A novel of psychological suspense and larger-than-life action.
A man of gamesmanship versus of woman of rules.
Sublimation is a dark thriller in which one man's twisted past puts more than himself at risk -- and one woman tries to figure out if she's too good for her own good, or the good of her family.
Grey Kinjou has spent her life trusting in the Law. Ellic Smith rose above his twisted past through the power of his own bluff. When men start to gamble for the right to set off bombs, and innocent lives are lost, Law is pitted versus Disorder. What is Grey willing to sacrifice for her devotion to absolute justice? How can Ellic maintain his composure in a secret world in which fanatics have turned him into a figurehead over their bloody games? While cop and con-artist struggle against each other, another man stands in the shadows, laughing, and hoping for their mutual destruction.
Good versus evil in a vortex of surreal violence.
The novel Sublimation is complete at 98,775 words.
Excerpt from Sublimation, (c) 2011, C. N. Nevets
I had too many questions to waste any time pushing for better answers. I just needed one. It didn't even matter which. Anything real would suffice. “And what's with the S&M gaming room?”
“Sin exists to distract man.”
“What?” Another detour.
French Onion smiled indulgently. The expression made him look rather like an owl in his too-tight three-piece suit. “God,” he said, holding out his left hand, “goes about his business. The devil,” he continued, now holding out his right, “goes about his business. And sin is what they create to keep mortals distracted so they don't interfere.”
I had been given an answer. It sounded sincere. But it gave me nothing to work with.
“You don't need to understand right now,” he assured me.
I wasn't the slow kid in Sunday School class. I wasn't going to be satisfied with just waiting until my reading level finally caught up. I wanted something firm. Time to steer from metaphysical to pragmatic. “Why did you pull me out? Did one of the other players accuse me of something?”
“No no, not all.” All patronizing indulgence. “It was in your best interest.”
“My best interest?”
French Onion took a moment to walk behind a desk that was far too large for him, and then to make sure everything was just right before waving me to a pin-cushion of a seat across from him.
“Mr. Smith,” he said last, “I stopped you because I think you would prefer to to play for bigger stakes, and the money that was likely to be wagered in that room might have been sufficient to distract you.”
© Sublimation is copyrighted by the author. You may not copy or reproduce this excerpt in any form without express permission from the author.
A novel of psychological suspense and taut, bewildering conspiracy.
One man's daydreams -- a world's nightmare.
Kip is an ordinary man, bored with his job, who daydreams dark fantasies and prays to gods in whom he doesn't believe. He just wants his life to be more interesting. One day, though, one of those fanasies comes true, and a stranger dies. The next thing he knows, Kip has lost a year of his life and can no longer tell dream from reality. All he has are his confusion and his questions, the biggest of which is, did he really kill his own wife during the lost year? On the run with a fiance he cannot remember, Kip must sort out fantasy from actuality as he longs for a day when he can, once again, be bored.
Reality comes and goes like the tide, washing over a man and his own conspiracy against himself.
The novel Ennui and Malaise will be completed when Sublimation is out on query.
Excerpt from Ennui and Malaise, (c) 2011, C. N. Nevets
I wasn’t dissatisfied with my life. I loved my wife, I had fun with our whippets Jinx and Barry, and I enjoyed aspects of my job. Everything was pretty routine, though. There was no charge. I wasn’t looking for excitement or adventure, just something to engage my mind, spark my imagination, tease my curiosity. I didn’t want drama, just something interesting.
Perhaps the worst part of my job situation was the drive around I-465 on my commute home. I worked on the south side of the city, and lived in Lapel, a town northeast of Indy. It was an hour and a half each way with clear traffic. Sometimes things slowed down on the loop and I was three or more hours late. Indy wasn’t Chicago, but it wasn’t Small Town USA, either. Plenty of time in rush hour to dream about interesting things. Just as much time being bored and realizing that those interesting things were only dreams.
Until the day Royce Lamb died.
Half-mocking prayers to any number of deities whose existence I rejected was only one of the bad habits I’d picked up as part of self-medicating my boredom. Lucid day-dreaming. That was much worse in some ways. I had gotten in the habit of watching the people around me and imagining what they might do that would make them more interesting.
Two archaeologists in my office were, I imagined, having a gay love affair in their hotels in the field, which was why they never reported any meals out on their expense sheets. Our office assistant kept her dead husband’s head in the lunch pail she refused to open when anyone else was around. The intern whose gear was both the fanciest and the cleanest of any field tech was a mafia kid.
Strangers weren’t safe from my imaginary extrapolations either. That lady over there is about to shoplift. Those kids are going to strangle that cat and then leave it on their teacher’s porch. That couple is about to skip town on the bratty teenager they can’t handle anymore. That man up on the overpass is going to jump.
I shouldn’t have done it.
I know it was all my fault. Really.
First –
Please, you Mayan fuckers whose names I don’t know, make something interesting happen.
And then –
That man up on the overpass is going to jump.
© Ennui and Malaise is copyrighted by the author. You may not copy or reproduce this excerpt in any form without express permission from the author.
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