I love Barbara Hambly’s men. I wonder if they really exist anywhere but in her head and in the heads of her readers, though I also know, the nature of writing declares that the John Aversin or Phil Cooper or Anthryg Windrose in my head and in your head and in Barbara Hambly’s head are not the same. There is just a way she creates them…the strong, yet delicate hands, the craving for knowledge or art or something just more than what they are. The pursuit of their dreams. The stories she writes are awesome, the pacing perfect, the ideas interesting, the worlds well described, and for those things alone I would read and love her books, but it is her men that I miss when I reach the end of the story. Imperfectly perfect, gawky, sometimes, but always good, always kind.

Well, all except Don Simon Ysidro. But he’s still my favorite vampire, ever.

Sometimes it has the odd ability to depress me, how lovely they are. The desire to touch something less tangible than the wind, than the words you spoke last week, than a promise.