Book Review: Tarnished by Rhiannon Held
(You can see my review of the previous novel, Silver, here. I’ve also conducted an interview with Rhiannon about Tarnished.) Back in 2012, I interviewed then-debut novelist Rhiannon Held about Silver, a new urban fantasy novel involving werewolves (oh noes). In truth, I was skeptical at the time; I didn’t think much of urban fantasy when I started conducting podcast interviews, and so I thought to myself that this book would confirm everything I thought about the genre. It didn’t. While it wasn’t the strongest novel of its kind, Silver provided enough compelling material to keep me riveted until the end. In particular, I loved Held’s anthropological view of the werewolves, taking what could have been another cliche and giving it the kind of rigor one might expect of a secondary world fantasy — a short one, of course. Tarnished continues the Held tradition, adding depth to an already compelling and complex world. If this trend continues, I expect Reflected, which is set to drop soon, will keep me riveted as much as this one. Set immediately after the events of Silver, Held’s second novel follows Dare and Silver as they decide the next course of action: keep control of the Seattle pack (werewolf alphas assume the name of their pack) or find a new home elsewhere. But being alphas means eventually having to face your past, and both Dare and Silver are haunted by where they’ve been and what it might mean for the future. Now, it’s Dare’s turn for his past to bubble up and make a mess of things: Sacramento still holds a grudge due to the death of his son, John, the former Seattle alpha, has sired a child with Susan, a human, and Roanoke, who Dare believes is unfit for leadership, may have dragged something else from Dare’s past into the mix, making a challenge for control of Roanoke more difficult indeed. Handling the complicated social politics of werewolves is no easy task, but together, Dare and Silver hope they’ll be able to pull it off… Overall, I enjoyed Tarnished, in no small part because I got a lot of more of the things I loved about Silver. Held’s characters remain compelling, especially Dare and Silver, who continue to grow into themselves and their relationship to one another — yes, I’m a sucker for a well-written romantic entanglement. Tarnished seems to put a great amount of attention on Silver here, though I’m not sure if that’s actually true, since I haven’t read Silver in quite some time (I’ll talk about this more below). Likewise, the novel is mostly paced well, with a simple, though efficient style that doesn’t get bogged down in description while losing none of the necessary characterization. Essentially, this is exactly what I want to see happen with a formerly-debut author: improvement, growth, and efficiency. Tarnished is, as such, strongest when it focuses on the complexity of werewolf society. This is particularly true in the last third of the novel, where Held presents us an event called the Convocation, in which werewolf packs meet to discuss and debate werewolf issues on neutral ground. These were by far my favorite points in the novel, primarily because it served as the perfect space for every major character to come to terms with their position in this “hidden” underworld. Susan, for example, struggles with what it means to be the only human in a sea of werewolves, and here must contend with worries not only for herself, but also her child and the man she loves, John. Held uses Susan as a vehicle to show how complicated werewolf social politics can become, particularly if you don’t have the enhanced senses of a werewolf — the senses, in effect, play a crucial role in the werewolf hierarchy. Though this novel isn’t really about Susan, I appreciated the attempts to give her agency in a situation where she might not have had it because she’s human. Likewise, the Convocation serves as a developmental tool for Silver, who is the only other character beyond Susan who is disadvantaged because of her body — in this case, because Silver’s wild self has been lost due to silver poisoning. To read about Silver using her cunning and facial expressions to manipulate those who underestimate her was a thrill, particularly since she is the one character in this whole series who remains at the greatest disadvantage. And it’s that last point that I think is worth exploring further here. In the first novel, Silver is portrayed as potentially mad, and most certainly unstable. That her madness is justified by what happened to her is beside the point: what matters is the fact that Silver’s mental state and her physical limitations are a major source of Silver’s frustration and conflict throughout both novels because other werewolves routinely mistake her limited physical abilities and mental quirks as weakness. Held continues this theme in Tarnished, giving a fuller sense of Silver’s formidable qualities and establishing her as the one person you really don’t want to cross, even if you have the physical advantage — even Dare realizes this. It’s not that she’s ruthless, but rather that her physical limitations and perceived mental state make her a target for ridicule and dismissal, which invariably ends up being a mistake, as Silver knows (or learns) how to use her strengths and her disadvantages to benefit herself and the people she cares about. She’s not always successful, of course, but she is smart. I applaud Held for including this aspect of Silver’s story in her novels, as it would be too easy to leave behind these developmental elements, but also strangely expected. Instead, Silver’s character grows — and all for the better. It feels like Silver is a more secure character — in the sense that Held, as a writer, seems more comfortable writing as Silver. In fact, this novel seems like a more character driven one than the book that precedes it, giving depth to
Book Review: Breach Zone by Myke Cole
(Note: There are some minor details about the previous books in this review. I don’t honestly think they’re that spoiler-y, but you’ve been warned.) I am deeply ashamed that I have not yet written a proper review of Myke Cole’s various works. He’s been on my podcast three times, and I have yet to review a single thing. Today, I am rectifying that mistake by discussing what I’d argue is his strongest novel to date — Shadow Ops: Breach Zone (Ace: January 2014). Breach Zone opens with an invasion: Scylla, now free from her prison in FOB Frontier (a now-destroyed illegal military facility in a magical plane known as the Source)[1], has used her negramantic abilities to rip a massive hole between the Source and New York City. Behind her: an army of goblins, Gahe, and other monsters. Her mission: carve out a place for Latent people (magic wielders) within the United States and end the tyranny of humanity…at all costs. In comes down to Harlequin, a veteran member of the Supernatural Operations Corps and an aeromancer, who must keep Scylla’s forces at bay while reconciling his past and his conflict with the current state of affairs in the United States, in which magic is heavily restricted and abused. The third in Cole’s Shadow Ops series, Breach Zone concludes the overarching narrative which has guided the previous books, Control Point (2011) and Fortress Frontier (2012): the rising tension between those who have magic and a government which seeks to control it. In the previous novels, Cole focused on characters in similar positions: Oscar Britton’s magical awakening in Control Point and Alan Bookbinder’s similar awakening in Fortress Frontier. Both novels revealed varying levels of abuse on the part of the U.S. government in service of (or in illegal contradiction with) the McGauer-Linden Act, which determines how magic may be used within the States. In Breach Zone, however, Cole takes us into the mind of Harlequin (a.k.a. Jan Thorsson), who has, in the previous books, taken the position of a soft antagonist to Britton and Bookbinder. Instead of maintaining that antagonism, Cole gives us an in-depth look into his motivations: notably, his belief in the rule of law and the democratic process for change. In many respects, Breach Zone is a far more complex work than the previous books because the relationship between “the law” and “what is right” becomes increasingly more divisive, particularly for Harlequin, who struggles with his need to uphold his oaths of office (serving the country), his desire to protect the people, and the very real possibility that he will have to violate (again) some of his core codes in order to save NYC. Cole teases out this narrative with deliberate slowness, marinating the conflict and tying the various threads together so what occurs in the end is a product of necessity rather than a simple “soldier defies orders and goes rogue” narrative. This depth is also apparent in the book’s structure, which moves back and forth between Harlequin’s desperation to save NYC and his former relationship with Scylla, the primary antagonist, who has remained in the sidelines throughout the series. These chapters are perfectly placed to provide not only the psychological tension necessary to fully empathize with Harlequin and his ethical quandaries, but also to set the groundwork for the conclusion and its horrific qualities. The interaction between these flashback chapters and the general narrative are perhaps the most fascinating part of the book, not least of all because it tempers the high-intensity action which controls most of the novel’s narration. Without that counterbalance, I think Breach Zone would be a weaker novel, but with them, it becomes a work which turns the landscape gray rather than playing the easy route of good vs. evil. Everyone in this book has a reason to do what they do, whether it is Harlequin, Scylla, the Selfer street gangs (magic users who have run from the law), and so on. Rather than give us villains, we’re given a sea of people who have to balance what is objectively right against what is ethically sound; they are also people who are complex without being overbearing. In a novel with this much action, that’s quite a feat. Breach Zone also includes chapters about Bookbinder, though I think these are there primarily as a gateway between Fortress Frontier, in which Bookbinder was the main character, and this final volume. This is not dissimilar from the shift between Control Point and Fortress Frontier, so I think I’m justified and thinking this is a deliberate inclusion. Though Bookbinder plays second fiddle to Harlequin here, I think it’s worth noting that his chapters demonstrate more fully the sort of man he has become after the events of the previous book; no longer the paper-pushing career military man, Bookbinder is clearly a veteran, capable and determined even in the face of overwhelming odds — an aspect of his character which had not truly been present when he first appeared in Fortress Frontier. There are also, for the action-enthusiasts, plenty of Bookbinder vs. goblins moments, which Cole handles with a deft hand. I also appreciated Cole’s attempts to address the political landscape that would undoubtedly arise in a world suddenly beset with magic. I particularly liked the wrangling Harlequin has to do and the way the novel positions politics and the military as two different worlds with their own rules. From Harlequin’s perspective, the need for support is not a matter of debate; rather, it is an honest, military assessment of a violent situation. For those in the political sphere, however, the need is one which, if met, comes with additional consequences, particularly given the climate in which this novel is set — FOB Frontier was an illegal facility, so it’s discovery at the end of Fortress Frontier meant huge ramifications for U.S. global policy. As a military man, Cole certainly understands the frustration this conflict produces; its representation in this novel, as such, gives Breach Zone not only a
On Richard Phillips’ A Captain’s Duty (a Book Review)
Most of you know the story. In 2009, the merchant vessel Maersk Alabama was hijacked by four Somali pirates off the coast of Somalia. Her captain, Richard Phillips, was taken hostage and was not freed until several days later when a Navy SEALs team shot and killed the pirates. It became a national story almost immediately: the first American vessel hijacked by Somali pirates, a miraculous and brave rescue by the U.S. military (always a hit with the news), and a new-found hero in the figure of Captain Phillips, who, we’re told, risked his own life to keep his crew safe. A Captain’s Duty: Somali Pirates, Navy SEALs, and Dangerous Days at Sea is Captain Phillip’s personal account of the events. Beginning days before the hijacking, Phillips lays out a populist account of the politics of coastal Somalia, life on merchant vessels, the history of the merchant mariners, and the personal struggles he and his wife endured during and, to a lesser extent, after the hijacking. As a work meant to educate and entertain, it is at times quite dull, and at other times quite fascinating, though not necessarily for the reasons you’d expect. What I found most compelling about this book were its sections on life in pirate-heavy seas. Many of the chapters are preceded by quotes highlighting previously successful hijackings, and the chapters themselves provide a fair amount of detail about the procedures for dealing with piracy and the knowledge sea captains like Phillips must acquire before and after they traverse the seas. These sections were the most interesting in the book, as they highlighted the real problem piracy poses and provided Phillips’ personal perspective on the issue. If anything, these sections do far more to describe who Phillips is than any of the chapters about the hijacking of the Maersk Alabama. They likewise provide a somewhat populist view of the issues in the Somali region, which do certainly add sympathy to an already sympathetic figure. However, these chapters are sometimes overloaded by excessive description. The book was clearly written for a general audience, yet some sections of the book obsess over the minute details of ship life, most of which have no direct bearing on the events yet to unfold. One section on the captain’s duty to inspect the ship could easily have been left as a short paragraph explaining what the inspection is for. I’m sure someone who finds ship life idyllic — or, perhaps, romantic — will find value in these sections, but I personally felt they drew away from the more pressing concern: piracy. Truthfully, I was far more interested in how an actual ship captain views life in dangerous waters than in everyday ship life, as it is difficult to form an objective opinion on such matters from the safety of my computer chair. Regardless, though there are some rather dull sections in the book, the overall thrust of the first few chapters is worth reading, if only for the reasons I have already stated. Unfortunately, Phillips’ account of the actual hijacking strains credulity. While one can forgive him for making assumptions about his attackers, mis-remembering details, or even conjuring some up in an apparent dream-like daze, his assessment of his own behavior from the beginning of the hijacking makes one wonder why the U.S. Navy was all that concerned about Somali pirates in the first place. For example, Phillips reminds us more than once that the Somalis have been enormously successful at hijacking ships and earning ransom as a result. At no point are we to believe these pirates are completely inept at what they do, even if they are poorly armed, trained, and supplied. Phillips spends considerable time, as I’ve noted above, describing how Somalis perform hijackings, their success rate, the politics, and so on, painting a fairly clear picture of just who we’re about to deal with; that picture offers credence to the threat of hijacking. But once the hijacking occurs, the Somalis are presented as dimwitted to the extreme, completely inept at just about everything; they are described like children who only just figured out how to turn on the boat. They seem utterly perplexed by the boat’s machinery, despite clearly having at least a basic understanding of radar equipment. Worse, throughout the ordeal, Phillips claims to have been in continuous contact with hidden members of the crew via a handheld radio he “snuck away.” Only he repeatedly uses this radio right in front of the Somalis, or at least within sight, such that it’s really quite impossible to believe that they haven’t noticed. This is made more unbelievable when we’re reminded that the Somalis are rather annoyed that Phillips doesn’t know where the rest of his crew is. One problem: clearly he does, and even if he didn’t, he’s clearly in contact with them. This particular issue doesn’t get better over time. Frequently, Phillips is shown giving away tactical information to the crew — numbers, weapons, positions, etc. — while looking straight in the eye of the hijackers. It’s as if we’re supposed to believe these Somalis are not only really bad at what they do, but completely disinterested in the fact that their captive is sharing sensitive information with the very people they wish to find (or, in some cases, with the military itself, as Phillips communicates with the U.S.S. Bainbridge while trapped in the cramped lifeboat). All of this is dropped from the film adaptation — probably for the exact reason that bothered me: it just doesn’t make sense. The book’s other flaws are in its contradictions. For example, Phillips tells us that the Somalis let him swim in the ocean to cool off after kidnapping him and fleeing in the lifeboat. But several chapters later, Phillips tells us the Somalis never let him out. One of these two statements is true; they both can’t be. These details draw into question other aspects of the narrative, such as Phillips’ claim that a Somali boat came to
Book Review: Birds and Birthdays by Christopher Barzak
(Note: This will be a long review. If you want the short version, it’s this — go buy the book, because it’s bloody good.) In 2007, Christopher Barzak released One For Sorrow, a supernatural YA novel that so successfully encapsulated the terrifying experience of adolescence that it became one of my favorite novels of the 2000s. While a drastically different work, Birds and Birthdays continues Barzak’s exploration of the multitudinous factors that form the basis of identity. Birds and Birthdays is, first, a conceptual collection. The fourth chapter of the book offers a detailed account of Barzak’s research in the Surrealist movement (existing roughly in the space between the two world wars) and the women who were almost forgotten there. As an experiment in feeding female artistic expression (painting) through literary interpretation (fiction), the collection draws parallels between the worlds of metaphor (the paintings) and the very real discourse of female identities in the wake of a patriarchal culture — this is part of the mission of the “Conversation Pieces” series at Aqueduct Press (to explore the “grand conversation”). “Birthday,” for example, expands upon Dorothea Tanning’s painting of the same name by turning the unknown woman into Emma, who has spent her formative years taking on the identities required of her by her parents and the culture around her (53-54). Thus, when Emma inherits her parents’ apartment complex, marries Joe at 21, and soon has a child (Jenna), she embarks on a quest to find an identify that more appropriately fits her inner self. What begins as a series of cruel gestures on Emma’s part (leaving her family and her various lovers, one by one, by changing apartments within the same complex) quickly become the sympathetic acts of deliberate personal interrogation through others. Perhaps the most disturbing of the three stories, “Birthday” is also perhaps the most profound in the collection as a work of neo-surrealist magical realism that draws into question the ways humans have been conditioned to accept identities for convenience. The other stories are equally compelling, but for drastically different reasons. “The Creation of Birds,” — drawing upon Remedios Varo’s paintings, “Creation of the Birds” and “Star Catcher” — presents a modernized fairy tale involving the romantic opposition of the Bird Woman, who has the remarkable and beautiful ability to build and bring to life real and mythical birds, and the Star Catcher, whose namesake gives away his game (the Bird Woman remarks that catching stars and other things are a reminder that “[the Star Catcher] didn’t know how to love something he couldn’t own” (4)). As a somewhat whimsical tale, “The Creation of Birds” is replete with period references to psychoanalysis (a field which is still practiced today, surprisingly) and stunning descriptions of the Bird Woman’s abilities — I particularly enjoyed the scenes involving the bird designs, if only because birds are, I believe, elegant creatures that would require painstaking detail to create from nothing. But the heart of the story is her relationship to herself and to the Star Catcher, who seeks to “reclaim” her. In this sense, it shares a relationship to “Birthday.” The middle story, “The Guardian of the Egg,” also questions our relationships and what they mean, but with a much more epic narrative. Based on Leonora Carrington’s “The Giantess,” the story focuses on a what happens to the family of those who answer a “higher calling” — in this case, a mythical calling that draws parallels to the familiar “chosen one” narratives. In particular, the story benefits from switching perspectives from “the chosen one” to an immediate family member. The shift offers a fresh — though not wholly original — perspective on the now-traditional epic form. Identity, of course, remains central to the narrative, but so too do the mythic forms upon which the narrative draws (similarly, I think, to “Birds”). As a story, it effectively rides between an interrogation of those forms and of the roles others play within them. But it is also a humorous tale, with dark references to our ability to turn people into “others” and a clever moment in which the main character must communicate with guardian geese. Collected together, the three stories have the effect of providing a range of perspectives/narratives that are each unique in and of themselves and each rendered with care and depth — a sense I draw from Barzak’s clean, minimalist prose, which he uses in service of a rather complex and specific narrative agenda. Birds and Birthdays, however, is certainly not a perfect work. While I found a great deal of thematic material to draw on, the types of stories found in this collection are, I think, geared to a particular kind of reader. With the exception of “The Guardian of the Egg,” none of the stories have “clean” resolutions (“Birthday” in particular), and all of the stories are heavily focused on the visual thematics of the original source material, thus producing works which are, in a sense, almost surrealist themselves — certainly a goal of Barzak’s. For some readers, this might be too much, as surrealist works are, in my experience, frequently just that — too much. Just like the surrealist films of the early 1900s (see examples at the bottom of this post), the stories in Birds and Birthdays are visually intense and cognitively detached. “Birthday,” for example, relies more on its character’s peculiarities than it does on an ordered universe in which the containment of an individual’s many relationships in one apartment complex could not happen. But those same peculiarities are what make the story a brilliant medium for exploring the “skins” we wear as social creatures. Plot and pure resolution would, I think, detract from the message, just as removing the incomplete resolutions and estranging (read: not cognitive estrangement) effects would do so for the other stories. In that sense, what I see as an at times compelling work of art, and at others a somewhat overwhelming vision, rests on the spectrum of work that you either love
Book Review: In the Lion’s Mouth by Michael Flynn
(Note: This review was originally intended for publication, but certain professional and personal obligations prevented its completion. My apologies for its lateness, but I could not sit on this version any longer. Thanks to Abigail Nussbaum and others who viewed it in earlier incarnations.) Michael F. Flynn’s In the Lion’s Mouth is a space opera of the new variety, which is to say that it takes a genre that once stood for oversimplified adventure, sometimes of the Campbellian mode and redolent of the pulps, and infuses it with political intrigue and sociological awareness. The planets that make up the novel’s empire have ceased to be spaces only of conquest, adventure, and wonder, and become contained worlds connected by a common but divergent history. This is not to suggest that Flynn’s novel has abandoned the tropes of the adventure story, but that it brings a rigorous examination of the conditions of the empire in which that adventure occurs. In the Lion’s Mouth is compelling not because of its adventure elements, but because it is at once an exploration of the inner workings of its network of worlds and an almost satirical play on the conventions of the old, pulpy space opera. In the Lion’s Mouth alternates between two stages of Ravn Olafsdottr’s journeys through the labyrinth of the Lion’s Mouth, the bureau that oversees an exceedingly efficient class of assassins known as the Shadows, which has begun splintering into competing factions. The frame narrative concerns her attempts to convince a rival organization, the Hounds, to put their cards on the table of the civil war raging within the Lion’s Mouth. This narrative also forms a clever stage upon which Ravn can demonstrate her manipulative talents as she relates another tale through flashback. That second strand concerns an intimate of the one Hounds: husband and father Donovan buigh. Donovan, a former Shadow who had his mind split into multiple personalities by an as-yet-unknown agent, was, we learn, kidnapped by Ravn to fulfill, willingly or otherwise, a purpose in the war. As the frame narrative cuts into Donovan’s story, we also learn that Ravn is up to much more than truce and explanation. Rather, she’s up to something vaguely sinister. Flynn uses this structure to tell two unique tales of intrigue, both deeply political and both productive of an edge-of-your-seat reading experience that always has a surprise in store – even on the last page. The frame narrative, far from being merely a stage for Flynn’s “story time,” has a hidden agenda of its own, which Ravn and the Hounds eventually unearth. As Ravn remarks, in the heavy accent of Confederal, before embarking on the first piece of Donovan’s story: “This will be a tell to tangle your strings, oon my word; but I will give it to you in my oon way and reveal things in their oon time. Life is art, and must be artfully told, in noble deeds and fleshed in colors bold” (28). Here one might find Flynn’s satirical play on space opera, forming an astonishing tale of Donovan’s and the Shadows’ extraordinary feats in the Lion’s Mouth through Ravn’s (admitted) flawed retelling of the events: “Tell me,” [Bridget, the Hound] says, “how you can know the thoughts of Donovan buigh, when I doubt even he knows them so well?” The Confederal [Ravn] smiles. “You must grant me two things. The first is many weeks of conversation between us, in which he may have revealed his mind to me.” “That would be quite a revelation as I understand things. And second?” “And second, you must grant me some poetic license.” (53-54) Should we take Ravn’s words as gospel, as Donovan’s daughter believes we should (“I think she tells the truth. The Donovan she describes is a man I recognize. If she has embellished his thoughts, she has not done so falsely” (55)), even if she fills in the gaps with her own “poetic” imaginings? Or are the embellishments meant to distract us from the signs that something is amiss? For Ravn, it seems, the myth is a means to an end, not the property of a particular body politic to retell the story of history. In other words, the tropes of traditional space opera – the empire, the grand adventures, the loose attachments to actual mythological forms – are exposed by Ravn for their farcical nature: they are little more than devices of empire, broadly speaking. And for Ravn, that means it’s a device than can be retooled for different purposes, even to work against the established structures of power. In a way, In the Lion’s Mouth as new space opera is a response to Darko Suvin’s assertion that space opera is sub-literature – a literary form which has more in common with the elements of myth and fairy tales than with the literature of cognitive estrangement, inside of which he places science fiction. Flynn, whether intending to or not, sets the stage for an internally rigorous re-imagining of the space opera (though certainly he is not alone in this endeavor). This rigor is evident in a number of elements, but for the sake of space, I will only briefly discuss two: language and the world. While dialects are not new to science fiction, Flynn puts language to a particular use: manipulation. Ravn’s centrality in the narrative, as already mentioned, provides an ambiguous reading of events, but so too does her language. The consistency with which Flynn elaborates on Ravn’s accent is eventually made questionable by her intentional slippages: “It is a rhetorical trick, this abrupt dropping of the hooting accent, but no less effective for that. It freights her pronouncement with greater significance” (26). If it isn’t clear by the 26th page that Ravn is a questionable figure, then the numerous slippages of language to follow and her dubious alliances should do the trick. As much as the text is a performance, so too are the characters who are playing in it. But Flynn never fully reveals
Book Review: Silver by Rhiannon Held
Every time I read an urban fantasy, I remind myself that I am not the primary audience. After all, much of what I dislike about urban fantasy are the very things I dislike about bad books. Stereotypical characterization, repetitive narratives, and repetitive tropes (if I see one more tramp stamp cover I’m going to blow a gasket). But Rhiannon Held’s Silver bucked the trend, taking what should have been yet another stupid werewolf novel and turning it into a rigorously constructed sociological foray into a potential werewolf culture. The novel’s focus, oddly enough, is on Andrew Dare, not the character from which the novel draws its title. A werewolf pack enforcer, Dare discoveres Silver wandering in Roanoke territory, seemingly delirious and injected with, well, silver (the connection to her name is explained in the novel). Silver’s condition reminds Dare of a past that he would rather forget, and one which we discover through him as he battles against the memories. Working to uncover those responsible for Silver’s torture, Dare must confront the demons that make him anti-social and unwilling to lead. One might say that I’m an unusual reader when it comes to urban fantasy. All those flashy monsters and the like really don’t mean much to me if they are substitutes for character development. What is powerful about urban fantasy for me isn’t so much that it is the fantastic littered in contemporary spaces; rather, it is that urban fantasy seems like a perfect space for examining the relationships between characters, human and otherwise. Silver is such a novel, with a tangential focus on plot. What centers the novel, and made it work for me as a fantasy, are its characters. Dare is sympathetic and mysterious; reading about his development as a character, moving from a man afraid of responsibility to a man who must take it, was refreshing, in part because it meant the story needn’t reduce itself to a long series of random werewolf fights in order to explore a set of themes (in this case: haunted pasts, torture, pack culture, etc.). Likewise, Silver, the second POV (less focused in this novel for reasons that become obvious as you read), suffers from similar traumas. Though her development is less pronounced than Dare’s — it is partly her past that Dare is trying to uncover — Silver’s growth as a character offers a emotional exploration into psychosis and werewolf phenomena. Readers expecting an action-packed novel would do best to explore elsewhere; this is not that kind of story. Perhaps the novel’s greatest strength lies in Held’s attempt to take a fantastical concept — the existence of werewolves — and put a soft science spin on it. Much of the novel draws attention to the dynamics of werewolf packs and the power struggles that exist within them. While the idea is likely not original, it is one that Held handles well. Rather that infodump, the pack dynamics play a central role in the plot, allowing the reader to see the interrelations between packs, the ways in which individuals maintain pack dominance (including Dare’s struggles with his own alpha nature), and so on. One might look at Silver and call it anthopological urban fantasy. That would be a fair assessment considering that Held has argued in interviews that the world of Silver is more science fiction than it is fantasy; the werewolves have an implied evolutionary origin in the novel, which will play a more important role in future novels. Whether her universe can be conceived as a science fiction one is up to speculation; regardless, the rigor with which Held constructs her werewolf culture means the story never takes its fantastic elements for granted. That’s something I can appreciate as a reader. The werewolves don’t exist just for the sake of existing, as is sometimes the case in urban fantasy. They exist because there’s a seemingly logical reason for it. I sometime call this “building a world that feels lived in.” Silver brings us that world: a lived-in-world in the present, with a definable, if not mysterious, history. My largest criticism of Held has to do with what she does not adequately cover. One of the subplots is the expected development of a relationship between Dare and Silver. While Dare struggles against his instincts, feeling that even a sexual flirtation with Silver is a violation of his ethical code, he eventually gives in, and it is implied that they will remain mates (in werewolf terms) for future novels. What troubles me about this is what it says about the characters, and what is not said about how others view their relationship. In other words, their relationship is, to put it bluntly, troublesome for precisely the reasons Dare cites: Silver is disabled and still psychologically unable to cope with what has happened to her, even though we see her move away from that weakness towards the end of the novel. In a very real sense, her ability to consent should be questioned, puzzled out, and explored in more depth. While Held does attempt to explore this social dynamic, Dare seems to give in too easily to temptation, and not enough resistance, in my mind, is provided by the secondary cast. Perhaps this stems from Dare’s alpha nature. If so, I hope future novels will delve into the problems of their coupling. Overall, though, this is a solid first novel. Even if what Held does is not wholly original, her ability to craft a werewolf mythology that is more anthropoligical than paranormal is commendable — and certainly appreciated by this reader. Silver is the kind of novel that shows an author’s strengths. Held handles the character drama with focus and molds a fantastical present worth exploring further. She has a lot of potential as a writer, and I sincerely hope Silver does well enough to warrant future books, whether in this series or otherwise. If you want to learn more about Silver, you can check out the publisher’s website or Rhiannon Held’s page.