Fantasy meets Sherlock Holmes, where Watson is a sarcastic death god.
Zarik yearns to be forgotten. Once a god, vanquisher, and world-record holder for most apples eaten in an hour, the daeva despises being known as a demon. After being summoned to kill, the ancient deity is surprised to be released for the first time in centuries.
But freedom is fleeting. Hunted by an immortal rival and hounded by a private detective investigating mythical mysteries, the shapeshifting god searches for answers and a fresh start.
With millennia of experience facing fabled foes, Zarik finds a chance at redemption. The god joins the extraordinary detective, Scarlett Wolfe, who finds reason in myths and illogical motives. But having already been the murder weapon in one of Scarlettâs mysteries, Zarik fears a death god can only add to the problem.
To stop a manipulative killer that inflames the worst of mortal hearts, Zarik faces a regrettable past and precarious future to prove a daeva can be more than demon and doom.
Fantasy meets Sherlock Holmes, where Watson is a sarcastic death god.
Zarik yearns to be forgotten. Once a god, vanquisher, and world-record holder for most apples eaten in an hour, the daeva despises being known as a demon. After being summoned to kill, the ancient deity is surprised to be released for the first time in centuries.
But freedom is fleeting. Hunted by an immortal rival and hounded by a private detective investigating mythical mysteries, the shapeshifting god searches for answers and a fresh start.
With millennia of experience facing fabled foes, Zarik finds a chance at redemption. The god joins the extraordinary detective, Scarlett Wolfe, who finds reason in myths and illogical motives. But having already been the murder weapon in one of Scarlettâs mysteries, Zarik fears a death god can only add to the problem.
To stop a manipulative killer that inflames the worst of mortal hearts, Zarik faces a regrettable past and precarious future to prove a daeva can be more than demon and doom.
I was enjoying a peaceful sleep when I was brought back to kill someone.
A brick fireplace extinguished, the amber glow remaining without flame. Light snuck onto oak floors. As if suffering the first freeze of winter, the roomâs only photo-frame of a summer meadow greyed. The five-pronged ceiling fan stopped, but a whirlwind splintered the circular coffee table, shards skittering across the confines of the small living room. It wouldnât be called a living room for long. Everything drained dry of color, except where light twirled at the center of the silent room, solidifying like red-hot steel dunked into cold water, transforming into bones and flesh and sinew and ichor.
Into me.
My face once lined temples. My hand rewrote history books. My bright grey eyes twinkled like a star between storm clouds, leading desperate, wet wanderers to safe harbor.
Mortals called me a god. After all, that was what daeva once meant.
But, alas, people called me other things now.
The youthful man in a comfy-looking leather lounger whoâd watched my entrance only called me by a single startled scream. Rather rude. This was a subdued entranceâthe filaments had burst in bulbs, an ivory mug had shattered and spilt its contents over laminated wood floors, and the echo of thunder now rippled the pooling coffee that collected over fake cracks.
Even in sweatpants and a loosely-fitted plaid pajama top, the mortalâs bones trembled more than the liquid. I paid him no mind, dusting soot Iâd accidently gathered off my pressed white shirt and taking another first breath, filled with the smell of coffee and smoke. Iâd arrived old and silver-bearded, a comforting presence. I didnât come to startle the man.
Regardless, accidents happen.
A crisp apple rolled from the manâs hand. Orange artificial light peaked through slits in the shades, showing the red orb tumble as if in still-framesâleaning over the edge of a rounded armrest, plummeting, and then rolling over the sooty floor. The manâs wrinkles deepened in similar stages, and he managed a few shaky words. âWhat are you?â
âSomeone whoâd loved it if you hadnât dropped that apple. But if you must be curiousâŚâ I picked up the once fresh fruit, which clung to ash like humans clung to expectation. I obliged that expectation, filling the room with a fallen-timber boom of a voice. âMortals call me demon, daeva, and death.â
Darkness crackled. Despite my shadows, I was a creature of light; I devoured it like a black hole.
âI am deceptively devious,â I said. âBut does that mean I am more or less devious than I appear? I tilled the fields for the first settlers of the Indus Valley, felled the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and rode with Genghis Khan. People worshiped me, until I became the vanquished instead of the vanquisher. I, more than most gods, understand mortality because I am mortalityâI am Zarik.â
I expected stunned silence, and I got it.
âAny final words?â I asked, drawing closer.
This time, the silence lasted too long. Dry lips? My summoning had drained the life from the man, leaving him newly wrinkled and white-haired. He was petrified, but the white of his eyes reddened with struggle.
The Pullâmy purposeâwas strong. Like a fly caught in a web, the strings around me tied tighter with struggle. I had been summoned for a single reason. My hand touched the manâs on the armrest. His fingers were bony; soon, theyâd be more so. I gave into the path laid out for me, and the bindings snapped.
The thread of the manâs life snapped, too. Unfortunate.
I had the Midas touch, but instead of making things gold, I made them old.
âThe quiet type. I like that.â I took my hand away and smudged soot from the apple, cleaning a small sliver to crisp red. I shook my head, as if that would shake off the rest of the dirt.
Iâd watched the spirit of civilization rising, blazing, exploding, and burning out, leaving lingering embers in ashes and chaos. Iâd watched peasants, kings, and now, even gods, aged and fallen.
But it still pained me to see an apple fallen on the floor. Oh, and another man dead.
Logically, his death was not my fault; I was the murder weapon. Still, guilt gnawed at me. Like a scythe, I was supposed to harvest the ready. I wanted people to thrive. But the reality was more complicated.
The fresh fruit aged in my hand slower than the man. I chomped into it with a sweet crunch.
The Pull that had summoned me here was served, and I waited to return to the void, as had happened the last few times. Leaning against the lounger, dead man still sitting in it, I appreciated the quiet company as I would soon share a not-all-that dissimilar fate.
This time had been better than most. No pleading, no crying. A real fire. A few moments of peace.
But as the moments wore on, I grew impatient. There shouldnât have been anything keeping me here.
I could try the old standby of counting sheep, but when I imagined them, they were always old and had difficulty jumping over the fence. Instead, I counted bites of the aging apple. The peace and quiet of a pleasant meal would leave a lovely aftertaste for my dreams.
A knock on the door.
âUnfortunate timing,â I said to the vacant man next to me. âDead men donât open doors.â
Another knock. And although the apple was done, I was still here.
âNot my problem,â I assured myself and tossed the apple core onto the dead manâs lap.
A louder knock, this time rattling the door as my entrance had.
âI guess dead men do open doors.â Reluctant, but tired of the persistence, I studied the man in the chair. Even with the darkness, I remembered the man well enough to copy him before he became white-haired and dead. A sharp face, curly hair, and hatred in his still-staring eyes, which I didnât copy.
The change was draining, but the feeling of frustration got me through. Whoever brought me back, I both hated and loved at this moment. The apple was delightful, but dealing with this manâs nosy neighbors was not quite as sweet.
I looked through the peephole.
A wall of scarlet. Droplets slipped on the surface and gathered speed togetherâan umbrella.
This was not an angry neighbor. The walkway was dry between the apartments, and no one next door would bring an umbrella to yell at a neighbor unless they planned on hitting them with it. But then, it wouldnât be wet. I mean, that could be part of the fun; wet umbrellas were heavier and more painful, but mortals were not usually so imaginative.
I undid the latch and held the door ajar, ready to slam it. âCan I help you?â
The umbrella spun out of the way and revealed a curious woman in a white jacket with black zipper pockets. âDid you hear thunder?â
âItâs been raining.â
âBut not storming,â she said.
There was also a puddle at the door to my right. She was looking for something. Or someone.
I frowned. âYouâre all wet.â
Her auburn hair was slicked together in thick strands, framing a keen face. âAs you said, it rained.â
âAnd you have an umbrella.â
âI jumped in a puddle.â She had such a genuine smile. The statement seemed perfectly normal, at least to her.
âDid you jump headfirst?â
âOnce you jump in a puddle, whatâs a little rain going to do?â
I grinned. âHelp you catch your death.â
âWe all catch our death eventually.â
âWhat?â Usually I was more articulate, but I was baffled.
âYour mouthâs going to collect rain hanging open like that.â Sarcasm dripped out of her like the water from her hair to the concrete floor. âWhatâs the matter with you?â
âMe?â
âNo, the person right behind you.â
I almost looked back to check if the dead man had gotten up. Gods and fools were not mutually exclusive, but I liked to think I was not usually a fool. âYouâre the one whoâs soaking wet.â
âAnd I can dry off inside.â She was genuine as a summer day, but there was a complexity like clouds gathering behind mountains.
Did âIâ know this person? It didnât seem like the dead man was expecting company. One apple, one mug, nothing left out in the kitchen. My appearance definitely surprised him. âYouâd make the room wet. Itâs better to talk here.â
âWhat about the thunder?â
âWhat thunder?â
âSo, you didnât hear any thunder?â she asked.
âThere mightâve been.â Thunder sometimes accompanied the arrival of a god, but she couldnât know that, nor would I ever say it. âDoes it matter?â
âIt makes all the difference in the world.â She set her umbrella, open, down by the door. âAre you Izak Cayne?â
I really shouldâve found out the dead manâs name. But I reasoned the woman would not bluff me with a fake name. I responded with sarcasm and plausible deniability. âYou figure?â
âAnd youâre alive?â she asked.
âSo far.â I was rather hoping Iâd pop out of existence then. Wouldâve given her quite the scare.
âThatâs all I wanted to know.â She closed the umbrella and walked off.
âYou realize that was a weird question,â I said after her.
âWeird questions are my job.â She was halfway down the hall.
I followed into the hallway. âYour job?â
âIâm trying to solve your murder.â
âWhat?â Few times had I been this confused. There was that laughing turnip, but thatâs a story for another time. This was more like the time someone hit me with a lamp, thinking I was a genie.
âIzak Cayneâs a murderer,â she sung as she turned the corner.
If I took her at her word, I had killed a murderer. If I was Izak, I probably wouldâve chased after her for singing such slander in public. Instead, I smiled. I wasnât Izak Cayne.
I was glad for justice. But how could I take her word? What proof was there to ease my guilt? No. I shouldnât feel guilty for being used.
The last words I heard from her was, âIâll see you later.â
The last words I heard from her was, âIâll see you later.â
âGoodbyeee,â I said with my cheeriest tone.
I looked from this second floor walkway and adjusted to the foggy world. Elements mixed like a watercolorârain was illuminated by fire and the earth connected with the sky. Skyscrapers ascended higher than mountains gods once ruled from. Lightsâbeautiful, boundless lightsâbounced back-and-forth between buildings. The clouds were a neon haze, and clear color echoed in puddles of freshly fallen rain. The crisp smell of the storm flowed like streams in the streets, water cascading into sewer grates, which glittered gold with the sparkling lights of a glorious city.
This was different than I remembered.
I felt dim. A being of light was less bright in a brilliant world, and this was the worst sort of lightâempty calories.
A thunderbolt. The flash overtook color. A skyscraper devoured it.
Then, a familiar boom gave me heart. The woman mustâve been crazy; there was already thunder before my arrival, unless this happened to be the first natural strike.
I shut the door and thought of what to do. Hiding the dead body was the first step. Of course, I could go the godly route of spurning consequence, but I believed in consequencesâI was one.
As the dead man waited on my judgment, his hands were tight with anticipation. I noticed a piece of paper clenched within his palm.
An idea came into my head, whispering like midnight wind. Naturally, fire was the spark.
But I couldnât let this paper burn with the rest. Not without seeing what was so important to the man that heâd hold on to it during his death. To be honest, he wasnât keen to give it up, even now. I pried at his fingers, and once I broke it free, I unwrinkled the crinkled page best I could.
On the back, there were maddened scribbles. The handwriting was atrocious, but I made out a couple of items associated at the top. âIvy â Phoenixâ. âLurk â Demonâ. As the scrawl descended, the phrase, âSort of colorfulâ was repeated enough times for me to make it out after about the fifth iteration. The bottom was a dense mess, but I discovered that the words were colors. Ruby. Jade. Hazel. Scarlet.
Scarlet was underlined three times.
Thinking about it, the womanâs umbrella mightâve been candy-apple red. Besides, it was just an umbrella.
I flipped the paper, only to find a map, meticulously detailing the city, an âXâ over a building called âThe Rootâ, with a note that said, âItâs hereâ. I recognized the cityâs layout enough to know where The Root was, even if I didnât know what its purpose was. I had my guesses, but those guesses had to wait until I took care of this crime scene. Although I was only a murder weapon, Iâd rather the evidence didnât lead back to me.
From the embers of the fireplace, I poked and prodded until the faint crackling of coal caused flickering flames to overcome the silence of the deathly room. My nature sought to take the flame, and the hushed whispers of kindling sounded like the echoes of gods long lost. Grabbing a log from a surprisingly untouched idyllic pile beside the fireplace, the coarse grain dried at my touch. I dipped the log into the flames, and the edges of bark began to smoke, the slivers crawling up the stone chimney and into the dazzling electrical world outside. I dropped the fuel for the fire. A plume of ash and firefly-cinders escaped the twilight carbon and brushed my newly transformed face.
I was no longer Izak Cayne. Instead, I changed into one of my normal guises, a handsome man I once knew with a face like a barn owlâa smooth face with a widowâs peak hairline, big eyes, and a thin, long nose.
The fire was raging now. Big, boisterous flames licked the stones, casting crests of blackening char on the confines of the fireplace.
I stuck my hand in, encased as if in a feather pillow. Withdrawing a burning log, I waved the sparkling wand around the room. The painting of a meadow curled with heat before bursting into a wildfire and the lounger smoked like a funeral pyre. And as the room began smoky songs of destruction, I tossed a burning log by the bits of the broken wood table and grabbed a white jacket by the door before leaving to the foggy future outside.
Despite why I was back and why I had no Pull, I had one answer.
I was reborn at the perfect time to forget why I killed Izak Cayne, who the woman was, what the maddened scribbles meant, where the map led, and focus on the most important questionâhow would I get my next apple?
That, at least, was my own purpose.
Detective Death combines elements of urban fantasy and mythology with the classic whodunit mystery. Zarik is a former god of death whose reputation has led him to be known by a majority of the world as a demon, or daeva. Zarik, however, is desperate to reclaim his own history and mythology and correct his image in the eyes of believers. Trying to avoid an old enemy and redeem himself in the eyes of mortals, he finds himself teamed up with a human detective that investigates typical things like murder and missing persons, except in her cases, the prime suspect is usually a mythical creature that has been believed into reality. To prove to the world that he is more than death and far a demon, Zarik will have to rein in his godly urges and examine the nuances of humanity in order to solve mysteries and prove that a god can have a conscience, too.
Detective Death had some great aspects. I found the premise of the story to be quite unique, and I loved the idea that a mythical creature or being, like Zarik, can be âbelievedâ into existence by humans. It not only highlights the power of the human imagination, but how that power exponentially grows when humans work together as a collective force, whether intentional or not. I also found Zarikâs character to be quite refreshing. Usually, in books like this I feel like we are given a narrator who suddenly finds themselves thrust into the mortal world, or even into a mortal body, and the entire premise is about that character attaining their divine status again and leaving the mortal realm as soon as possible. With Zarik, however, we see a divine character who almost seems to wish to humanize himself. He uses his relationship with Scarlett, the human detective, to observe the ways in which the young woman tries to thwart her own humanity by shutting out her emotions, pushing people away or letting fear prevent her from reaching her true potential. Zarik, however, seems to yearn for this growing friendship, however much he might protest otherwise. The tangible power of human ambition, love and belief turns out to be a force that is as strong as Zarikâs godly abilities, perhaps even more so, in a sense. My favorite quote in the book was âGods are only what people believe they are,â because people, including our own selves, are only what we believe them to be.Â
Detective Death did take me about 50-60 pages to really feel like I was getting some hooks into the story. The plotline and pacing was a little hard to follow at times, as it felt quite jumpy. It also seemed like some of those beginning pages could have been condensed a little or imbued with more context. In the first quarter or so of the book, it just felt like we were getting hints at information I felt like I was already supposed to know, but I had not actually been given yet. I also felt like some of the subplots slightly overshadowed the main themes and storyline at times, leaving the flow of the book feeling a little disconnected at times.Â
Overall, Detective Death is definitely a worthwhile read for mystery lovers who also like a bit of the uncanny along with their clues and murder suspects. Â