed his way through death, a process not nearly as sudden and final as movies were wont to portray. Eventually, he fell still.

When word got back to Sergei that Yegor was dead, he’d know exactly who had taken his piece off the board. My klichka, the nickname I earned in the Organizatsiya, was Molotchik, ‘The Hammer’. I’d earned that name – half-honorific, half-stigma – after I put down my father like a rabid dog with his own prison sledge, continuing a tradition of patricide that had begun when my grandfather killed his father for joining the Bolsheviks in Ukraine. Sergei was good to be reminded how Sokolsky men dealt with their patriarchs.

I went back around to the suitcase, set it on the desk, and opened it up. It held a roll of thick paper bags, a grooming kit, a small squirt bottle of bleach and one of isopropyl, and a complete change of clothes. Black leather gloves, shoes, socks, an identical blue tie, trousers, shirt, and a jacket, all neatly rolled. The suit was of a different material than the linen I’d worn into the office, a heavier wool suit in a similar, but not identical color.

The aftermath of a hit was a ritual performed in very specific steps. From smallest to largest; from dirtiest to cleanest. I wrapped up the messiest things, the hammer, my jacket, and tie, and then stepped around to squirt Yegor’s exposed skin with the bleach. Face, hands, neck. The odor of chlorine burned my nostrils, a clinging, lurid pink smell.

After that, I stripped and packed the dirty clothes into the suitcase along with everything else. I checked myself for blood, dabbing at my face – carefully, so I didn’t take off all the makeup I’d used to subtly change my features – then swabbed my hands and forearms with dilute bleach. Alcohol-soaked cotton got rid of the chlorine smell, and then I was able to investigate the filing cabinet.

Yegor was right. A saint would know better than to think revenge was going to fill in the void Vassily had left behind. But it wasn’t just for me: it was for Jenner, who had lost her partner and friends; for Angkor, who was still trying to heal the brain damage done to him by the Deacon and his men. It was for Josie, the little girl I’d pulled out of a mad surgeon’s dungeon. That kid was going to need therapy for the rest of her life. Some of the others were still missing, being used to breed monsters. Others were dead, or locked in their own minds. Forever.

“May your sons grow up to be better men than you and I, Yegor.” I set the carry-on down on the soft carpet, the best that money could buy, and locked the door on my way out into the relative cleanness of the city.

Zero Sum and The Persistence Game

Fiction is hard. It’s not neurosurgery-hard or engineer-hard or even bricklayer-hard, but it is far more difficult than most aspiring writers are able to handle.

Some people have a natural gift for spinning yarns, and that is the limit of what ‘talent’ actually provides when you decide to write a book, and even yarn-spinning isn’t enough. Novels have a structure which must either be observed or subverted, plot decided by character arcs which must continually cycle outward in scope and complexity and then circle back into a single point of distillation, and a world (or worlds) which does the same thing.  It’s like a massive jigsaw made up of blank pieces that you have to draw on as you fit them together.

As I worked through Cold Cell, I realized that there was a lot of material missing. Once I’d gotten over the first third of the book and Alexi still wasn’t in prison, it became blindingly obvious that there needed to be a whole other book between the events of Stained Glass and the events of Cold Cell. This is how Zero Sum was born. Cold Cell now naturally slots into the position for Book 4. Phew.

Zero Sum is over half-way done now, through I don’t want to give too much away before the official release post in March. All I can says is… Angkor. Cool magic. Gift Horses. Lots of cat-vs-Morphorde action.

And a harbinger.

Rain began to pelt the windshield when we pulled out onto the road, blurring out the surrounding street as we crept through the bumper-to-bumper lower Manhattan traffic.

“Ayashe can tap the right shoulders and follow that up in the Bureau. I’ll set Talya on it, as well. Girl’s some kind of computer genius.” Jenner’s voice was glutinous. She sniffled loudly, and both I and Angkor twitched. I was about to offer her a tissue when I noticed the edge of a rotten-meat stench cycling into the cabin.

The ambient light outside dropped, sharply. An awful  ripple of energy washed over me in a crawling wave and the water being sluiced away by the windshield wipers turned pink… then crimson.

“What in the fuck?” Jenner eased on the brakes as our view of the road disappeared under a greasy layer of blood and shredded flesh. Screams of horror pealed from all directions. Binah was inconsolable. A  heavy thump struck the roof of the car, and she spat and struck at my hands when I tried to hold her to my chest. She struggled free to the floor of the car and slithered under the front passenger seat to hide.

Traffic froze as mobs of panicked, blood-soaked pedestrians surged between the cars, running into each other, slipping and falling on the suddenly treacherous ground. An older woman in a blue pantsuit was bowled over and fell to hands and knees, screaming as she was drenched in the same rich, gruesome scarlet that was now pounding down in sheets over everyone and everything.”

Next post will be a cover and blurb release, shortly followed by a pre-order!

If you want to jump the queue and see the Zero Sum cover now, join us here on The Book of Face.

 

The State of Affairs

Let’s face it: shit’s fucked. I foresee a future where the creation of art may be suspended while I’m spending more time away from my keyboard. Until then, I’m balls out on the third and fourth book in the Hound of Eden series.

Speaking of shit that fucked up, I realized as I was drafting Cold Cell, the proposed third book in the series, that there was another whole novel’s worth of information and story that it requires. I realized this after I’d written about 60,000 words and hadn’t yet reached the meaty part of the story in CC. Thus, Cold Cell has been bumped to Book 4 in the series, and the third novel, Zero Sum, is currently slated to be finished by March 2017 and published before April. I will, however, have to create a new cover.

Angkor and the Twin Tigers cat shapeshifters continue to feature heavily in Zero Sum, in which we learn more about the Templum Voctus Sol and the Vigiles Magicarum.


 

How to load a free ebook to your Kindle or computer

Some people don’t know how to get a free book (Like Burn Artist) to their Kindle or device, so here’s some tutorials I wrote to help you get reading quickly. These methods work with any book, not just mine.

How to get the book onto Kindle via USB:

  • Save the Burn Artist .mobi file to your computer.
  • Plug in your Kindle device with the USB charge cord.
  • Open up the ‘Documents’ folder on your Kindle.
  • Drag and drop (or cut and paste) the Burn Artist file into ‘Documents’
  • Disconnect your Kindle: the book should be in your library!

Kindle for PC:

Download the book. If you have Kindle for PC installed, you should be able to double-click the file and it will open in the Kindle Program automatically.

If the book doesn’t open with a doubleclick, cut and paste the .mobi file into the ‘My Kindle Content’ folder in your ‘My Documents’.

 

How to get the book on your Kindle or Ereader via email:

If you have a Kindle device (Paperwhite, Voyager, etc), you can send the book to your Kindle by email. To do this, all you need is your Kindle’s email address and to change a couple of settings.

To find this email address, visit http://www.amazon.com/myk using your PC’s web browser.  You will arrive on a page with three options: ‘Your Content’, ‘Your Devices’ and ‘Settings’.

Click on ‘Your Devices’ and select your Kindle or Ereader. Underneath the selected icon, you will see information about your Kindle, including the email address. It usually looks like: <Amazon username>@kindle.com.

Now go back up, and click ‘Settings’ and scroll all the way down to the “Approved Personal Document E-mail List.” Click “add a new approved e-mail address,” and add the email address you intend to send your books from.

Remember, your Kindle needs to be attached to a Wi-Fi or 3G network for this to work. It doesn’t have to be your home network, of course; you can go to a coffee shop or a public library, for instance.

Send the Burn Artist .mobi file to your Kindle email address with no message or subject, and voila – you will be able to read the book on your Kindle! Once you’ve set this up, you can do this with any book, not just mine.

 

How to read a free book on your PC without Kindle:

To read the .epub file, download the free Adobe Digital Editions program here: http://www.adobe.com/solutions/ebook/digital-editions/download.html

Once this is installed, you should be able to double-click your new .epub file and read it in your fancy new e-reader 🙂

Cold Cell: Work In Progress

My escort walked me down to the third level, a narrow hallway faced with cells with red painted bars, the same color as my new coveralls. They stretched off into the gloom of the dimmed lights… a corridor that sounded and smelled like a zoo now that everyone had just come in back from dinner. It was warm in here, and humid with the smell of an old men’s locker room. The ventilation fans did little to remove the scent of cheap bodyspray, sweat, and old toilets.

We were catcalled on the way past my new neighbors. Someone was pacing like a tiger in the darkest part of their cell, stalking from end to end. Another man was smoking, and didn’t even bother hiding it as the three of us marched past. Some men were hidden in the stark shadows cast by the single bulb light outside their cell. Another lunged at his bars with a bestial snarl, and then laughed as he reeled away. Everyone was two to a cell – sometimes three. There wasn’t enough space on Red Row. I could guess that the bunk I was to occupy was one of the ones I’d emptied after Red Dog had come at me in the bathroom.

“Hey! I told housekeeping that I didn’t want the turndown!” A man’s voice called out from the cell, deep, with an accent I pinned somewhere between Minnesota and Canada. “Did you bring me the little chocolate at least, ’cause-”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” My escort snarled back at him, racking my door across. “You! Get in there!”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I started forward, only to be arrested when the man inside spoke again. “Yeah! Get in there! You can do it! You’re the man now, dawg!”

The guard holding me shifted nervously on his feet as the other one stalked into the cell, hand on his belt. “Do you want my stick up your ass, fuckhole?”

“Oh no sir, anything but the stick!” My celly pitched his voice high and squeaky. “We hates the stick, don’ts we precious?”

“Why you fucking piece of-” From inside, the other man laughed, a sound that fell back further into the cell as the guard lay into him.

“Ooh yes, officer! Harder! Harder!” He called out, still laughing. “Gimme that Federal bureaucracy, man! All over my face!”

“Will you shut the fuck up!?” The nightstick bounced off something metallic.

“Come on baby, bruise me up! Yeah, that’s it! Woo! I’m going to the one dollar bin! The fruit bin! Like one of those bruised up bananas that’s seen WAY too much heroin!”

“Yeah, man! Go score us that infirmary canteen!” Someone down the row shouted up.

“It’s mine! All mine! Get your own fucking crossword puzzle!” Even under assault, my next door neighbor sounded like he was having the time of his life.

As he realized that the beating wasn’t going to get him anywhere, the guard stalked back out and slammed the door across, swearing like a Navy shoreman. The far less enthused officer nudged me forward, and I got my first look at my new roommate as he rolled himself back up to his ass, still wheezing with mirth.

He was huge: a good three hundred pounds of raw beef, none of it fat. He was seated with his feet wide apart, elbows resting on his knees, his back to the white porcelain sink. His shoulders were level with the rim. I’d known some big men in my time and rarely felt small around them. Short as I am, I was burly, built for weightlifting and shotput and showjumping. Tall, cut men like Zane didn’t faze me, but this man wasn’t just tall. My new cellmate was built like a pro-wrestler. He could have body-doubled for the Hulk.

He had a fading outdoorsman’s tan, but it was the geometric blue ink tattoos that lay across his bald scalp, bull neck, and heavy shoulders that distinguished him from just another skinhead bruiser in this place. They were not anything like the mishmash of gang symbols and trashy flash that passed for tattoos in prison. Care and planning had gone into them, and it was the tattoos that flipped the switch of intuition. I hesitated as deja-vu hit me like a baton to the gut, but I couldn’t recall a name, or a place where we’d met before. Just a shadow of a memory, a patterning… like the ghost of something we’d once done together, over and over again. In light of Kutkha’s frank discussion of my other lives, past and present, the recall was accompanied by a nagging sense of being in terrible danger.

“Stop gawking and get in, asshole.” The guard jabbed me in the back. With motions that were already becoming rote, I crossed the threshold and turned, the back of my neck crawling as I held out my wrists to be un-cuffed.

“Mmmm, now that’s what I’m talking about.” The big man chuckled behind me. “That is one hell of a mint. White virgin chocolate… Fair trade and shade grown.”

The guard glanced over my shoulder with something that might have been momentary concern, at least about the liability of locking someone of my size in with the likes of The Hulk… but it didn’t stop him from racking the door closed, locking it, and walking away to join his coworker.

I drew a deep breath and turned around. “Let me guess. You recognize me from somewhere.”

“I’m writing home to-” When I turned back around to face him, the seated man’s voice fell off, even before I began to speak. “That depends. How many pornos have you starred in?”

I flushed before he could find my composure, jaws clenched. “Exactly zero, thank you very much.”

“Listen to you. ‘I’ll have a buttered scone and a bit of tea, thank you very much,’” my cellmate raised his voice to a prim falsetto as he got to his feet. In the claustrophobic enclosure of the cell, I had never seen a bigger man in my life. He was smirking, and holding an invisible teacup and saucer in his hands, the pinky holding the ‘cup’ held out at a jaunty angle. There was absolutely nowhere in this space I could retreat to that this man could not reach.

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