News House of the Dragon House of the Dragon Showrunner Ryan Condal is Sorry, Not Sorry, About Season 2 Ending “We have a plan, we’re going to stick to it, we’re not going to listen to the noise in between…” By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on June 10, 2026 Courtesy of HBO Comment 0 Share New Share Courtesy of HBO The third season of House of the Dragon is coming our way, and that has caused some to once again gripe about the season two finale. Those online grumblings, however, have not changed the course of the two remaining seasons, according to showrunner Ryan Condal. “We have a plan, we’re going to stick to it, we’re not going to listen to the noise in between,” he said during a press conference that Reactor attended. Condal went on to emphasize that the four planned seasons of the show are all telling one larger story, and that people shouldn’t get upset about something that happens in the middle when they haven’t seen the end yet. “I realize that this is a four-season show, you have to wait two years in between each chapter, but ultimately this is one story we’re telling,” Condal said. “I mean, to get upset about something midway is to react in the middle of a play that you don’t like the turn that the story took in the middle…There’s a whole another two acts coming, and I think that’s where we are. I get the frustration. It’s a long downtime between seasons. It just takes a long time to make the show.” Condal then laid out the timeline. Once the scripts are done, prep and shooting take about a year, and then it takes another seven to eight months to add in the dragons. “I’m very sorry, but you guys decided to be fans of the show called House of the Dragon,” he joked, referring to the long dragon-design time. The third season of House of the Dragon premieres on HBO and HBO Max at 9 p.m. ET/PT on Sunday, June 21, 2026. Condal is currently working on the scripts for the fourth season, though the team is a few months out from prep and shooting. [end-mark] The post <i>House of the Dragon</i> Showrunner Ryan Condal is Sorry, Not Sorry, About Season 2 Ending appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts cozy fantasy Read an Excerpt From The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance by Chiara Bullen An aspiring scholar is sent to research the mysteries of an adventurer’s inn, only to uncover a centuries-old secret—and find true friendship. By Chiara Bullen | Published on June 10, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance, a new cozy fantasy by Chiara Bullen publishing with Del Rey on July 7th. Mount Vengeance is legendary. For most, it’s an adventure or a quest to prove themselves worthy of fame and glory. For Ainsworth Gladsly, it’s the perfect thesis material.Ainsworth is an ambitious research fellow and up-and-coming historian, finally ready to make his mark on the world. When his supervisor learns of the rumored Misnich Inn at the foot of Mount Vengeance, she sends Ainsworth to be the first to document the exploits of the bold adventurers who seek to face the perils of the mountain and the dragon said to inhabit it.The inn is far from the sophisticated city life he’s grown to love, but even as he grudgingly warms to its rustic charm—and its lovely innkeeper, Honey—the mystery of the mountain refuses to reveal itself. Worse, Ainsworth can’t find evidence that anyone has ever undertaken the climb. Even the bravest warriors who stay at the inn turn away from Mount Vengeance the next day.With Ainsworth’s reputation on the line, he can’t allow this mystery to remain unsolved—even if he has to push the adventurers up the mountain himself. Chapter 1 Ainsworth Gladsly assumed the moment he finally spotted the Misnich Inn would be a magnificent one—a moment worthy of the four-week torment of a journey he had undertaken to find it. He had pictured himself standing atop a cresting hill, the fresh breeze laced with wondrous isolation stirring his impeccable hair and rippling his fine, forest-green cloak as the white stone of the inn gleamed before him. At this point, his imagination told him, he would feel overcome with satisfaction that he was on the correct path—literally, yes, but also the one that would lead his research career to new heights. In a flash of clarity, the kind of brilliance that often struck him at his desk in his beloved Skarrow Library, he would no longer doubt Heritage Master Lyria’s decision to send him to this isolated, wretched corner of the kingdom. He would also no longer pine for the kinds of projects he preferred: thorough research conducted in city archives or scouring for treasures in the attics of grand homes whose heritages lingered forgotten until Ainsworth’s expertise liberated them from confinement. Yes, when he spotted the inn, all would be well in his troubled heart. Unlike most of Ainsworth’s theories, this one did not turn out as planned. For one thing, the atrocious and unpredictable weather he experienced as he neared the foot of Mount Vengeance—home to the Misnich Inn, according to his great-grandfather—was an unwelcome surprise. He was not usually so thoughtless in his assertions, but his initial reluctance to partake in this study had clouded his judgment more than the mist that obscured the view in front of him. His cloak, never needing to protect him from more than the drizzle that found its way through the towering spires of Hinslyth city, seemed to drag the rest of him and his attire down with its sodden weight. Water seeped through, into his shirt, his breeches, and worst of all his silk stockings. They were his last pair, which he had saved for the final stretch of the journey, along with his sharpest trousers and gold-buckled suspenders. He had intended to be the picture of a sophisticated scholar upon his arrival—the savior of Misnich Inn; someone to finally record and tell the story of its existence and its guests. And my, how well dressed, to boot! But he was far from the image of scholarly sophistication as he approached his destination. Utterly bedraggled, he suspected he would be mistaken for some wandering, weak adventurer instead. This was exactly why he preferred not to embark upon fieldwork beyond the major cities. When he had spent his boyhood dreaming of academic prestige and scholarly elegance, it certainly did not involve the current quantity of mud splattered all over him. He narrowed his eyes against the relentless lashing of the rain. It had been hours since he set out that morning—he had expected to arrive by now. The weather was far too foul to bring out his map, however, and it showed little sign of easing up. Once again he turned to look behind him, hoping to spot actual adventurers seeking the last haven of comfort the Misnich Inn would offer to those journeying on to Mount Vengeance. He began to fret, yet again, that the inn did not actually exist, and that all the hardship of the past few weeks would be for nothing. All he had to go on was a letter and a hand-drawn map from his great-grandfather that mentioned the inn some fifty years ago, and the reassurances from folk in the local region that, yes, adventurers did still pass through seeking the Misnich Inn’s respite before they took on the dark magical beasts of the mountain or sought the dragon’s hoard rumored to linger atop it. So why had Ainsworth not encountered any adventurers heading this way? The Misnich Inn, if it was truly down the hill in front of Ainsworth, was perhaps the most elusive stopping point for travelers in existence. As he started his trudging descent, water seeping from the saturated earth to fill his boots, he thought: Surely an inn such as this, existing to exclusively host heroes and hardy adventuring groups, would do more to distinguish itself than relying on vague, word-of-mouth rumors? What sort of inn didn’t even put up a sign pointing you in the right direction? The sort that did not want to be visited, the inquisitive part of Ainsworth wondered. Or one that did not exist at all. Buy the Book The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance Chiara Bullen Buy Book The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance Chiara Bullen Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Oh please, let that not be the case! With each step he took down the hill, he bemoaned Heritage Master Lyria’s decision to send him here. As an adult, Ainsworth barely traveled outside Hinslyth if he could help it. When research demanded it, he had done so comfortably, employing a plush carriage led by horses and a capable driver to traverse the Wildroads that connected the populous settlements of the Kingdom of Saltquart. There had been no such comforts to be found on this trip. When it became apparent as he got closer to the border of the kingdom—and subsequently to Mount Vengeance—that no one but the hardiest of adventurers came this far, and that comfortable passage could not be easily booked within the budget of his research grant, Ainsworth had initially considered turning back. For how could he, an esteemed research fellow of the Skarrow Library, be expected to traverse over mountains, across forests, and through backwater villages on foot? It simply was unfathomable! But despite the indignity of the journey—despite the fact he should, by rights, be back in Hinslyth pursing the project of his dreams instead—he knew he could not turn back. Lyria would not have it. She had been insistent that this project could produce the kind of career-defining research that would see him propelled to the top of his field. Plus, what would Enach think if Ainsworth came back a failure? And so he had carried on. Ainsworth now cursed under his breath as he almost lost his footing on the treacherous, slippery hill that, according to the map, was his final stretch of the journey. He held on tight to that thought until his feet finally met what felt like a purposefully crafted path, and his heart leapt when, after a quick scurry along the first mercifully flat surface he had encountered in a week, the Misnich Inn seemed to appear as if from nowhere. The rational side of him knew it was because the wind had picked up just as the rain died down, lifting some of the mist obscuring his vision, but he could not rid himself of the notion that the inn had appeared to him just as he wished to truly find it. Relief that it actually existed, that he had a warm place to rest his head that night, almost sent him to his knees. He was already filthy, soaking, and loath to add yet more stains to his attire, so he held himself together and took another step forward instead. And maybe there was at least some glory in the moment as his attention fixed on the large wooden door slotted into white stone at the end of the path. High, arched windows with gilded frames were peppered along each wall of the two-story building, and the golden light seeping from them was almost enough to warm him from the inside out, even as the rain-slicked slate roof served as a reminder of his sodden condition. He picked up the pace in his eagerness to gain shelter, stumbling a few times in his enthusiasm. Meaning there was nothing magnificent about the way Ainsworth arrived at the Misnich Inn. Nor was there anything magnificent about the stern-faced guard standing, arms folded, in front of it. Ainsworth straightened as he faced the final hurdle between the past grueling four weeks and what would hopefully be a roaring fireplace and a sip or two of fine wine. The guard was a head shorter than him, and despite the dreadful conditions, she stood as dry and untouched by the rain as though she had basked in sunshine all day. He watched as droplets hit a small barrier just above the surface of her skin before evaporating. A sharp silver-gray bob cut off just below her pointed ears, which were similar to his own. Her eyes briefly flitted above Ainsworth’s head, likely taking in his antlers. They were rather striking—but the guard didn’t look very impressed. “Good day, ma’am! Do not we owe thanks to the Matron for this fine weather we are having?” Ainsworth declared with a quick, conspiratorial wink. Such humor was safe, he thought, for surely even the devout could not find fault in tasking their deity for the weather! But the guard’s expression remained stony. Her face seemed much too young to suit her grayish hair, Ainsworth thought, and her eyes were sharply blue, apparent even in the dim, fading light of the day. She offered no reply. “Erm…” Ainsworth cleared his throat. “My name is Ainsworth Gladsly, and I seek a room for the night. May I enter?” He resisted the urge to point to the water droplets falling steadily from his antlers. No response. “I— Does your position here imply that the rooms are fully occupied?” Again, silence. “Is it gold you require?” He rummaged under the damp fabric of his cloak to retrieve his coin pouch. His thumb brushed the golden charm of a snowdrop attached to its drawstring. “How much for entry?” Finally, she raised a silver brow and spoke. “I do not want coin.” Ainsworth, exasperated, stuffed his coin pouch back into his pocket. “Then what do you want? Please, it is cold and I am soaked. We don’t all have the ability to cast such a practical spell, you know!” The guard jerked her head, indicating the space behind him. “Looks like you can cast something, at least.” Ah. He turned to the trunk he had enchanted to levitate and follow behind him. It was drooping precariously close to the ground, and if he was not admitted soon, he would have no energy to keep it afloat. “Well, does it please you to know that such an effort is the best of my spellcasting abilities?” Ainsworth rubbed his forehead. “Please, may I—?” A rush of warmth and light spilled out from behind the guard as the door creaked open. “Ashe? Is something wrong? Oh goodness! Hello!” The figure peering from behind the door clutched an empty tray against her chest like a small, makeshift shield. Behind it, full white skirts were restrained behind a brown apron. She initially poked her head out, then quickly withdrew again with a grimace when she felt the rain hit her. Two small, curled white horns stuck out from a mass of black, loosely curling hair that fell past her shoulders, stark against cool teal skin. Her golden eyes shining beneath the wisps of hair covering her forehead were akin to the amber glow of warmth that radiated from the inn. Ainsworth also noted the presence of a pointed tail resting by her scuffed boots; this could only belong to a tyflan. Ainsworth sighed before replying. Keeping up courtesy despite the heady weight of exhaustion, as well as his rising irritation at this entire assignment and the guard in front of him, was no small feat. “Good day, ma’am. This guard is refusing entry to this establishment.” “Ashe! Let the poor fellow inside. Look at the state of him!” Ainsworth bristled. She was not exactly the epitome of style herself! Ashe shrugged and shifted the long, gnarled staff she held from one hand to another. “I do not like the look of him, Honey.” “Well, I never—!” Ainsworth started, but he was quickly drowned out by the rushed apologies of what he now suspected was the innkeeper. “Ashe, we do not refuse entry to any adventurers! Let him pass, please,” the figure—Honey?—pleaded. Ainsworth’s relief was short-lived as Ashe replied, “He is not an adventurer.” She delivered another jerk of the chin toward his floating trunk. “He is some sort of merchant. A salesman, perhaps. Just look at the size of that trunk—I’ve never seen anything like it.” He reddened. His research materials, and fine clothes to uphold his reputation as a scholar, required such a sizable trunk! “I am not a merchant. And I’ll have you know, my trunk was custom-made in Hinslyth, thank you very much!” He was truly getting sick of her attitude, and the drifting, savory scent of whatever food was being prepared inside was doing nothing to improve his mood. “Oh?” Honey cocked her head as she looked him up and down. “Well, if you aren’t a merchant, then who are you? Why are you here?” He was aghast. “I—I have my reasons, but what kind of inn makes a paying guest justify their reasons for staying?” “This one!” Ashe replied, at the same time as Honey mumbled: “You have a point, I suppose.” Ashe threw him a foul look. “What reasons, then?” The innkeeper put her hand on Ashe’s shoulder, passing through the barrier cast against the rain. They looked to be of a similar age. If they had the same brief human life span that Ainsworth did, he’d place them somewhere in their mid-twenties. “How about we let him explain inside, after he’s warm and dry?” “That would be very much appreciated!” Ainsworth huffed, glaring at Ashe when she finally stepped aside. Honey spun on her heels and beckoned him forward. Ashe’s unwelcoming behavior had put Ainsworth on edge, deepening his misery while riling his temper—so much so that he barely registered the significance of crossing the threshold. He was finally here—firmly on the way to being the first scholar to record the tales of adventurers who took on Mount Vengeance, and to give an account of the strange inn that offered them respite before the task. And that had to be a good thing, right? He quickly found himself in what would be the communal dwelling space of the Misnich Inn, had there been anyone else to share it with. Just beyond the doorway to the right, Honey hopped behind a small administrative counter topped with a bronze till and a scattering of scrolls. Behind her and dangling from hooks on the wall, keys brightly reflected the light of the blazing hearth on the opposite side of the room. Between hearth and counter sat an array of empty, round wooden tables and slim chairs that would have been rustic in style if not for the intricate carving of what looked like ivy leaves adorning the backs. The carvings mirrored the ivy that swirled and spun around the thick beams of the high ceilings, with some strands trailing down as though striving to reach the inhabitants below. Ainsworth had a potted ivy plant back at his rooms at Skarrow, but he had never considered letting it run quite so riot. Irritably, he brushed some away from his antlers before they got tangled. “Do we have a guest?” wheezed a voice. Ainsworth carefully moved a dense bundle of leaves out of his way and cleared a line of sight to the bar. The scowling eyes of a dwarf, almost hidden under thick brows and a shock of wispy red hair, peered over the counter. “Yes, we do, Bren!” Honey said. “Yes, we do,” she added in a whisper, as if to only herself. Ainsworth cleared his throat. “Well, then. I require a private room—one bed, and a desk, preferably.” Honey gave an apologetic smile. “None of our rooms have a desk, I’m afraid. Nor do any contain only one bed. We don’t offer private accommodation.” “Well, that’s just marvelous,” he muttered. At least, he supposed as he surveyed the room, there was no shortage of tables available. “Very well. I’ll take a bed in the smallest room, please. Will this be enough to stay for a moon’s turning?” He plopped his coin pouch on the counter, inviting the innkeeper to count it. Honey gaped at Ainsworth. “You want to stay for an entire moon’s turning? For forty nights? Here?” Her tail twitched restlessly behind her. “Our guests typically only stay a night—if at all.” She gestured to the open space, which was notably absent of the aforementioned guests. “I require a longer stay.” Ainsworth attempted to smooth his wet hair. He stood taller and straightened the fastener of his cloak. “Let me introduce myself properly. My name is Ainsworth Gladsly, and I’m a research fellow at the Skarrow Library in Hinslyth. I am here to make a record of the Misnich Inn and its occupants, to make its presence forever known to history. I will also be the first to document the accounts of those who attempt to conquer Mount Vengeance, thus helping these adventurers not only to establish a name for themselves, but also to secure their names in songs and tales spread across the kingdom for generations to come!” He was slightly breathless when he finished—the rush of words coming unexpectedly, as they often did when he got a chance to talk about his profession, his calling—and it was then he realized that perhaps Lyria could be right, that this project could very much be worth his time and effort. The brightest, most ambitious adventurers would be cataloged by Ainsworth, their place in history marked by his own hands. For what greater honor could there be than when, in making a name for yourself, you made a name for others in the process? Yes, this would be worth it, he told himself. It had to be worth it. If he managed to coax a coherent, interesting history out of this place, perhaps discover the next hero of the Saltquart Kingdom, he would prove his worth—to everyone at the Skarrow Library, and to himself. “Goodness! How… ambitious!” Honey squeaked, a slight flush to her cheeks. “Why yes, it is, isn’t it?” Ainsworth smirked, knowing all too well the impressive portrait he and his academic accolades painted. He ignored the small snort from the direction of the bar. “Do you— Do you plan on tackling the mountain yourself, alongside the adventurers you seek?” she asked. “Matron, no!” Ainsworth shuddered. The very idea! First and foremost, he was not trained in the type of observational research methods that such an endeavor would require. Instead, he possessed an enviable ability to uncover stories from just about anyone or anything—helping research subjects weave what they thought were mundane aspects of their lives into the significant markers of heritage and history that they were, or tirelessly following the smallest of leads to unearth the importance of seemingly inconsequential objects or documents. Ainsworth knew his place. He recorded history; he did not make it. Plus, there was the small matter of his lackluster spellcasting, his meager physical strength, and his lack of combat ability with any weapon whatsoever. Honey considered him with what he took to be wariness, so he quickly cleared his throat and amended: “Alas, I do not have the provisions or the practical skills for such a task. Instead, I seek to connect with the guests who do possess such things, to ensure their story is never forgotten—as has been the case thus far, I believe.” “Right. However, there’s just one problem—” Honey began. Ainsworth held a hand aloft to stop her. “I know; I can see. There are no guests. But surely across forty nights I will encounter at least a handful, and of those I imagine some will be successful in their quest. And in the meantime, I can document the history of this inn.” “Very well, that’s… nice.” Honey could not seem to look at him, fixing her gaze on her clawed hands instead. “But it isn’t that,” she added, finally looking up at him. “Whatever else could be the matter?” Ainsworth asked through gritted teeth. Oh, how he longed to sink into a hot bath! “You see…” Honey began, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, briefly disturbing the small, shining trinkets dangling from her horns. “In my time as innkeeper, no one who has ever stayed here has actually gone on to Mount Vengeance. Oh, they arrive here full of those intentions. But come the next morning, they all decide not to go through with it. They turn back. Head home.” A few seconds of heavy silence descended. Ainsworth did not quite let the enormity of her words settle over him. Eventually, he placed his hands on the counter. “You jest,” he said in a quivering voice that barely carried the weight of his frustration. “She doesn’t,” called the barman from across the room. “Fancy an ale, lad?” Excerpted from The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance, copyright © 2026 by Chiara Bullen. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance</i> by Chiara Bullen appeared first on Reactor.

News Project Hail Mary Project Hail Mary Gets Streaming Release Date… on MGM+ Amaze! By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on June 10, 2026 Courtesy of Amazon MGM Studios Comment 0 Share New Share Courtesy of Amazon MGM Studios Amazon MGM Studios’ Project Hail Mary, the film adapted from Andy Weir’s book of the same name that stars Ryan Gosling and the bestest alien named Rocky, is set to come to a television near you… on MGM+. The streamer announced the news that the movie, directed by Phil Lord & Christopher Miller, will exclusively be on their platform starting on June 18, 2026. You might think it’s surprising that Amazon MGM has decided to have the blockbuster feature stream on MGM+ rather than Prime Video (the studio owns them both). It’s not that surprising, however, if you consider that they might want more people to subscribe to the less popular MGM+, which is also the home of the excellent series, From. Project Hail Mary also isn’t the first Amazon MGM product to premiere on MGM+. Nic Cage’s Spider Noir also exclusively premiered on MGM+ and then became available on Prime Video two days later. Whether Project Hail Mary will follow suit is unclear, but I think odds are good we’ll also be able to see it on Prime Video in the near future. Here’s a synopsis of the film, in case you haven’t watched it yet and are itching to subscribe to MGM+ to do so: Science teacher Ryland Grace (Gosling) wakes up on a spaceship light years from home with no recollection of who he is or how he got there. As his memory returns, he begins to uncover his mission: solve the riddle of the mysterious substance causing the sun to die out. He must call on his scientific knowledge and unorthodox ideas to save everything on Earth from extinction… but an unexpected friendship means he may not have to do it alone. In addition to Gosling and Rocky, the film stars Sandra Hüller, James Ortiz, Lionel Boyce, Ken Leung, Milana Vayntrub, and Priya Kansara. The script for the adaptation comes from Drew Goddard. Sign up for MGM+ and check out Project Hail Mary on June 18, 2026. [end-mark] The post <i>Project Hail Mary</i> Gets Streaming Release Date… on MGM+ appeared first on Reactor.

Books Smoke and Mirrors: Stephen Graham Jones’ The Buffalo Hunter Hunter (Part 9) Could tobacco make one’s blood toxic to a vampire? By Ruthanna Emrys, Anne M. Pillsworth | Published on June 10, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share Welcome back to Reading the Weird, in which we get girl cooties all over weird fiction, cosmic horror, and Lovecraftiana—from its historical roots through its most recent branches. This week, we cover Chapters 17-18 of Stephen Graham Jones’ Nebula AND Stoker Award winning The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. The book was first published in 2025. Spoilers ahead! The Absolution of Three-Persons, April 28, 1912. Good Stab’s come and gone, and Arthur’s still alive. He believes it’s because he’s been smoking Chesterfield cigarettes. Once tobacco made long trudges through the snow tolerable. Now it lets him “relax into himself for the first time in days.” Their very mass-produced regularity comforts him by suggesting “a modern world where order reigned supreme… advancing steadily and implacably forward, to bring civilization to the savage wilds.” Also, he hopes tobacco residue will make his blood toxic to his tormentor. The Chesterfields can ward against Good Stab’s teeth, if not against “his corrupt and corrupting presence.” That presence makes itself known as Arthur smokes in a pew. He looks up to see that the wooden effigy of Jesus is gone from the over-altar crucifix; Good Stab hangs there instead. He descends in terrifying silence, then extinguishes all the candles except one, which he gives to Arthur. They resume their usual pews and verbal sparring, while outside the town strays devour food lefty by parishioners for their ailing pastor. Good Stab says he’s decapitated Jesus and left his head in a horse trough. The head later appears on the church steps, presumably returned by boys fearful of being accused of the desecration. Good Stab thanks Arthur for sending Sheriff Doyle to the grasslands for easy slaughter. Arthur, who’s been dealing his adversary jabs he half-expects will goad his own death, finally asks Good Stab to take him rather than further victims. Good Stab declines. With the desperation of He who asked “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me,” Arthur asks, “Why are you here?” The answer: “Because you remember too, though you pretend it never happened.” Good Stab has come to remind him. When Arthur says please do, he mocks, “You listen with a good heart?” Arthur tells Good Stab, “I listen with the only one I have.” The Nachzehrer’s Dark Gospel, April 28, 1912. It took two winters for Good Stab to recover from smoking with his father. It would have taken even longer if Wolf Calf hadn’t carried him to Napi’s dugout and left him in the god’s care. Napi tells him endless stories to carry him through his “long cold fever.” Through clever switching between the Pikuni and napikwan languages, Napi also schools Good Stab in English. He’ll need it to navigate napikwan towns and find Arthur. All the way up in the Backbone, Napi felt what Arthur had done, and it made him cry. Arthur has wondered if Good Stab can die. Yes, as simply as by eating nothing but “dirty-faces,” mice, until he became just a big dirty-face himself, forgetting all he used to be. However desirable such oblivion, Good Stab’s declined it. He had to wait for Arthur to return to Pikuni territory, and so Napi fed Good Stab through those two winters on his own blood. He feeds him once more before pushing him away and into dreams of his first death at the hands of napikwan soldiers. It has taken Good Stab years to fully remember his two winters with Napi. Now he carries all of Napi’s stories with him, their sole keeper until he dies for good. He doesn’t like carrying the Cat Man inside him, but if it means he lives long enough to see the Pikuni vindicated, he’ll endure it. Good Stab gives a brief history of his travels between Napi’s dugout and his meeting with Arthur. He encounters a band of “Rabbit Men” in search of “black sky iron” that will bring back their dead. He continues to keep safe the white buffalo Weasel Plume and his increasing herd, and to feed (not infrequently enough) on other Pikuni. He comes across Pikuni who now hunt buffalo just for their tradeable hides. He can judge, yet not judge them, given his own crimes of survival. He follows a raven, the spirit animal of the Pikuni boy he rescued. It leads him to the Fat Melters’ camp, where a young nightrider (horse herd guardian) named Yellow Kidney tells him what he witnessed of the Marias River massacre, and how it was started by a napikwan scout shooting Heavy River as he showed his “papers.” But the boy doesn’t know this scout’s name. He does know that Good Stab is The Fullblood, because Happy talks about him. Happy is his rescued “raven boy,” now a medicine man. At night, when Yellow Kidney guards his herd, Good Stab visits the boy’s lodge. He discovers his sister is comatose from a head injury. Before morning, after basking in the warmth of the sleeping family and grieving for the girl, he drinks her. When he leaves, he’s ambushed by the “Rabbit Men,” seeking vengeance for the one he killed earlier. They leave him as dead as he can be. As he’s recovering, Happy finds him. He says that Wolf Calf is still alive and the oldest Pikuni left. What should Happy tell him? That his son is dead, Good Stab says. A year passes before Good Stab returns to the Fat Melters’ camp, again led by Happy’s raven. He leaves an antelope for Yellow Kidney’s mother, then hides, waiting for Yellow Kidney to return from nightriding. Instead, he sees the mother send men out to look for her boy. The men spot and pursue Good Stab, but he finds Yellow Kidney first, dead, his neck bitten as Good Stab had bitten his sister’s, but Good Stab didn’t kill him! Then he sees that the boy lies on the robe of a white buffalo, freshly skinned. Good Stab runs, and has been running ever since. He would now tell the pastor his pipe is empty, but Arthur must realize it’s been empty for half of Good Stab’s life. If life is what one could call his existence. What’s Cyclopean: Learning English “burned inside at first, but then, like bees coming back to their nest, each one found its little hole to sleep in, that it fit in”. Good Stab hopes that Pikuni words will sting Arthur “the whole way in”. The Degenerate Dutch: The same acumen that might be an “admirable trait” in a writer (like Arthur with his journal) is merely cruelty in “a savage with nefarious intent.” Seven Deadly Sins and Counting: Arthur tries to send Sheriff Doyle after Good Stab, with unfortunate results for the sheriff—Arthur’s guilt for that is at least partly earned. Gluttony is at a wane this week, with parishioner offerings left on the stoop for the dogs. Anne’s Commentary Anyone conversant with Buffy the Vampire Slayer will know that tobacco is not an effective vampire repellant; Spike is rarely without a cig in hand, if only to reinforce his bad-boy image. Nor does traditional vampire folklore recommend the herb as a deterrent. Never mind—there are excellent reasons why Graham Jones selects tobacco as the garlic of his Blackfeet vampires. When Arthur (puffing away on his Chesterfield) asks Good Stab if he misses smoking, Good Stab must nod “reluctantly, perhaps bitterly.” “All things that made me Pikuni are like that now,” he says, waving away secondhand smoke. Not that it’s a coffin nail from Arthur’s pack he craves. What Arthur clutches as a comforting manifestation of the white man’s increasingly industrialized and homogeneous society, a shield against savagery, Good Stab may well find an anathema. In a windspeaker.com article, Mel Ironshirt of the Kainai Nation points out that: “The Blackfoot people can trace tobacco use back to 1200 A.D. and it was always used as an offering to our Creator. One Elder mentioned that if you light up a cigarette bought in a store the smoke doesn’t go up straight. It tends to linger down where our children are playing. When you light our tobacco for sacred or ceremonial use, the smoke takes our message and our prayers to the heavens where we can be heard.” So seriously did the Blackfeet Nation take the distinction between commercial (recreational) tobacco products and ceremonial tobacco that it put into law the Blackfeet Tobacco Free Act. Its Preamble dedicates the ordinance to “all the Blackfeet members who have died and suffer from commercial tobacco related cancers and diseases.” Below, it’s clarified that: “Blackfeet cultural, spiritual and ceremonial use of tobacco is an inherent immutable component of the Blackfeet Cultural Landscape. The Blackfeet Tobacco Free Act does not ban, prohibit or restrict in any manner the traditional, cultural, spiritual, and ceremonial sacred tobacco use by the Blackfeet People.” Good Stab would indeed smoke his tobacco with a difference, except he can’t. It’s one more link to his people the Cat Man has severed. What remains is a drive to maintain the appearance of being Pikuni, sustainable only by preying on Pikunis. That’s a blood tie fatal for one kinsperson and deeply corrupting for the other. The dialogue between Arthur and Good Stab has grown more fraught with each meeting in those two back pews. In Chapter 17, the charade that one is the confessor and the other the supplicant, the normal sacramental situation, has broken down. A Christian priest or pastor isn’t supposed to be faultless, above confession; as Romans 3:23 puts it, “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” Good Stab fills his “gospel” with graphic descriptions of his many revenge killings and fatal feedings. He revels in some, while suffering intense remorse for others. Arthur writes at tedious length about his bouts of gluttony; his big sin he dodges, even though he’s battered more and more with the conviction that Good Stab knows what his maxima culpa is, and Good Stab knows that Arthur knows he knows it. When Good Stab pointedly thanks Arthur for sending Doyle out into the grasslands, an easy victim, Arthur can admit he feels guilty about that, while in his next sentence implying that Good Stab’s desecration of the church crucifix was a worse crime. A couple pages later, he even claims that his was an “unwitting complicity in such an abhorrent act.” Who really wants, or needs, to be absolved here? How many people has Good Stab killed, Arthur challenges. Good Stab will give him the count when it’s done. Arthur assumes that will be when he himself is among that number. The question of absolution, for pastor or monster or both, may be decided when Good Stab can compare his headcount with that of the Pikuni dead in Heavy Runner’s Bear Creek camp. Ruthanna’s Commentary Traditionally, vampires are held back by the things they valued in life. Crosses, for example, or garlic—in Eastern Europe, where garlic seasons everything and might well be the source of life. Good Stab is sensitive to tobacco, which is sacred to his people. But it’s also a substance appropriated and turned into a secular addiction by napikwan. Arthur thinks of his cigarettes like “soldiers in a column, advancing steadily and implacably forward, to bring civilization to the savages wilds.” Empire, like cigarettes, is toxic and addictive. So stuff that once helped make Good Stab Pikuni, has been warped to make Arthur napikwan. He thinks of them as a ward against the nachzehrer, and they seem to have at least some effect even when Good Stab doesn’t inhale. This isn’t the only place where they “play” tug-of-war with each other’s beloved symbols. Good Stab hides—and replaces—the wooden Christ from the front of the church. Does he also think of himself as offering a “dark gospel,” or is this just another coup to count? Good Stab also pulls down an American flag, the thing that “flies above every camp of dead Indians.” But it’s the buffalo, central to both napikwan and Pikuni understanding of what it means to be Indian, at the center of this battle. That battle is now much more open: Arthur and Good Stab acknowledge their mutual hostility, both trying to count coup. Arthur notices that Good Stab’s braids aren’t those appropriate to the Blackfeet, but amid their back-and-forth doesn’t bring that up. Would it tell too much, that he knows? Instead, he spouts dramatic but ineffective lines about the “secular nature” of Happy’s spiritual awakening. Does that challenge Good Stab’s faith? Why should it, when he already ties his own existence to the spiritual and sacred? Arthur may recognize Pikuni hairstyles, but doesn’t get a worldview in which “secular” isn’t a separate category. That worldview’s emphasized in this week’s “gospel,” where Napi rescues Good Stab from his supernatural asthma attack and nurses him through two years of recovery. The spirit’s generosity has limits, but they’re broad. Along with sharing His blood that doesn’t run out, Napi also teaches His patient English. Good Stab has clearly picked up not only the language but the method: his confession plays that same trick of inserting more and more of Pikuni terminology as he goes along, informing both Arthur and the reader. Useful for the reader, disturbing for Arthur. Arthur fears getting eaten, but it seems there are other things he fears at least as much. Guilt that can’t be expunged. Remembering… what? Good Stab assures us that there’s something, “though you pretend it never happened.” How much of Arthur’s wittering about cake hides deeper complicities? “Oh, to be so young and easily punished again,” he thinks wistfully. But Good Stab is right there, punishing easily—perhaps what he misses is being easily done with punishment, and done with thinking about the deed that earned it. Arthur’s not the only one who makes excuses, though. Good Stab’s desperation to remain Pikuni brings him from consuming a dying elder, to a lost man with a broken leg (a real-bear will eat him anyway), to another banished by his band (if he lives, he’ll be scared without his people), to someone who’s perfectly fine (Good Stab dresses like a Crow, so his prey will be proud to die fighting an enemy). It’s surprisingly reminiscent of Arthur’s explanations when faced with a nice casserole. The two of them, uncomfortably, have a lot in common. How much, and exactly what… those are questions to be answered in a future week. And which Arthur, in particular, would rather not address. The reader, on the other hand, is increasingly eager to find out what the hell is going on. Next week, we continue our Stoker-awarded enjoyment with a selection from Kristy Park Kulski’s Silk and Sinew: A Collection of Folk Horror from the Asian Diaspora: Avida Shonibar’s “An Unholy Terroir.”[end-mark] The post Smoke and Mirrors: Stephen Graham Jones’ <i>The Buffalo Hunter Hunter</i> (Part 9) appeared first on Reactor.

Featured Essays Spider-Noir Where Spider-Noir Fails To Live Up To Its Genre — And Where It Succeeds Age-of-Streaming-and-Smartphone foibles aside, there’s a lot of what’s good about noir in the Spider show. By Ellery Weil | Published on June 10, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share I knew the minute this show walked in the door. It had killer legs—eight of them, to be specific. The kind of show you watched, whiskey in hand, on a dark night in this crazy town. But what I didn’t expect, in giving this wild, mixed-up show a chance, was where it would take me. I’m speaking, of course, of Spider-Noir. One of the latest additions to the sprawling canon of Spider-Man-inspired media, although not part of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, the show debuted on Amazon Prime with not one, but two viewing options: black and white, or “True-Vue Color.” Starring Nicolas Cage as the titular arachnid, the show bills itself not only as another adventure with everyone’s favorite crime-fighting web-slinger, but as a way to introduce less familiar viewers to the noir genre. It’s fun. It’s flashy. It’s a refreshingly novel Spider adventure. But as a tribute to, or recreation of, classic noir media, it stumbles.  For a show so enamored of classic noir that there are arguments to be made that you shouldn’t watch it colorized, it seems to shy away, visually, when it comes to camerawork. Noir as a genre is full of shadows and angles, of the half-seen character or image appearing under the brim of a hat, in the glow of a midnight streetlight, in the rain. Spider-Noir, by contrast, faces itself dead-on. Characters are positioned directly in front of the camera, lit attractively, but without any of the ambiguity that the deep shadows of a noir film mark out. The whole show, with a few key exceptions, is just a little too bright, missing just a touch of visual ambiguity. As with the lighting, so goes the blocking. There’s a pivotal scene early in the series, where Nic Cage’s Ben Reilly, private eye and secret Spider, sees a lounge act by performer Cat Hardy. Rather than the intimate, low-ceilinged club that a genuine 1940s noir would utilize, Hardy is performing in a venue just shy of Radio City Music Hall. Moreover, rather than Reilly watching her from off one side, with an emphasis on his status as a “face in the crowd,” the camera zeroes in on Reilly’s face, directly, as the crowd seemingly fades away, leaving him and Hardy the only ones in the room. It certainly speaks to a point, but it’s far from the noir tradition. In fact, many of the dead-on, perfectly centered shots in Spider-Noir seem less noir and more “made for streaming.” Notoriously, Netflix’s original content has a distinct “look” that’s intended to make it easier to watch on smaller devices, or while slightly distracted, and sometimes it seems Spider-Noir falls into the same patterns, at the expense of its genre. This is likely, as with Netflix, also serving another purpose: to make cropping for social media ads easier, even at the expense of more interesting shots. This is not, however, to say that Spider-Noir is a failure, either as a work of television or as a tribute to the noir genre. It’s neither. In fact, as television, I personally call it a hit. The plot moves along nicely, the characters are compelling, and the whole project feels fresh, with touches of comedy to leaven the action. As a tribute to noir, or even as a straight-up noir project, it may not hit every target, but when it makes the mark, it does so joyfully. Take, for instance, the character of Janet Ruiz, Ben Reilly’s secretary. What a dame! That is to say, a charming take from Karen Rodriguez on the competent, wise-cracking side character who has no time for a noir hero’s moping, even as they help them crack the case. It’s a tradition with such iconic members as Lee Patrick’s Effie Perrine in The Maltese Falcon, Lucille Ball’s Kathleen Stewart in The Dark Corner, and even Thelma Ritter’s Stella in Rear Window, and Rodriguez does it more than justice. Similar kudos to anything and everything to do with the “scoop” reporter Robbie Robertson, played with flair by Lamorne Morris. Image: Prime Video Visually, there are things Spider-Noir does right as well. Shots where the camera is positioned at an angle give a feel that’s part noir, part comic book panel. Pre-episode recaps are pleasingly zippy, and the costumes are beautifully done, with a just-slightly-exaggerated style that recalls vintage media rather than vintage day-to-day clothes. It works well enough that I’ve found myself wondering where I could get my own greedy mitts on some of Cat Hardy’s outfits which, not coincidentally, is a feeling I’ve felt while watching films from the ‘30s and ‘40s. I even like the color palette, for those who choose the True-Vue option, done in a slightly saturated way that does recall colorized film rather than something shot in color. The other aspect where Spider-Noir does its genre justice is in its comedic touches. While “noir” may literally refer to darkness, the genre is very different from the self-consciously gritty aesthetic sometimes erroneously referred to as “grimdark.” While characters may be caught in a jam, or have fallen in with the wrong crowd on the wrong side of the tracks, the films aren’t meant to feel heavy, or unhappy, and neither does Spider-Noir.  When Cage’s Reilly is impersonating a member of a non-existent “Benevolent Society” and repeatedly punctuates his sentences with “yeah, see?” he’s doing so to question, and eventually threaten, a witness, but it’s also legitimately and intentionally funny. There’s a lightness to his relationship with a local, cap-wearing, streetwise newsboy, to say nothing of Janet Ruiz’s bribing bank tellers with burgers, or Robbie Robertson’s not-so-secret notes to Reilly in the paper. It all recalls some of Sam Spade’s best wisecracks, and provides a welcome note of difference between Spider-Noir and, for instance, Zack Snyder’s take on Watchmen, where there were plenty of noir-inspired visuals, but the complex plot would have made levity a challenge at any rate. And maybe any modern noir was always going to have its differences from the classics of the form. Styles come to be as a result of their time and place; noir came to prominence in the 1930s and 40s as the result of the Great Depression, and postwar fatigue felt on a global scale. While modern people might see parallels between those times and our own, they are not the same. Maybe we aren’t faithfully, perfectly recreating a vintage film style because, artistically, we can’t; the world has moved on, and we’re different now.  More to the point, does it matter? The question of whether Spider-Noir lives up to the noir genre it bills itself as might be less important than the question of whether it’s something worth making, and worth watching.  And that’s a much easier question to answer: in a word, yes. Spider-Noir is good, and both noir fans and neophytes will have a good time watching it. While it may not be a beat-for-beat tribute to classic noir, it recognizes not just what makes the genre “cool,” but what makes it fun. As I’ve written about before, it works because, between the Hoovervilles and World War One veterans that populate the show, the gangsters and artists and blackmailers our heroes encounter, it takes its time, place, and genre seriously, while not being so self-serious that it lacks a spark. So go watch it, see?[end-mark] The post Where <i>Spider-Noir</i> Fails To Live Up To Its Genre — And Where It Succeeds appeared first on Reactor.