David B. Coe, writing as D.B. Jackson, sold the first two books in his Thief-Taker Series to James Frenkel at Tor. The Knight Agency’s Lucienne Diver, who made the deal, says the books were “pitched as Harry Dresden meets Sam Adams.”

Under his own name, Coe is the author of the Lon Tobyn Chronicle trilogy, the five-book Winds of the Forelands series, and the Blood of the Southlands trilogy (the third volume, The Dark-Eyes’ War, will be published in February 2010), all of which were published by Tor.

From my WFC chatter w/ David, i think Samuel Adams, of Tea Party fame, is correct. I think it’s set in colonial America.

For any of you who have discovered you love my work so much you’ll read anything with my name on it, I should mention I have two new tie-in projects coming out next year – the novelization of the Sony game God of War, and a player to be named later (I don’t release project news before the publisher does – I guess I’m just superstitious that way).

Offering deeper insights into the critically acclaimed God of War® franchise, this novel returns us to the dark world of ancient Greek mythology explored in the heart-pounding action of God of War I, the bestselling video game.

A brutal warrior, Kratos is a slave to the gods of Olympus. Plagued by the nightmares of his past and yearning for freedom, the Ghost of Sparta would do anything to be free of his debt to the gods. He is on the verge of losing all hope when the gods give him one last task to end his servitude.

He must destroy Ares, the god of war.

But what chance does a mere mortal have against a god? Armed with the deadly chained Blades of Chaos, guided by the goddess Athena, and driven by his own insatiable thirst for vengeance, Kratos seeks the only relic powerful enough to slay Ares . . . a quest that will take him deep into the mysterious temple borne by the Titan Cronos!

From the black depths of Hades to the war-torn city of Athens to the lost desert beyond, God of War sheds a brutal new light on the bestselling video game and on the legend of Kratos.

Sometimes it’s tears in a shopping mall. Sometimes it’s solemn watching while others play. Sometimes it’s calling for a runaway puppy.

This time it’s the skitter of gravel under bicycle wheels, long after dark.

This time.

US 30 unrolled under their wheels like a red carpet to Nebraska, bleached gray by the van’s headlamps. Heavy clouds like boulders in the sky knocked together and rolled apart in their eastbound avalanche. Each glimpse of the huge round moon transformed the highway into a twisted silver spine. Headhigh corn lined the road either side, swaying in the wind like breathing walls in a morphine nightmare.

Frankie slouched down in the passenger seat and slicked his tangled hair back with the sweat from his palms. His imagination was getting away with him again.

“Iowa,” he said, a little too loud. “Breadbasket to the world. God’s country. Buckle on the Bible Belt. Land of cornfed Republicans.”

“Shut up,” Decker said flatly. He squinted at the road through the greasy smoke of the Pall Mall that dangled from his lower lip. Decker didn’t have any imagination at all. Sometimes Frankie admired him for that. “We’re hittin Carroll in about five minutes. Get in back an sit on the littlefuckers.”