The Men of the St. Augustine Mysteries

As I begin building a new series set in Savannah, I’ve found myself lingering in St. Augustine longer than expected—especially with the men who walked those streets.

The men of that series are not cut from the same cloth. They represent different responses to strength, knowledge, and love.

Mark Burton is quiet strength. He does not dominate a room. He does not posture. His authority comes from competence and restraint. When things turn dark, he does not dramatize; he stands. When he loves, he does not possess; he fulfills. When tested, he does not waver; he chooses steadiness over spectacle. Mark is what we all hope to be: a person who is happy enough to be generous with others.

Navarre is something else entirely.

He is perceptive, brilliant, and emotionally intense. He sees deeply—and he believes that depth entitles him to more. His tragedy is not ignorance, but pride. He confuses intensity with moral authority. He mistakes passion for justification.

The difference between the two is not intelligence. Both are perceptive and reasonable. Each, in his own way, could be labeled as "clever" or even "wise."

The difference between them is direction.

Mark’s strength is anchored. He is grounded firmly in his belief in the rational. He trusts that men can shape their own destinies through thoughtful planning and the steady management of unknowns.

He is no Bartleby, imprisoned in meaningless work. He may "prefer not to" when confronted with hard choices, but he makes them anyway, because he knows it must be done.

Navarre’s strength is self-referential. His early passions and losses cemented the belief that whatever he wants is his to reach out and take. To a man such as this, to deny him is not merely to disappoint him: it is to threaten the core of who he is. Unlike most narcissists, however, he does not shine. He passes through history as a shadow, never quite realizing what he is missing because he is so focused on what he seeks. Grigori Popov is even more banal, a man who makes decisions like an adding machine, counting only the cost to himself.

Between Mark and these villains stand men like Walt Stephenson, Tim Whaley, Tom Gantry, and Father O’Brian—men who embody flawed but persistent loyalty. Each of them, in his own way, brings necessary pieces to the puzzle. They remind us that endurance is rarely glamorous. It looks like showing up again and again when circumstances would excuse retreat.

Between them are also those like Viktor Ivanov and David Thorne. These are men who, but for a slight shift in character, would have been the Walts and Tims of their own worlds. Instead, something in them bent under intense pressure, hardening into shapes they once would have despised. Their final forms tell us a great deal about how they managed these trials by fire.

If there is a common thread among the men of St. Augustine, it is this: the acquisition of power often reveals true character. Some use it to protect. Some use it to control. Some never realize how much they crave it until it is threatened.

Writing these characters has changed me. I began with a fascination for the metaphysical—angels, demons, twilight knowledge. But what stayed with me was something simpler: the line between strength and pride is thinner than we think.

As I turn toward a new setting and a new cast of characters, that question remains. The supernatural scaffolding may shift. The moral tension does not.

Next week, I’ll be reflecting on the women of St. Augustine—whose resilience, fear, and quiet courage shaped the series just as deeply.

For now, I am grateful for the men who taught me that true strength does not need to announce itself—and that knowledge, without humility, is never enough.