|You know you want it. Buy it. Now.|
Now. Add to that Rick Yancey's 12-year-old monstrumologist's assistant, Will Henry. Arcane sciences. Stilted passions. A rising dread, cloying shadows. A khorkhoi. The Victorian sensibility and its delicious, shivery blend of horror. Ohhhh...
In it arises the most gleefully ghoulish depravity. A shambling monster with a lisp. DUDES. IT LISPS. As it tears out your eyes. As its fangs rend the tender flesh of your heart with an exquisite pop. This glorious juxtaposition of the Victorian with the macabre drives, absolutely drives, Rick Yancey's THE CURSE OF THE WENDIGO.
Finished it yesterday. And I put it down with a sigh, mentally licking my fingers as I polished it off. Gorgeous. Universally-themed. With breathtaking writing. A marvelously complicated, aging monstrumologist. "Snap to, Will Henry!" And that achingly lovely, desperately doubting Will Henry himself. If you haven't read the Printz Award-winning THE MONSTRUMOLOGIST, go get it, read it. Now. I'm waiting. Done? Good. Now get THE CURSE OF THE WENDIGO (a finalist for the LA Times Book Prize).
Me? I'm anxiously awaiting Yancey's upcoming THE ISLE OF BLOOD, the next in the series. Awaiting it like a valet awaits your dripping gloves as you peel them off, stamping the dirty snow from your boots. Awaiting it like the butler waits for you to accept a freshly-ironed newspaper and repair to the drawing room. Awaiting it like you wait, frozen in place, head cocked, for that strange sound from the hall to identify itself.
"Jennings?" you murmur, but the butler has disappeared. Your valet has already removed your valise and has vanished up the servant's stair. Behind you, the tufted shadows distort the narrow hall and the house rears up, long and black, around you.
There it is again. That sound. A scratching? No--what is that damnable noise? And where has everyone gone? Taking up the lamp, you peer into the clouded gloom of the stairwell. You square your shoulders, try to ignore the palsied dancing of your nerves, and descend, step by groaning step, into the blackness. "Jennings?" you call again. This time, something answers. With befouled breath, reeking of the grave, into the coarse whiskers of your mutton chops. There is something on the stair. Behind you.
Ahhhhhh.....oh my god. 19th-century horror. YA. With a twist. I love you, Rick Yancey.