Exiled from his family of traders in mystical goods and services on his 23rd birthday, the merchant magician must make his way in the world: meeting mermaids in San Francisco, Midwestern leprechauns, Icelandic dwarves and the girl of his dreams, who happens to be a cultist devoted to the rise of the great old ones who will consume the world in ash and fire when they awaken.
Blending real-world negotiation theory with a coming of age story in an urban fantasy setting, this book will appeal to fans of Jim Butcher, Charles de Lint and Neil Gaiman.
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My twenty-third birthday was the day things got started. And ended. But also started.
Your twenty-third birthday is regarded as the traditional coming-of-age for a magician. Kind of like a bar mitzvah or quinceañera. It’s when we’re viewed as trained and adults by family and the community.
I read they lowered the drinking age during the Vietnam War because young guys asked “So I’m old enough to die for my country, but not old enough to order a beer?” Good line, and it showed how fucking arbitrary the whole thing was. Same deal with bar mitzvah, quinceañera or my twenty-third birthday graduation. No matter how amazing you were, no one could take you seriously the day before? And if someone is incompetent, we’re supposed to give them full consideration, just because they’ve lived a certain length of time?
Lame. But that’s traditions for you.
So, it was my twenty-third birthday party and it was a combination of a social event, a gaudy display of wealth and a business function. Like weddings used to be. It irritated me, as I would have enjoyed spending time with any of the guests one-on-one, but having to bounce between the groups and put ‘facetime’ in with everyone was brutal.
“That is the face of a magician who isn’t enjoying himself,” Kolval chortled to his fellow demons. “How about we give you continual bliss in exchange for your soul?” We’d all heard this joke dozens of times, but his pack howled as if he was Oscar Wilde reincarnated. Of all the jokes Kolval liked to keep in his back pocket, this was his favorite. His metaphorical back pocket, of course. Demons, unfortunately, don’t wear pants.
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by Sofia Rezende Pereira e Silva
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Author review: Sofia was wonderful. Communication was easy and clear. I would work with her again in the heartbeat (and I hope she'll translate the 2nd book in this series)! |
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Raquel Guillamón
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Author review: Raquel was great to work with! She expressed interest in the work and diligently took the time to make sure it was done right. I would be delighted to have her translate any of my works in the future, and I'm very grateful to her. |
