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From Beacon Hill to Southie, historic Boston is a town of vibrant neighborhoods knit into a seamless whole. But as Jim Banks and Trix Newcomb learn in a terrifying instant, it is also a city divided—split into three separate versions of itself by a mad magician once tasked with its protection.
Jim is happily married to Jenny, with whom he has a young daughter, Holly. Trix is Jenny’s best friend, practically a member of the family—although she has secretly been in love with Jenny for years. Then Jenny and Holly inexplicably disappear—and leave behind a Boston in which they never existed. Only Jim and Trix remember them. Only Jim and Trix can bring them back.
With the help of Boston’s Oracle, an elderly woman with magical powers, Jim and Trix travel between the fractured cities, for that is where Jenny and Holly have gone. But more is at stake than one family’s happiness. If Jim and Trix should fail, the spell holding the separate Bostons apart will fail too, and the cities will reintegrate in a cataclysmic implosion. Someone, it seems, wants just that. Someone with deadly shadow men at their disposal.
- Sales Rank: #2416592 in Books
- Brand: Brand: Spectra
- Published on: 2011-06-28
- Released on: 2011-06-28
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 6.80" h x .88" w x 4.10" l, .39 pounds
- Binding: Mass Market Paperback
- 336 pages
- Used Book in Good Condition
About the Author
Christopher Golden is the award-winning, Los Angeles Times bestselling author of such novels as The Myth Hunters and The Boys Are Back in Town. There are more than eight million copies of his books in print.
Tim Lebbon is the critically acclaimed, bestselling author of more than twenty-five novels. He has won four British Fantasy Awards and a Bram Stoker Award, and several of his books and short stories are in development as movies.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
9780553386578|excerpt
Golden: SHADOW MEN
1
Us of Lesser Gods
Jim Banks had never seen this view of the Boston skyline, because it did not exist. Hundreds of low-rise buildings stood silhouetted against the starry sky, some of them softly lit by sweeping chains of lamps lining the haphazardly arranged streets, and more than a dozen tall church spires spiked at the night. He opened his eyes and the dreamscape remained, painted onto his bedroom ceiling by a memory that was already fogging the view. The sense of dislocation remained.
He could switch on his bedside lamp—Jenny hated when he did that, but she never complained—and sketch the basics of that view. But he knew that even if he managed to re-create the shapes and silhouettes, the many church spires and unevenly pitched roofs, the feeling would fade away. Wakefulness was already stealing those disturbing dream visions, swallowing them down into his subconscious. There was only one way that he could retain the flavor and tone, the strange light and shape of that fleeting vision of a Boston he had never known: he would have to paint.
Jim sat up and slid his feet into his slippers. Goosebumps formed on his arms. Damn, it’s cold. Winter’s on its way. Jenny mumbled something and turned over, sighing gently. Jim stood and stared at her vague shadow for a few seconds, making sure he hadn’t woken her and enjoying this private moment. He relished watching his wife sleep. It was a precious time, and as an artist, he could not help wondering what secret things she dreamed. He always looked for a reaction when she viewed one of his new skyline paintings—images that unsettled him so—but her attitude toward them was ambivalent at best.
He walked to the bathroom, closing the door and leaving the light off. Light would wash away more of his dream. Every second that passed diluted it, and he was keen to get up to his attic studio and start painting as soon as possible. But first he needed to use the toilet, and if he didn’t slip on his bathrobe, he’d freeze to death up there.
Up there on those low roofs, he thought, trapped in a roof valley when the first snows come, listening to the hourly chimes from so many church bells—because they all ring on the hour, though there’s no way I can know that. Watching the pigeons flit from roof to roof, listening to the sounds from the street below, the people passing by and the cars, and the lilt to their voices that I can’t quite place because . . .
“Because I’ve never really heard it,” he muttered, and the memory of his dream faded a little more.
He hurried across the landing, glancing in at Holly as he passed her bedroom. She was snoring softly beneath an avalanche of cuddly toys, surrounded by the trappings of a little girl’s life—pink walls that he’d decorated with Disney characters, books about fairies and imaginary lands, posters of puppies and horses and a landscape from Oz. He smiled, heart aching with love for his daughter. Then he went up the narrow staircase to his studio, closing the door behind him. Jim always painted to music, and he knew how annoyed Jenny would be if he woke them up.
It was three a.m. He’d get no more sleep tonight.
He switched on the lights, and the studio was reflected back down at him from the wide roof windows. He loved this space. During the day the east- and west- facing windows let in the best of the light, and the south-facing balcony at the gable end was often where he took his lunch and coffee breaks. Sometimes Jenny came up to eat with him, on those rare days when she wasn’t teaching, and they’d chat quietly as they watched the world go by below. There were at least half a dozen people he waved to regularly—he didn’t know their names, but routine gave them the opportunity to acknowledge each other. He didn’t want to know their names. Unusually for an artistic type, routine was important to Jim, and to discover their names and perhaps become friends would be to move on to something new.
But now all the light was contained—an even white illumination from the expensive system he’d had installed a few years before. His midnight painting sprees were not that common, but he often found them the most rewarding.
He turned on the music system and ran his finger along the three full shelves of CDs. Chance usually dictated what he listened to while he worked, and sometimes a subconscious decision based on what might influence a current painting. His forefinger slipped across a case. He saw his daughter’s name—No, it says Flogging Molly—and he slipped the CD into the player. As the first strains of mandolin and fiddle slipped from the speakers, he stood before his working plinth. The current canvas was an advertising design for a new chain of pubs in Boston, part of their forthcoming Christmas campaign. He took it down carefully, set it to one side, and mounted a blank canvas. The dreaded blank canvas. He was confident in his abilities but also acknowledged that every new project began with fear.
Jim closed his eyes, trying not to think too much, music passing through him, breathing deeply and trying to hang on to the last vestiges of sleep. Later he’d have coffee, perhaps even sitting out on the balcony if he wrapped up warmly, but that would be when he was properly awake. Now he had to begin. He breathed slowly, deeply, letting that mysterious skyline swallow him, and when he opened his eyes again the canvas was no longer blank.
He picked up a brush and began to transform his dream into reality.
“What time did you get up?” Jenny asked. Jim had heard her moving around half an hour ago, and when her feet trod gently up toward his studio he was already sitting in one of two comfortable chairs, ankles crossed and relaxing as he stared at what he had done.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “About three.”
Jenny smiled and shook her head. Her gorgeous auburn hair hung free, obscuring one eye and swinging across her face in a way he found unbelievably alluring. She wore her long bathrobe and fluffy pig-faced slippers and carried a tray bearing two steaming coffee mugs and a large plate of pancakes and crispy bacon. Her eyes were still swollen from sleep and her hair a mess, and Jim loved her dearly. Eight years of marriage and no sign of an itch yet.
“Slave to your muse, as ever.” She set the tray on the small table between chairs and slumped into the one beside him, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
“Yeah, but I’ll ride that bitch till she obeys my every command.”
Jenny raised an eyebrow and one corner of her mouth, playfully stern. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”
“You look good enough to eat,” he said, glancing down pointedly at her long legs.
“Bacon and pancakes,” she said, yawning.
“I was thinking you might rather have sausage.”
“Jesus, it’s obvious you had a little too much wine last night.”
Jim smiled and shrugged, picking up a coffee mug and inhaling the warm aroma. He always seemed to be horny the morning after a night of drink. Sipping coffee, he looked back to the canvas he’d been working on for almost four hours, and any other thoughts faded away.
I have no idea where this comes from, he thought, but it was not the dreamy origins of these scenes that worried him. There were at least a dozen such canvases in his storage room at the other end of the studio—of this strange Boston, and another that had also never existed—and three more hanging in Boston’s Rose Gallery, part of a permanent display from local artists. The thing that disturbed him was that he didn’t know why they disturbed him. If it was only him that they affected that way, perhaps he could have attributed it to some feeling from those dreams that lingered in his painted representations—a subconscious fear that was given life in his strokes, blocking, and shading. But Holly didn’t like these skylines, either.
To Jenny, they were simply strange. “This one’s a bit different,” she said.
“Well . . . they all are.” He glanced sidelong at his wife, watched her regarding his night’s work over the rim of her coffee mug. She seemed to be hiding behind the steam, as if that would protect her from something.
“No,” she said, and then fell silent again. She was examining this painting more closely than usual, her slight frown remaining in place even as she put the mug down and picked up a pancake. She took a bite and chewed, never taking her eyes from the painting.
It’s not finished, he wanted to say. It’s just blocked out, really. There’s shading to do and the sky’s wrong. It’s dark enough, but not heavy enough; there’s no depth. But he held back, because he always found himself striving to defend his work. He had a strange relationship with his art: he was utterly confident in his abilities and talent, yet never content with a finished piece.
“I know what it is,” she said through a mouthful of pancake. “It’s more detailed. Closer.”
“Closer.” For a moment he wasn’t sure what she meant. It was still an unknown skyline—although it was Boston, he’d insist to anyone who doubted him, always Boston—this painting was more real, more there than any he had ever done. “Yeah . . . ,” he said, then the studio door opened.
“Can I have ice cream for breakfast?” Holly asked.
“Morning, sweetie!” Jenny said, standing and sweeping their daughter into a hug.
Holly squeezed her mother tightly and smiled over her shoulder at Jim. Jim smiled back, then made a face, sticking out his tongue and waving his han...
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
The Dynamic Duo of Golden and Lebbon Are Back!
By Alex C. Telander
The literary duo of Christopher Golden and Tim Lebbon are back with the next in the Hidden Cities series, and after the paltry excuse of the last book, The Chamber of Ten, The Shadow Men is a return to what the two do best: great storytelling, with some fun characters, and one crazy plot. Readers will not be disappointed with this next installment.
The Shadow Men focuses on the historic and wonderful city of Boston. Jim is a rich and talented artist, who has the best wife in the world and a darling daughter he can't get enough of, but he has also painted strange depictions of Boston, a different city that bears little resemblance to the real one. When Jim takes a nap during the day, while his wife and daughter go shopping, his wakes up to find himself in an altered world: his fancy apartment now looks totally different, and there is no evidence of his ever having had a daughter or being married. Jim's world quickly falls apart as he tries to work things out.
This Boston seems different, but it is actually Jim and his life that is different, but there is one other person who is in the same predicament: Trixie, a close friend. Together they wonder what has happened to them - physically they look different also - but the more they find out, the more it seems like Jim's wife and daughter never existed. They visit the oracle of Boston to discover that there are other Bostons out there, parallel ones, and it appears that his wife and daughter have somehow passed into one of them. But time is running out and they will need to get them back soon or everything will come crashing down. Then there are the Shadow Men, those dark shadows without faces who are chasing them.
The Shadow Men is Christopher Golden and Tim Lebbon at their best, reminding readers there are still some great and fantastic stories out there to be told, making them wonder if our world is really as cut and dry and normal as it seems.
Originally written on October 13, 2011 ©Alex C. Telander.
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0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Action! Action! Action!
By A Very Merry Shakespeare
Certain areas of this highly fast-paced and slightly confusing plotline reminds one of "The Matrix," a city that exists, yet doesn't, an oracle who knows all, and a team of deadly `shadow men' who are in this for themselves. In this tale, Boston is the city that is the location of a wealth of `oddities' that this team of writers has proven they can deliver.
Jim Banks, his wife Jenny and their daughter Holly make their home in Boston. One morning, Jim wakes up to find Jenny and Holly missing. Except they're not really missing, per se--there doesn't seem to be any evidence that either of them ever existed. No personal items or photographs can be found and their numbers have disappeared from Jim's cell phone. Jim begins to go crazy trying to find his wife and daughter and it's as if he made them up.
Jim comes upon a woman by the name of Trix Newcomb, who is Jenny's best friend, and she's the only other person who remembers Jenny and Holly. Trix tells Jim a tale of how her life has changed somehow and now she can no longer find anyone who ever knew her. This gives Jim hope that they will be able to solve this odd situation.
They contact the Oracle of Boston, who is an elderly woman with magical powers. She informs them that in a previous century, her predecessor who was then in charge of Boston, placed the city in three different time dimensions and Jim's family is now in one of the other dimensions. As Trix and Jim try to figure out how to reach the others, Jim sees that the paintings he did of Boston aren't pictures of the present city, and Trix is having dreams of a completely different Boston than the one they're in.
This book is full of action scenarios and some all-out adventures that science fiction enthusiasts should love, whereas other readers who are more into the mystery, thriller and suspense categories will want to bypass this particular series.
1 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
adrenaline pumping thriller
By Harriet Klausner
In Boston, Jim awakens to find his wife Jenny and their daughter Holly vanished. More than just disappearing, there is no evidence that either female ever existed as no pictures or personnel items remains in their abode and even his cell phone fails to contain their contact information.
In near paralyzing shock, Jim asks around amongst their friends and family, but no one knows Jenny or Holly. That is except Trix. With Trix at his side, Jim contacts the Oracle of Boston. They are stunned with what they learn. In a previous century, the sorcery of the then Oracle placed Boston in three distinct dimensions at the same time. Jim's family is in one of the other two. As Jim and Trix consider what to do to find Jenny and Holly, Jim realizes his paintings are of another Boston and Trix knows her dreams are likewise.
The fourth Hidden Series thriller (see Mind the Gap in London, The Map of Moments in New Orleans and The Chamber of Ten in Venice) is an exciting entry that grips the reader from the moment Jim wakes up to find his family missing and never loosens the hold until the climax. The story line is incredibly packed with action to rival a Liam Neeson movie like Taken or Unknown. However, all the constant escapades never allow any of the cast to fully develop; even the beleaguered protagonist seems pulled by the adventures piling one after another and the doppelgangers appear as interchangeable as if naturing is much more influential than nurturing. Still fans who relish an adrenaline pumping thriller will want to tour Bean Town with Jim and Trix as our guides.
Harriet Klausner
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