Sam's job is to collect the souls of the damned, and ensure their souls are dispatched to the appropriate destination.But when he's dispatched to collect the soul of a young woman he believes to be innocent of the horrific crime that's doomed her to Hell, he says something no Collector has ever said before."No."From the Paperback edition.Review"A war is brewing between angels and demons in this twisty, fast-paced, and thoroughly enjoyable urban fantasy debut... Sam is a likable antihero, pleasantly human despite being unquestionably damned, and the politics of Heaven and Hell provide plenty of material for sequels." - Publishers Weekly
"Jim Thompson meets John Milton in this thrilling supernatural riff on the old collections racket. This gripping supernatural adventure gives a whole new meaning to 'possession is nine-tenths of the law'."
EDGAR AND SHAMUS AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR CHARLES ARDAI
"Chris F. Holm clearly had both angels and devils watching over him as he wrote
ANTHONY, ELLIS & MACAVITY AWARD-NOMINATED AUTHOR HILARY DAVIDSON
"Get a nicotine patch cause you'll be smokin' by the end of
FRANK BILL, AUTHOR OF
"With
STUART NEVILLE, LA TIMES BOOK PRIZE AND SPINETINGLER AWARD WINNER
"Sam Spade meets
MIKE SHEVDON, AUTHOR OF
"Holm's touch is deft and his language surefooted, a rare feat in the realm of dark fantasy.
SOPHIE LITTLEFIELD, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF
"The fight between heaven and hell takes a turn for the hardboiled in Chris F. Holm's fantastic debut novel,
STEPHEN BLACKMOORE, AUTHOR OF
CHRIS F. HOLM
Dead Harvest
THE COLLECTOR: BOOK I
There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery.
1.
Light spilled through the window of the pub as I watched them, casting patches of yellow across the darkened street but conveying no warmth. It had been three rounds now, maybe four, and Gardner had yet to pay for a drink; his reading tonight went well, and they were falling over themselves to share a pint with Britain's Greatest Living Author.
I fished another Dunhill from the pack, lighting it with the dwindling ember of the one that preceded it. The ground around me was littered with cigarette butts – I'd been standing there a while. But the moon was high overhead, and the night was getting on. I wouldn't have to wait much longer.
Finally, midnight rolled around, and the last straggling patrons were ushered out into the chill spring air, the barkeep locking up behind them. Gardner headed up St Giles, listing slightly. I took a last long drag off my cigarette, and then pitched it into the street, falling in behind him. I kept some distance between us, in case he looked back.
He didn't.
A few blocks later, he ducked into an alley to take a leak. I gave him a minute, and then followed. He was leaning one-handed against a wall, pissing behind a dumpster. The toast of Oxford, or so I'd been told. From here, it was hard to see.
He turned toward me, zipping up his fly. When he spotted me, he started, and damn near tipped over. "Who the bloody hell are you?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"
I stepped toward him. My hand found his chest and reached inside. He knew then. Who I was. What I was doing there.
"Sorry," I told him. "It's nothing personal."
I yanked it free then; that light, that life. Gray-black and swirling, it cast long shadows across the alley, and its song rang bittersweet in my ears. Of course, if anyone had happened by, they'd have seen nothing, heard nothing. No, this show was just for me. For Gardner, too, perhaps, though even then I couldn't be sure.
Gardner's body crumpled to the ground, whimpering as it hit the pavement. I paid it no mind. It was already dead, or near enough. Sometimes it takes a minute for the meat to get the message.