Winter Knight , livre ebook
366
pages
English
Ebooks
2023
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366
pages
English
Ebooks
2023
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
13 juillet 2023
Nombre de lectures
2
EAN13
9781778521065
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
12 Mo
Arthurian legends are reborn in this upbeat queer urban fantasy with a mystery at its heart. The knights of the round table are alive in Vancouver, but when one winds up dead, it's clear the familiar stories have taken a left turn. Hildie, a Valkyrie and the investigator assigned to the case, wants to find the killer - and maybe figure her life out while she's at it. On her short list of suspects is Wayne, an autistic college student and the reincarnation of Sir Gawain, who these days is just trying to survive in a world that wasn't made for him. After finding himself at the scene of the crime, Wayne is pulled deeper into his medieval family history while trying to navigate a new relationship with the dean's charming assistant, Bert - who also happens to be a prime murder suspect. To figure out the truth, Wayne and Hildie have to connect with dangerous forces: fallen knights, tricky runesmiths, the Wyrd Sisters of Gastown. And a hungry beast that stalks Wayne's dreams. The Winter Knig
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Publié par
Date de parution
13 juillet 2023
Nombre de lectures
2
EAN13
9781778521065
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
12 Mo
CôîH © Jéŝ Bàîŝ, 2023
PUîŝHé ECW Péŝŝ 665 Géà Séé Eàŝ Tôôô, Oàîô, Cààà m4m 1y2 416-694-3348 / îfô@éçwéŝŝ.çôM
A îHŝ éŝéVé. Nô à ôf Hîŝ Uîçàîô Mà é éôUçé, ŝôé î à éîéVà ŝŝéM, ô àŝMîé î à fôM à ôçéŝŝ—ééçôîç, MéçHàîçà, Hôôçôî, éçôî, ô ôHéwîŝé—wîHôU Hé îô wîé éMîŝŝîô ôf Hé çôîH ôwéŝ à ECW Péŝŝ. THé ŝçàî, Uôàî, à îŝîUîô ôf Hîŝ ôôk Vîà Hé ïéé ô Vîà à ôHé Méàŝ wîHôU Hé éMîŝŝîô ôf Hé UîŝHé îŝ îéà à UîŝHàé àw. Péàŝé UçHàŝé ô àUHôîzé ééçôîç éîîôŝ, à ô ô àîçîàé î ô éçôUàé ééçôîç îàç ôf çôîHé Màéîàŝ. YôU ŝUô ôf Hé àUHô’ŝ îHŝ îŝ àéçîàé.
Eîôŝ fô Hé Péŝŝ: Jé KôçH à Jé R. Aé Côéîô: Cîŝŝ CàHôU CôVé Awôk: DàVî CUîŝ
library and archives canada cataloguing in publication
Tîé: THé wîé kîH / Jéŝ Bàîŝ.
NàMéŝ: Bàîŝ, Jéŝ, 1979- àUHô.
ïéîIéŝ: Cààîàà (î) 20220477566 | Cààîàà (éôôk) 20220477574
isbn 978-1-77041-720-5 (ŝôfçôVé) isbn 978-1-77852-105-8 (éPU) isbn 978-1-77852-106-5 (PDF) isbn 978-1-77852-107-2 (Kîé)
CàŝŝîIçàîô: LCC PS8603.A8785 W56 2023 | DDC C813/.6—ç23
THîŝ ôôk îŝ fUé î à Hé GôVéMé ôf Cààà.Ce lIvre est inancé en partIe par le gouvernement du Canada.Wé àçkôwéé Hé ŝUô ôf Hé Cààà CôUçî fô Hé Aŝ.Nous remercIons le ConseIl des arts du Canada de son soutIen. Wé àçkôwéé Hé fUî ŝUô ôf Hé Oàîô Aŝ CôUçî (OAC), à àéç ôf Hé GôVéMé ôf Oàîô. Wé àŝô àçkôwéé Hé ŝUô ôf Hé GôVéMé ôf Oàîô HôUH Hé Oàîô Bôôk PUîŝHî Tàx Céî, à HôUH Oàîô Céàéŝ.
printed and bound in canada
printing: maruis
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To my mom, who gave me the Middle Ages.
To my students, for showing me endless possibilities.
And to the Book Man—Chilliwack’s oldest independent bookstore—for offering me a whole world of stories to discover.
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H I L D I E
he felt it hovering like a moth above the great fireplace. S Hildie squinted at the musicians as they tuned their instru-ments. The cellist was arguing with the pianist about canons, which had something to do with infinity, but Hildie was distracted and couldn’t follow the conversation. The musicians were safe. Their deaths were curled tightly within them—dark threads better left undisturbed. Someone else would die tonight. Hildie could see death coming but couldn’t stop it, which made the investigation all the more bittersweet. She heard her mother’s voice.I need a status update. Hildie exhaled. Her mother was First Valkyrie, the boss. She already watched Hildie with an attention bordering on paranoia. She was even more fixated tonight: a death was about to bloom in Morgan Arcand’s centuries-old mansion. The haunted house was on university grounds, which meant a lot of bystanders who had no idea that they’d just walked by a reincarnated knight on the way to the sashimi. It would be hard to keep things out of the public eye. But Morgan had her tricks.
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Hildie tapped her earpiece. “Update: the snacks are amazing at the dean’s fall semester party, and this dress I got from Winners looks like a trash bag.” Knights were myths stuck on repeat—a battle song that just kept streaming. Stories that kept being told in different times and bodies. Valkyries had a wild family tree, stretching back to the time when this whole place was covered in boreal forest. People loved reading stories about King Arthur and Morgan le Fay, but the reality was a lot more complicated. Arthur was in prison, Morgan was a university dean, and Hildie spent most of her time untangling blood feuds and breaking up fights on the beach. When a knight died under suspicious circum-stances, it was her job to separate the facts from the stories. And every-one had a long story. Myths loved places hemmed in by water, like Vancouver. They shimmered in the depths. This place used to be called Terminal City, because it felt like the edge of the world. Hildie could hear Grace’s disapproval over the Bluetooth connec-tion.I told you to buy something strapless from Holt Renfrew. “Have you seen their plus-size section? It’s just a sign with a sad face emoji. Besides it’s a crazy runesmith’s party, not the Junos.” Don’t call her crazy. She hates that. Beautiful people were handing their beautiful coats to staff at the door—probably grad students who’d been roped into this for extra money. Hildie found a space behind a pillar with an old woman’s face carved into it. She seemed to be sticking her tongue out. Maybe it was one of Morgan’s guises, or just some bit of medieval weirdness. She pulled up the dean’s file on her tablet. Some of it was redacted— instead of black lines, those sections were just blurs on the screen. Everyone had secrets, and Grace restricted access to the more sensitive information. Sometimes, Hildie thought her mother simply didn’t trust her. Maybe she was right to withhold. Here was what she knew:
Morgan Arcand (no middle name). Aliases: Morrígan, Morgana, Sheela na Gig, the Very Black Witch, Queen of the Outer Islands. DOB: sixth
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century? Age of current myth: [blank]. (Guess she didn’t want anyone to know.) Family: Igraine of Tintagel (paternity disputed); Arthur (half-sibling). Appearance: sometimes thin, tall, and pale; other times short and thick; occasionally a stone. Runesmith. Always dangerous. Current occupation: dean of arts.
Her known associates were essentially everyone. A squire couldn’t take a piss in this city without Morgan Arcand knowing about it. She’d thrown herself into academia for the last few decades, and that made things quiet. Rumor had it that she was gunning for the job of univer-sity provost, currently held by Mo Penley. Short for Mordred, but you didn’t want that name attached to your school’s strategic plan. They were two old conservatives butting heads for control of knowledge, control of how their stories might be framed. Hildie spotted them talking to each other, near the entrance to the kitchen. She ignored the smell of puff pastry and moved closer to hear their conversation, but the party noise swallowed whatever they were saying. Morgan wore a green Balenciaga gown with a chain of intricate gold knots around her throat. Hildie remembered that her nan—the previous First Valkyrie—had once described Morgan as adifficult knot. She felt a flash of grief, but pushed it down. Penley was leaning in close, whispering in Morgan’s ear. He was tall and pencil-thin, with gray-ing blond hair. His tiepin was a small dagger that gleamed under the lamplight, and he wore a suit effortlessly, as if he’d been born in a dou-ble-breasted jacket. His eyes were cold—like an empty hearth. Morgan gave him a long look and walked away. Penley went upstairs, pausing briefly at the banister, as if he’d stopped to study something. Hildie made a note to investigate the second floor. This was the oldest house in Vancouver, and it kept its secrets close. Her mother compressed a lifetime of subtle disappointment into the audio feed, which was uncomfortably clear.Keep your eyes open.Don’t get distracted. Hildie switched off the earpiece. It wouldn’t stop her mother for long, but it was satisfying nonetheless.
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She checked her notes on Mo Penley. University provost—a fancy title that meant an academic vice president. (The actual president was always on a plane somewhere.) Alias Mordred; questionable family connection to Arthur. (This family tree was like a wild baobab with giant roots stretching everywhere.) Conservative. Liked to deny tenure. There was a note about a harassment case, but she didn’t have time to read it now. Most of the good stuff in Grace’s notes was password-protected. It interfered with Hildie’s job, and more than that, it pissed her off. What she needed was her nan’s notebook; it had years’ worth of cryptic data written in her delicate hand. It was tucked away in Hildie’s closet—she’d stolen it after the funeral, but couldn’t yet bear to look at it. She gazed up at the soaring roof, where ancient timbers were locked in an embrace. It reminded her of being a kid, when she used to crane her neck to stare up at the clouds in search of snow. Hildie glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. Then she laid her hand against one of the beams. It was warm to the touch. She could feel the echo of life in the wood grain. The house itself was a ghost, inclining toward her. Colonizers had brought it on ships from Europe to preserve their own aesthetic. Now it was frozen in time, remembering winters, politics, interminable wars, and all those words that rose like smoke to settle in the rafters. Hildie watched the cater waiters bustling around in their crisp uniforms. They were essentially invisible. A person in a uniform could get close without arousing suspicion, the same way you might allow a ladybug to alight on your finger. This was the problem with being a valkyrie. She could smell death but couldn’t exactly pinpoint it. Anyone in this house could be the killer or the victim. She didn’t have much time. The Wyrd Sisters would be studying the thread, too, about to cut. It wasn’t personal for them. Valkyries were the ones who cleaned up the mess and dealt with the survivors. Not that Hildie minded the sisters. One of them was her best friend. Nice try—turning off the earpiece. Did you forget about what I can do? She sighed. “Let’s not.”
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Don’t trust Morgan. “That’s your advice? Be scared of the big bad wolf? Why don’t you actually help me in person instead of judging me from a distance?” I’m dealing with the perimeter. And she’s more of a crow than a wolf. The line was silent for a moment. Then Grace added,I can call for backup if you— “I can handle a party just fine, Mother.” You’ve got a short memory then. Hildie didn’t want to talk about Morgan’s last party: she’d been drinking vodka out of a thermos when she should have been watching the crowd. You broke that knight’s nose— “Yes, I was there; I don’t need a recap.” Just watch for traps. And don’t eat anything. Hildie shoved two salmon puffs into her mouth and switched off the earpiece again. In an ideal world, Grace would have had several strong daughters to follow in her footsteps. But in the end, there was only Hildie, and she didn’t want to be First Valkyrie. The family tradition would die with Grace. It drove her mother nuts. Why couldn’t Hildie just grab a spear and fall in line with the rest of her kin? Sometimes she wondered what her own thread looked like. Could she twist it in another direction? Or was it woven this way for good? Vera Grisi and her nephew are here. “Maybe I’ll throw this earpiece into the ocean.” Her mother didn’t rise to the bait.Keep an eye on her. Hildie saw a middle-aged woman in a gray coat, gently guiding a kid through the crowd. Not a kid exactly—probably eighteen or so. He squinted at the lights and looked uncomfortable. A man leaned close to Vera, whispering something. He had curly black hair and merry eyes, but there was a tiredness there as well. She’d have to look him up. Vera said something inaudible in reply, and her expression remained closed. Her eyes were the same color as her coat. She was beautiful and somehow distant, like an aging film star who’d grown wise enough to deflect personal questions during interviews.
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