Publisher Description

An ex-cop, Finn was left literally blinded by violence. The one thing he can still see is the body of his wife, Dani, and a crime scene that won't fade from his mind' s eye. Now a professor, Finn never would have guessed that an isolated girls' prep school could be every bit as dangerous as city streets. Especially when he stumbles upon a local girl lying in a graveyard in the middle of a raging blizzard.Finn may live in a world of total darkness, but it's about to get a splash of red. The memories that torment him still have the power to kill, and a group of innocent students has been put in harm's way by a pair of vicious criminals stalking Finn for unknown reasons. Secrets are creeping from the shadows around him-the kind that even a man with perfect vision never sees until it's too late. They're about to become terrifyingly clear to Finn-and it all begins with the scent of blood.BONUS- This edition contains an excerpt from Tom Piccirilli'sThe Last Kind Words.

Author Biography

Tom Piccirilli lives in Colorado, where, besides writing, he spends an inordinate amount of time watching trash cult films and reading Gold Medal classic noir and hardboiled novels. He's a fan of Asian cinema, especially horror movies, bullet ballet, pinky violence, and samurai flicks. He also likes walking his dogs around the neighborhood. Are you starting to get the hint that he doesn't have a particularly active social life? Well, to heck with you, buddy, yours isn't much better. Give him any static and he'll smack you in the mush, dig? Tom also enjoys making new friends. He is the author of twenty novels including The Cold Spot, The Midnight Road, The Dead Letters, Headstone City, November Mourns, and A Choir of Ill Children. He's a four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award and a final nominee for the World Fantasy Award, the International Thriller Writers Award, and Le Grand Prix de L'Imaginaire.

Review

"One of the most chilling thrillers of the year. Shadow Season is an intriguing story of isolation and violence with a haunted man at its center….Piccirilli uses Shadow Season's unusual setting to ratchet up the tension, telling a story that is simple, but nevertheless very suspenseful. He also does a convincing job of portraying the life of a man who can't see, adding a unique and inviting twist to what is already an exciting plot."—Chicago Sun-Times

"In Piccirilli's brooding, character-driven chiller, former New York City cop Finn, recently blinded, wallows in his new role as an English teacher at a posh girls' boarding school….Terrified of solitude and driven by his cop instincts, Finn embarks on a wrenching journey that exposes the raw emotion of a man nearly destroyed by disability and circumstance."—Publishers Weekly, starred review
 
"Shadow Season has enough mystery, suspense, dread, and mayhem to satisfy nearly every crime fan....The blizzard ratchets up tension, as does our eagerness to learn why Finn wants to kill Ray….Terrific entertainment."—Booklist
 
"Shadow Season is a brilliantly paced thriller, and the first book in a long time that I've stayed up all night reading….In the world Piccirilli has created, darkness takes many forms, both real and metaphorical. Make sure you have a bright reading lamp on your bedside table...you'll need it."—Crimespree Magazine
 
"Shadow Season is a beautifully written thriller filled with heart and wit, sharp dialogue and characters you utterly believe in. A great ride."—Robert Ferrigno, author of Heart of the Assassin
 
"Reading Shadow Season is like being put through an emotional wringer.  Visceral.  Savage.  Intense.  Powerful.  Finn is a fascinating character...I can't think of another in recent memory with such a multi-faceted personality or more compelling mix of gut-level feelings."--Bill Pronzini, MWA Grandmaster
 
"Tom Piccirilli is at the forefront of the new breed of crime writers, welding his sense of history to a modern sensibility, creating a strong new voice."--Max Allan Collins, author of Road to Perdition
 
"This is an intense thriller not for sissies….You will appreciate the portrayal of the main character Finn's so-called disability, which really isn't one given the way he knows how to utilize it. The entire plot never lets the reader take a breath and never lets up on the gut-wrenching emotional safari into Finn's world of blackness. The dialogue, plot and the multi-layered character reveals itself to you with hammer blows page after page. Highly recommended for thriller fans who appreciate a quality read."—The Coloradoan
 
"The book rockets along. This is an 'anyone can die at any time' thriller, and if you think you've figured out what's going on before it's all over, well, you're better at figuring than I am....Piccirilli's been establishing quite a nice reputation for himself, and this book will only add to that. Check it out."—Bill Crider
 
"Shadow Season is Tom Piccirilli at his absolute best. It is an erotically charged and brutally violent novel that will please not only his fans, but should delight anyone who enjoys intelligently written, high octane thrillers.  Shadow Season is highly recommended."—Horror World

Prizes

Short-listed for Thriller Awards (Paperback Original) 2010

Review Quote

"Tom Piccirilli straddles genres with the boldness of the best writers today, blending suspense and crime fiction into tight, brutal masterpieces.-James Rollins, author ofThe Judas Strain

Excerpt from Book

THERE''S THE SCENT OF BLOOD. FINN raises the back of his hand to block his nostrils, but it''s already too late. The smell twines through him almost lovingly, caressing at first and then spiking deep. His head burns a slick, wet red. He says, "Ah . . ." The next word should be "shit," but he can''t quite get it out. Memories surge forward into the center of his skull. A nimbus of rising color and movement tightens, clarifies, and takes form. It''s his wife Danielle on the morning of their twelfth anniversary, naked at the stove, glancing back over her freckled shoulder. She asks, "Pancakes or French toast?" Still moist from his shower he leans in, nuzzling her throat, nipping at the throbbing blue pulse, reaching around her waist to feel the taut smooth belly, and then draws her down to the kitchen floor. He likes the feeling of the cold Italian tile under his back. The aroma runs down his throat. He coughs and there''s another sound there, maybe a chuckle. The experience is strangely pleasant, almost familiar, but it still makes him a little panicky. The surgeons say it''s impossible. His psychiatrist says it''s unlikely, trying to give the benefit of the doubt as she worries a tissue between her hands. She''s getting one-fifty an hour--from his perspective she owes him a fucking doubt or two, even if he does only visit her once every six or eight weeks. They all admit that the olfactory sense is closely linked to memory, but they tell him that fresh blood has no scent because it hasn''t had a chance to oxidize yet. And Finn is always talking about such small amounts. Sometimes only a couple of drops. He knows it''s true. He''s been around blood. He''s aware of the many ways it''s likely to flow, spatter, splash. The way it drifts into cracks, the way it tastes, his own or someone else''s. He''s been covered in it, he''s lost plenty. Jesse Ellison has cut herself on a rough corner of the metal windowsill and she grunts demurely while trying to snap the lock shut. She''s sixteen and clumsy, gangly by the sound of her awkward gait. She drags her feet in the halls, often late for class and bursting through the door a minute or two after Finn''s begun his lesson plan. Despite her lankiness she''s got heft, muscle, a kind of earthiness. When she brushes against him--usually by accident but occasionally by confused teenage intention--he senses an innate strength. She plucks at his sleeve in an effort to help him along in the hallways, always trying to mother him. Finn imagines she has large hands with long, dull fingers. The other girls laugh at her and call out with derision. She seems to handle their jibes with a maturity beyond most of her classmates. When he pictures her, he sees the daughter of a domestic-dispute vic, one of the last cases he ever worked. Husband and wife radiologists, penthouse on Park Ave. Husband finds out the wife is bopping the doorman and the window cleaner, and does her with a drain cleaner cocktail. While Finn asked routine questions, the teenage daughter wandered around a living room lined with black-and-white murals of her parents striking semi-nude provocative poses, her elbows knocking photos off the piano. The girl had an open face, empty caramel-colored eyes, and slack lips, and that''s what Finn sees when he sees Jesse. Icy air seeps in the window and wafts across his face. It''s going to snow like a bitch tonight. The sound of students and their families packing up SUVs, wishing each other Merry Christmas, and saying their good-byes floats up to the second floor. He recognizes several of the fathers'' voices from various parent-teacher conferences. There''s a certain flat annoyance in each of them. They''re working men trying to give their daughters a leg up on the world by sending them to a private institution. Putting in twenty or thirty hours overtime and weekends to afford the tuition, now forced to take a day off to pick up their kids and take them home again for Christmas vacation. Their colorless speech proves they''re part of the same brotherhood of pain and uncertain values, Saturday night bowlers who want their daughters to marry better men than themselves. They shout and honk to one another as they pull away. Jesse finally manages to clamp down the lock. She hisses at the sight of her own wound. He hears her fidgeting, turning left and right, unsure of what to do next, how to stop the bleeding. A small maiden sound works up her throat. Finn reaches out to touch the blackboard and steady himself. The rage strikes quickly with the scent, as it always does, threatening to overpower him. He makes a fist with his left hand and tightens it against the head of his cane. He''s cracked a lot of them this way. His hands still retain power. The dark comes to life again, replaying what the investigators called "the incident." He''s trapped in the splinters of his own fracturing skull and feels the echoing stab of agony. It takes a second to get ahold of himself and remember where he is now, who he is now. I am stone in the night, Finn thinks. I will not break. "Have Nurse Martell look at that, Jesse," he tells her, his smile natural and easy, hiding nothing and hiding everything. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his handkerchief. "Use this. She''s still in her office, isn''t she?" He knows she is. He hasn''t heard her car drive off yet. Roz''s car is a flatulent ''58 Comet on its third turn of the odometer. There have been grease fires in the engine block, and it blows enough smoke that he can feel the oily residue on the breeze settling against his skin like a mist. When she stomps the pedal it backfires like a twelve-gauge, often making the younger girls giggle. Back in the city, it made the gangbangers dive to the curb. Jesse says, "I think so." She plucks his handkerchief from him with a short, fierce action. "How did you know I hurt myself?" she asks with a quiver of a grin in her voice. Like most people, she''s moderately impressed by this sort of carnival trick. It''s one of the reasons she has a crush on him. It''s the kind of thing that raises him to just above pitiful and makes him almost cute. Sometimes the girls want to hug him, the way people like to coo at babies or pick up midgets. He swings the cane up to tap at the stack of novels resting on the corner of his desk. "Don''t forget to take the Kerouac, Robbins, and Vonnegut." "Thanks for lending them to me, Mr. Finn." "Sure." "I''ll be careful." "I know." "You always take such good care of your books. No cracks in the spine, not a single dog-ear anywhere. Some of the girls, during study hall, they''re so nasty they spit between the pages. It''s uber-disgusting. But your copies look brand-new." Despite the fact that it''s true, Jesse doesn''t realize how ludicrous her own comment is. He''s grateful for that. She shouldn''t always have to worry about making a mistake around him, to be terrified of talking. There are some people who can''t even start a sentence with I around him because they think they''ll hurt his feelings. Still, the rage bucks against his sternum, trying to get out, wanting to scream at the kid, I fucking can''t see, what do I give a shit about books anymore? A blind man taking good care of his library. If the comment is silly, the fact is absurd. He used to be a bibliophile. He used to be concerned with the look of words and the structure of sentences. When he was a rookie he''d write up his daily logs with a kind of lyrical zeal until his lieut came down on him for it. He used to frequent secondhand shops in the city and spook the neighborhood when his radio squealed. He used to be a lot of things. Finn''s left plenty behind but there''s more he doesn''t have the courage to give up. There''s no reason to thumb through his favorite hardbacks anymore, even though the urge is still there. They sit on the shelf wasted. They are paper and he is stone. Jesse''s been borrowing novels from him all semester, one of the few students who actually does outside reading. Or even curriculum reading, for that matter. She''s hitting that phase where novels that caused a stir in the fifties and sixties hold a great interest for her. "I can''t stand how repressive the school library is," she says now. "You know someone erased the word ''fuck'' from Catcher in the Rye? And they crossed out all the ''gods'' in ''god damn.'' Isn''t that illegal?" "It is if it''s the librarian doing it." "I don''t know who''s doing it. My mother would throw a fit if she knew I was reading Slaughterhouse-Five and Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and On the Road." She''s right, Mrs. Ellison would, and without even knowing why. Simply because there are others who''ve told her that certain fiction shouldn''t be read, especially by young girls in private schools. But Finn believes that parents who would send their daughters to the St. Valarian''s Academy for Girls are already guilty of living by outdated notions of gentility. This school gives a lot but is ultimately for suckers. He thinks, Why aren''t you reading Judy Blume, kid? Or Jackie Collins? Why aren''t you cyber-stalking some jock from across the river? Why do you give a damn about Billy Pilgrim and Sal Paradise and Sissy Hankshaw? Let the parents throw their fits. He doesn''t care. He''s learned he can get away with a lot. People feel too ashamed to give him much grief. "You don''t narc on me and I won''t on you," he tells her. "Deal, Jesse?" "Deal, Mr. Finn."

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