Try being a cop in a town like that.

Try being a private eye.

The bastard subgenre that is today’s urban fantasy is the offspring of two older genres.

Horror is the mother that gave it birth. (And that’s horror, if you please, don’t give me any of this “dark fantasy” claptrap, that’s just a feeble attempt to pull a cloak of respectability down over the grinning skull of a genre that traces its own roots back to penny dreadfuls and Grand Guignol.) The vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and ghouls that roam the alleys of today’s urban fantasy all started out in the horror ghetto originally, given form and voice by Bram Stoker, Edgar Allan Poe, H. P. Lovecraft, and the generations of writers who followed in their twisted, misshapen footsteps.

The father of today’s urban fantasy, however, is the mystery story. And not just any old kind of mystery story. The so-called cozy story of detection, where little old ladies puzzle out who killed the curate in the snuggery with no weapon but a lace doily, is not part of its heritage. No, we’re talking noir here, we’re talking the strong stuff, raw and dirty. The ancestors of Harry Dresden, Anita Blake, Rachel Morgan, Mercy Thompson, Jayné Heller, and the rest of that hard gang of demon hunters and vampire killers who populate the alleys and byways of urban fantasy can be found in Sam Spade, Lew Archer, Travis McGee, Mike Hammer, and Race Williams . . . and, of course, Philip Marlowe, Raymond Chandler’s iconic private eye.

In his classic essay in Atlantic Monthly, “The Simple Art of Murder,” Chandler wrote:

Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man.

The heroes and heroines of urban fantasy fit Chandler’s prescription perfectly . . . though I expect that even Marlowe himself would be surprised at just how unusual some of them can be. But maybe not.