In this debut novel, acclaimed short-story author Tim Pratt delivers an exciting heroine with a hidden talent-and a secret duty. Witty and suspenseful, here is a contemporary love song to the West that was won and the myths that shape us....
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
November 29, 2005
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl by Tim Pratt
Marzi leaned on the counter and watched, with dread twisting in her belly like a knot of rattlesnakes, as Beej trudged up the stairs. The worst of the morning rush was over and Hendrix was in the back watching his thirteen-inch portable TV, so Marzi would have to wait on Beej herself. He was talking to himself in a dreamily pleasant tone, which was somehow worse than mere ranting, and Marzi heard her own name several times in his otherwise incomprehensible monologue. Beej had always been a slob, but his hygiene and dress sense had deteriorated completely over the past few weeks. His carrot orange hair hung in greasy clumps around his face, and his ever-present black leather jacket-which must have been stifling in this heat-was smeared with mud and bits of grass. Marzi wondered if he'd lost his apartment or something; if he was sleeping outside.
Beej still came into the cafe every day, and Lindsay said he was still attending art classes, but clearly something had come catastrophically loose in his life. Marzi had seen heroin addiction in action, and it looked something like this, but she didn't think drugs were Beej's problem. Something in his eyes, the way they seemed to roll around loose lately, made her think he was having problems inside his head.
Beej clumped up to the counter, grinning at her, showing teeth that had gone too long without cleaning. He dropped a handful of coins, a few bottle caps, a beer can pull tab, and several pieces of a shredded photograph onto the counter.
"Lemon tea, Beej" she said lightly.
"No. A mocha." He gripped the edge of the counter, his hands visibly shaking. "I found the shrine of the earthquake," he said. "I followed the path that leads to waste and hardpan. The god of the earthquake has accepted my devotions."
"Uh-huh," Marzi said, turning to the espresso machine to start his drink. "How have you been sleeping? You don't look so good." He didn't smell good, either; like mud, and ashes, and old carpets.