I previously discussed (towards the bottom of this post) how I used Google Bard as a tool in working on the blurb for this book. Bard generated 2543 words by my count, of which 16 were usable in a blurb of 172 words.

Here’s what I used as a starting point and fed to Bard. It’s the blurb I wrote when I was serializing the book on Vella:

To claim her inheritance, Chloe must leave her ranch for the Old World, where she mingles with monster hunters. The most dangerous of these doesn’t look the part: a quiet, sharp-dressed medical man. Dr. Maxim os Storm’s mission is to destroy those monsters which feed on human pain. He is drawn to Chloe, but she is being slowly transformed into the type of creatures he hunts. He does not know if he can cure her in time, or what she will do when she learns his secrets…

Note that this is in 3rd person, but the book itself is in first. Here’s the final blurb, with Bard’s contributions bolded:

The name’s Chloe Fortebat, and I am in trouble. I left my father’s ranch on the plains to come to the Old World: a place of airships, steampower, and monsters nobody talks about. Now I’m dodging giant werewolves with fangs the size of my knife, and the hunters crazy enough to go after them. The most dangerous of these doesn’t look the part: a quiet, sharp-dressed medical man with a tired face….

My name is Dr. Maxim os Storm, and I hunt the beasts that haunt the night. The leader of this pack of werewolves has set his mark on Miss Fortebat, but this brave lady would rather fight him than let him make her his tool. As far as I am concerned, that makes her my ally. My only chance of curing her lies with an ancient machine, hidden by my people in the caves beneath Wolf Island. We must keep that artifact out of the werewolf’s grasp at all costs, for he would put it to a terrible use….

Below the break, I have the Bard-generated content in full, with the bits I used bolded. First come the “long” versions of Chloe’s and Maxim’s POVs which came to around 1858 words and yielded nothing useful. 1-3 are Chloe’s; 4-6 are Maxim’s. Then come the “short” versions, which are where the useful bits (bolded again) come from. 7-9 are Chloe’s POV, 10-12 are Maxim’s. Bard was useful mostly because I’m a little uncomfortable writing blurbs; I can’t imagine this being an efficient way of writing blurbs for someone who was actually good at them.

1 Dust devils danced across the sunbaked plains, mocking my last lingering doubts. Leaving the ranch was a gut-wrench, but the inheritance whispered of a forgotten family, a tangled web of secrets in a land called the Old World. And secrets, like the stubborn Texas brush, had a way of snagging you by the ankles.
So, here I was, a city slicker wannabe in a rusty steamboat, the tang of salt and sweat clinging to the air like a second skin. The Old World was everything my Texas ranch wasn’t – cobbled streets slick with rain, towering buildings that scraped the clouds, and an undercurrent of danger that hummed beneath the surface. And then there were the monster hunters. Gruff, scarred men with eyes that held the glint of countless battles, their weapons as much a part of them as their calloused hands.
But the most unsettling of them all was Dr. Alistair Thorne. He wasn’t the burly, axe-wielding type. Alistair was a study in quiet intensity, his tailored suits a stark contrast to the blood-stained jerkins of his colleagues. His hands, though, were a different story – calloused, scarred, and surprisingly strong for a man who spent his days tending to the wounded. His eyes, too, held a depth that hinted at battles fought not on the battlefield, but in the sterile silence of his operating theater.
He was an enigma, a whisper of danger cloaked in the guise of a healer. And as I navigated the labyrinthine alleys and whispered secrets of the Old World, I knew my journey for the inheritance was just beginning. But it was the quiet, sharp-dressed doctor who truly held my attention, his motives as shrouded in mystery as the shadows that clung to him like a second skin.
2 The dusty wind of Wyoming whipped around my boots as I slammed the gate shut on the ranch, its groan echoing like a mournful goodbye. My inheritance, a cryptic summons from a forgotten corner of the Old World, beckoned, its promise of secrets and riches barely outweighing the knot of fear twisting in my gut. Leaving my trusty mare and the land I knew like the back of my hand felt like tearing out a piece of myself, but the call of adventure, of unraveling the family mystery, was a siren song I couldn’t resist.
Across the churning sea, the cobbled streets of the Old World city thrummed with a different energy. Here, monsters weren’t campfire tales, they were shadows lurking in alleyways, nightmares given flesh. And the monster hunters? A motley crew of rough-and-tumble warriors, scarred and swaggering, their weapons glinting in the sun. Yet, amidst the bravado, a figure stood out – Dr. Alistair Thorne. Quiet, reserved, his tailored suits a stark contrast to the leather and steel around him. His eyes, though, held the glint of a predator, his scalpel as deadly as any blade. He wasn’t what I expected, this most dangerous hunter, but his reputation preceded him, whispered in hushed tones, respect tinged with a hint of fear.
As I navigate this labyrinthine world, secrets whispered in forgotten languages and danger lurking around every corner, Dr. Thorne becomes an enigma I can’t ignore. Is he ally or foe? Can a sharp mind and a scalpel truly stand against the horrors that stalk the night? As I unravel the tangled threads of my past, I know one thing for sure: in this game of shadows, underestimating the quietest hunter could be my biggest mistake.
3 The dust of Wyoming kissed my cheek as I cinched the saddle tight. Inheritance, once a whisper on the wind, now crackled in my heart like wildfire. To claim it, I had to trade sun-baked prairies for the cobbled streets of a world steeped in ancient bloodlines and whispering shadows. The Old World.
Monster hunters, I’d heard, stalked these foreign streets, their blades whispering stories of grotesque beasts slain. I pictured burly men with scars like etchings and eyes smoldering with the heat of a thousand battles. But the reality, like most things, proved far more insidious.
He came in the rustle of silk, not the clang of steel. Dr. Thorne, they called him, a surgeon with hands that mended and dissected with equal precision. His words were clipped, pronouncements delivered with the cold authority of a man who danced with death daily. Beneath the impeccable suits and neatly trimmed beard, I sensed something darker, a predator disguised as prey. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, held secrets more chilling than any whispered legend of beasts.
He wasn’t a hunter who roared. He was a viper, silent and swift, his venom as lethal as any fang. And somehow, as I navigated this labyrinthine world, our paths kept crossing, an unwelcome waltz in the macabre symphony of this ancient city.
I, Chloe of dust and denim, would claim my inheritance. But in this game of shadows, the most dangerous dance might not be with the monsters but with the doctor who held the key to unraveling their very existence. Buckle up, partner, because the Old World is about to get a taste of wild Wyoming wind.
4 Maxim os Storm, my sworn enemy and savior rolled into one, stalked me with scalpel-sharp intellect and eyes that crackled with unspoken turmoil. Every monster I faced, every scream I choked back, felt like a grim countdown to a monstrous metamorphosis. My reflection, once familiar, now flickered with shadows, hinting at the beast clawing its way out.
He saw it too, the slow rot twisting my humanity. His touch, though meant to heal, sent tremors through my already fracturing will. The man who hunted creatures born of human misery was drawn to me, the one becoming what he swore to destroy. Was it some bizarre twist of fate, or did he see a flicker of the girl he met beyond the encroaching darkness?
His secrets, heavy and unspoken, hung between us like storm clouds. Would he share them before the monster consumed me? Or would I face my ultimate transformation fueled by the truth, a weapon aimed not at the world, but at the man who held the key to both my salvation and doom?
The line between hunter and hunted blurred, the clock ticked, and Maxim remained an enigma, as fascinating as he was terrifying. His gaze, a stormy mix of hope and regret, was my only clue, a spark flickering in the encroaching darkness that whispered a silent question: could he cure me in time, or would he be forced to hunt the monster he’d tried to save?
5 The tang of blood and ozone clung to the air, a grim cocktail that marked the aftermath of another hunt. Maxim, his coat dusted with the grit of ancient crypts, watched Chloe slumber in the makeshift medical bay. Her face, once as vibrant as a Kansas sunrise, was now etched with shadows, her skin shimmering with an unnatural luminescence. The pain-eater’s curse, it called itself, a slow, insidious metamorphosis that twisted its victims into the very monsters Maxim dedicated his life to eradicating.
Chloe, the ranch girl with eyes like summer skies, had stumbled into his world chasing inheritance whispers. Now, she was a ticking time bomb, a fragile beauty teetering on the precipice of becoming the very thing he hunted. The pull towards her was undeniable, a melody of shared pain and unspoken understanding that resonated deep within his scarred soul. Yet, the closer he got, the more he risked exposing the secrets that haunted him, the darkness that clung to his past like a second skin.
He spent his days meticulously researching the curse, his nights haunted by visions of Chloe’s eyes burning with predatory hunger. Each passing day chipped away at her humanity, and with it, his hope. Would he find the cure in time, or would she be lost to the darkness, another victim of the very monsters he swore to vanquish? And if he did succeed, what would she do when the truth spilled out, when she learned that the man who fought to save her was also the monster hunter who had condemned countless others like her?
Maxim traced the pulse in her wrist, a fragile thread against the tide of darkness. The clock was ticking, and the answer to his dilemma felt as elusive as a phantom in the mist. He was trapped between his duty and his desires, a damned knight in a battle against a foe he could barely comprehend. The only certainty was the agonizing truth that whispered in the silence: he couldn’t bear to lose her, not to the curse, not to anything. And that, he realized with a chilling certainty, might just be his greatest undoing.
6 Gusts clawed at my trench coat as I stalked the shadowed alley, senses pinging off the symphony of human suffering wafting from the grimy bar across the street. Tonight, the hunt was for the Sorrow Eater, a grotesque entity that feasted on despair. But as I honed in on its psychic signature, a flicker of something new snagged my attention. A woman, young, vibrant, radiating a pain so raw it was almost intoxicating. Chloe.
I knew the name from intel, a ranch girl thrust into this monstrous world, her inheritance entangled with a curse that slowly warped her into the very creatures I swore to eradicate. My duty was clear: capture her, cure her, or put her down, a grim choice I had faced countless times. But with Chloe, something felt different.
The Sorrow Eater dissipated as I drew closer, its prey forgotten in the face of this captivating enigma. Chloe’s eyes, the color of twilight, held a flicker of defiance, a spark of humanity clinging to the edges of the encroaching darkness. I felt a pang, a forbidden sympathy, a dangerous echo of the emotions I’d buried long ago.
Days blurred into weeks as I wrestled with my conscience. Chloe’s transformation was relentless, her skin subtly shifting, her laughter tinged with a chilling edge. Yet, beneath the burgeoning monstrosity, I saw the same brave girl who’d stared down a rattlesnake on her Kansas prairie. I treated her, researched, experimented, fueled by a hope that defied logic, a hope that whispered perhaps, just perhaps, I could save her.
But the clock was ticking. My own secrets, the source of my power, the reason I hunted these beasts, were a ticking time bomb. If she discovered them, who knew what she’d do? Would she see me as a savior, a monster, or something worse? The thought of losing her, transformed or enraged, was a terrifying abyss I couldn’t bear to contemplate.
Time was running out. I had to choose: betray my vows and fight alongside her, or risk everything, even her life, to cure her and face the consequences of my own hidden truths. The air crackled with a decision I could no longer delay. The fate of Chloe, and perhaps the world, hung in the balance, and the answer, I knew, lay in the depths of her shattered soul.

7 Dusty boots traded for cobblestones, I swapped lassoing cattle for wrangling griffin feathers. The Old World shimmered with mystery, and rumors of my inheritance led me here, where monster hunters brushed shoulders in candlelit taverns. But the deadliest isn’t some scarred barbarian; he brews his poisons in amber vials, his quiet menace veiled by a tailored suit. His eyes, though, hold storms I wouldn’t want to weather. Guess inheritance can wait. This doctor might need some dissecting first.

8 Dusty boots traded for cobblestone streets, I left the familiar scent of hay for the tang of ancient magic. Old World monster hunters, gruff and scarred, weren’t what I expected. But the most dangerous one? Quiet as a scalpel, sharp as his tailored suits, Dr. Thorne. He didn’t swing swords, he dissected shadows. And suddenly, my inheritance seemed a lot less tempting.

9 Dusty boots traded for cobbled streets, my ranch for sprawling castles, I traded wrangling cattle for dodging beasties with fangs the size of my Bowie knife. Monster hunters were my new neighbors, gruff and scarred, but the most unsettling one wore a cravat and wielded scalpels like silver blades. He spoke in hushed tones, examined dissected griffins like textbooks, and his eyes, the color of storm clouds, held secrets as dark as the monsters we hunted. This Dr. Thorne, with his quiet demeanor and chilling competence, was the one I watched, the one who sent shivers down my spine even when the shadows whispered of lurking claws.

10 The stench of rot and despair clung to her like a second skin. Chloe, the vibrant ranch girl I met just weeks ago, now wore shadows like bruises on her porcelain skin. Her laughter, once like wind chimes, choked on rasping breaths. My name is Maxim os Storm, and I hunt the things that feed on human torment. But this was different. Chloe wasn’t the prey; she was becoming the monster.
Every touch sent searing agony through her, a price for the power blooming within her like poisoned ivy. Yet, she drew me in, a moth to a flame flickering ever fainter. Could I cure her, or was I simply prolonging the inevitable? And what would she do, this broken girl with claws replacing fingertips, when she learned the truth about the doctor who couldn’t save her? The weight of her transformation became my own, a crushing burden in the silent battle against her fate. Time was a dying ember, and I desperately prayed it wouldn’t be consumed by the darkness growing within her eyes.
11 The stench of human agony clung to her like a second skin, a siren call to the monster hunter within. Chloe, with eyes like emeralds slowly turning to onyx, was a paradox: a victim drawn to the flames, her laughter echoing strangely in the cavernous halls. I, Maxim os Storm, was sworn to extinguish such fires, but hers burned with an unsettling allure.
Each shared glance felt like a gamble. Could I untangle the woman from the beast, or would my scalpel find only empty husks of pain? The fear in her gaze, mirrored in mine, whispered a chilling truth: time was a cruel hourglass, trickling sand that threatened to reveal a monster I might not be able to face, let alone cure. For what would she become, when she learned the truth of the hunter who loved the hunted?
12 Rain slicked the cobblestones, mirroring the dread in my gut. Chloe, the firebrand ranch girl turned city siren, pulsed with a darkness I recognized too well. My scalpel-wielding hands, trained to dissect nightmare beasts, itched to understand the metamorphosis gnawing at her. Drawn to her like a moth to a cursed flame, I couldn’t ignore the gnawing fear: was I treating a patient, or courting a monster? The truth, tangled in her haunted eyes, could be my undoing. Would I find the cure, or become the next experiment in her twisted transformation? The clock ticked, each beat a hammerblow against my resolve. Chloe’s secrets, like the shadows that clung to her, threatened to consume us both.