TBR reviewer: Shyla
increasingly restless. In all Kal's time with the Bureau, there has been no case he couldn't crack, no monster he couldn't kill. Then a plague of zombies comes to Denver, along with a vicious serial killer dubbed The Organ Donor.A childhood encounter with a legendary monster has left Kal with an endless supply of rage and hatred for all things Supernatural. But now the target is on his forehead, and the Un-Dead don't die easy. The Bureau has a few aces of its own-a few magicians, a cyber-ghost. Unfortunately Kal is a perennial loner ... And the
World Under is wise to his tricks.
To say they’re not your average task force would be putting it lightly. We have BSI agents who are ghosts, magicians, and various human bad asses. The average life expectancy of an agent it three to four years tops. However, our hero Agent Kala is an exception to that rule with ten years under his belt and the position to back it. Kal drinks too much, and has a streak of sarcasm that could cut you to the quick if you took him seriously. But in his defense, he’s seen more dead bodies than a mortician. His quirky sense of humor, off the wall style, and clever mind give him a charm that proves to be irresistible. You can’t help but love Agent Kal, even though at times he’s a total train wreck.
The BSI is in Denver to eradicate and investigate a rash of zombie risings when Kal discovers something terrifying. The local serial killer is a supernatural, and more powerful than anything he’s ever encountered. In this world magicians are real. Think Merlin for the 20th century. The serial killer is not just a magician, but a revenant. Yes, I said revenant, as in old Renny from Dracula. The combination is deadly, and when Kal gets a visit from a supped up Ghoul that almost puts him out of commission the caca really hits the fan.
I could tell you more about the story but I don’t want to give everything away. ;).I laughed, gasped, and sat stunned in silence when Mark dropped his plot bombs. If you’re looking for a smart read, with action, depth, and creative use of legends this is spot on. I personally highly recommend this one.
For me it wasn’t the Next Big Thing as much as it was The Next Big Bad Thing That Wants To
Rip Your Damn Fool Head Off, so it was with my usual sense of dread that I parked my blue Honda Accord in my assigned spot and staggered towards the brown brick building that housed the Denver offices of the BSI.
Spyeyes surrounding the building tracked my arrival and the Shape of a ward spell tingled against my feet as I stepped over gray-painted gold wire draped hither and yon over the asphalt walkway.
Working for the Bureau was always interesting, and I mean that in the Chinese curse sort of
way. Don’t get me wrong, the pay is great and I get to wear a gun, which is always fun, but the life expectancy at the Bureau of Supernatural Investigations is usually one to two years. If you’re good, maybe three. If you’re great, maybe between four and six.
I’ve been at the job for ten and the odds were that I’d get my ticket punched any day. I
knew the current Dead Pool was at Thursday before noon. I’d been beating the Pool for years now and figured I would for many more to come.
Jingling through my head, as it did every morning, were the words Robert Frost etched on my mind years and years ago, ones that echoed my own fatigue and bone-weary sense of resignation:
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
The promises I’d made and the burden of responsibility I shouldered would keep me going and going like the Energizer Bunny until I figured it was time for me to shuffle off my mortal coil. And then, maybe, I could relax, finally ease into that eternal sleep that wasn’t haunted by what I do, what I’d become, and things I’d left undone. Shaking my head, I stuffed these dark, tired thoughts into the back closet of my mind. I hurt too much and my teeth were far too fuzzy to be in such a mood on a Monday morning after a weekend bender. The Bureau had billions of dollars at their disposal and still hadn’t come up with a cure for a hangover.
The front door threw a pale reflection at me I drew near and I noted that my favorite tie
sported a suspicious reddish-brown stain. I hoped it was only blood, the piano keyboard tie was a gift from Mom on my thirtieth. My mind quickly juked towards the business of surviving the next few moments as I passed through the bullet proofed glass and steel door marked ‘McClennan Statistical Analysis’. Nobody ever wants to go to a place marked Statistical Analysis. For the Bureau, it’s blessed anonymity.