By Frank Portman
From Frank Portman, writer of the cult vintage King Dork that John eco-friendly says "will rock your world", comes a unique approximately Andromeda Klein, who has a couple of difficulties of her own.
Her hair is more or less horrible.
Her partner-in-occultism, Daisy, is dead.
Her mystery, estranged, a lot older and forbidden boyfriend-in-theory, has long gone AWOL.
And her mom has realized the right way to text.
briefly, issues could not get a lot worse. until eventually they do. Daisy appears trying to make touch from past, books are beginning to disappear from the library, after which, unusually and unexpectedly, Andromeda's tarot readings are starting to are expecting occasions with bizarrely literal accuracy.
Omens are in all places. goals; swords; fires; hidden playing cards; misplaced, damaged, and useless cellphones . . . and what's Daisy attempting to inform her?
within the resulting fight of impartial as opposed to evil, it truly is Andromeda Klein opposed to the realm, sleek society, demonic forces, and the "friends" of the library.
From the Hardcover edition.
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Additional info for Andromeda Klein
This was their own Hellfire Club, one of many two-girl organizations they had dreamt up and dropped over the years till Daisy’s death put a stop to the process. The Stealers, the Dirties, Girls in the Mist, the Ninety-threes, the Ladies Spiritual, and many more—all harmless, except perhaps for the Murderers, which had overlapped with the witchcraft club in its herbalist phase, and also with Daisy’s murder-mystery kick and her idea to found a kind of Reverse Detective Agency, dedicated to plotting the Perfect Murder.
The new arrangement settles and becomes the norm. That is Death, Key XIII, the aggregate of tiny deaths that make up time, the new worlds that continually replace old or damaged ones. Eventually periods of several days would go by and she would realize with shock that she had hardly thought of Daisy at all. That is how dead people fade and gradually disappear from the present time. Those who survive always try to resist the process, preserving a little house for the nephesh, the animal soul, to inhabit and feeding it with attention and inadvertent rituals of remembrance, as Mizmac had clearly done.
Crowley, were Sun Worship revivalists. All people-including magicians—were supposed to love being in the sun. Andromeda did not. It was yet another way she was “wired up wrong,” as the mom, in her characteristically off-kilter “Australian” phrasing, had put it so many times. So Andromeda had felt fine, almost glad to be alive, this morning when she woke up to drizzle and muted light and to the smell of ozone and damp eucalyptus. Nevertheless, the previous night’s dream, with its instant message from beyond and its astral journey through a deformed Pixiescape, was weighing on her mind.