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Informationen zum Autor 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. Klappentext 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. 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 k...
