"Some days, Simon, I really loathe you," Mariel said, with just a hint of genuine venom. She dropped the Writers Digest on the table, its cover and front pages folded back to reveal a page mostly consumed by a photo of Simon at his writing desk. The image was full of deep shadows, moody, and deliberately included the dark, heavy bookshelves that surrounded him, their worn hardwood planks supporting hundreds of hardback classics, sheaves of loose papers, and the occasional occult or funerary artifact - a human skull here, a hand of glory there. Block letters above it pronounced Simon to be the "Modern Master of Horror and the Macabre." Simon sipped his espresso double-shot latte and produced a wry smile. "It's not my fault if you can't keep up." She twisted her mouth into a sarcastic kiss and pretended to fix her lipstick with her middle finger. "Some of us just refuse to sell our artistic integrity on the open market," she said
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