For his latest solo outing, Lincoln Child (author of Terminal Freeze, Deep Storm, and the Pendergast series with frequent co-writer Douglas Preston) shifts the tomb-raiders-battle-ancient-evil story from the clichés of the genre by moving the setting away from the usual sand-swept plains of Egypt. Instead, The Third Gate places protagonist Jeremy Logan -- an internationally renowned "enigmalogist" -- in "the Sudd," a mucky swamp south of the Egyptian border.

One character describes the Sudd as "a region thousands of square miles across, not so much swamp as an impenetrable labyrinth of papyrus reeds and waterlogged trunks. And mud. Mud everywhere, mud more treacherous than quicksand. The Sudd isn't deep, often just thirty or forty feet in places, but in addition to being horribly honeycombed with braided undergrowth, its water is so full of silt, divers can't see an inch beyond their face. The water's full of crocodiles by day, the air full of mosquitoes by night. All the early explorers gave up trying to cross it and eventually went around."

So, not exactly a top-ten travel destination, even for those on a budget. It's there, under the mucky nightmare, that a team of fortune hunters hopes to uncover the true resting place of Narmer, the first pharaoh of unified Egypt.

Countless horror movies have told us that messing with final resting places usually leads to badness -- ectoplasm in your hair, bleeding walls, that kind of thing. And if this weren't the case with the hunt for Narmer, well, Jeremy Logan's presence wouldn't be necessary. But, of course, enough does go wrong to require the special skills of an enigmalogist.

So why should The Third Gate make your summer reading list? Easy -- the shiver-inducing story is guaranteed to help you cut down on your air-conditioning costs.

Slate recently compared Joe Spork, the protagonist of Nick Harkaway's ripping spy novel Angelmaker, to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy's Arthur Dent and Neverwhere's Richard Mayhew. Accurate comparisons, both. Like its spiritual predecessors, Angelmaker is a breezy read in spite of its intricate plot, which concerns a mild-mannered clockmaker (the son of one of London's most infamous gentleman gangsters) who unwittingly triggers a doomsday device. ("Whoops" doesn't quite cover the gravity of the situation.) It features a terrifying, Bond-esque villain, heaps of humor, and a moody steampunk atmosphere, not to mention some of the sharpest writing to come out of the sci-fi genre in a while.

What really sold me, however, was a relatively small moment not too long into the book. As a horror-movie aficionado, nothing grates more than seeing characters so willingly stepping up like lambs to the inevitable slaughter. "There's a horrible killer on the loose! Wait, what was that sound?" "I don't know but I'M GOING TO CHECK IT OUT!" Kids, you're going to die either way, at least let me pretend the monster is outwitting a worthy adversary. I can't root for your survival if you're not making a go of it yourself. So it was a great comfort to see the following exchange:

"You have it? Here? Now? How long do we have? Come on, man, they won’t be far behind!"
"Who won’t?" but Joe Spork is already moving, old instinct demands it: when someone says 'they’re coming' you go out the back first and get details later.

Indeed, from that moment on I knew I was in the hands of an author who gets it, who knows how to tweak the genre with one hand and pay homage to it with the other. And really, genre in the singular isn't even a fair word to apply to Angelmaker — sci-fi, steampunk, and spycraft are all at play in this engrossing work of fiction.

And as top-notch as the plotting is, the characters are the real stars of the show. From humble protagonist Joe Spork to retired spy Edie Bannister -- who stars in her own eShort prequel -- to the utterly terrifying Recorded Man, these are people you won't mind spending 496 pages with. There's little doubt that Spork and Co. will quickly enter the pantheon of great British sci-fi characters, giving Slate some fresh comparative fodder to use in future reviews.

Mr g author Alan Lightman sets before his protagonist a slightly more daunting task than we usually ask of our fictional leading characters. After all, what's a heroic journey or thoughtful exploration of the family dynamic compared to creating an entire freaking universe?

That's the project undertaken by Mr g, the title character in this short but powerful novel by the author of Einstein's Dreams. The idea comes to Mr g during what was apparently an astoundingly productive nap. (Note, college students across the world, this is exactly the excuse you've been waiting for to justify dozing between classes.)

"My universe had come into being!" he crows as his creation — named Aalam-104729 after "the ten-thousandth prime number in base ten" — blinks into existence. "It was tiny at first, but beautiful, a lovely little sphere. Its surfaces were smooth and silky, yet infinitely strong. It glistened. It spun slightly. And it vibrated with energy. I found that I could not create space without energy — the two were inextricably bound, as if one gave form to the other."

Of course, the joy of creation is tempered by the strife that accompanies any existence. When one of the inhabitants of Aalam-104729 frets over how she will help feed her family, the all-seeing Mr g shares her plight with his Uncle Deva, who laments, "Now we know sadness. It has come into the universe, I don’t understand from where, but I can feel it. Before now, I didn’t know what sadness was. Now, it has washed over houses and communes. It has seeped into lives like a wound that will not heal." Indeed, in spite of the book's playful nature, grave situations are treated with, well, gravitas.

Considering Lightman is a theoretical physicist in addition to being a novelist, it should come as no surprise that Mr g is as scientifically sound as it is philosophically provoking. As Lightman told The National Post, he "wanted to examine 'the interplay between science and religion,' by writing a sort of creation myth that could be acceptable to scientists."

The slimness of the volume — it's a scant 224 pages — belies the heady, philosophical nature of the novel. To be sure, it's not a beach read, but don't let that daunt you. Lightman expertly guides the reader through this utterly unique novel with a firm hand and plenty of lyrical prose — even if it does make you feel bad about the productivity of your own naps.

So, are you Team Bloodsucker or Team Wolf? Because it seems like you've gotta pick one these days, thanks to pop culture franchises like "True Blood," "Twilight," and "The Vampire Diaries" irrevocably linking the fates of vampires and werewolves. Which is why it may come as a bit of a surprise to learn that Anne Rice – the vampire queen of Gothic horror - has not, in fact, penned a werewolf book. Until now, that is. The Wolf Gift opens with Rice's quintessentially lush descriptive imagery that is, oh, how to phrase this? Real-estate porn. To wit:

"He looked up at the old dark wood paneling above the fireplace, rectangles neatly trimmed in deeply carved egg-and-dart molding, and at the similar paneling that covered the walls. There were bookcases flanking the fireplace, stuffed with old volumes, leather, cloth, even paperbacks, and far to the right over his shoulder he glimpsed an east facing room that looked like a vintage paneled library, the kind he'd always dreamed of having for himself. There was a fire in there too."

The "he" at the center of this story is Reuben, a twenty-three-year-old cub reporter who's been tasked with writing a story about a grand mansion near the coast of Northern California. He quickly falls under the spell -- and into the bed -- of the house's owner, a beautiful older woman named Marchent. Even more quickly, tragedy strikes: Marchent is dead, the victim of a violent break-in that Reuben survives thanks only to the unexpected intervention of a powerful animal that sinks its teeth into him after dispatching of the attackers.

If you're familiar with any version of the werewolf mythos, you can probably guess where this is going, but to Rice's immense credit, the tale she spins is one that feels fresh, an accomplishment in a crowded genre. Reuben is a likable hero who doesn't become overly mired in the "Am I man or beast?" teeth-gnashing that can plague too many protagonists in paranormal stories.

The Wolf Gift is more than a new novel by Anne Rice - it's a homecoming. It has everything -- compelling characters, steamy love scenes, and brainy monsters -- that made her an icon. Fans who have been dying to see her get back to her monster-infested roots will be more than sated with this Gift, and if you're a Rice neophyte who's been waiting for the perfect time to jump into her world, well, no time like the present.

The Ice Balloon by Alec Wilkinson tells the true story of S. A. Andrée, a Swedish explorer who attempted to reach the North Pole by hydrogen balloon in 1897. When Andrée and his two companions embarked on their journey, the North Pole was one of the last great, uncharted destinations. And, alas, it was destined to stay largely uncharted until a sealing vessel discovered Andrée's remains thirty-three years later.

Wilkinson paints a vivid portrait of the explorer's mindset at the turn of the nineteenth century. Even today, with GPS and all manner of technology at one's disposal, a trek to the Arctic is fraught. Over a century ago, it was audacious at best.

At first, Andrée's gambit seemed to pay off. The balloon touched down safely – if not entirely pleasantly – three days after takeoff. What happened next is a testament to Andrée's grit, as he and his men trekked across the frozen terrain, hauling hundreds of pounds of supplies. In his diary, Andrée wrote, “Our journey today has been terrible.  We have not advanced 1,000 meters but with the greatest difficulty have dodged on from floe to floe.”

In the end, though, no amount of grit and audacity could save them.

What the men finally succumbed to is still a bit of a mystery. "Three months isn’t long enough to die from scurvy, and they would have recognized its symptoms, prominent among which are bleeding gums, sunken eyes, and severe fatigue," Wilkinson writes. "Trichinosis, which is common in polar bears, is not likely, either, because the diaries mention none of the symptoms of a severe infection – muscle pain and fatigue especially. […] Perhaps they simply wore themselves out dragging three and four hundred pound sledges on long days through the Arctic for nearly four months while often not having enough to eat," he muses.

Regardless, the disappearance of Andrée and his men into the great white wastes captured the imagination of the media on and off until members of a Norwegian sealing expedition discovered their frozen remains three decades later.

Filled with crisp prose and intriguing historical tidbits, The Ice Balloon is guaranteed to awaken the inner adventurer in you. Just don't leave your GPS at home.

Every avid reader has words they inexplicably love — say, for example, irascible, and hullabaloo — and hate (moist). But even those loathed words that make your skin crawl (moist!) can't actually kill you — unless you're unfortunate enough to be a character in The Flame Alphabet by Ben Marcus.

In this fourth novel by the author of Notable American Women, a plague sweeps the nation: Children's voices have become toxic, killing the adults around them. Faced with a teenage daughter who is suddenly more noxious than obnoxious, Sam struggles to help his ailing wife and find a cure for the lethal language.

No grisly detail is spared in describing the suffering of the characters — including an ironic symptom of the ailment: "What was called LeBov's Mark had grown in fast, a hardened lump under my tongue, anchoring it down," notes Sam. Imagine the social upheaval that would result from a teenager's ability to tell her father to shut up and have it actually happen.

Monstrous children aren't the only tools Marcus uses to examine the way we communicate. He invents a secretive sect of Judaism that is outré but just realistic enough to make you question whether it's real or not. (It's not.) Sam and his wife Claire visit their own private synagogue in a hut deep in the woods. There, they plug in to transmissions from their rabbi. As Sam explains, "The secrecy surrounding the huts was justified. The true Jewish teaching is not for wide consumption, is not for groups, is not to be polluted by even a single gesture of communication. Spreading messages dilutes them. Even understanding them is a compromise. The language kills itself, expires inside its host. Language acts as an acid over its message. If you no longer care about an idea or feeling, then put it into language."

For all its heady ideas about language, communication, and religion, The Flame Alphabet is at heart a thoughtful, incisive story about family. Laced with caustic humor and wry observations, this is a novel that will keep you awake, frantically flipping pages until you arrive at the heartbreaking ending. You'll be grateful words aren't actually toxic — but even if they were, The Flame Alphabet would still be worth a read.