A kidnapper calls for Trevor Lawson by name, and the undead detective cannot resist the opportunity to seek out his maker amidst Louisiana quagmires in nineteenth-century America. Robert McCammon’s newest novella I Travel by Night is shrouded in smoke and mystery, much like its vampire adventurer protagonist who is perpetually hidden beneath a top hat and the smoke of a cheroot.
McCammon has meticulously invoked historic America in the south and marvelously constructs the damp atmosphere and the gas lamp-lit Victorian era region surrounding New Orleans.
More than the vintage accuracy of his world, however, is the author’s ability to make every moment suspenseful and eerie in visceral imminence: the reader knows that something is going to happen, someone is following you, something is hiding in the fog with deviously malicious intentions, at all times.
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