Genre Fiction
![Jeremy P. Bushnell - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00GNOG7P4.jpg)
Relentless Melt
"A supernatural mystery-part Stranger Things, part Enola Homes, but very much itself... This book is way, way over the top-and is sure to delight its intended audience." -- firstCLUE
Stranger Things meets the Golden Age of Detective fiction in a rollicking supernatural detective thriller that introduces Artie Quick, a sales assistant at Filene's in Boston, who moonlights as an amateur detective.
The year is 1909, and Artie Quick-an ambitious, unorthodox and inquisitive young Bostonian-wants to learn about crime. By day she holds down a job as a salesgirl in women's accessories at Filene's; by night she disguises herself as a man to pursue studies in Criminal Investigation at the YMCA's Evening Institute for Younger Men.
Eager to put theory into practice, Artie sets out in search of something to investigate. She's joined by her pal Theodore, an upper-crust young bachelor whose interest in Boston's occult counterculture has drawn him into the study of magic. Together, their journey into mystery begins on Boston Common-where the tramps and the groundskeepers swap rumors about unearthly screams and other unsettling anomalies-but soon Artie and Theodore uncover a series of violent abductions that take them on an adventure from the highest corridors of power to the depths of an abandoned mass transit tunnel, its excavation suspiciously never completed.
Will Theodore ever manage to pull off a successful spell? Is Artie really wearing that men's suit just for disguise or is there something more to it? And what chance do two mixed-up young people stand up against the greatest horror Boston has ever known, an ancient, deranged evil that feeds on society's most vulnerable?
Stranger Things meets the Golden Age of Detective fiction in a rollicking supernatural detective thriller that introduces Artie Quick, a sales assistant at Filene's in Boston, who moonlights as an amateur detective.
The year is 1909, and Artie Quick-an ambitious, unorthodox and inquisitive young Bostonian-wants to learn about crime. By day she holds down a job as a salesgirl in women's accessories at Filene's; by night she disguises herself as a man to pursue studies in Criminal Investigation at the YMCA's Evening Institute for Younger Men.
Eager to put theory into practice, Artie sets out in search of something to investigate. She's joined by her pal Theodore, an upper-crust young bachelor whose interest in Boston's occult counterculture has drawn him into the study of magic. Together, their journey into mystery begins on Boston Common-where the tramps and the groundskeepers swap rumors about unearthly screams and other unsettling anomalies-but soon Artie and Theodore uncover a series of violent abductions that take them on an adventure from the highest corridors of power to the depths of an abandoned mass transit tunnel, its excavation suspiciously never completed.
Will Theodore ever manage to pull off a successful spell? Is Artie really wearing that men's suit just for disguise or is there something more to it? And what chance do two mixed-up young people stand up against the greatest horror Boston has ever known, an ancient, deranged evil that feeds on society's most vulnerable?
Editorial Reviews
"Bushnell (The Weirdness) seamlessly blends mystery, urban fantasy, and an exploration of gender identity into the kind of fun and fantastical ride that his readers have come to expect. Recommend to fans of TJ Klune and Kevin Wilson." --Library Journal, STARRED review
"Bushnell skillfully blends genres in this charming supernatural mystery set in 1909 Boston...Quick is a hugely endearing lead, and the solution to the mystery is likely to surprise even seasoned genre fans. This is an off-kilter delight." -- Publishers Weekly
"Bushnell's third novel blends an atmospheric supernatural mystery with an intriguing exploration of gender identity... Bushnell keeps his fantastical elements light but believable... An entertaining urban fantasy." -- Kirkus
"Both an exploration of gender identity and a fast-paced adventure in a 1909 Boston not quite like the one we know, Relentless Melt is an exciting read with a compelling and deeply likeable protagonist."-Katherine Addison, author ofThe Goblin Emperor
"A supernatural mystery-part Stranger Things, part Enola Homes, but very much itself... This book is way, way over the top-and is sure to delight its intended audience." -- firstCLUE
"Bushnell skillfully blends genres in this charming supernatural mystery set in 1909 Boston...Quick is a hugely endearing lead, and the solution to the mystery is likely to surprise even seasoned genre fans. This is an off-kilter delight." -- Publishers Weekly
"Bushnell's third novel blends an atmospheric supernatural mystery with an intriguing exploration of gender identity... Bushnell keeps his fantastical elements light but believable... An entertaining urban fantasy." -- Kirkus
"Both an exploration of gender identity and a fast-paced adventure in a 1909 Boston not quite like the one we know, Relentless Melt is an exciting read with a compelling and deeply likeable protagonist."-Katherine Addison, author ofThe Goblin Emperor
"A supernatural mystery-part Stranger Things, part Enola Homes, but very much itself... This book is way, way over the top-and is sure to delight its intended audience." -- firstCLUE
Short Excerpt Teaser
Artie Quick restlessly paces the second floor of the YMCA building, passing the door to the classroom and then turning back, approaching it again, trying to build up the will to enter. It is 7:57 p.m., according to the wooden clock. Class begins in three minutes.
Three minutes to eight, Artie thinks, that's perfect. Three minutes to eight is the perfect time to arrive on the first night of class if you want to make absolutely no impression. It's safely on time by any measure-the class laggards will surely show up later than you-but it's also not too early. It reduces down to a mere shaving the period during which you have to sit there, waiting for class to start, looking at people while they look at you. It's the perfect time, Artie thinks, beginning to sweat, even though it's a cool October evening outside.
Go in now, Artie thinks. If it gets any later you'll lose your nerve. Any later and you'll have to admit that you weren't brave enough after all.
Go in now. But not quite yet. One last glance at the wooden clock that hangs on the wall between classrooms. Now it's 7:58. One last moment to squint at the tiny pentagonal window behind which the pendulum swings, to examine the face reflected in the dark glass. The willful jut of the jaw; the tiny notch of a frown line between the eyebrows. It isn't the face of a person who's not brave.
Slowly, Artie smooths an errant cowlick back to the scalp, then turns, walks to the door, grasps the handle, and goes in, ready, seemingly ready, to begin the first session of a thirteen-week course of instruction on the topic of Criminal Investigation.
Luckily, there's an open desk close to the door, and Artie takes a seat there. At the front of the room a big man, a bear in suit and spectacles, writes his name on the chalkboard. Professor Winchell. Some other students are already seated at their desks; Artie can count the backs of eleven heads. A moth flutters about the room, looping erratically in the room's unsteady electric light. The clock in the hall groans and begins to strike eight. Artie is still hopeful that a latecomer will hurry in-there are still a few open desks-but no one does. So much for three minutes to eight being the perfect time if you didn't want to be the laggard.
As the clock completes its chiming, Professor Winchell takes a watch out of his coat pocket and makes a tiny adjustment to it. Then, as the room falls back into silence, he looks over the assembled students and says, in an orotund voice: "Welcome to Criminal Investigation."
Standing beside his desk, he takes roll from a list, calling each student's name in turn. Each of the assembled students mumbles "here" or "present" in response. Everyone, Winchell excepted, seems a bit nervous, a bit uncertain that they're really supposed to be in this classroom: this is a bit reassuring. Even so, when Winchell nears the bottom of the list and calls out "Master Quick?" Artie elects to respond with "here," rather than with "present": it's shorter by a syllable.
Two more names and Winchell puts the list down, taking a moment to square it, so that its edges align precisely with the edges of his desk. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he says once the task is completed. "In advance of this session," he continues, "you should have acquired the course text; I see many of you have it out already; that is good. Please open the text to page one."
Artie already has the book out and open, as well as a small notebook. Winchell hefts his own copy of the book-his hand trembles, and he takes a moment to steady it before he begins to amble between the rows of seated students.
"Page one of our text," Winchell says, "concerns the character traits every superior criminal investigator should possess. Vigor, health, courage, tact-covered here on page one. Important, indeed, although my own youthful vigor is perhaps not entirely what it once was."
A polite chuckle from the students, though Artie doubts Winchell is much over forty.
"However. It is also crucial that the criminal investigator be knowledgeable. The criminal investigator, our text tells us-allow me to quote-has to solve problems relating to every conceivable branch of human knowledge; he ought to be acquainted with languages; he should know what the medical man can tell him and what he should ask the medical man; he must be as conversant with the dodges of the poacher as with the wiles of the stock jobber, as well acquainted with the method of fabricating a will as with the cause of a railway accident; he must know the tricks of card sharpers, why boilers explode, how a horse coper can turn an old screw into a young hunter. He should be able to understand slang, to read ciphers, to pick his way through a...
Three minutes to eight, Artie thinks, that's perfect. Three minutes to eight is the perfect time to arrive on the first night of class if you want to make absolutely no impression. It's safely on time by any measure-the class laggards will surely show up later than you-but it's also not too early. It reduces down to a mere shaving the period during which you have to sit there, waiting for class to start, looking at people while they look at you. It's the perfect time, Artie thinks, beginning to sweat, even though it's a cool October evening outside.
Go in now, Artie thinks. If it gets any later you'll lose your nerve. Any later and you'll have to admit that you weren't brave enough after all.
Go in now. But not quite yet. One last glance at the wooden clock that hangs on the wall between classrooms. Now it's 7:58. One last moment to squint at the tiny pentagonal window behind which the pendulum swings, to examine the face reflected in the dark glass. The willful jut of the jaw; the tiny notch of a frown line between the eyebrows. It isn't the face of a person who's not brave.
Slowly, Artie smooths an errant cowlick back to the scalp, then turns, walks to the door, grasps the handle, and goes in, ready, seemingly ready, to begin the first session of a thirteen-week course of instruction on the topic of Criminal Investigation.
Luckily, there's an open desk close to the door, and Artie takes a seat there. At the front of the room a big man, a bear in suit and spectacles, writes his name on the chalkboard. Professor Winchell. Some other students are already seated at their desks; Artie can count the backs of eleven heads. A moth flutters about the room, looping erratically in the room's unsteady electric light. The clock in the hall groans and begins to strike eight. Artie is still hopeful that a latecomer will hurry in-there are still a few open desks-but no one does. So much for three minutes to eight being the perfect time if you didn't want to be the laggard.
As the clock completes its chiming, Professor Winchell takes a watch out of his coat pocket and makes a tiny adjustment to it. Then, as the room falls back into silence, he looks over the assembled students and says, in an orotund voice: "Welcome to Criminal Investigation."
Standing beside his desk, he takes roll from a list, calling each student's name in turn. Each of the assembled students mumbles "here" or "present" in response. Everyone, Winchell excepted, seems a bit nervous, a bit uncertain that they're really supposed to be in this classroom: this is a bit reassuring. Even so, when Winchell nears the bottom of the list and calls out "Master Quick?" Artie elects to respond with "here," rather than with "present": it's shorter by a syllable.
Two more names and Winchell puts the list down, taking a moment to square it, so that its edges align precisely with the edges of his desk. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he says once the task is completed. "In advance of this session," he continues, "you should have acquired the course text; I see many of you have it out already; that is good. Please open the text to page one."
Artie already has the book out and open, as well as a small notebook. Winchell hefts his own copy of the book-his hand trembles, and he takes a moment to steady it before he begins to amble between the rows of seated students.
"Page one of our text," Winchell says, "concerns the character traits every superior criminal investigator should possess. Vigor, health, courage, tact-covered here on page one. Important, indeed, although my own youthful vigor is perhaps not entirely what it once was."
A polite chuckle from the students, though Artie doubts Winchell is much over forty.
"However. It is also crucial that the criminal investigator be knowledgeable. The criminal investigator, our text tells us-allow me to quote-has to solve problems relating to every conceivable branch of human knowledge; he ought to be acquainted with languages; he should know what the medical man can tell him and what he should ask the medical man; he must be as conversant with the dodges of the poacher as with the wiles of the stock jobber, as well acquainted with the method of fabricating a will as with the cause of a railway accident; he must know the tricks of card sharpers, why boilers explode, how a horse coper can turn an old screw into a young hunter. He should be able to understand slang, to read ciphers, to pick his way through a...
