By Kate E. Stephenson
In this fourth week of November 2012, I hereby call to order the 10th meeting of Kate’s Book Club. Every week, we shall be reading a tome either (a) penned by an author named Kate or (b) that includes a character named Kate. If you missed our last meeting, no worries—check it out.
This week we continue the horror theme with a review of Kate Brady’s new thriller Where Angels Rest. Released just a week ago, this book is already attracting major attention and there’s absolutely no doubt as to why. It’s a cozy up to the fireplace, snuggle under the blankets, ignore the smartphone and social media, must read.
First a taste from the Prologue of Where Angels Rest:
Alonely room, naked wires clawing from the outlets and a heap of cold ash huddled in the fireplace.
The ceiling joists crisscrossed in a matrix ten feet up, the floors and walls stripped to bare concrete and plaster, making the tiniest sound ricochet in the rafters. Even the faint moans of a woman nearly dead echoed like whispers in a cathedral.
The Angelmaker studied the woman, faceup on a wooden table with duct tape binding her wrists and ankles. Her eyes stared at nothing in the rafters.
What do you see now, bitch?
Nothing, of course; she was almost finished. It rankled, actually. She should have held up better.
But it was too late to worry about that now. The clock was ticking, lives counted in minutes. A week ago, who’d have thought the grand finale would come so soon, or be so exhilarating? And yet, here she lay, ready for her transformation.
The Angelmaker pried a hunk of cold earth from a pile, kneaded it like artist’s clay, then smeared it onto her jaw. Got another handful and pushed it over the edge of the first, thumbing it smooth with practiced strokes—not too thick and not too thin. Over the slender nose, over the high cheekbone, over the seam of ugly stitches at her temple. The Angelmaker smiled at that. On the inside of this mask would be something special: the imprint of stitches and the swell of a nasty welt on the side of her face. When the authorities found this mask, there would be no doubt whose face had provided the mold.
The mighty Erin Sims. Her death would come just in time to join her brother in hell. A twofer.
That thought brought a snicker and the Angelmaker worked faster. Tick-tock, Dr. Sims.
From the very first page, it’s impossible to put Where Angels Rest down. Flashlight in hand, reading the final installment of Kate Brady’s trilogy was the only thing that kept me from going stir crazy in the pitch black aftermath of super storm Sandy. But it certainly didn’t let me rest any easier. Even as Brady unfolds an electrically-charged love story, the centerpiece of this novel is an evil so ugly it haunts the imagination long after you close the book. The Angelmaker is on a mission to kill those who see.