The Urban Fantasy Anthology (21 page)

As for the ruffling of feathers, well, most of those feathers belonged to folks unacquainted with a broad enough range of this “new” urban fantasy to make any judgment calls to start with. But, hey, not really knowing much about playing a sport doesn’t keep anyone from second-guessing a team or its coaches, either.

Charles de Lint wrote that he feels the subtitle of his novel
Jack of Kinrowan: A Novel of Urban Faerie
led to his work becoming termed urban fantasy. He and Terri Windling came up with “mythic fiction” to better describe their strain of the fantastic. It is an admirable and workable definition and now used by knowledgeable readers, critics, and academics.

I don’t like less-than-well-thought-out labels any more than Joe Lansdale does, and agree the more a type of fiction is “directed” like cows through a chute the more likely it is “all going to end in the slaughterhouse.”

I am in awe of these two gentlemen (and gentlemen both truly are). Their intelligence, imaginations, talents, and works are breathtaking. They are masters of the art and craft of storytelling. They (and others of their kind) create wonderful tales that I wish could magically attract folks simply by being what it is: superlative reading.

In a perfect world, great fiction—or even entertainingly adequate fiction—would not be a commodity that has to be packaged and sold.

But publishing is not only an imperfect world, it’s a world with an absurd business model where no one has any real idea why a particular book sells or how to reliably get proper attention for its products. In the last few years, it’s gotten to be an even stranger and more dangerous a place for writers to survive. What little guidance the best publishers and editors might once have provided doesn’t matter as much. More than ever, whatever simplistic label can be stuck to a book—or, better yet, what already highly successful, previously published book/author that a new title can be compared to—matters a great deal. It matters because without such tagging, books don’t get into brick-and-mortar stores at all and don’t get favorably grouped for online sales.

The chutes are used because they help at least some of the cattle get fat so they can retire to nice green meadows rather than winding up as part of a Big Mac. Some others can at least chew their cud and moo a little longer than they might have otherwise.

Readers and writers of books that became known as urban fantasy—let’s call it urban fantasy/paranormal from here on out—were ready for it because, well, its time had come. Outside of literary influences—including comic book heroines—strong women heroes like Ellen Ripley in the
Alien
series (1979, 1986, 1992, and 1997) and Sarah Connor in the first two
Terminator
movies (1984 and 1991) made an impression in film. And although the protagonist is male,
The Crow
(1994) was, at its core, a supernatural love story inextricably tied to the modern city. Like
The Crow
, the 1998 vampire-action film
Blade
(1998) was based on a comic. Its macho human-vampire hybrid protected humans against vampires—but why couldn’t a woman do the same?

Television series were another influence.
Beauty and the Beast
(original run: 1987–1990 on CBS) updated the old tale of the noble man-beast. His love was a smart assistant district attorney in New York. He lived among other social outcasts under the city.
Nick Knight
, a TV movie released in 1989, was about a vampire working as a police detective in modern day Los Angeles. In 1992, CBS reshaped it as a series,
Forever Knight
. It ran three seasons, ending in 1996.
The X-Files
(originally aired from 1993 to 2002 on Fox) is considered by many as the defining series of the nineties. Despite its science fictional trappings and conspiracy theories, true believer Fox Mulder and skeptic Dana Scully were paranormal investigators. The protagonist of the
Xena: Warrior Princess
, a supernatural fantasy adventure series that aired in syndication 1995–2001, may not have been modern or urban, but she was a formidable fighter seeking her redemption by helping others.

Since the first books that became known as urban fantasy/paranormal were written before its existence, the authors can’t be said to have been directly inspired by Joss Whedon’s
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
television series (1997–2003) [and its spin-off series
Angel
(1999–2004)]. But many of those who later became its readers and writers probably were.

The
Buffy
series was darker than Whedon’s action-comedy/horror parody film of the same name (1992) and better conveyed his concept of an empowered woman fighting monsters (metaphors for problems that humans, especially teenagers, face).

Buffy Summers had “kickassitude”—and by kickassitude I don’t necessarily mean violence. In slang, the word originally meant awesome, cool, something that “kicks ass” in a positive manner. As far as female examples, the easiest comparisons are women in rock who displayed kickassitude: Joan Jett, Chrissie Hynde, Patti Smith, Janis Joplin, Lita Ford, Deborah Harry, etc.

And, like rock-and-roll,
Buffy
had meaning but was also a lot of fun.

Books have been written on the pop cultural meaning and impact of
Buffy
. Let’s just sum it up by saying
Buffy
borrowed from folklore, myth, literature, film, and television for serialized episodes that were part of a larger story arc. Although a drama, there was plenty of comedy and genre-blending from romance, science fiction, martial arts, action, and more. Buffy and her friends were saving the world from supernatural threat with a combination of investigation, physical combat, and magic. She was also struggling with her role as a “chosen” heroine and learning about herself as a person.

But even if not recognized as such, the urban fantasy/paranormal heroine was definitely around pre-Buffy (and even pre-Hamilton) in fantasy literature.

Mercedes Lackey’s Diana Tregarde first appeared in a couple of short stories and then in three novels:
Burning Water
(1989),
Children of the Night
(1990), and
Jinx High
(1991). An American witch whose day job is writing romance novels, Diana is a Guardian. This gives her more magical power, but also the responsibility of providing aid to those who ask her for help. In the three books (published by Tor as horror) she provides protection from angry deities, vampires, and a sorceress.

Tanya Huff ’s Blood books (five novels and a collection of short stories) mixed a strong heroine with vampires, mystery, suspense, and romance.
Blood Price
(1991) introduced Vicki Nelson, a homicide detective forced to retire when her eyesight fails due to Retinitis pigmentosa. Vicki teams up with Henry Fitzroy—a 450-year-old vampire and bastard son of Henry VIII—and becomes a private investigator. The other man in her life is Detective-Sergeant Mike Celluci. The series is set in Toronto. The books became the basis of a short-lived TV series,
Blood Ties
, which premiered on Lifetime in 2007.

The urban fantasy/paranormal heroine owes a lot to the tradition of the hard-boiled tough-guy American detective genre—there were tough gals, too, like Gale Gallagher, Honey West, V. I. Warshawski, and Kinsey Millhone—and to stories of “occult detectives” and various “vampire detectives.” She is also derived from sword and sorcery and is a female incarnation of the action-adventure hero. Most of all, she’s relevant to the here and now. It may be fantasy, but urban fantasy/paranormal says a lot about our fears and hopes, our cynicism and angst, our personal journeys and cultural climate.

In the last five years—a period that saw the phenomenal success of Stephenie Meyer’s young adult vampire-romance fantasy series and its consequent film versions; movies like
Underworld
;
Blood Ties
on TV; Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse novels become the HBO series
True Blood
; and young adult urban fantasy/paranormal romance series were introduced—urban fantasy/ paranormal boomed. So many titles were published—some good, some bad, some in-between; some derivative, some highly original—it became impossible for even the most devoted fan to keep up with it all, especially since it takes multiple volumes for the whole story to be told.

That’s one disadvantage of uf/p: It tends to be written best in novel form—in multiple sequential volumes at that! You simply don’t find many high-caliber short stories that completely fit the model. I’m not even sure all the fine stories selected for the pertinent section of this anthology can be assigned to this subgenre.

What I think you will find, however, is that all of the fiction collected here has something in common: An intersection of “the other”—the magical, the strange, the weird, the wondrous, the dark that illumines, the revelation of the hidden—with the mundane, the world we know.

Our world is in perpetual need of this otherness. It entertains and, at its best, enlightens. We need both.

Companions to the Moon

Charles de Lint

“I think Edric’s cheating on me.”

Gwen’s eyes widen, then fill with sympathy.

We’re sitting across from each other at a small table in the Half Kaffe Café. It’s a regular haunt of ours—as Bohemian as Gwen can tolerate, and about as uptown as I’ll go. They make an excellent cup of regular coffee, but they also serve the fancy chi-chi drinks that she likes. Decaf soy lattes. Chai teas.

“Oh, Mary,” she says. “That’s awful.”

I’ve known Gwen forever. We were best friends from kindergarten all the way through to our final year of high school when I made a sharp turn into garage rock-slash-punkdom, while Gwen suddenly became this responsible young woman aiming for university whom I couldn’t recognize anymore. It felt like it happened overnight. One moment we were doing everything together—Girl Guides, piano lessons, messing about in the woods behind her house—the next we were strangers.

But while we drifted apart—I couldn’t care less about a house in the suburbs, or worry about finding a good job, and the last thing Gwen would do is listen to the Clash or come to a Stooges concert with me—we made an effort to stay friends. Once or twice a month we had lunch, or the occasional dinner, and caught up. Sometimes we even brought our husbands.

Okay, Edric and I aren’t married. But seven years together is almost as good as, don’t you think?

“How did you find out?” she asks.

“Well, I haven’t, exactly. It’s just this feeling I get.”

Gwen nods wisely. She starts to tick off points on her fingers. “Doesn’t seem as interested in you anymore. Hang-ups when you pick up the phone. Has to work late a lot more often than he used to.”

“None of the above. You forget, he’s always out late.”

“Duh,” she says and slaps her brow with the palm of her hand. “Working musician.”

“Anyway, I can’t quite put my finger on it. We just don’t seem to do as much together. I mean, we used to do the shopping as a couple. Yard work, household chores. Now, he’s says that if I’m getting groceries, it’s more efficient if he puts in a laundry, or does some weeding in the garden. I
liked
that we did that kind of thing together, but now we hardly do.”

“So tell him.”

“I have. It doesn’t help.”

“And is he taking more out-of-town gigs than he used to?”

I shake my head. “No, but that’s a funny thing. I was looking at the calendar the other day and noticed that most of his out-of-town gigs are during a full moon. Then I checked the website his booking agent put up for him, and he’s
always
out of town during the full moon.”

Gwen smiles. “Maybe he’s a werewolf.”

“That’s not helping.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But there’s always been something different about him.”

Different? I suppose. There’s certainly always been a part of him that I can’t reach—that I feel I’ll never know—but that touch of mysteriousness is half of what attracted me to him in the first place. And I’ve never been the kind of person who believes in changing the person I’m with. You fall in love with them because of who they are. Unless they acquire some new, destructive habit, why would you want to change them?

“Just remember,” Gwen says. “
You’re
not defined by your relationship to him.”

“I
know
that.”

“And besides, you’re not even married.”

That’s so Gwen. For her, a piece of paper always has more weight than the knowledge we acquire beyond school or university, or the depth of the feelings people carry around in their hearts.

For me, the feeling is everything.

We fall silent for a few moments. I drink some of my coffee and consider getting one of the café’s fancy scones. Gwen has a sip of latte and I know she’s not even tempted by the treats behind glass at the counter. She’s looking out the window. It’s a beautiful autumn day out there, but that’s not what has her attention.

I’m not sure if she’s fascinated or repulsed by the parade of people with their tats and piercings and individual fashion sense. Probably a little of both. She so doesn’t fit into the scene down here in Crowsea, but I feel right at home.

“You know,” she says, “whenever I hear about something like this, a big change that comes out of nowhere, I…”

She gets this look that I’m beginning to recognize. This has come up before. Her gaze turns to meet mine.

“What happened that last year of high school?” she asks. “I thought we’d be friends forever.”

“We’re still friends,” I say, my voice mild.

She nods. “But you know what I mean. You just changed overnight.”

“I didn’t change. I evolved. If anyone changed, it was you.”

“I didn’t…”

“Besides,” I say before she can go on. “Change doesn’t automatically mean bad. Sometimes we need to change, to become who we really are.”

“And who are you, really, Mary?”

This is new. I’m about to brush off her question with a joke, but I think about what’s happened to me, my suspicions about Edric, and the way it has me feeling stupid, spying on him, grasping for some,
any
kind of understanding.