Iconocop is a fast-paced urban fantasy with a tone similar to Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files. With this first book in the Mythcorp Series, I wanted to create something out of whole cloth–that is, something you haven’t read before. So I had to think: if an urban fantasy doesn’t sport the usual vampires, werewolves, wizards and fae, who are the oddballs filling its pages?
And then, one day, it struck me: What if there was a mega corporation with the capacity to combine genetic engineering with magic? Why, such a company could create not only Icons (clones of historical personages like Tolkien, Alexander the Great, and Aleister Crowley), but also Mythicons (real-life versions of fictional characters, like Dorian Gray and Peter Pan). Imagine the dynamics of these diverse personalities all encountering each other in a 21st century city. And the imagine if some of the Mythicons became unhinged and started developing supernatural abilities. Well, in that case you would need a specially trained police force to hunt them down.
That’s where the Iconocops come in. And Knox is the best Iconocop in the business–perhaps because he is almost as unhinged as the rogue Mythicons he hunts.
We slammed to a halt at the sight across the lot. A man was standing beside the Dakota. At first I thought it was Jackson, awake and free, but then the man stood, pulling Jackson out of the truck.
“Son of a witch,” Kana withdrew a blade and ran forward. I drew my cane-sword. But we both stopped when something stepped into the stream of pale light. A figure clad in blue tattered rags, as tall as Shaq and as big as The Mountain, stood between us and the Dakota.
The behemoth lurched forward into the shadows. As I watched, it seemed to vanish, merging with the darkness between the light and the truck. A scream rent the night, sending Kana and I to the left to make our way to the truck. The man that had been at the vehicle a moment ago was now almost sixty paces away.
He dropped Jackson, who fell with a thud. The behemoth stooped over Jackson as the other man raced away into the dark. Looking at the creature here was like seeing a star—it disappeared when you looked straight at it, which was just enough to show the behemoth picking up the fallen man. As it raised Jackson off of the concrete so that they were face to face, Jackson screamed. The behemoth tossed him into a support column five feet away. There was a crunching sound just before Jackson slumped down, sounding like a lump of wet clothes slithering out the washer.
The behemoth—or the portion of the shadows that moved—hoisted Jackson’s corpse; the tenderized body oozed rank liquids and waste. The behemoth then huffed like a deranged wild cat, dropped the corpse and slunk deeper into the shadows.
Doubting we would fare any better, I ran for the Dakota. But the blasted manfac raced the other way, towards the behemoth. “Kana. Get your butt back here now, you flipping idiot!”
But she moved too quickly and was soon swallowed by the darkness. I thought for a moment, considering my options. Conscience intruded (that blasted wet blanket, anyway), so I decided to drive after her. After slamming the passenger door—which our pursuer had rudely left open—I climbed in, started it and backed out.
The 3.9 V6 growled . . . purred . . . okay, it was more of a hacking gasp, but it was steady and seemed to roar in the cramped space. Thinking of that night eight years ago when I had been tempted to run over that drunk who had pulled a knife on me, I drove through the lot in the direction Kana had run. With the headlights cleaving the darkness I caught up to them on the second level, parked the truck and simply stared at the behemoth awash in the beams.
The thing was deformed, its arms and thighs seemed too long and lumpy, not defined like the rippling forms of bodybuilders but rather with the hulking bulk of the world’s strongest men. And it was blue-black, like angry bruises ready to burst. Its biceps were bigger than my thighs.
When I spotted Kana I exited the truck. This could be it, I thought, the place where I die. I withdrew the sword as I ran. The behemoth turned to face me as I flew toward him—it. I looked into its eyes and hoped this would be quick; I didn’t want to vomit while being thrown around. But as I swung the sword at its torso, all hopes were dashed.
It grabbed my hand and squeezed. Sometimes even big strong men, even self-injurers, meet pain that makes them unleash rather effeminate screams. And that was what happened when it grabbed my hand. The sword clanged to the floor and rattled away. I swiped the air with the cane shaft in my other hand, slamming the behemoth in its chest.
The cane is made of Ash and titanium, so it has heft. But the behemoth swatted it away like it was an annoying mosquito, and grabbed me under my arms; it was entirely degrading . . .
Mythcorp Series: Book 1