Excerpts Young Adult

Read an Excerpt From Ana Ellickson’s The Vanishing Station

A YA contemporary fantasy about an underground magic system in San Francisco—and the lengths one girl is willing to go to protect the ones she loves.

By Ana Ellickson

|

Published on April 10, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Vanishing Station by Ana Ellickson, a young adult contemporary fantasy novel out from Amulet Books on April 30^th.

Balboa always sings a kundiman while he’s shaving, crooning to his own reflection in the mirror as he swipes a sharp blade across his chin—and I’m not talking Gillette razors, I’m talking a blade sharpened to perfection. A blade he keeps tucked away in his boot for emergencies. A similar blade lies hidden in my backpack, because there’s no way my father would let me wander San Francisco alone at night without a chaperone—even if that chaperone is a blade I’ve named Miss Marybeth.

I only know a miniscule fraction of Tagalog (yes, shame shame), but my dad has sung that kundiman love song enough times for me to know the lyrics backward and forward. It’s called “Dahil Sa Iyo,” and back in 1961, Nat King Cole came to Manila and sang it in Tagalog instead of English. It blew my dad away, hearing a Filipino ballad sung by the Nat King Cole. Like something in his own language was worth sharing with the whole wide world.

I wish he’d tell me more about his homeland.

Hell, I wish he’d tell me why we’re sinking further and further into debt.

With the secrets he spilled last night, I need more answers.

As the sun begins to peek through our slatted garage windows, I pretend to sleep. My dad sings to himself in the mirror, the usual kundiman. With all his rambling about deals with the devil and Six mentioning a debt, I refuse to blindly wait for him to tell me what’s wrong. What if he’s been gambling? He obviously already has trouble with addiction—what if he’s taken it one step further? What if I can stop him from making an even bigger mess? I need to know why we’re falling behind on my mom’s medical payments when he says that he’s working a full-time job. The rent payments are taking care of the property tax, house repairs, and funeral expenses. I’m taking on as many house-painting gigs as I can get, so I’m able to cover my own expenses and save a bit for when Stella breaks down. But somehow, we’re losing money. I’ve seen the overdue statements. It’s just not adding up.

The moment Balboa closes the garage door, I leap out of bed. I wrangle my arms into my backpack straps—all the extra clothes I’ll need for Chen’s Painting Service on this fine Saturday.

It’s not hard to follow him. I keep a block between us, ducking below trash bins when it seems like he’ll turn around. But he doesn’t turn back; he’s only ever trudging forward. At the station, my boots clamber down the stone steps until I’m deep below the earth, sucking in stale air and listening to the whirl of ticket turnstiles.

I pull a shimmering blue-and-white ticket from the machine. Dampened sunlight streams in at the far end of the platform where the concrete opens into air. Behind me, people speak in Spanish, Chinese, English, Hindi, and all sorts of languages mushed together. Balboa hovers a few yards away, far enough to not notice me with an inevitable hangover pulsing inside his head. My heart thuds when the sign flashes san francisco airport train: one minute. I stop listening to the cacophony of voices and the rustling of wings.

Instead, I’m listening for the train. I’m trying to feel its rumble in my bones.

When I was eight—before my dad came to live with my mom and me—I played this game where I tried to see how close I could get to the train as it ripped through the station. The conductors hated it. My mom freaked out on multiple occasions. But every time I was down here, I always ached to get as close as possible to that roaring wind.

Now, I feel that same urge thrilling through my veins. My eyes electric, my lungs savoring the intoxicating smell of metal burning bright. Wait—wait until the train comes howling into the station; wait, pressed up to that yellow warning line, until I’m only steps away from the roaring hot metal. I feel as if it’s a wild horse that I can snatch hold of and swing myself atop of in one daring leap. The train’s wake shoves me back, and I hold my ground against the wind, hold my eyes open to the silver rushing blur, hold on to the heartbeat hammering in my chest. I don’t even flinch.

And then, the doors open.

Buy the Book

The Vanishing Station

Ana Ellickson

Buy Book

The Vanishing Station

Ana Ellickson

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Hot air blows out with a flurry of passengers going about their boring lives at Balboa Park station. Their hurried footsteps add more layers of grime and scuffs to the tile floors. I swallow down the pulse pounding in my throat. Every day these trains race below our city, nothing more than metal and electricity.

I hover on the platform and watch as soon-to-be travelers board the airport-bound train. They wedge themselves into the narrow blue vinyl seats, balancing suitcases and backpacks on their laps, cursing the fact that they brought too many pairs of shoes and books they’ll never actually read on their beachside adventure. A pang of envy rumbles deep inside my gut. What would it be like to have the freedom to go where I want, to follow my dreams?

A kid stares up at me when I stagger back from the yellow line. He saw, of course. In vain, I try to tamp down my wind-whipped hair. He tugs on my paint-splattered backpack, and his mother doesn’t notice.

“What did that feel like?” he says, little kid mouth agape.

“Like I was flying.”

He smiles.

“But don’t try it. It’s dangerous.” I wink. I really shouldn’t have winked. The last thing I need to do is encourage a seven-year-old to do harebrained stunts. But I can’t stop the adrenaline flooding into my chest. And I lied. It feels less like flying and more like I’ve jumped off a cliff into the roaring wind and I’m trusting that I’ll have wings.

It is dangerous. One wrong step and I’d be clobbered by 110 tons of metal.

Trust me, no one who knows me would ever call me a daredevil. I’m actually known as the Responsible One. The one who took care of her mother all through sophomore year of high school while she was battling breast cancer. The one who didn’t go away to college or travel abroad because too many people needed her here. I promise I’ll always keep those two steps between me and death. I swear it.

It’s just—I don’t know what makes me want to leap into that blur of blue and silver. It feels like I could leave this all behind and wake up somewhere else entirely. Somewhere brighter, bolder. It’s almost like there’s a wild heartbeat under the iron and steel, and all I need to do is reach out and grab the reins.

A horn blares.

I jump aboard before the doors slide shut, and the train shoots forward through the maze of tunnels twisting under San Francisco. I hide behind a thankfully large man and scan around his shoulder to see where my dad is sitting. Correction, standing. Leaning hard on his cane, but not wobbling an inch on this bumpy train. He stands beside the exit door on the opposite end of the car. The minutes tick by. Am I more nervous about him catching me on a BART train—or about finally finding out the truth? As we wait for the next station, my eyes roam across my fellow passengers. It calms my hammering heartbeat to imagine how I’d sketch their faces. Reality flips on full blast: the kid snoring beside me with a face like melting candle wax, the old man stuffing French fries in his mouth, making my stomach growl from no breakfast.

And a voice.

“Dahil sa iyo!” The Filipino words come swaggering down the aisle, an aisle so thick with passengers, I can barely see who’s singing.

But I don’t need to see.

I know his voice.

It’s the Sap Master himself.

My dad sings a wicked kundiman.

But why is he serenading an entire train car? I inch closer, still out of his range of sight among the crush of passengers. My legs wobble as the train curves underground, and I cling to a metal pole to keep from falling. Dried paint sticks under my nails. It’s been so long since I’ve walked on a train that my knees tremble with the effort.

Still, the song lures me across.

Dahil sa iyo…

Because of you…

His words come softly now, sweetly melancholy. His rich honey voice fades into the sound of brakes squealing against metal rails—dahil sa iyo, nais kong mabuhay. “Because of you, I want to live.” Something isn’t right— this isn’t the way he sings when he shaves in the mirror. His voice sounds mournful, broken at the edges.

A chill drips down my spine as I push faster through the crowd, the lonely words echoing in my ears. Is this really my father? It’s his voice, that much I know; but I’ve never heard this pain crackling down his throat. I shoulder through the crush of passengers blocking my way.

A flash of movement up ahead. His eagle cane, his shiny Elvis hair slipping away from the crowd toward the dark shadows. The train car’s connecting doors creak open. A blast of roaring wind pierces my ears. Am I the only one to hear it? None of the passengers flinch.

“Dad,” I say. “Dad, wait!”

The glass doors separating the two train cars begin to slide shut. I still can’t see with the last two passengers blocking my way. Through the crevice between their elbows, I catch my dad’s eagle cane as it disappears behind the doors. Fog swirls on the glass, and a spark of cobalt flashes across steel, rippling out like dewy spiderwebs.

“Hey, how about an ‘excuse me’?” a bald man grumbles as I shove past his shoulder.

I yank open the doors.

The heavy plexiglass slides open and leads into a space that reminds me of an old phone booth. An icy blast slaps my skin, as if the conductor has cranked the AC to max capacity. But that’s never the case on a BART train. It’s always too hot. Always too many people breathing in your ear, elbows out and sweat stains under armpits.

My breath leaves a mist on the glass, and I touch my fingers to the water droplets to make sure they’re real. A whiff of my dad’s coconut aftershave, his cracked leather jacket. He was here a moment ago. The two accordion walls crunch together as the train lurches to a full stop. It wouldn’t be able to turn inside the dark tunnels without these flimsy rubber walls bending with the curve. I don’t stay long. There’s nothing like imagining the train splitting into pieces while I’m standing on the bridge connecting the cars.

My eyes frantically scan the passengers’ faces before the doors open at Daly City station. Not-my-father, not-my-father. No! No slicked-back hair, no eagle cane, no leather jacket. Not on this train. It wouldn’t have been possible for him to push his way through all these passengers to the exit.

The conductor gives one final call.

Doors closing.

A warning beep blares into the tunnel.

“Dad?” I holler into the train.

Heads snap in my direction as if I’m a lost toddler. My cheeks redden at the sudden attention. I’m too old to be a little girl calling for her father. But I’m not worried about myself—I’m worried about him.

Before the doors slide shut, I gaze up at the ratty pigeons clinging to the ledges of the train station even though they’ve added spikes to scare them away. The train starts to speed down the tunnel in a blur of blue and silver. It scatters newspapers and feathers into the air.

In all the magic tricks, a dove always disappears and reappears.

We all know what really happens to the dove.

That will not be my father.

Adapted excerpt from the upcoming book The Vanishing Station by Ana Ellickson, published by Amulet Books, an imprint of Abrams; © 2024.

The post Read an Excerpt From Ana Ellickson’s <i>The Vanishing Station</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Fantasy

Read an Excerpt From Mai Corland’s Five Broken Blades

It’s the season for treason in this fantasy debut…

By Mai Corland

|

Published on April 9, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Mai Corland’s Five Broken Blades, an epic fantasy debut publishing with Red Tower Books on May 7^th.

Chapter One

Royo
City of Umbria, Yusan

Gold for blood—that’s my advertisement and the words I live by.

The merchant slowly counts out gold mun, his gloved hands shaking as each coin lands in his palm. He’s a little taller than me, but my shoulders are twice as wide.

“Hurry it up. I don’t got all night,” I say.

My deep voice startles him, and two bronze mun clatter onto the ground. He lets the coins roll away but pauses to consider chasing them down. Ten Hells. This is gonna take two lifetimes.

Finally, he slips the money into my hand, paying for the broken nose and leg. Then he darts away, fur-lined cape flapping in the night breeze. It’s not a noble living, being muscle for hire, but the upper class ain’t great neither.

I count my gold as I lumber between the soot-covered buildings. All there. I put the money in my coin purse and tuck it into my inner jacket pocket. Behind me, my latest victim whimpers in the darkness of the alley. If he keeps up that noise, the hael birds will peck him clean before morning. And the rich merchant prick didn’t pay for a kill.

“Can you stop that racket?” I say.

The whimpering dies down.

“Thank you,” I say. He’s silent—shut up by my manners or his pain.

I think about going back to help. I always think about it. But it’s none of my business. It’s not my problem, what happens after my jobs are done. Or why the merchant wanted to send a message in the first place.

Those are roads that lead nowhere. And I’ve got somewhere to be.

I blow a warm breath in my gnarled hands. This fucking cold. Frost shines on the cobbled streets, and the runoff has already started to freeze. What trees there are in this cramped city are long bare. Winter comes quick in Umbria. But then, death always does.

I should probably buy some warm gloves, but my stomach tightens at the thought of parting with even one silver mun. Every coin counts, and I don’t really need posh shit anyhow.

When I get to Inch Street, two well-dressed couples split around me. They’re all fur muffs and expensive, feathered hats. Swells. They give me a wide berth, then scurry away like I’m contagious or something. I guess if my size don’t intimidate people, the scar dividing my face does the trick. People stay away.

Good.

With a grunt, I shoulder open the heavy wooden door of Butcher & Ale. I’ve been in cleaner, nicer places with better grub, but those pubs don’t fit me. The tavern is warm without being hot and noisy, without being loud, and that’s all I need. Butcher & Ale is home. It’s where I started doing business ten years ago. Right after I turned fifteen, I set up shop in the corner—forty pounds less muscle with no scar on my face. They know what I do here, but I keep the place safe, so they look the other way.

I sit on my usual stool at the end of the bar. Yuri sees me and pours me a pint. He could be forty; he could be sixty. Who knows with that bald head. But he’s not the chatty type, and I like that.

He slides a beer across the worn wood. The glass is mostly clean. “Someone’s been looking for you.”

Buy the Book

Five Broken Blades

Mai Corland

Buy Book

Five Broken Blades

Mai Corland

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

I raise my eyebrows and chug a gulp of ale. Somebody’s always looking for me—to fight, to hurt, to kill. This ain’t news. “Why should I care?”

Yuri puts the bar towel over his shoulder and leans forward. “It was a girl.”

I stop drinking. My heart thuds and then lodges in my throat. I will it back down and play it cool. “What’d she look like?”

“Pretty,” Yuri says. Not the most helpful description. I curl my hand into a fist and stare. His eyes widen, and he rubs his nose somebody else broke a while ago. Then he starts yammering. “About my height, big brown eyes, kinda short black hair. Around your age—like mid-twenties. Red velvet cloak.”

I swallow, digesting his words. A tall, twenty-something girl asking about me is unusual. And I guess “pretty” makes a difference—can’t remember the last time a pretty girl looked for me. Maybe she wants an old boyfriend taught a lesson or revenge on another girl. I don’t hurt girls, though.

“She’s staying at the Black Shoe Inn,” Yuri adds.

The nicest joint in maybe all of Umbria. So she has money and she’s not from here yet somehow knew to look for me. Here. This reeks of trouble.

“Not interested,” I say.

Yuri shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

He wanders down the bar to serve another customer. A guy looking old for his age sits on the stool four paces down from me. He only makes eye contact with Yuri, so he’s also here to drink alone. Sometimes it feels less lonely to drown your sorrows in a shared barrel of ale. To vanish in the pub crowd. Even if you don’t say a word to nobody. Most nights, that’s me.

But I can’t disappear tonight. I know in my guts it’s going to be one of those times when I can’t forget no matter how much I drink. So why give myself a headache that’ll hit behind my eyes tomorrow?

I down my beer, leaving the dregs. I push back from the bar, the legs of the stool scraping the sticky floor. “I’m outta here.”

Yuri’s bushy eyebrows rise. It’s like what he didn’t get on his head went to his face instead. “Already?”

He’s right to be surprised. I’m normally good for a few beers as I take up my corner and wait for my next job to come in. Trouble always has a way of finding me. Usually it’s quick, but sometimes it takes four beers. Tonight, it’s just the one.

“Headache.” I tap my temple like he don’t know where my head is. But it’s a lie. And from his beady eyes going side to side, Yuri doesn’t believe it for a second.

But he nods. “Night, Royo.”

I take a step to leave, and something strange happens. An off feeling hits me, like a heart skipping a beat. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear there’s a blur of red. I blink hard, look around, then glance into the bar mirror. Nothing. Just my scarred face and shorn head looking back at me. Nothing red in sight. I shake my head. I’m real off tonight. Best I leave now.

I trudge my way out of Butcher & Ale and back onto the frigid street. I’ll need to repair the laces of my boots soon, probably patch the leather again—they still got some wear left.

I swear it got colder when I was inside. My exhale now makes little fogs in the air. I blow a hot breath into my hands again as I walk.

Five blocks in the wrong direction later, I pass the Black Shoe Inn. I can’t help but slow down and stare at the lamps glowing in the windows. I wonder… then shake my head.

What am I doing? What am I even looking for?

I walk double time to get away. It’s too suspicious. Too off. My instincts are always right, and the scars I bear are reminders of the times I’ve ignored my gut. The last time cost me everything. I’m not doing it again.

It’s about a fifteen-minute walk along Avalon Road to my shack on the cheap end of town. The buildings get more run-down, smaller, as I leave the business district. Umbria’s been going downhill since King Joon rose to power back when I was a kid. The whole country has.

The road bends, and then I have the river on my left. You’d think being near the water would be nice, but not in Umbria. The only waterway we got is the dirty Sol River. People empty chamber pots and dump trash right into the thing. And it’s even colder, the bone-chilling kind, when you’re close enough to hear the water lick the filthy shore.

I try to stay aware of my steps, my surroundings. There are too many dangers in Umbria from gangs, from men like me, from the hael birds, to be caught sleepwalking. But I’m off my game. Distracted.

I blame Yuri. He’s a barkeep, not a messenger. He could’ve kept all that noise to himself.

But I’m not really mad at Yuri. Truth is, I’m thinking about her. When Yuri said it was a girl, I hoped. And hope is a jagged knife. Hope pieces together dreams out of broken glass only for reality to come and smash them all over again. Hope is the cruelest punishment of them all. Because without hope, I know: it’s not her, you fool. It can’t be. It can never be.

Because I killed her.

Excerpted from Five Broken Blades by Mai Corland. Reprinted with permission from Red Tower Books, an imprint of Entangled Publishing. All rights reserved.

The post Read an Excerpt From Mai Corland’s <i>Five Broken Blades</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Horror

Read an Excerpt From Hildur Knútsdóttir’s The Night Guest

An eerie and ensnaring horror novel set in contemporary Reykjavík.

By Hildur Knútsdóttir

|

Published on April 2, 2024

1

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Hildur Knútsdóttir’s The Night Guest, a horror novel translated from Icelandic by Mary Robinette Kowal—publishing with Nightfire on September 3^rd.

1

“Can you describe your symptoms?”

I clear my throat. “I’m just so… tired all the time.”

“Not sleeping well?”

“No, no. I fall asleep and even sleep through the night. But when I wake up, I feel exhausted. My legs, my arms…”

As if they were evidence, I extend both arms. My hands dangle limply, and I have the bizarre impulse to shake them in the doctor’s face. But she nods. When I lower them, they drop into my lap like dead pieces of meat.

“I don’t feel like I’m waking up rested but more like I’ve been out on a rampage all night. My muscles are worn out. Not soreness like after working out, but sort of like when you’ve been slogging away at something and can tell that the next day you’re going to really feel it, you know?”

“And it’s only in the arms and legs?”

“Not only, but mostly there. I’m tired all over. Even my jaw.”

The doctor nods again.

I like her. She’s probably ten years younger than I am. If I had to guess, I’d say she probably hasn’t finished her residency yet. Which means she’s being very thorough. She will not let acute lymphocytic leukemia or some horrific neurological disease slip past her. She’s going to check out every possibility. Which is precisely what I want and what the previous doctor the health center assigned me to—some old, gray-haired prick— refused to do.

That guy had clearly had enough of women with unexplained symptoms. Hysterical women. I seriously wanted to lecture him about all the diseases women have had that have been misdiagnosed over the years— and how medication (not to mention everything else in this world) is designed for the male body—but I just didn’t have the energy for it. Or maybe I was chicken. Or maybe that’s the same thing because it’s a lot easier to gather your courage when you’re not dead tired.

When I left the prick’s office with orders to go home and “take it easy” for two weeks (he didn’t even suggest seeing a therapist, probably because he’s too old to believe in psychology), I made a beeline for the health center’s reception desk and asked for an appointment with a female doctor.

“Someone young,” I said. The receptionist looked at me like I was off my rocker but still gave me an appointment with this new doctor.

Buy the Book

The Night GuestHildur Knútsdóttir

Hildur Knútsdóttir

Buy Book

The Night GuestHildur Knútsdóttir

Hildur Knútsdóttir

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Her name is Ásdís, and she has blond hair and two pimples on her chin that she’s done her best to cover with concealer. “Has this been going on for a long time?”

“A while, yeah. And getting worse.”

“Have you had the flu recently? Any kind of cold?”

“No.”

“Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

I think about Stefán and how he had hissed at me that I was a bitch right before slamming the door in my face. How I had trembled like a twig in the wind and hadn’t been able to bring myself to move for over an hour after he left.

“No.” Stefán is a lousy guy, but I’d be giving him way too much credit if I blamed this on him.

“Do you eat a variety of foods?”

“Yes. I’m a vegetarian, but that’s not new. And I take B12, omega-3, and iron.”

She glances at the computer screen. “I see you had blood work done six months ago. Everything looks good there. But we’ll run it again.” Ásdís turns back to me with her full attention. She wears an expression that is at once concerned and kind. “With what I have here, I don’t see anything to indicate a serious condition. Not based on your history or my examination. So, tell me, what are you concerned about?”

A sensation begins to stir in my belly. Warm and soft. And I realize that I’m weirdly proud of her. Ásdís is going to be a truly wonderful doctor. For a moment, I feel as though I am her mother (Christ), or maybe a grandma (Christ! ), who watched her grow up through childhood and then become an unbearable teenager who blossomed into an intelligent woman who attended medical school and now speaks to her patients with respect and genuine concern. I almost tear up.

And then, I remember the fear that had overcome me as I sat and googled my symptoms.

“Myasthenia gravis,” I blurt. “Or…” I hesitate. Then I speak the acronym that’s been haunting me over the past few days. “ALS.”

Ásdís nods. I begin to sweat. Recently, I’ve been almost entirely convinced that I’m doomed to this future: experiencing my nervous system’s gradual failure. I’ve wondered how it might feel when parts of my body stop working, one after the other. Maybe it starts with numbness in my fingertips. Then I lose control of my hands, followed by my arms. Then my feet. Then I’ll lose all sensation below the waist. Stop being able to turn my head, speak, smile, blink my eyes. Maybe I’ll learn to hold a brush with my mouth and paint a few pictures. Then my respiratory system will stop working, and I’ll die.

Ásdís cocks her head. “I don’t want to sound dismissive of your experience, but I have to say that it strikes me as… an extremely unlikely diagnosis.”

Relief washes over me like the sea. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“So, you don’t think I’ve got some terrifying neurological disease?” I ask, just to hear her say it one more time.

“No. Of course, I can’t rule it out, but I don’t see anything to indicate it.”

Another wave of elation.

Then I remember what I was going to show her. “What about leukemia?” I stand up and tug my

pants down, showing her the large bruise on my hip that had appeared overnight. “Don’t you think it looks a little like spotting?”

Ásdís puts on gloves. She aims the tabletop lamp at me and leans over my hip. She runs her fingers over the bruise, so close that I can feel her warm breath moving the fine hairs on my skin. My god, she’s doing a thorough job. It crosses my mind that I might be in love with her, which is a little ridiculous.

“Did you bump into something?” she asks.

“No, I woke up like this.”

The bruise is the size of a little pancake.

Ásdís sits up and points the lamp back at the desk. I pull up my pants and take a seat.

“This appears to be a standard hematoma. But I’ll add a white blood cell count to your blood work. And we’ll look at your iron levels, of course.”

Ásdís stands up. The examination has come to an end. She extends her hand, her grasp firm and professional. She’s taller than I am, and yet I have this urge to pat her on the head or the cheek. I restrain myself.

Instead, I thank her and leave.

When I get home, Mávur is curled up on the porch in front of the door. The cat stands when he spots me, his tail rising with pleasure. I scratch him behind the ears, and he responds with a loud purr. He often tries to sneak in, but I know his tricks and am quick to shut the door behind me. By the time the latch catches, he has already lain back down, his eyelids drooping in the sunshine.

I know that the world’s sorrows are both abundant and profound and that a cat allergy is perhaps insignificant in the larger scheme of things. But there is something so unfair about loving cats and being relegated to do so from a distance.

2

Three days later, I receive a text saying that I have a message from the health center waiting for me. I open the medical portal and am asked to log in with my electronic ID. Like every Icelander, I have my kennitala, of course, but I’d never linked my national ID number with an online account. So I don’t have an electronic ID. Someone—I don’t remember who—told me they were just a plot to force all Icelanders into a monopoly with a cousin of some Progressive Party big shot in perpetuity. Or was it the Independence Party?

And the banks seem to be in on it, too, because they provide the ID numbers. When you think about it, it’s a little odd that banks generate our government IDs, but that’s commonplace Icelandic corruption for you.

I call the health center and request the results by phone. The woman who answers at the front desk says it’s not available. She says it in an offensively cheerful tone. I grumble at her, but she just gets cheerier.

During my lunch break, I go to the bank. All the muscles in my thighs ache when I walk up the stairs. I feel like I’ve been on a treadmill all night. (For the record, I have never used a treadmill.)

Two women are standing in the lobby of the bank and welcome me. I notice that there is only one cashier but at least four employees who seem to be working on linking kennitalas with electronic ID accounts.

It’s easier to get one than I expected. The man who helps me makes me sign some papers that I’m too tired to bother reading. He’s the officious sort who wants to cover his ass by making it “quite clear” that page three states that the service is free now but that he cannot rule out the possibility that it will have a fee later.

“Yes, I know everything about the Progressive Party,” I say, though, of course that’s not true.

He gives me a weird look. Maybe it was the Independence Party, after all. But I mean, really, what’s the difference?

The first thing I do when I get back to work is to log into the health center. There’s a message from Ásdís María Ómarsdóttir waiting for me. I feel warm inside just seeing her name. Then I take a deep breath and open the mail from her.

All the blood tests came out well. All results normal.

I stare at the message for a long time. When the letters start to blur, I realize that I’m—damn it—crying.

I sniff, wipe my cheeks, and glance around me. Fortunately, almost everyone is still at lunch, and no one seems to have noticed anything.

I get to my feet, go to the toilet, and clean myself up.

The lump in my throat swells. Staring at my reflection above the sink, I tell myself not to cry.

It’s not that I was hoping I was sick.

Except maybe I was just hoping for  something. Not ALS—never ALS—and not myasthenia gravis. But maybe something innocent. Iron deficiency, iodine deficiency, arthritis, some manageable metabolic disease, B12 deficiency—or perhaps a little hypoactive thyroid. Was that too much to ask?

Because there is nothing worse than having unexplained symptoms. Feeling like there’s something terribly wrong—but nothing that can be measured in exams, and you know the doctor thinks it’s all in your head.

I stare at my reflection, reminding myself, of course, that it could be much worse. The tests came out well. I should not be disappointed. I should feel relieved.

“You should be happy,” I hiss at the mirror.

And to my surprise, the trace of a malicious grin twists the side of my mouth.

“I’m not hysterical,” I tell my reflection.

She nods.

3

I increase my vitamin dose. Also, buy vitamin D. And calcium and something called spirulina that the girl in the pharmacy recommends. Then I google and read that spirulina can contain large amounts of heavy metals, so I throw it in the trash. My conscience twinges about throwing it in the trash (The heavy metals, where do they go? Landfills? Maybe into the groundwater?), but I don’t do anything about it.

I go to the bar with my friends after work. They say I need to be more active.

“That’s how you get energy! Not by lounging on the couch! I could explode after I ran ten kilometers! I felt like I could conquer the world,” says Ásta. She’s the CEO of a large company and has three children. She probably often feels like she can conquer the world.

“Go to yoga,” says Linda. “You just have to relax. Don’t you have too much to do at work? And you have tried essential oils?”

“Why don’t you just go eat some meat? We’re not meant to live on vegetables alone, you know,” says María, and takes a sip of white wine.

Looking grave, they all nod.

“But we don’t have true canines,” I point out.

They stare at me over their wineglasses.

“Carnivores all have canines.”

They glance at each other, not sure what to do with me, and an embarrassing silence stretches between us.

This always happens. Everyone will be having a good chat until I say something wrong and feel as though I’ve been exposed as the alien in the group. Ta-da! Did you think I was one of you? Hahaha!

I don’t know if it’s because they’re all the same age— two years older than I am—or because I joined their group late. Maybe it’s something different and more profound. I don’t remember whether I’ve always felt this way or if the feeling has gradually worsened.

“I know it sounds like the name of a cartoon character,” says Helga. “But Zumba literally saved my life after pregnancy.”

I take a big sip of red wine (rich in iron).

“Try walking more,” says Sigrún. “I read somewhere that walking is—by far—the healthiest exercise. You just need to walk ten thousand steps a day!”

“What happened there?” Ásta points to the bruise on my chest.

I had specifically chosen a shirt that would cover it.

But now I look down and see that as I bend forward, my neckline is gaping, and the bruise is visible. It’s a tiger stripe of dark purple.

I straighten and pull my collar up.

“Nothing.” Which is technically true.

They look at each other with worry wrinkles between their eyebrows. Ta-da! Unmasked again!

Helga places a palm over my hand. “Was that Stefán?”

“No.” I laugh.

“You know you can tell us anything,” she says understandingly.

Their nods are full of grave disbelief.

I take another sip of red wine.

Two minutes of “happy hour” are left when I finish my drink. At the bar, I see a man. He’s wearing a pale pink shirt (confident about his masculinity) and a blue, well-fitting jacket, and he’s staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.

I get embarrassed and look down at the drink list. When I look up again, he has half-turned away from me and is waving a credit card over a beer that the waiter is handing to him.

Then he looks back at me.

I’m trying to decide if I should smile politely or pretend not to see him, but I haven’t figured out what to do when he turns away and walks with his beer to a nearby table. Around it, well-dressed men sit, stretched out in low chairs (why do men always have to take up so much space?) and laughing.

Excerpted from The Night Guest, copyright © 2024 by Hildur Knútsdóttir.

The post Read an Excerpt From Hildur Knútsdóttir’s <em>The Night Guest</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Dark Fantasy

Read an Excerpt From V. Castro’s Immortal Pleasures

An ancient Aztec vampire roams the modern world in search of vengeance and love…

By V. Castro

|

Published on April 3, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from V. Castro’s new dark fantasy novel Immortal Pleasures—out from Del Rey on April 16.

Is it really our life? Perhaps we are gathered to dance to a shaman’s chant we cannot hear until we find ourselves moving to the beat.

Chapter One

It’s my last night in Dublin before I head to the south coast. Ireland was the first stop on my way to London because of its landscape, particularly its grass—that dreamy electric green surrounded by dark cold waters and even colder winds.

That landscape had called to me while I was flipping through an airline magazine during one of my business-class flights across South America. The advertisement showed a green pasture that ended with a cliff dropping to leaping waves in the shape of giant conch shells. I had to see that grass with my own eyes, feel it beneath my feet.

You see, my name is Malinalli, which means grass in my native Nahuatl language. The glossy photo ignited my soul with wonder, and I knew I had to overcome my irrational fear of exploring this part of the world, Europe. It was a European who changed my given name Malinalli to La Malinche and Doña Marina. Neither did I choose, nor could I refuse as a human. At least as a vampire I could take back my name. Small steps.

But you may wonder why a Nahua vampire from the sixteenth century like me would harbor a fear of anything after being an apex predator for so very long. After all, my blood is powerful and intoxicating—it comes from a vampire made by one of the very first vampires. However, like the demolished temple Tenochtitlán, my heart still bears the scars of history.

Before this trip was even an idea, my concentration on work had been waning. I kept finding myself slipping into daydreams of distant places. My heart would sink to depths of emotions I could not allow myself to wade in. In train stations and airports, I used to walk with a smug swagger past couples if I saw an obviously out-of-sync partnership, and families if I saw screaming children throwing themselves at the feet of exhausted parents. Ain’t no one holding me down or holding me back, I’d think. But recently I’d also think soon after: Ain’t no one waiting for me either. Walk enough crowded terminals alone, your hand swinging aimlessly by your side, and it starts to feel dead. And mine had hung empty for centuries. I could care less about the offspring. As a vampire, my bearing a child was not an option. But lately I’d wanted to feel an arm around my waist. A companionship that lasted longer than a night would be nice.

Buy the Book

Immortal Pleasures

V. Castro

Buy Book

Immortal Pleasures

V. Castro

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Two days after the idea of traveling to Ireland first struck me, I received an out-of-the-blue opportunity to purchase rare Mexican artifacts from a dealer in London. I am a collector, buyer, and seller of antiquities from all over the world; however, my speciality is Mexico and South and Central America. As a blood huntress it was a natural fit.

Since 1972, I had made my living tracking rare objects, although I began my search for these objects long before I’d ever earned a cent. My career had begun not as a career, but as a sort of spiteful secret mission to reclaim our culture’s lost treasures one object at a time from the colonizers.  The more I learned about my new vampire life and all its strengths, the more I thought about my purpose in life.  My work has given me purpose beyond servitude or mere survival. I could create some good for myself and others. 

The artifacts are two skulls I first encountered when I was still human. When I read the email and saw the photos of the skulls, the excitement in my work that I’d lost came back,  and I nearly jumped out of my skin. My instinct told me these were the very same treasures I had been hunting for since I began my journey in acquiring antiquities. One skull is carved from pure clear quartz. The other is an embellished mosaic of turquoise and obsidian set in a human skull with most of the teeth still intact. Judging from the photo, the gold that once plated the human skull had been scraped from the bone

The skulls had once belonged to someone I loved dearly. Her name was Chantico. She was like a mother to me when I first became a vampire. She helped me find the will to live for myself.

I had been searching for centuries for these skulls with no luck, and I’d been on the brink of giving up on ever finding them. It wasn’t until the birth of the internet my journey began to gain a little momentum, though every path had led to a dead end until now. However, life can be as unpredictable as the height of waves crashing on a shore; now, at long last, the skulls were within my reach. The universe presented me the perfect opportunity to act on my desire to reclaim these treasures.

So I simply had to fly across the Atlantic to purchase those skulls and keep them safe. The catch was the skulls were now in London with a private collector. But this purchase was too important to leave to chance, to buy on the evidence of digital photographs alone, even if the photos I’d been emailed appeared legitimate. My usual London based antiquities broker, Horatio Hutchings, a trustworthy man in the business, assured me it was not a scam. However, he did not possess the same skill that I did in detecting forged objects—and I had seen my fair share in my many centuries of existence. To reclaim the skulls—and with them, a part of my soul—I had to take the trip. And that trip would be first class all the way, including the best hotels. Everything paid for by the business I had built from scratch and the antiquities I’d acquired over time. I deserved to have everything I wanted in this life. Divine timing can be a stubborn bitch, but when she comes through, she delivers divine rewards.

And so, eager to finally possess the skulls, and with a nagging desire to travel, I created a four-week itinerary to explore Ireland and England at the same time. Spain would be the next place I’d visit—where perhaps I could finally lay my anger at its colonizers to rest—and  finally Vienna, Austria to see the Penacho, a rare surviving Aztec headdress, bright green and feathered, that didn’t belong halfway around the world from its country of origin, in a museum for people who could not fully appreciate its true importance. Indeed, part of my mission has been to reach out to museums around the world and broker deals to give back stolen items to their original cultures. The treasures can then go on tour or on loan to museums in other lands; however, sole ownership belongs to the people who created them. This particular headdress had long been on my radar. I figured my kind emails to the museum were not doing enough, and that my power of persuasion in the flesh could serve me better. After years of practice, vampires can use their energy to influence the emotions of humans. We can’t force them to do something, just steer toward what we want from them. I was not opposed to using my vampire magnetism to get what I wanted, and I wanted this headdress back in Mexico City.

 In my human life, as a translator, I’d watched villages and temples be sacked by the conquistadors. The terror and sorrow of one’s powerlessness to stop the destruction of one’s home is something no one should experience or witness. And with the treasures of our past stolen, our children would grow up without anything to remind them of their history or story. The children of Europe had no tie to this object and could, at best, see it only as a unique piece of history of a people they could not fully understand, but more than likely, as just a nice artifact with pretty feathers from a bird they had never seen before. But the headdress had the potential to instill pride and awe in my people if returned to its rightful place in Mexico. And that is exactly what I was going to do. The Hapsburg Archduke Ferdinand II was long dead—what would he care if an item he acquired out of imperialist greed was taken back? 

And as soon as I landed on the distant cool shores of Ireland, I knew I had made the right choice. Even the sight of the drizzle on the small window as we landed excited me. An undercurrent of expectation made my body alert to every sensation and sight. The climate in Ireland differs greatly from my home. Although it is summer in Ireland, there is always a damp chill in the evening air. What a change from the heat I’m accustomed to! This is exactly why I’d made the decision to cross the pond to explore the Old World. My trip would be a gust of change to rid myself of my inner demons—and perhaps introduce me to a few new ones along the way, just for laughs.

All of this to reclaim the freedom once stolen from me back when I was a mortal. Imagine going from “Will this be the day I die as a slave?” to becoming the very embodiment of death. And now I wanted to appease the restlessness that had settled over me the last few years. I am worth millions, but as life has shown me, cash only goes so far in creating a fulfilling life.

And so on this trip I felt open to the unexpected. Perhaps destiny had even brought me across the pond for a reason beyond the skulls. Part of me wanted to believe Chantico watched me from wherever her spirit hovered and sent me a blessing of joy.

* * *

Later that night, I am on my final stop on a pub crawl and my third glass of sparkling water with a wedge of lime. What a great way to end the evening: “Big Love” by Fleetwood Mac playing on speakers mounted on the front of the bar. The paunchy bartender wearing a rugby jersey bellowing “Last call” over the din of the bar. People guzzling whatever they’re drinking and shuffling toward the door. Through the thinning herd, I can now see the corner booth.

And there he is, sitting with his mates at a table covered in Stella Artois bottles and pint glasses. His blue eyes flash with the same allure as his smile surrounded by a light stubble. The sleeves of his T-shirt creep over defined biceps. Candy for the eyes and body.  A box of new books rests at his feet. The covers are all dark with red titles. One has a skeleton key and skull with what look like fangs. I chuckle to myself. He has a thing for vampires. I wonder if he is selling the books. Or did he write them? Doesn’t matter. I want the pleasure of his company, or at the very least the comfort of his body.

During my human life, romance and sex for pleasure had not been options for me. I had gone from being a teenage handmaiden serving the Tabascan royalty to being owned by the Spanish colonizer known as Hernán Cortés. Not only did I translate for him, we Indigenous women could not say no to any “advances” made toward us. First, he’d given me to one of his captains, Alonso Puertocarerro, then to himself, and finally to my Spanish husband, Juan Jarmillo, before my human death.

When I was reborn, I relished my newfound freedom, but I had much healing to do after the trauma of witnessing the conquest in all its horror—and the horrors inflicted on me. My history had left me with deep scars, one of them the fear of being used. There was the lingering paranoia that once my use was over so would be my worth, my life.

But after some time, I began to allow myself the luxury of physical pleasure even though I still was not able to give my heart freely. My experience of not being accepted, respected, or loved as a Brown woman by colonizer men made me self-conscious, about myself, and also my vampire nature. Not all vampires felt like this, as I found out centuries later, when I finally befriended one.

“Mortals only want one thing,” that vampire had once told me, shouting over pulsating disco at a nightclub in New York City in the 19070s. White light refracted across our faces from the spinning disco ball in the center of the dance floor. The vampire’s name was Catherine, and she was older than me by a few hundred years. She wore the best clothing in the current fashion and the brightest red lipstick, with a shine as blinding as the nail polish on the talons she filed to sharp points. Her life was a constant party; she was never not planning another wild bash, and she was never alone for long. If not planning that next party, she hopped shop to shop for the best her money could buy. So I was curious about her thoughts about life as a vampire.

“And what is that? A chance at immortal life?”

With her hot-blooded gaze, she flicked her feathered, bouncy honey-blonde hair and scoffed, “No, no. Very few mortals have the courage for that. Most really can’t stomach the idea of being a blood drinker day in and day out. They want to feel close enough to life after death to not feel afraid of death itself. Humans are so full of doubt and fear of the unknown. They can’t see the divine unless the signs hit them like battle axes and draw blood. And vampires tell them that death is an illusion.”

Her bright lips spread to a sinister smile. “But also vampires do not deny ourselves pleasure. And pleasure is everyone’s drug of choice.”

She raised a finger and motioned for someone behind me. A young woman slid next to her, exposing her bare shoulder blade as she continued to move to the music. Catherine laid a sticky lipstick kiss on the woman’s shoulder before pulling out a small velvet pouch from her metal clutch. The young woman giggled and purred with delight. From inside Catherine plucked a small white pill and placed it into the woman’s mouth. Catherine didn’t take her eyes off me as she bit deep into the shoulder blade of the young woman. Blood and lipstick stuck to her skin. The woman moaned and writhed in Catherine’s embrace. Catherine still had crimson beads clinging to her lipstick when she pulled away from the young woman.

“All the lords and masters are dead, Malinalli. It is our turn to celebrate in the streets. We are not dead. I hope they are all burning in hell while feeling the constraints of the tight corsets some of us were forced to wear. Let them choke on sulphur for a change.”

Catherine became a vampire during the thirteenth century in France. She had seen the evolution of Europe. As an aristocrat, she was by no means deprived or underprivileged in material wealth; however, her only worth was to be wed to create more of it.  Her words hit me in the center of my chest even harder than the bass from the music. My wounds opened for a moment as the faces of my many owners flashed before my eyes. I couldn’t argue with that sentiment. I hoped in death they knew intimately the pain they had inflicted. Part of me wanted to embrace the carefree nature Catherine had adopted, but my resentment still glowed a little too brightly. More time, something I had plenty of, was still needed.

She let out a wicked giggle before shouting, “I fucking love the seventies!” Her hand slid beneath the low-cut collar of the young woman’s thin pink polyester wraparound dress to massage her breast. The young woman tugged at the fabric to expose her nipple. Catherine used the tip of her nail to flick the erect pink flesh. One swift swipe drew a bloom of blood, causing the woman to groan. Catherine bit her lip before lapping up the red liquid jewel.

Catherine hadn’t cared about being inconspicuous. That was her way of getting vengeance against her former masters. And now, so many years later, I was slowly reaching the same point. I had once kept my true vampire self in shadows, and now it was rising to the surface.

The longer I am far from home, the more open I feel to wanting my vampire half and human half to be equally free. I have left my past in Mexico and I have travelled across the waters that brought the many colonizers to my world. It was time to confront their world. My work requires me to seem human. And I have kept my sexual relationships superficial so as not to reveal I am a blood drinker by nature. There was a time in my life when the thirst and the hunt gave me immeasurable pleasure, the only pleasure, as I had retreated into hiding as the last of my people attempted to fight off the invaders. I orgasmed in the throes of draining a soldier dry and tossing his corpse where I knew the Spanish sent scouts. Every part of me let go in blinding surrender. The look of horror when they saw the new me, the vampire me, let me know this was a side of me humans would never understand.

Yet the lack of intimacy in my life had only become another wound. My heart feels tied in ropes of thorn. I had tried to place a vast distance between me and others, as vast as the depth and length of the ocean between the New World and the Old. All the while I ached for real connection, for a profound love to blow away the profound hurt I was still healing from. But now I was resolved: I did not come this far or live this long to become a captive again. I want a lover to love all of me, the woman and the vampire.

But I don’t believe we find our true soul’s desire, or purpose—it finds us. Perhaps, when you meet a soulmate, it is a sign that all those long-lost particles blown to bits at the beginning of time have found their way to one another again—stardust finding itself in another body. Until we reunite with those parts of ourselves, our thoughts and desires will burn like meteors scalding skin, brain, bone, and soul. And that’s how we end up choosing the wrong people, feeling the kind of heartbreak that teaches us lessons. After centuries alone, I hoped to find my soulmate as I did the treasures that made me my fortune. My soul’s aching desire was to discover real love, to feel true equilibrium with my match. To make up for when I had been passed hand to hand in my youth without choice. At that time, I was merely a treasure to be taken.

As I look at the stranger, I can’t tell yet how deep an encounter might be with him, but fate is somehow telling me I’m not going back to my room anytime soon.

Excerpt from Immortal Pleasures by V. Castro, copyright © 2024 by V. Castro. Used by permission of Del Rey, an imprint of Random House Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The post Read an Excerpt From V. Castro’s <em>Immortal Pleasures</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Young Adult

Read an Excerpt From Brittany N. Williams’ Saint-Seducing Gold

The second book in Brittany N. Williams’ young adult historical fantasy trilogy.

By Brittany N. Williams

|

Published on March 28, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from young adult fantasy Saint-Seducing Gold, the second book in the Forge & Fracture Saga by Brittany N. Williams—out from Amulet Books on April 23^rd.

Rina Wood didn’t know what possessed her to tell the horrid story to her baby brother tonight. Sure, Luke had ripped the head from her favorite doll, but the look of abject terror that had come over his face when she’d said Old Rawhead was coming to eat him for being naughty didn’t fill her with the satisfaction she’d hoped for.

The matron had let them keep only one thing from their old lives when she’d taken them into her care two months ago. Rina had chosen the doll their mum had made her from scraps of her old clothes. It was imperfectly shaped but made with so much love Rina swore she could feel her mum’s spirit when she held it close. But now it was ruined, head torn away and straw filling leaking out.

She had every right to be furious… and yet…

Rina could hear Luke’s sniffling and feel his little body shaking beside her in their bed. Her heart sank as he whimpered then fell into more muffled sobs.

She sighed. Her brother was only five; he couldn’t help but play recklessly. He didn’t know any better. She rolled over, careful not to pull the covers off him in the chilly room, and gathered him up in her arms.

“I’m sorry, Luke,” she said, rubbing a hand along his back. “Nothing’s coming to get you. I was just mad about my doll.”

He nuzzled against her, tears soaking the front of her nightshirt. “I’m sorry. I’ll learn to sew so I can fix it.”

“We can fix it together.” She hugged him tighter, happy that they at least had each other even if their parents were gone.

The door to their room swung open suddenly, and the matron rushed in before slamming it shut behind her. She leaned back against it as she peered into the darkness of the room, her eyes wide and face white as her shift.

Rina sat up, keeping her hold on Luke. “Mistress Gregg, what—”

Mistress Gregg shook her head back and forth as she lifted a trembling finger to her lips. Rina went silent, squeezing Luke and shushing him urgently.

SCREEEE.

Something scratched along the length of the door, and Rina saw the matron’s whole body tense.

SCREEEE. SCREEEE. SCREEE.

The sound grew louder and louder. The matron shook violently, hands clamped over her mouth as tears sprang into her eyes.

SCREEEE. SCREEEE. SCREEE.

Buy the Book

Saint-Seducing Gold

Brittany N. Williams

Buy Book

Saint-Seducing Gold

Brittany N. Williams

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Rina ripped the blanket off her and Luke and dragged him out of the bed.

SCREEEE. SCREEEE. SCREEE.

She pulled him down beside her, crouching in the darkest corner she could find.

SCREEEE. SCREEEE. SCREEE.

The wooden door was starting to creak and groan under the loud scratches. Rina knew it wouldn’t hold much longer. They’d need to be quick.

SCREEEEEEEEEEE. SCREEEEEEEEE. SCREEEEEEEE.

She shifted her brother onto her back, felt his tiny arms lock around her neck as she raised herself into a crouch.

BOOM!

The door tore off its hinges and slammed into the hallway wall. The matron turned, a horrified moan escaping her as something dove forward and dragged her to the ground. Rina leapt up, racing for the dooway as the matron screamed. The wet sounds of chewing and rending meat echoed in the darkness, but Rina just focused on running. As she sprinted along the hallway, she noticed every door was open, every room silent. Dark splatters of some liquid covered the walls and floor.

The matron always despaired that she’d never have quiet with so many children living under her roof. Rina didn’t care to find out what horror had granted the woman’s wish. She hurried down the stairs, her grip on Luke so tight she was sure she’d leave bruises.

It didn’t matter, as long as she got them out.

She spotted the front door as something with too many legs thudded along the floor above and behind them. Moving fast.

The heavy locks that bolted them in safely every night now seemed to assure their death as the thing thumped along the stairs.

They didn’t have time.

“Don’t let go, Luke,” Rina hissed. She grabbed the matron’s favorite quilt from her special embroidering chair and swung it over both their heads. Then she threw herself through the front window.

The glass shattered around them, jagged shards scratching her arms and legs, cutting her feet as she stumbled out onto the street. She flinched as one large piece stabbed into her bare sole. She limped forward a few more steps before turning, just as something raised itself up in the broken window. Two piercing golden eyes, slitted like a cat’s, peered out at her from a long, humanlike face so deep a green it could’ve been black. Six long limbs stuck out from either side of its body, each ending in a hand bearing long claws. It tilted its head to the side and revealed a mouth full of two rows of razor-sharp teeth.

Rina felt her heart drop. There was no escape now. Not with the thing so close. She prayed Luke would know enough to run while the beast devoured her. If he lived, she’d die happily.

The creature tensed, its long body preparing to leap.

“What’s going on here?” someone shouted as the light of several lanterns and torches flowed out from the other houses along the street.

The creature hissed and skittered back into the darkness of the orphanage as someone pulled Rina toward them. She cried out as she put weight on her injured foot.

A woman crouched down in front of Rina, her face alarmed but gentle and blessedly ordinary. “What happened, child?”

“Something’s wrong,” the same voice from before called. “Bring the light over here.”

Several men holding lanterns and torches and one brandishing what looked to be a sturdy cooking pan ran past Rina and the woman and into the silent building.

The woman ignored the commotion and focused on Rina, slowly pulled the blanket away. Rina heard Luke whimper as he was uncovered. She tightened her grip on him once more and felt him do the same. She was about to say something when one of the men returned, his face pale as the matron’s had been.

“Kate, get the children inside,” he said firmly, only a slight tremble shaking his voice.

Kate frowned at him. “What’s happening?”

“Get the children inside. Now.”

Something in his tone made the woman, Kate’s, eyes widen before she nodded and guided Rina and Luke away. Rina whimpered again as she put weight on her foot and the woman looked back at the man helplessly. His gaze softened and he strode forward, lifting both Rina and Luke easily. Kate kept pace with him as he walked toward another house, several of its windows illuminated with warm light.

“Simon,” Kate whispered, “what’s going on?”

Rina felt Simon’s grip on her tighten slightly, protectively, and felt a rush of relief flow through her.

He shuddered. “Nothing of God, Kate. Nothing of God.”

As she looked to the orphanage they left behind, she spotted a pair of golden eyes gazing out of the upper window.

And Rina was sure she’d never felt so cold in her entire life.

Excerpted from Saint-Seducing Gold, copyright © 2024 by Brittany N. Williams.

The post Read an Excerpt From Brittany N. Williams’ <i>Saint-Seducing Gold</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Space Opera

Read an Excerpt From Elaine U. Cho’s Ocean’s Godori

Becky Chambers meets Firefly in this Korean space opera about a disgraced space pilot struggling to find her place while fighting to protect the people she loves.

By Elaine U. Cho

|

Published on March 27, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Elaine U. Cho’s science fiction debut Ocean’s Godori—out from Hillman Grad Books on April 23^rd.

Ocean’s fussing with the tie on her jeogori when her nimbus rings. She checks the display and answers.

“Don’t worry, Dae. I’m on my way.”

On her way meaning that she’s almost ready to leave, of course. She adjusts her jeogori for the fifth time.

“Yeah, about that,” her captain’s voice blares too loudly. “I need you to do something first.” Ocean waits, listening to the bursts of laughter on the other end. “Can you move the Ohneul? I’d do it, but I’m already at Coex. They’re holding a separate event for higher-ups.”

One where the alcohol’s flowing, judging by Dae’s voice. “Where do you need me to move it?” Ocean asks.

“Alliance’s Seoul dock. It’ll be more convenient for when we leave tomorrow.” Dae’s voice raises in pitch. “Dangyeol, Lieutenant Seo! Yes, yes, I’m speaking with my pilot now.” When Dae’s responding to a superior, she has a particular laugh calibrated to warmly flatter. She launches into it now, and Ocean rechecks her jeogori tie. Maybe she should watch the instructional video again. Dae’s tone drops. “I think it might be dicey tonight, with all the Alliance ships in the parking hangar because of the gala.”

“If you’re worried about the ship, I wouldn’t mind staying with it—”

“You need to make an appearance at the party,” Dae says. “It reflects badly on me for you to always skip out.”

As if Ocean needs another reminder of what’s waiting for her at the gala, some inevitable trotting out in front of Dae’s superiors as a reminder that she’s been the one keeping Ocean in line all these years. The problem with begging off every social event of the year is that Ocean has to make an appearance to one at least, and Dae chose the biggest. Everyone’s flown back for it. The only upside is that there are so many people, she might not even see Adama and the rest of his crew.

“I’ll be there,” Ocean says.

“If you show up after 1900, I’m requiring you to attend the next Alliance event too.”

“You want me to be there by 1900? That’s impossible!”

“You better book it then, don’t you think?” Dae hangs up abruptly.

Ocean leaves her room, and in the elevator she jabs the P2 button more energetically than she needs to. After presenting her palm for a scan and inputting the Ohneul’s ship ID, an illuminated map offers directions to where it’s parked. When the doors slide open, lighted blue arrows on the ground point the way. Her heels click on the concrete, echoing in the massive hangar. As she follows the arrows, she hears low voices. She can’t place exactly where they’re coming from—the noises are ricocheting off the ceiling and the gargantuan ships lined up in rows—until she gets to the Ohneul and finds two huddled figures nearby. One of them, a large Asian man with a buzzed head, crouches on the ground keeping watch while the other, a Black woman with braids gathered into a high bun, pulls back her fist, ready to punch open the side door. She’s wearing large gloves that are glowing bright green. Power gloves, if Ocean had to guess. All three of them freeze.

“Well, this is awkward,” Ocean says.

Buy the Book

Ocean’s Godori

Elaine U. Cho

Buy Book

Ocean's Godori

Elaine U. Cho

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

The woman slowly lowers her fists, and the man says completely unconvincingly, “Oh no. This isn’t our ship?”

The woman puts her hand up to her ear. “Lupus, you were supposed to be on watch!” she hisses, and then after a pause, she snaps into her comm, “What do you mean it was your favorite scene?”

“I told you not to count on Lupus while they had on Midnight in Europa,” the man says, straightening. “Every scene is their favorite scene.”

Ocean thinks over her options. Her gun is somewhere in a closet about eight floors up. She hates having it with her even if it is regulation; the weight of it on her hip is all wrong. She sighs. It looks like Dae did have something to worry about after all. The raiders’ idea was not a bad one—the garage is packed tonight, and with the party going until the morning hours, they’d only need to take out the cameras to have free rein.

“Were you planning on punching your way into every ship?” Ocean asks.

“The configurations for this one weren’t quite what we were expecting,” the man explains.

“Aries!”

“Cass,” the man replies mildly.

“Ocean.” Ocean points to herself and then to the Ohneul. “And this is a 180-Han. An older model. Nothing fancy and usually easy to break into. But we have a mechanic who upgraded its security settings.” Maggie will be pleased to hear she kept two raiders out. Ocean checks the time on her comm. If she’s going to make Dae’s ludicrous deadline, she has to leave now. “If you’re looking for Han-series ships, there are three in the next row,” Ocean says. “The Narae ships have similar entry doors too. They have that distinctive scalloped fletching on their tails.”

“Damn, that’s cold.” Cass narrows her eyes. “I thought you Alliance kids were at least loyal to one another.”

“I’m kind of on a tight schedule,” Ocean says, ignoring how that comment stings.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cass sneers at Ocean, taking in the silk jeogori, the black Sav-Faire dress underneath that’s seen better days, and the heels that are too high to be of any use in this situation. “Are we keeping you from your party?”

“I’m supposed to move the ship for my boss,” Ocean says. “I have to get it to the Alliance Seoul dock and be back at Coex by 1900.”

Aries checks his comm while Cass scoffs, “There’s no way.” “It’s becoming less likely by the minute,” Ocean agrees.

Aries remarks, “You don’t seem too concerned to catch us breaking into your ship.”

“Trying to break in. You don’t seem too bad on the raider scale,” Ocean says. They’re calm for one thing; if they were skittish, she’d have a problem. “You must be pretty low grade if you’re rifling through Alliance ships for loot.”

“Low grade?” Cass sputters. “I’ll have you know—”

“So you are raiders?” Ocean asks. From Ocean’s experience, the more defensive a raider is, the more they feel they have to prove. Ocean has no gun and no way in hell of beating someone in a fist fight, especially not someone wearing power gloves. “It doesn’t matter to me either way, but I’d rather avoid the delay.”

Aries eyes her without any of his partner’s judgment. After his once-over, he nods. He steps onto the walkway, tugging Cass along by the elbow, and gestures for Ocean to go ahead. “We’d rather avoid that too.”

“Seriously?” Cass asks. “You can’t trust Alliance trash, Aries.”

Ocean slips past them, but she waits until they’re far enough away before entering the passcode and pressing her palm to the panel.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Aries says breezily as the hatch door opens with a metal creak. “But I do know he’s going to be disappointed if you attract any unnecessary attention. You promised we’d keep a low profile.” He touches his ear. “Lupus, will you actually keep an eye out this time?”

“Thanks,” Ocean says to them as she pulls the door closed.

“You’re never going to make it!” Cass yells at her as the door seals.

All the lights blink on in the hallway, except the one at the far end that always flickers a few times with a buzzy zap before giving up. Ocean cocks an ear; she half expected Gremio to be here, asleep in his room by the infirmary, but the ship has an unmistakably empty feeling. Good. She can very clearly picture a disgruntled Gremio bursting out of the ship to knock his cane on the heads of the hapless raiders. He would also definitely not approve of the ride she’s about to take the ship on.

Ocean checks the time again as she strides to the cockpit. Aish. She really might not make it. She slides into her pilot seat and flicks switches with one hand while undoing the straps of her heels with the other. She kicks them off and settles her feet against the pedals.

Immediately, all the tension eases out of her body. Her right hand takes the wheel, and her left one rests on the shift. This feeling may have been the real reason she agreed to Dae’s order.

The metro leaves every five minutes from the Seoul dock. It takes about twelve minutes to get to Coex from there, including all the stops. So that gives her about six minutes to move the Ohneul and find parking. Just for kicks, Ocean connects her nimbus to the console and opens up Gilla maps to check what it thinks. Seventeen minutes. Marv. She shifts right and down on the lever, and the satisfying weight of the mechanics confirms her existence. The ship lifts into the air, and from the left display, she sees the two raiders heading over to the next row where she pointed out the Han ships. The closest one is the Samjogo, piloted by Kim Seunghoon, who once roughed up Von outside A-Mart.

“Good luck,” she says, although she’s not sure whether she’s speaking to Cass or herself.

Ocean jabs in the code to open the garage’s entryway, and she follows the slow slope of the hangar floor out. Then she’s streaming through the Seoul air. The sun’s just setting now, and she admires the purple hue of the sky behind the city lights.

Another memory comes to mind, of hands on the wheel, of wind streaming in through an open window. She allows herself a brief moment, then she pushes the clutch, her right foot ready to supply gas to the thrusters, her left hand on the gear lever, all moving in smooth synchronization. The Ohneul zooms forward.

“Five minutes,” she says to herself as she angles around the Lotte World Tower and over the World Peace Gate. She knows Seoul better by air than by foot and is making good time; the air’s free of traffic tonight, probably because she’s the only one being sent on an errand by her commanding officer. At least that’s what she thinks until she spots blinking lights out of the corner of her eye. Her console beeps, and she squints at it before reluctantly opening the transmission. If it’s an Alliance officer, word will get back to Dae that she ignored it.

“Dae swore you started from the Alliance dorms.”

The transmission’s coming from the Flying Cloud, which means the pilot is Lim Yeri.

“I did,” Ocean says.

“Liar. No way you got here that fast. Still, keeps things interesting, yeah?”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t they tell you? There’s one parking spot left at the Seoul docks. Our captains made a wager to see which one of us would get to it first.”

Ocean remembers Dae’s drunken glee. “Marv,” she mutters. “We’re subject to the whims of our seonbae, I guess.”

“You can take the spot.” Ocean couldn’t be less interested in Dae’s latest pissing match.

“Oh, come on.” Lim laughs. “I was kinda interested in seeing what the famous Crane had to offer, but I guess that was all talk?” Despite herself, Ocean stiffens. She reflexively looks down at the tattoo on her right hand. The profile of a crane in flight stretches its beak up to her index knuckle, its wings spreading up the back of her hand, legs pointing toward her wrist.

The Flying Cloud’s drifted close enough for Ocean to see the cloud pattern etched on its hull. This one’s a Byeol-10X, an actual racer. It’s last year’s model, the X-wing an homage to space fighters of old, the layered divots in its shield an aerodynamic dream. Ocean flexes her fingers against her wheel. Truthfully, she doesn’t want to have to go to another party.

“Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” she says as she punches her feet down.

The display flashes blue then green. The Ohneul spirals out, jetting forward amid a cloud of profanity from Lim. A rush of pure pleasure floods Ocean, and she can’t remember the last time she felt this focused, this awake. Lim catches up easily. Byeol-10X models are built for speed, and the Ohneul is barely keeping it together as it is. If their route was a straightaway with nothing but sky, Ocean wouldn’t have a prayer. But Lim doesn’t dare go high enough to gain that advantage because of how close the Alliance dock is, and Ocean knows Seoul like the back of her right hand. Lim swerves in front of Ocean, cutting off her path. Ocean veers right, then left, but Lim blocks her each time.

“You think you can pass me in that clunker?” Lim yells.

Ocean doesn’t need to. Lim’s flown the Flying Cloud far enough to the left now that the Ohneul can’t edge between it and the fast-approaching Shinjeong Tower with its distinctive crescent moon top. Ocean fakes right, and when Lim moves to cut her off again, Ocean hits the brakes. She loves feeling the lurch in her body as the ship reacts. She’s piloted the Ohneul for five years, and even if she’s never raced it, she still knows each clank, every fluctuation, and the exact resistance of its wheel. At the perfect moment, she spins the wheel in the opposite direction, fighting its inertia, and the Ohneul’s back slides out. Ocean turns the ship sideways and up so that it cradles in the curve of Shinjeong’s crescent before completing its somersault.

Ocean predicts the Flying Cloud’s brake lights flashing even before Lim stops short. She knows there’s that new apartment development just ahead. Ocean’s already calibrated her landing, so once she flips in front of the Flying Cloud, she’s ready to corner sharply around the stalled ship, cutting Lim off. As if on cue, the panel pings at Ocean to complain, telling her this ship is not equipped to travel at these speeds. She smiles as she curves around a block of hotels. At this point, she’s not even worried about Lim; she’s just following the best line. The gates to the Seoul dock are in front of her, and she’s home free.

“Injeong halggeh.” Lim laughs over the transmission. “I’m not even mad. What the hell are you doing piloting a Class 4?”

Just like that, the thrill running through Ocean’s veins dries up. “You can take the parking spot,” she says.

“Wait, what? Really?”

Ocean turns off the transmission and drops her head back on the seat, putting the Ohneul on coast. The console beeps and Ocean slaps the button to respond. “I’m serious, just take—”

“Ocean-ah.” Damn. It isn’t Lim. Too late, Ocean realizes that the alert was a different tone than the internal calls between ships.

She slumps forward over the wheel. “Why didn’t you call? You said you would call last night when you got to Seoul. You’re too busy with your friend to call your umma?”

Her mother’s insistence on calling all her steadies “friends” is, at least, consistent. She’ll probably be happy to hear they’re not friends anymore.

“I’m sorry, Umma. I forgot.”

Her umma has an unerring instinct to call at the absolute worst times. Then again, it’s not like Ocean’s taken the opportunity to create her own battlegrounds. Ocean pulls the ship up higher so she can idly guide the Ohneul through the clouds with one hand on the wheel.

Her umma exhales heavily. “Babeun meogeoseo?”

“Not yet, Umma.” A wave of guilt always accompanies this response, but she can’t lie. Her mom’s able to sniff out a lie quicker than a priest in a confessional box. “I’m on my way to the Alliance gala. They’ll have food there.”

“Alliance gala?”

“You know, Umma. The party they throw every year.”

“Euh, the gala. Where they gave Hajoon that award?”

“Yes. That one.” It was years before Ocean’s time at the Alliance,  but the memory is painfully bright. She remembers the crisp rustle of her mother’s brand-new hanbok. Even more palpable is the pride her parents wore that night, the tears glistening in her mother’s eyes as her older brother waved to them from the stage.

The silence gapes so widely that if Ocean sighs, her mother will hear it, no matter how much she stifles the reaction. “I was going to call, Umma. I’m sorry I didn’t. But I’m flying now, and I need to park the ship.”

Ocean holds her breath.

“How long are you going to live like this?” The weariness in her mother’s voice sucks all the air out of the cockpit.

“I should go. I’ll call you later, Umma.”

Ocean hangs up. Her nimbus display clocks the call in at barely over a minute. The sun has fully set now, but Seoul is still spread out in vivid color below. Ocean rests her hand on the shift. She still has a party to get to.

Excerpted from Ocean’s Godori, copyright © 2024 by Elaine U. Cho.

The post Read an Excerpt From Elaine U. Cho’s <i>Ocean’s Godori</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts The Indian Lake Trilogy

Stephen Graham Jones Says Goodbye to Jade Daniels in The Angel of Indian Lake

Read an excerpt from the final installment of Jones’ Indian Lake trilogy.

By Stephen Graham Jones

|

Published on March 19, 2024

2

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Stephen Graham Jones’ The Angel of Indian Lake, along with a note from the author. The final installment of Jones’ Indian Lake trilogy picks up four years after Don’t Fear the Reaper as Jade returns to Proofrock, Idaho, to build a life after the years of sacrifice—only to find the Lake Witch is waiting for her.

The Angel of Indian Lake will be available March 26th from Saga Press.

Buy the Book

The Angel of Indian Lake

Stephen Graham Jones

The final installment of the Indian Lake trilogy.

Buy Book

The Angel of Indian Lake

Stephen Graham Jones

The final installment of the Indian Lake trilogy.

The final installment of the Indian Lake trilogy.

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

My Heart is Jade Daniels

Is “trilogy” a verb?

I submit that it sort of is.

Related: I never knew it as a verb until The Angel of Indian Lake, where, you know, I had to either trilogy or change my name, cut my hair, and move away from Colorado, as people wanted to see where Jade Daniels’s story might end.

I sort of wanted to find out as well.

Well, really, I sort of just wanted to hang out with her for one more book.

I like the way she talks, I mean. I like who she is, and who she isn’t.

And, what’s hard to even imagine is that, when I first wrote My Heart is a Chainsaw, she wasn’t even in it. Back then—2013, maybe 2014?—Chainsaw was ’Lake Access Only,’ and it was narrated in royal first person, with “we” instead of “I.” Instead of Jade being at the center of this swirling madness, there was a boy in an iron mask. A boy with, um, some pretty severe father issues.

Indian Lake was there already, though. And Sheriff Hardy, Terra Nova, Proofrock. I think Camp Blood may even have been a shadowy specter over on the other side of the water.

The book didn’t work, though. It all hinged on an isolated species of turtle I’d dreamed up—that I now mis-remember as actually a species—and… I don’t know: I’d meant to tell a slasher, but then I was ramping off into turtles and the raptors that preyed on them? The turtles made for a narrative turn I liked, don’t get me wrong, and there were plenty of dead people in the lake, which is necessary for a story like this, but… it was a misfire.

So, I did what you do with books like that: put it on the shelf and tried to write better books.

But Indian Lake wouldn’t quit sloshing around in my head.

After Mongrels in 2016 and Mapping the Interior in 2017, I was casting around for what to pour myself into next. I wrote a big crime novel, Texas is Burning, and then an anthropology thriller, American Neanderthal—both unpublished. I tried writing a novella for Ellen Datlow three times, but got carried away, ended up with The Babysitter Lives and The Only Good Indians and another horror novel (en route) before finally lucking into Night of the Mannequins. This is… 2018, maybe?

Nothing else was working, so I hauled down that book about Indian Lake, with the idea that I could put a foot pump on it, air it up into a workable story. Wrong. Ten pages in, I could tell I no longer had access to the decade-long love affair I’d had with Jeffrey Eugenides’s The Virgin Suicides—that Greek chorus I needed to document all this high-altitude killing was gone.

So, I started over from nothing, and I decided to shake things up by starting at the very end, after some massacre I hoped I’d figure out along the way. There I was, standing on the Pier in front of Proofrock, all the dead floating facedown in the water, and that was when I noticed that one of these dead men had a pale western shirt that was floating out to his sides like wings, the pearl snaps glistening in the water.

I stood, walked as close to the edge as I could, because there was something there.

No: someone.

You know that scene in Apocalypse Now where Martin Sheen in tactical facepaint slowly comes up from the water?

That happened here, for me.

This is where I met Jade Daniels for the first time.

She stood up in the shallows and she was writing all this down, trying to document the massacre, because her book on it was going to be her ticket out of Idaho. And, man, was she glaring at that dad in the pearl snap shirt. Her pencil was digging deeper and deeper into the paper.

This is when I quit writing My Heart is a Chainsaw, and she took over.

It didn’t go right at first, or at second either—Hardy used to play a bigger role, and Letha Mondragon was a YouTube influencer with her make-up channel—but it finally got together enough that Joe Monti bought it for Saga. At that point, there were no Slasher 101s, and when there finally were, right near the end, they were each ten or twelve pages long, which Joe and my agent BJ Robbins wisely told me was indulgent, so I dialed them all back shorter.

At the end of the novel, though, everyone was dead. I figured that was my duty as a horror novelist: stories end like Hamlet, don’t they?

So I thought.

Maybe three weeks before everything was finalized, though, Joe started asking me a question I didn’t want to answer: What if just one or two people maybe survived? I bucked and fought against this, but finally, to show him how bad an idea it was, I wrote an ending where two or three people lived. It was supposed to be laughable, an illustration of failure.

But it wasn’t.

Joe was right.

So, when he and my agent asked what was next, I shrugged, said, the rest of this Indian Lake trilogy, of course.

Meaning, I had to write the sequel.

It wasn’t just daunting, it was terrifying. I had no idea how to do a thing like this. But I could crawl inside The Empire Strikes Back and The Two Towers—happily. Without those two books as guiding lights at the end of this long dark tunnel I was calling Don’t Fear the Reaper… I get lost, I flail around on the page, I have no idea what to do.

What I learned from them was, in retrospect, so obvious: tone. That’s ninety percent of what the middle book in a trilogy is. When I saw the second season of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s Good Omens, I could tell right off it was a trilogy, just because of the tone.

This doesn’t mean I had any real idea who was dropping all these bodies in Reaper, though—that’s not how I write. I didn’t figure that out until about two-thirds of the way through. And then? Joe gave me the best note I’ve ever gotten on anything I’ve written: “Can you make it… gorier?”

Yes, Joe, I can.

I can always do that.

And, again, if he doesn’t say that, I don’t think Reaper comes together.

Then, though: a third? You mean I have to somehow wrap up all these threads in a single book, when I never planned a trilogy, when I have no idea what to do or how to do it?

Yes. Call something a “trilogy,” you’re kind of committed.

So, to be sure I was starting from the right place, I wrote another novel real fast, I Was a Teenage Slasher, out in July, here. What I wanted to do was empty my head and my heart of everything “slasher” I could, so that, for The Angel of Indian Lake, I could start from zero, on a completely empty tank. Meaning I’d have to dig deeper than I had for either Chainsaw or Reaper.

This is when “trilogy” started feeling like a verb for me.

You’ll see in the acknowledgements some of the impediments that popped up, writing this, but, in short, I had no time. But what I did have was Jade Daniels.

Just like with that 2018 ground-up rewrite of Chainsaw, I gave her the reins, the pencil, the rudder on that airboat skipping across Indian Lake faster and faster, Terra Nova coming fast, blood in the water…

And I so want to be back there again.

I so want to drift across Indian Lake in Mr. Holmes’s flying go-cart.

That was what was, and is still, in my heart.

“How to Cross a Blank Page,” though, yeah.

Especially when I was now committed to coming up with something more over-the-top than the Jaws massacre-on-the-lake in Chainsaw, when I was now obligated to maintain the rapidfire body-a-minute pacing of Reaper.

And all those questions and narrative stubs I’d left hanging in the first two installments?

Angel would have to tie them up, close them off, but in a way that also opens the story up, lets it resonate.

“Trilogy” is a verb, yes.

I can feel it pulsing in my wrist, thrushing through the arteries in my neck, flooding my head with blood and blood and more blood, until the only way out is to reach my hand up from all that slick redness, reach up and—

Let Jade take my hand, pull me up.

This is her lake, after all.

This is her town, her people.

And she’ll fight for them better than I ever could.

Thank you all for reading her, for hanging out with her for these three books. I hope you saw something in her that you can feel surging in yourself. And maybe you found a slasher title or three along the way.

They’re all floating in the shallows by the pier, in this Bay of Blood.

And, again, Joe’s big note for this third installment was the saving thing. I’d originally titled the book “Born for Halloween,” since Jade most definitely is, but Joe made me dig deeper, for The Angel of Indian Lake.

I so wanted everyone to live through Angel, too.

I’m still that dude who Hamlets everyone at the end of the original Chainsaw, though.

It’s time to say goodbye to Jade Daniels, yes.

That doesn’t mean I ever let her go, though.

—Stephen Graham Jones

The Angel of Indian Lake
SCARY MOVIE

This isn’t Freddy’s high school hallway, this isn’t Freddy’s high school hallway.

If it were, Tina would be twenty feet ahead in her foggy plastic bodybag, being dragged around the corner on a smear of her own blood.

Instead—again, but it always feels like the first time—I’m the one in that bodybag.

I’m helpless on my back, there’s no air in here, my feet are travois handles to pull me with, and the lockers and doorways and educational posters and homecoming banners to either side are blurry, are in a Henderson High I’m not part of anymore.

Not since Freddy got his claws into me.

I want to scream but know that if I open my mouth, what’s com.ing out is a sheep’s dying bleat. I clap my scream in with my palm, try to clamp my throat shut, tamp the panic down, but my elbow scraping on the plastic wall of this bodybag rasps louder than it should, and—

He looks back.

His face is scarred and cratered, and there’s a glint of humor in his eyes like he’s getting away with something here, a glint that spreads to his lips, one side of his twisted mouth sharpening into a grin right before his head Pez-dispensers back because his neck’s been chopped open, and what comes up from that bloody stump is the grimy hand of a little dead girl fighting her way back into the world, and—

And it doesn’t have to be this way, according to Sharona.

She’s my twice-a-month therapist, courtesy of her champion and main benefactor, Letha Mondragon.

It’s only a movie, it’s only a movie, Sharona’s taught me to repeat in my head.

To fight my way through panic attacks, I’m supposed to think of my life as playing on a drive-in screen. Not that I’ve ever been to a drive-in. But evidently, late in their evolution, there would be six or eight or ten drive-in screens all in this big-ass Stonehenge circle, each with their own parking lot. If you didn’t like what was playing on one screen, you could take your popcorn, cruise over for the next movie, and the next, until you found one that worked for you, that helped you through this night instead of trapping you in it.

“You’re the consumer here,” Sharona told me so, so earnestly our first session. “And what you’re paying with is anxiety and dread and panic, see?”

The first part of me being the one carrying the popcorn, it’s sup.posed to be buying into this being all a movie, all a movie. Like that was ever enough to keep the horror in The Last House on the Left from touching you where it counts.

Sharona doesn’t know horror, though. Just feelings, regrets, strategies, and how to see through my own rationalizations and paranoia, my bad history and worse family shit.

I say quid pro quo to her a lot, but I don’t think she ever really gets it like I mean it.

The way she explains what I’m feeling in moments like this—“feeling” being clinical-speak for “consumed by”—is that my anxiety is a straitjacket constricting me: at first it feels like a hug, like somethingI should nestle into, but then… then it doesn’t know when to stop, does it, Jade?

StraitJacket of course being a 1964 proto slasher, post-Psycho but very much providing a model for Psycho II nearly twenty years later. Thank you, Robert Bloch.

Sharona has it wrong about straitjackets, though. In a straitjacket, you can breathe. I know this from experience. You don’t open your wrist out on the lake and then get trusted with your own fingernails and teeth, I mean.

Where you can’t breathe, though?

In a bodybag.

When Proofrock and all what I’ve done and not done and should have done if I were smarter and better and faster and louder are col.lapsing in on me and there’s no air at all, then a knife finger materializes blurry and real through the foggy plastic cocooning me, it materializes and then it loops through a delicate metal tab, to zip me right in.

Sorry, Sharona.

One bullshit tool you’ve given me to work that zipper down from the backside is to write letters to someone I respect or care for, who could and would offer me a helping hand, to clamber up out of this.

Which is just a reminder that everyone I love is dead, thanks.

Excerpted from The Angel of Indian Lake, copyright © 2024 by Stephen Graham Jones

The post Stephen Graham Jones Says Goodbye to Jade Daniels in <i>The Angel of Indian Lake</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts art reveal

Revealing Art From Jared Pechaček’s The West Passage

Take a peek at The West Passage, a delightfully mysterious and intriguingly weird medieval fantasy unlike anything you’ve read before.

By Jared Pechaček

|

Published on March 19, 2024

1

Share

We are thrilled to share an excerpt from Jared Pechaček’s The West Passage, along with some of Pechaček’s chapter art and notes. The West Passage will be available on July 16 2024 from Tordotcom Publishing.

Buy the Book

The West Passage

Jared Pechaček

Buy Book

The West Passage

Jared Pechaček

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

For all the illustrations, I asked myself: How would people in the world of The West Passage depict these events? This is a book where objective truth is hard to come by, so representing events realistically felt like an imposition of one view upon the narrative. (Yeah, I’m the author, but I’m not a dictator!) And so, as the story moves from area to area, or from character to character, the visuals shift with it through different periods of medieval art. Here, the first ever Lady of Grey battles the ancient enemy of the palace, known only as the Beast. In the world of The West Passage, the Ladies are the palace’s eldritch builders, rulers, and protectors, each responsible for her own domain. This battle belongs to a time so long ago it’s basically myth, so rather than medieval art, some of the masks are inspired by Bronze Age sculpture.

Our story starts in Grey House, the oldest and most secluded region of the palace. It resembles a monastic community: dedicated to ritual and supported by people within its demesne. For art related to Grey and its Mother, I turned to insular Celtic work from about 650-800 CE, like the Book of Kells and the Lindisfarne Gospels, to associate these people with isolation, faith, and the periphery of empire.

The other major visual style of The West Passage comes from the Gothic period. Our second protagonist, Kew, apprentice to the Passage’s deceased Guardian, is much more book-learned than anyone else, so his chapters reflect the broader trends within Europe from 1200-1450 CE. As he goes along, the art shifts later and later within that time frame, but at this point in the story, we’re still at the start. This image is a direct reference to a page of the thirteenth century Aberdeen Bestiary—one of several similar books that Kew’s art hearkens back to. Bestiaries are, after all, part of his job.

The interlude chapters peek in on what’s happening in other areas that our heroes don’t see. Here, we’re visiting Blue Tower, the artistic and industrial center of the palace, where a certain manuscript is in production. Blue’s art pulls from Armenian illumination, particularly the work of Toros Roslin, which sits at a very beautiful intersection of European Christian and West Asian Islamic influences. I use it here partly because Blue is also an intersection for the palace, but mostly because I’m part Armenian. (One of our protagonists is visually based on my great-grandmother, actually!) 

The experience of revelation is very important to the story. So is the characters’ devotion to their godlike Ladies, which is strongest in the warlike region of Red. And so for art related to Red, I have turned to Beatus of Liébana’s Commentary on the Apocalypse, specifically the gorgeously weird Facundus manuscript from 1047. In this image, the first of the Red Ladies, surrounded by her dragonflies, fights against the Beast. The sinuous Beast itself here is inspired by Facundus’s take on the Great Red Dragon. As for why it has more heads than its first appearance, plus a lot of wings—well, I wouldn’t dream of revealing.

Chapter 1
The Mask Is Broken and the Women in Grey Say Very Little About It

With the guardian dead, the question remained: Who would do it? There was talk among the women of sending to Black Tower for someone, or of the old woman’s apprentice taking over, but he, a pale youth who looked more used to handling books than beasts, turned paler when it was mentioned to him, and they would not shame him, nor distress themselves, by speaking of it further. But in the meantime, the West Passage remained unguarded.

The women in grey took the body for washing and wrapping. Due to the importance of the deceased, Pell, who was their apprentice, was not permitted to touch, only to look, and as she looked she saw the pale youth slip something off the old woman’s corpse just as everyone entered the small dark room. A trinket of some sort, on a string, perhaps a keepsake promised to him by the old woman. Pell said nothing.

A strong smell of death had settled on the room. It had not been a dignified death, and the old woman was very dirty. There was a song to be sung during washing, but the women in grey could only hum it through closed mouths. They filled basket after basket with soiled linen before she was clean. Yarrow, the taller woman, directed Pell to take the baskets out to the burnyard reverently but quickly and set them afire as soon as possible.

“And for North’s sake,” said Yarrow, “don’t touch them, and wash your hands directly—seven times, remember, with some lavender oil to finish.”

Pell did not need to be told, but it suited Yarrow to order and be obeyed, and it suited Pell to please Yarrow. The Mother of Grey House was a tall, stern woman, and the backs of her strong hands were covered in spines; you didn’t want her boxing your ears. Pell did as she was told—burnt the baskets too, since they seemed fouled beyond repair—and as the linens and wicker settled into charred shreds in the furnace, she went to wash. Smelling of lavender, she returned to the old woman’s room, where the apprentice sat in the corridor next to Arnica’s wheelbarrow, his knees drawn up to his chest.

“Out of my way,” said Pell, an important person with important tasks. Someday she might take Yarrow’s place. Then people would stay out of her way and not just sit in it, staring.

The apprentice only moved a fingerwidth, as if his misery held his body full and taut and he couldn’t compress it anymore. He did not look at her.

“I’m needed inside,” said Pell, which was not strictly true. Yarrow and Arnica had only told her to keep out of the way and watch.

“What’s to become of me?” said the apprentice.

She could not remember his name, and did not have the patience to try. “I can’t speak for the future, but in the present, if you don’t let me past, I’ll box your ears.”

They were the same age, or nearly, but Pell could talk like Yarrow when needed. He moved.

“Thank you,” said Pell. To make up for her manner, she took a stick of angelica from her sleeve and offered it to him. He stared at it as if it were some unknown beast. “Take it,” she said. Then again, more loudly, and added, “It’s a gift.”

He obeyed. Pell left him and entered the room, which smelled much fresher now, in time to pick up the winding sheet and hand it to Arnica. Fitting so immediately into their rhythm kindled a spark of pleasure in her heart, and in its warmth she forgot the apprentice.

The women in grey wound up the old woman in the white cloth. Over her shrouded face they strapped a green stone mask with closed eyes. They could sing now, and Yarrow’s fine clear voice filled the room with the winding-song, while Arnica’s huskier one rumbled in the flagstones. Pell was not allowed to sing the songs yet, but she memorized the tune and the way Yarrow and Arnica would clap in unison at certain beats and words. In her mind, she built a room for the winding-song and hung each line as a picture on the walls.

The women in grey hoisted the corpse onto a stretcher—Pell could help here, as the women in grey were really not much younger than the old dead woman—and carried her out. Pell was left to clean up.

Any unused linens and herbs must be repacked in their chipped urns. The floor must be swept and mopped, and the sweepings put in a basket to burn.
The room was not much bigger than any others in the palace. It held a bed, a stool, a chamber pot, a large wooden table, and a wardrobe. One wall had three small windows, latticed with stone like the others in this old part of the palace. Nothing was very remarkable, except an open wooden chest at the bed’s foot, where three or four books lay.

Books. Women in grey were not supposed to meddle with personal property, but Pell was not one of them yet. She could still do some of the forbidden things, like eat meat or handle bread. So when the floor was swept, and she’d pulled herbs out of her sleeves to steep in the mopping water, she knelt by the chest and picked up the smallest book. To her disappointment, it was all words. None of the lovely pictures that she’d seen over in the Archives, with patterns winding over pages like vines. What use was a book that only had words?

“Put it back,” said a timid voice. The apprentice had entered the room.

“Out! Get out!” said Pell. “We aren’t done yet!” She scrambled to her feet, slamming the chest shut as she rose.

“But the books—” he said.

“Are safe here!” she said. “Women in grey don’t take. Get out! It’s not clean here!” She snatched up the broom and shoved it at his feet.

Even though he was two heads taller, he obeyed. Either she had absorbed some of Yarrow’s immense personal authority, or he was incapable of confronting anyone. Though Pell would like to believe the former, she knew it was probably the latter.

She slammed the door shut after him and set about mopping. The water was fragrant with lavender, thyme, and lemon, and it chased the last of the death-smells away. She stripped the bed and put the soiled clothes in the basket. Someone else would take the old woman’s belongings—probably the apprentice, but it wasn’t Pell’s concern either way. The women in grey only handled death and birth.

When she came out of the room, he was gone. Pell took the burn-basket to the furnace and tossed it in, then went back for the urns. She loaded them into the wheelbarrow and trundled back to Grey Tower. Its atrium was still dripping with the morning’s rain, and Yarrow and Arnica were struggling up the spiral ramp with the stretcher.

Pell took the things into the storeroom and put them on the shelves. When she emerged into the atrium again, the women in grey had not made much progress. Before she reached them, Arnica stumbled and the stretcher twisted, tumbling the old woman’s body off. Yarrow stopped it falling from the ramp, but the mask slipped and plummeted.

“Catch it, girl!” said Yarrow, unnecessarily and too late. The mask evaded Pell’s outstretched hand and hit the mossy flagstones with an ominous chnk. “Is it whole?” Yarrow added as she and Arnica maneuvered the corpse back into place.

Pell gathered up the mask. It was in two halves, and badly chipped and scratched. She took it up the ramp anyway.

“Ah, well,” said Yarrow.

“Some glue,” said Arnica vaguely.

Yarrow sighed. Arnica sighed.

Pell, remembering some of the long, long rhymes, asked, “Isn’t that a bad omen?”

“Oh, that’s what we always say,” said Arnica. “Truth is nobody knows.”

“The truth is,” said Yarrow, “that the masks are our responsibility. Shame it happened, but someone might fix it in time.” Someone was usually one of the girls. “Take Arnica’s place, girl; was her old foot that slipped and got us here. If you mayn’t sing, you may at least carry.”

Arnica took the mask and stood aside to let Pell pick up the end of the stretcher. This was a great honor, and Pell flushed with pride as she stepped forward. She found it difficult to maintain her pride, however: the ramp was slippery with moss and rainwater. Old age or not, anyone would be hard-pressed to walk it. And as it coiled around the atrium wall it seemed to grow steeper and steeper, so that the risk of falling made Pell’s head swim. You’d splatter on the uneven floor like an old peach.

“By rights someone should’ve been singing this whole time,” said Yarrow as they wrestled the corpse up and up. “But neither of us had the breath. Arnica, you might, now you’re unburdened.”

Arnica immediately began. Her deep voice echoed and re-echoed off the stone walls until the whole of Grey Tower seemed to be one droning throat. Pell’s very bones vibrated.

Pell had never been more than halfway up the ramp. It was forbidden for apprentices, but Yarrow, uncharacteristically, did not mention to Pell the immense distinction conferred on her. Maybe Pell had been chosen as her apprentice. The years of learning and training might finally go somewhere. A warm glow spread up her neck and across her face at the thought. To be the next Yarrow . . .

They passed many doors, some whole, others decayed so Pell could glimpse the rooms beyond. Full of urns some of them were, others of moldering chests or furniture or miracles. One seemed full of people, until she looked again and saw it was only dozens of statues with veiled eyes. Grey Tower had always been for the dead, but it seemed in earlier years it had been for other things, too.

They reached a landing and Yarrow stopped, pressing her spiny hand to her side.

“A moment,” she gasped. “North above, a moment.”

Pell took the opportunity to look around. There were only three levels more of Grey Tower, each lined with twelve great yawning arches. The arches rested on pillars carved like people with animal heads, no two alike. Each arch opened onto a dark space, like a huge niche, but with the sun now shining straight down into the atrium, Pell could not see what lay beyond. The ramp led up past the arches to the top of the tower, where a wide parapet lay open to the sky.

“Give us a share,” said Yarrow. Arnica had taken some nuts out of her pocket and was cracking and eating them with quiet pleasure. Pell’s face must have registered her shock, for Yarrow rolled her eyes. “We have an awesome duty in an awesome space, but a body does like something to crunch now and then.”

“She certainly did,” said Arnica, nudging the corpse with the tip of one dirty shoe. “All them offerings of ortolan and almond. Proper thing would’ve been to share it out again, but time after time you’d try to talk to her and hear naught but the crunch of little bird bones. She didn’t even share her name with that apprentice. Didn’t swear him in before the end. Couldn’t stand the thought of another Hawthorn while she lived, I suppose. And here we are.”

Yarrow chuckled, a sound like a pestle in a stone mortar. “All them West Passage guardians were always of a sort. Whoever’s next’ll eat a songbird banquet right down to the feathers and save you out just a talon or a half-gnawed beak.”

“Best get a new guardian soon,” said Arnica through a mouthful of half-chewed walnut. “Or Grey Tower’ll have more work than it wants, if the stories hold true.”

Both Yarrow and Arnica made a curious gesture of the left hand, common to the elders of the palace, that always accompanied mentions of the West Passage. Pell did not.

“Who’ll do it, I wonder,” said Yarrow. She tossed a shell out into the air. A moment later a distant click echoed from the floor of the atrium. “That boy of hers? I’ll give him the name of guardian if he asks, but we’d have as much luck with a statue of a Lady.”

“He might do,” said Arnica. “Not ’sif there’s other choices. If he knows his duty . . .”

The women sighed in unison. Duty. Everyone in Grey House knew theirs. The guardians, though, in their little court—who could say what they knew?

“What do the guardians do?” said Pell.

“Protect,” said Arnica, who was generally more disposed to answer that sort of question. “Ain’t you paid attention in lessons?”

Stung, Pell said, “But protect from what?”

“The evil.”

“What evil?”

Arnica spoke around a mouthful. “The one that comes through the Passage now and again. Ain’t no matter for us, though. It’s guardian business.”

“Then let them gossip about it,” said a bored Yarrow, standing and brushing nutshells off her grey gown. “Let’s be off.”

A nut fell from Arnica’s hand unnoticed. Out of habit, Pell scooped it up and stuffed it into her sleeve for later. You could hide a lot of things there, if the women came upon you suddenly.

The tower was now quite hot, and Pell and Yarrow were both dripping with sweat when they reached the top. The wide rampart shimmered under the sun, and the three took shelter in the shade of a turret to catch their breath again.

The five turrets of Grey Tower each had their own name and song, and each was meant for a different section of the palace’s people. The old woman needed to be taken to Tamarisk, whose floral moldings were worn away to nubs. Pell’s body, when her time came, would go to the Hand, in whose shade they nestled, with its tumbled parapet and meticulously maintained yellow chevrons.

Pell recovered faster than the women. Being so high up was a rare treat, and being atop Grey Tower had never happened to her before, so she would take advantage of it. She went over to the rough granite parapet and got up on her toes to peer over it. All the ruinous grandeur of the palace was at her feet.

The sun glinted on the South Passage hundreds of yards away and below, where water gurgled through the chasm beneath the palace. Bridges crisscrossed it, bulging with houses. A pigeon launched itself from a courtyard, drawing her eye up to faraway Red Tower, purpled with distance, its beacon dull in the light of day. If a wind came from there, you could get a whiff of the sea. In the windless noon, white smoke from that eternal fire drifted over all the southeastern district of the palace. Much closer was lapis-domed Blue Tower, rising from a sea of white plaster walls, swirling with pigeons and the bright flecks of hummingbirds who came to drink from the flowering vines that spilled down its sides. A woman in a near window was hanging laundry. She waved at Pell, who ducked beneath the parapet.

Yarrow and Arnica permitted her to look from here, close to the corpse that was their duty, but if she went around to the other side of the rampart to see Black and Yellow Towers, that would be leisure. Suddenly Pell would be shirking. Anyway, Yellow Tower was plainly visible, slashing into the sky like a knife into flesh. That way lay the West Passage. Black Tower was more to the north, hidden behind the turret where its people went after death: Varlan’s Love.

Grey was the living heart of the palace, built of the grey bedrock under everything; Grey was the oldest; Grey was the center. Grey was death.

Yarrow’s whistle startled Pell. Five notes, starting high, and descending down minor thirds: a call Pell had heard from the foot of the tower many times, but never so close. It pierced the eardrums and reverberated through the hollow center of the tower as if it were a resonating chamber.

“All right, girl,” said Yarrow. “Let’s get her over to Tamarisk quick, before they arrive.”

Arnica resumed her song as Yarrow and Pell trotted the stretcher along the parapet. In the heat, the old woman was beginning to smell. She’d had a horrible death to begin with, but how much more horrible to die in high summer and make every bit of your passing a burden to others.

Tamarisk, like all the turrets, was open and hollow on its inner face. A spiral staircase wound up through three platforms to the open roof; you could watch anyone climbing it as if looking at the open side of a dollhouse. The stretcher stopped at its foot, jarring Pell’s stomach.

“No, girl,” said Yarrow. “Arnica helps for the last bit. You’re not yet a woman.”

Not yet. Pell handed the stretcher off to Arnica, and the two women started up the stairs. She watched their laborious progress, and wondered whether Arnica would make it. Twenty steps to the top, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, and then Arnica stumbled on the fifteenth. They nearly lost the body, and the mask almost fell once more. But Yarrow was determined, and they pushed on.

A murmur filled the air. It rose in volume, came nearer, turned into a rustling and a cawing. Pell looked over her shoulder.

Streaming past the bright face of Yellow were hundreds of crows. They knew the whistle and what it meant, and by ancient treaty they had arrived. Yarrow and Arnica set down the body and reached the safety of the stairs just in time. In a moment, Tamarisk was covered in a shivering blanket of black. Scratching, rasping, tearing, squelching: the noise was horrible.

The old woman did not take them long. The crows even carried away the bones, and for a moment their neatness was exhilarating, until Pell saw the bones dropped into the Passage, and she remembered: to get at the marrow, the crows had learned to break bones on the canyon rocks, and there were red-daubed vultures who fed on them as well. Everyone who had ever died in the palace lay splintered along the banks of the river.

All that remained atop Tamarisk was a bloody shroud and the damaged mask. Yarrow and Arnica stood watching it, as if something might move. Pell stood with them. As the afternoon wore on, Pell’s headscarf soaked up the heat. A trickle of sweat ran down her back. The two women must have been miserable in their wimples, long gowns, and leather aprons.

“Oughtn’t we clean up, Mothers?” said Pell.

“A moment,” said Arnica. “A bleedin’ moment.”

“Hush, girl,” said Yarrow.

An iridescent butterfly fluttered past Pell’s nose. Its wings flickered like flame. She put out her hand to tempt it into landing there, but Yarrow slapped her.

“Don’t interfere,” said Yarrow, as Pell rubbed the back of her hand.

The butterfly made its way to the top of Tamarisk and landed on the shroud. Another followed. Then another. Soon the shroud shimmered with their wings.

“They like to sip us up,” Arnica whispered. “Anyway it’s less to mop.”

When the last of the old woman had been drunk down hundreds of tiny throats, Yarrow solemnly mounted the stairs once more. She wrapped the mask in the shroud and carried it back down.

“To the glory of the Lady,” she said.

Pell followed her and Arnica onto the ramp. The sun had moved and the atrium was beautifully cool. Down they went, singing another song, to place the mask on its plinth, where it would wait for the next guardian to die.

The two green halves looked balefully at Pell. While Yarrow and Arnica took care of some other business, she ran some rough twine through the eyeholes and tied it together. Would there be consequences? It was only a mask, after all. And the women didn’t seem worried.

Pell put the issue out of her mind. It should not concern her in the slightest. The palace took care of such matters, and she had a tale to tell the other girls.

Excerpted from The West Passage, copyright 2024 by Jared Pechaček

The post Revealing Art From Jared Pechaček’s <i>The West Passage</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Fairy Tales

Read an Excerpt From Markelle Grabo’s Call Forth a Fox

A sapphic twist on the classic fairy tale “Snow White and Rose Red.”

By Markelle Grabo

|

Published on March 21, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Call Forth a Fox by Markelle Grabo, a YA fantasy twist on a classic fairy tale—out from Page Street Publishing on April 2^nd.

I hop off my tree stump to study the line of fox tracks leading deeper into the wood. My neighbor might’ve scared her away, but the fox could be waiting for me somewhere among these trees. Perhaps she wants me to follow her tracks, find her like she found me.

I’m tempted to do just that, yet night draws near. While Ma encourages independence in her daughters, her one rule is to never be alone in the forest when it’s dark, and it’s a rule Eirwyn’s enforced since she left. Besides, my sister’s likely returned from Maple Square by now. She’ll be waiting for me, on the bench reading or hopelessly attempting to rebuild the fire. My sister can no more successfully kindle a flame than I can prepare a decent meal.

I find the will to turn away from the tracks before the temptation to follow seizes me completely, but I drag my feet toward the cottage, thoughts of the fox wrapping around me like rose vines. My boots clomp through the snow and I imagine them as nimble fox feet prowling past the trees. I shift my head right and left, wrinkling my nose as if scenting the air for signs of prey. I imagine the glowing moon illuminating my coppery coat, turning its fire into faerie light.

If only I were a fox. No one would take me to Poppy, then.

Buy the Book

Call Forth a Fox

Markelle Grabo

Buy Book

Call Forth a Fox

Markelle Grabo

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

I lift my eyes to the dark opening ahead, the one that leads to the clearing before the cottage. I squint, and through the dim-ness, I can make out the square windows glowing faintly. Either Eirwyn figured out the fire, or she’s lit every lamp we own. 

Icy unease pricks my skin. Now that I’m closer, I’m not sure I’m ready to go home, ready to face Eirwyn so soon after our quarrel. I still feel awful for invoking Pa’s name the way I did. I linger in the developing night, breathing in the cold until it nips at my chest. All around me, snow glistens like the stars slowly appearing overhead. Shadowy trees bend and creak in the wind. A few stray leaves—left over from fall—flutter quietly to the forest floor.

Then, a streak of copper leaps across my path, mere inches from the tips of my boots. 

I jump back, but I can’t find my footing. I fall to the ground, and the sudden drop is so jarring that I wince. I press a cold palm to my forehead, blinking away the haze in my eyes in time to see the red fox bounding in the direction of the cottage, paws kicking up snow like a small windstorm.

An ache spreads down my neck as I rise to my feet, and my backside is covered with snow, but neither matters with the fox running ahead. I’m about to chase after her when I hear a deep huff.

I breathe in sharply through my nose. Slowly, I turn.

A bear, its massive form crowding the forest, lumbers toward me.

Muscles ripple beneath dark brown fur. Ears stand straight up. Each puff of breath is a steamy cloud beneath the moon-light.

I try to swallow my rising terror but it’s so thick in my throat that I choke. I cover my mouth, fingers trembling. My chest plummets to my gut, over and over.

A bear in the wood. A creature much larger than a fox.  Fur bristling. Eyes gleaming. Mouth hungry. Cold fear drenches me, seeps past layers of clothes to soak my skin.

My teeth chatter. I know I should do something, but I can’t remember what. Ma’s voice is insistent in my ears, but I can’t comprehend the words. I’m caught. Gasping. Trembling. Prey.

The bear huffs again. I can’t breathe.

Then something inside me snaps and Ma’s lesson slams into me like a gale of frozen wind. I don’t wait. I lift my arms, wave them slowly. “Hey! I’m backing away, I’m backing away.”

I step backward as he trudges forward. Enormous paws make deep grooves in the snow. I veer to the left, straying from his path. Dread grips my gut like bear claws. The itch to flee has never been stronger, but I keep my pace. Never try to outrun a bear.

I bump into something solid. Only a tree, but a yelp escapes my lips before I can stop it. The bear groans low.

I shudder against the bark. “I’m backing away,” I repeat. “Please, I’m backing away.”

Moving around the tree, I lose sight of the bear for a few precious moments. But my knees weaken in relief as soon as I regain my view. Despite my yelp, the bear isn’t following me. Ma’s lesson worked.

I wait until I can no longer hear the bear’s heavy tread, then collapse against a tree, my forehead pressed hard against the bark. I release a rush of breath, lips pulling upward in a cautious smile. No longer caught. No longer prey. No need to tremble.

But a sharp wail pierces the night. The fox.

I imagine the scene clearly: Teeth clamping. A coppery coat drenched in red. A broken body in the snow. A triumphant roar. 

A swell of rage much stronger than my fear burns its way down my throat.

I dash after the lumbering bear, my satchel thumping against my side. My clothes are damp with snow and sweat. When I reach the edge of the forest, my breaths have turned hoarse and painful.

The bear has the fox cornered, pressed up against a thick oak tree. My ears ring, the sound overcoming all whispers of Ma’s lesson. I must save her. I must stop him.

With fumbling hands, I remove my boot. I blink hard, find my aim, and hurl my boot at the bear. It spirals chaotically until it hits the top of his back. He grunts and turns his head.

“Hey!” I scream, clenching my fists. “Hey!”

It’s not enough. The bear’s head swings back toward the fox. The cornered animal wails again—sharp, insistent, and loud.

I yank off my other boot and throw. “Leave her alone! Get away from her!”

The second boot hits the bear’s side. This time the beast turns fully in my direction. Gleaming eyes latch onto me. He huffs, lifts one large paw, takes one step forward. His ears flatten against his head.

It seems I’ve become the fox.

The bear charges. I spin on my heels and sprint toward the cottage. A mere hundred feet away, but I fear I won’t make it. My chest is tight; I can’t get enough air. I can’t move fast enough. My sock feet slip and slide. Above the ringing in my ears is the sound of the bear’s heavy tread. At such a speed, not even a fox body could save me now.

With a grunt, the bear’s head rams into my back and I’m thrown forward. My body smacks against the ground and my face meets the snow. Crystals of ice sting my cheeks. Unlike the fox, my resulting wail is low and quiet.

A fleeting hope flares in my chest at the thought of the fox leaping onto the bear’s back, nipping at his ear to save her new ally. But of course, foxes don’t think like foolish girls. Foxes don’t provoke a bear; they run from one. I hope the red fox is running now.

A massive paw batters my side. The assault turns my scream into a whimper. I bring my knees to my chest and cover my head with my arms. I wait for another swipe; I know it will come.

Until it doesn’t.

Instead, the bear emits a low groan, and my eyes flutter open. There’s an arrow embedded in the beast’s right shoulder. He stumbles. I uncoil and drag myself across the snow. He drops to the ground like an overturned boulder, huffing and making clicking sounds with his tongue.

In the open doorway of the cottage stands Eirwyn, bow in hand. Her slender frame is illuminated by the light from within.

“Ro,” she calls, starting forward. 

I stagger to my feet and run to my sister. We collide and Eirwyn’s bow smacks my back, but I barely register the discom-fort. I bury my face in my sister’s neck, smell her rose perfume. Eirwyn grips me tight and murmurs calming words into my ear, stroking my snow-drenched hair. 

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean to be out so late. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re all right,” Eirwyn says, breathless and trembling. “I’m here.”

Thank goodness for that. After years of neglect, she took up her bow to save me. I’m relieved she never threw it away.

“Did you kill it?” I ask. “Is it dead?”

“I don’t know, I—”

I feel Eirwyn’s body stiffen, then she shrugs herself out of my embrace. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted. She stares past me as if I’m no longer here.

I tug on her sleeve. “Eirwyn, what is it?” 

“Ro,” she breathes. 

She lifts an arm and points. My eyes follow.

Lying in the snow is a boy. A boy where there should be a bear. A bleeding, naked boy.

He groans, and he sounds like a bear. But he isn’t one. He’s not massive and he doesn’t have fur or sharp claws. He’s pale with messy brown hair and long limbs. He’s human.

But he’s lying in the snow where a bear was, with the arrow Eirwyn shot protruding from his shoulder.

Numbed by the sight, I reach for my sister’s hand, grip her fingers as if touch will rouse me from this strange, terrible dream.

The not-a-bear boy lifts his head. “Help,” he moans. “Please.”

Eirwyn drops her bow. “What have I done?”

Excerpted from Call Forth a Fox, copyright © 2024 by Markelle Grabo.

The post Read an Excerpt From Markelle Grabo’s <i>Call Forth a Fox</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Young Adult

Read an Excerpt From Joan He’s Sound the Gong

The sweeping conclusion to The Kingdom of Three duology.

By Joan He

|

Published on March 20, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Sound the Gong, the conclusion of Joan He’s YA fantasy duology The Kingdom of Three—publishing with Roaring Brook Press on April 30^th.

“Hello, Lotus. We meet again.”

I saw him from above, as a spirit, but it’s different, so different, confronting him in the flesh. Firelight from the braziers falls over us both. His face is underlit, the planes of his cheeks and forehead shadowed. If only I could clear the shadows like I would a mask. I’m suddenly seized with the urge to do just that—to draw him into the light, out of these pretenses, and put my lips to his ear. Yes and no, Crow.

We meet again, but not as Crow and Lotus.

But I don’t act on whims, and neither does Crow. “Any particular reason for sending this?” He holds up the letter, and though I’ve been waiting for him to ask, I’m caught off guard. It’s his manner. His tone, so blasé, as if the letter is just a piece of paper. I expected… more.

Fool of me to. He’s a strategist, like myself. Emotions are a liability. Of course he’d hide them. I should look to his actions. They speak more than his words. I’m in his tent.

I have his attention.

“I wanted to meet with you,” I say, lightening my own tone. “I seem to have succeeded.”

Crow regards me carefully. It’s nothing like the last time we met face-to-face, by the lake. Why would it be? Crow’s forces are here to break the siege. This can only end with one victor, one loser.

“Indeed you have,” he at last grants. “Did Zephyr give this letter to you too?”

Buy the Book

Sound the Gong

Joan He

Buy Book

Sound the Gong

Joan He

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Too. What else did I, as Zephyr, supposedly give to Lotus? Then I remember another time I felt this pinned. In the dark of the stables, cornered by Crow, I’d claimed that Zephyr had told me his name. He doubted me then—still doubts me, by the lilt of his voice—and I untense. He cares, enough to have an opinion on what Zephyr would or would not share.

I have more than an opinion. “No. She didn’t.”

“I didn’t think so,” Crow murmurs.

“We found it with her body.” The head of which Miasma collected first. Surely Crow knew of her revolting actions. He is her strategist. An enemy who holds a secret pertinent to this siege. Ask him—

“Tell me, then.” Crow speaks before I can. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I challenge you to a duet.”

“Still two on one zither?”

Mmm, Dewdrop thinks, as if the prospect is delicious.

I’ll squash her right after I squash my rival. “One zither each,” I say to Crow, willing my face to cool.

“A proper duet.” Crow lets the words hang for an uncomfortably long second. “If my memory isn’t failing me, you weren’t eager to play during our last encounter.”

“I’ve been practicing since. I liked it.”

His stare is cryptic.

I was cryptic too, the night I sat at his zither as Lotus. I left him wanting, left him wondering how a warrior like myself could unlock the instrument’s qì with just one note.

Now’s your chance to find out, I think to Crow. Can you resist it?

I know I wouldn’t.

“Bring them,” he finally says, eyes never leaving mine as the guards depart, carrying out his order. They return with two zithers. I recognize the first as Crow’s. Midnight wood. Strings white as snow. He takes it to a table at one end of the tent. I take the second zither to the opposite.

We sit.

Since we last played, I’ve been thinking over a dilemma. Zithers are a conduit for the truth in one’s heart. Why would a strategist agree to a duet if they’re at risk of leaking secrets that could end wars or incite them?

The answer I arrived at solidifies when I meet the challenge in Crow’s gaze. We each have secrets, and he’s betting on his skill that he can access mine first. A strategist’s duet is no different from a warrior’s duel in this respect. Both parties stand to injure themselves.

Neither backs down.

Crow raises his arms, black sleeves cascading. “What topic shall we play about?”

“This siege.”

“Hmm.” My heart tremors at the syllable. “I’d like to play about you,” Crow says, and plucks. The open note travels through me, and I with it. Back in time and place. My hands—Lotus’s— are under Crow’s.

We played this very note, by the lake.

Focus. This scene is safe. I play as well, and the space between us swirls, air gone to water. Mist curls—fronds of qì, taking on color. The night appears. The two of us, bent over the same zither. The lake shines behind us, liquid moonlight, as the music rises.

An image within an image.

It changes as we play on. Crow and Lotus disappear, replaced by a hut. My breath stops. Thistlegate?

It’s not. The image clarifies, and I see the pig carcasses, strung from the thatched roof. What—?

Lotus. She’s from a family of butchers, Cloud once told me. Relief—I haven’t leaked my identity—turns into bewilderment. I shouldn’t have these memories. I don’t remember these memories.

How, then, can my music be conveying my thoughts?

Something’s wrong, Dewdrop thinks. Stop playing. This—

Crow plucks another note—two. They vibrate, like rubbed stones. A question sings in the resulting harmonic.

Zephyr—

I can’t leave empty-handed.

I play my response, throwing my notes. The image ripples. Changes. I see Lotus and myself—as Zephyr, in Qilin’s body— crossing a river together. Cloud is up ahead. Tourmaline brings up the rear, and Ren—she’s beside me, between Lotus and Zephyr, just like the old times—

Before my eyes, Zephyr starts to fade.

Quickly I play louder, faster. The image changes to the siege. I strike the zither and Bikong ignites. Arrows soar and our soldiers rush the walls. Smoke blooms and blood spills—enemy blood.

Fight back, my music says, or we will slaughter you.

Excerpted from Sound the Gong, copyright © 2024 by Joan He.

The post Read an Excerpt From Joan He’s <i>Sound the Gong</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Young Adult

Read an Excerpt From Nevin Holness’ King of Dead Things

This YA urban fantasy steeped in Afro-Carribbean folklore follows two Black teens searching for a powerful artifact in the hidden magical side of London.

By Nevin Holness

|

Published on March 18, 2024

1

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from King of Dead Things by Nevin Holness, a young adult urban fantasy novel publishing with Atheneum Books for Young Readers on April 16^th.

Chapter One

Eli

The soul slipped from the boy as easily as removing a sheet from a bed.

It felt a little like that, Eli thought as he took it in his hand; thin, weightless, like releasing a kite in the wind. He got a sense of the life as it passed through him. He had read before in one of Max’s old books that the magic in each soul had its own individuality; this one felt like motor grease on fingers and grass stains on knees, the smell of petrol, the hum of an engine. He was a mechanic, Eli realized belatedly. He had spent a lifetime working with his hands.

In theory, it was simple. The boy’s soul was battered and broken; Eli was just stitching the fragments back together one at a time, like patchwork. It was a complicated magic, healing; one wrong stitch and it wouldn’t stick. Plus, it took from him as much as he gave. Afterward, Eli would feel worn out, nauseous, and it usually took a few days for his own magic to return.

He didn’t have the luxury of going a few days without magic, not when he had bills to pay, so it had become habit for him to take a piece for himself in the form of payment—a single thread of magic, small enough not to be missed. Most people were oblivious to magic, even when it was right under their noses, and the ones who weren’t existed the same way as Eli, in hushed voices and behind closed doors. It was easy for Eli to go unnoticed. The only real risk of failure lay in human error, but Eli had practiced incessantly, ghosting the movements over and over with his fingers, like surgeons’ sutures into oranges.

There was an art to it. The first time he’d tried taking magic that wasn’t his, it had wrapped around his palms like razor wire, tight enough that he’d needed stitches. Since then, Eli had bled magic from a soul enough times that he knew the rhythm of it. He knew what kinds of magic to stay away from and what kinds he could upsell, which would get stuck beneath his fingernails and which would crumble and turn to ash if he held on too tightly. He had strict rules. He only took magic that had been corrupted or warped into something wicked. Magic that had soured and rotted from wrongdoing. Magic like this, that smelled like… death.

Buy the Book

King of Dead Things

Nevin Holness

Buy Book

King of Dead Things

Nevin Holness

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

It didn’t take long before he was finished. The soul slotted back together with a click that reminded Eli of clockwork. When he stepped back, the boy let out a deep exhale. He wore a thin golden chain around his neck, a pendant of a snake wrapped around a dagger. Eli watched it rise and fall against his chest until he was sure that he was okay. The magic was weak with fatigue and confused, probably, at having been tampered with, but it had listened to him.

“You’re getting good at that,” said a voice behind him, and Eli turned to see that he had an audience.

Sunny leant against the doorframe, a cigarette between her lips despite the very clear, capitalized sign on the wall behind her indicating that it was prohibited to smoke. At some point during the short twenty minutes since Eli had last seen her, she had gotten into a fight, because she now sported a bloody nose, a swollen eye, and a crooked grin.

“Who’d you piss off this time?” Eli asked, entirely unsurprised.

Sunny smiled. There was blood on her chin. “Why do you assume it was me doing the pissing off?”

“I’ve spent more than fifteen seconds in your vicinity,” Eli answered, and Sunny gave an unladylike snort.

They were standing in the back alley of some Camden pub, one of those nameless ones that seemed as old as it did new. The asphalt gleamed in sleek pinks and purples from last night’s rain. Across the street, a tattooed guy was fruitlessly flogging his mixtape. A few drunk people hovered outside the kebab place, and if Eli craned his neck, he could just about make out the last of the tourists leaving the Lock with dusk. It should have been unnerving, probably, that it was only the cover of the night that kept them shrouded from onlookers, but Eli had always liked busy places. There was something in the comfort of not being alone.

“That’s not our guy,” Sunny said, peering down at the unconscious boy.

“Nope,” Eli said, and it most certainly wasn’t. Eli pushed his glasses further up his nose to get a better look. Their contact was supposed to be a gray-haired seer man. Instead, they’d found a boy around the same age as them. When they’d first found him, he’d been moments away from death. He might have been mistaken for sleeping if it hadn’t been for the small, bleeding puncture at the base of his stomach, slowly oozing magic. Now, his chest rose and fell in even breaths. He would be fine when he woke up. Something would be missing, maybe. A memory. A friend’s face. A favorite song. Eli tried to avoid thinking about it too hard. He had saved a life, after all.

“Shit,” Sunny said. “Pam’s gonna be vex.”

“When isn’t she?” Eli said, and Sunny snorted in agreement. “At least we’ve got something else for her.”

The sliver of magic Eli had taken from the boy was no bigger than a ten-pence coin, probably only slightly larger than his thumbnail, but weighed heavy in the palm of his hand. Most magic Eli had encountered was tinted with color, a reflection of the soul it had come from. Eli’s own magic, for instance, had the habit of staining his fingers moss-green. This magic, however, was completely clear and white. It cut through the darkness of the alleyway like moonlight, bright enough to leave spots behind Eli’s eyelids. Eli wondered what it might feel like to use that sort of magic but quickly cast the thought aside. Thinking like that only led to trouble.

The boy most likely wouldn’t notice the magic was gone, but for Eli magic meant survival: from just this fragment, he would be able to cover at least a month’s rent, maybe a couple of weeks of credit on his Oyster card, and at least a momentary reprieve from the sinking sand of financial instability that he was constantly up to his neck in.

“We should probably get out of here, then,” said Sunny, yawning. “There are some drunk guys inside who are going to be realizing any second now that they no longer have their wallets.”

Eli rolled his eyes, but it wasn’t like he could comment. He was just as much a thief as she was.

Eli had always thought of London as two halves. There was the tedium of everyday London that most people existed in, full of commuters, coffee shops, and tourist traps. Then there was the secret side of the city, full of winding, serpentine streets and back-alley bargains. This was a London you only knew if it ran in your blood.

Pam’s West Indian Takeaway was one of those places. Far enough off Camden High Street that it was easy to miss, it was nestled between a vegan sandwich shop–cum–tattoo parlor and a record store that, as far as Eli could tell, only sold obscure Serbian jazz on vinyl.

In truth, this was the side of London that he loved. Not the sleek gray industrialism of Zone One, full of overpaid suits and twenty-something upstart gentrifiers. For Eli, this was home. Corner shops next to kebab shops next to unisex barbers. Nail shops next to chicken shops next to funeral homes. It was the outer crust. He liked that everyone here knew what it was to be on the outside.

Pam’s, in particular, was a place of in-betweens. The magic of the restaurant, like a lot of places in London, lay in the fact that it existed just outside linear time. Eli didn’t understand the technicalities of it, honestly. Sunny had attempted to explain it once, but since she had the unfortunate habit of lying compulsively for the fun of it, Eli wasn’t sure how far he could believe her.

Still, he’d figured out the basics. Pam’s was a sanctuary. If you knew the right spells and which doors to use them on, you could even enter at any time of the day, stay for as long as you liked.

For Eli, it was home. The top two floors had been converted into flats, and Eli and Sunny each rented a room from Pam for half the market price, under the condition that they spend their free time downstairs washing dishes and folding pastries. It was, objectively, a bit of a fixer-upper—there was water damage in almost every room, the smell of food permeated the walls, and it was somehow both freezing in the winters yet suffocatingly hot in the summer—but Eli had grown fond of it. It was a place that was theirs.

Max, the final piece of their trio, was behind the counter flipping through a comic book when they entered.

“Hey,” she said at their arrival, “what kind of West Indian time do you call this? I was just about to close up.” She took in Sunny’s bruised and bloody face, then turned to Eli with a resigned yet wholly unsurprised sigh. “Do I even want to know?”

Max, like Pam, was a girl of in-betweens. She was close to Sunny and Eli in age, but nobody this side of London knew more about magic. The daughter of an imam and a retired activist, Max was a healer some days, a thief the others, but a cashier on most.

“Probably not,” Sunny said, closing the door behind her and flipping the open for business sign hanging out front to soon come. “Anyway, you worry too much. Probably only, like, forty percent of the blood is mine.”

Eli tried not to roll his eyes. Sunny’s judgment about whether something was worth worrying over seemed to exist on a scale from one to a-human-being’s-death-has-transpired.

“Besides,” Sunny continued, flinging herself onto her usual stool by the counter. “You won’t be mad when you see what we’ve got.”

He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but in the short time they had known one another, this act of exchanging gifts after every job had become something of a tradition among the three of them. Of course, the big things they found, things with actual worth, Max would pass on to Pam. Magic that was owed. Debts that were overdue. It was how he and Sunny stayed afloat. Well—that, and a hellish amount of monotony; weekend retail work in between shifts at Pam’s, part-time waiting tables, freelance call center temping. Eli was just nearing the end of his teen years, yet he’d had more jobs in the first two decades of his life than most people had in whole lifetimes.

Their smaller finds, the peculiar magical tidbits that didn’t have any worth outside of their strangeness factor, those Max kept for herself. She wasn’t a collector, necessarily, but she liked deconstructing things, stripping them down and seeing what they were made of.

It was the same reason that Max had first decided to help Eli with his own business. Okay, Max had said after she’d heard his story. Well, you’re definitely a mystery. And that was all it had taken. A boy who plucked the magic from a soul like petals, who had no memory of who he was before three years ago? She had peeked once at the hollowness inside him, the crack right through his center, and decided instantly that it was something of interest to her.

In return, it had become a fun little game for Eli and Sunny while they were on their adventures: Who could bring Max back the weirdest find? Scales from a water spirit, hair of a lagahoo, cursed knives, phoenix ashes; somewhere along the road, the two of them had inadvertently become a pair of proprietary house cats, filling their jaws with feathered gifts.

It was Max who had dropped Pam’s request in their group chat a week prior, between links to personality quizzes and twelve-minute-long YouTube videos dissecting pop star feuds. Pam looking for ancient fang, she’d texted, says it nyams magic. Allegedly stolen by Anansi himself from Osebo, leopard god. Last heard whispers that it’s with some seer man looking to sell to the highest bidder. Pam says if you find, DO NOT TOUCH (obvs). (It eats magic.)

pass, Sunny had replied, sounds like some old-time bush fable. But then a week later she’d come back with the lead on a Camden pub and a simple follow-up question:

how much?

“Pam’s not going to like this,” Max said, after suffering through their lengthy explanation of how they’d searched for the seer man and instead stumbled on the boy in the alleyway, a hole pierced through his gut, half dead, and no sign of the fang.

Sunny and Eli exchanged a look. Pam sent them on a lot of errands. Some of the things they were sent to retrieve were hefty enough to keep their stomachs full for whole months. Other times it was just the matter of passing on a message. Pam never gave any indication of the significance of her requests, and Eli and Sunny never asked. This felt different.

“What’s so special about this fang?” Sunny asked. It came out, as did most of Sunny’s words, dripping with derision, but Max’s response was sincere.

“At the moment it’s just rumors. You know people like to run their mouths. But you should have seen the way Pam spoke about it. She told me she needed it. She seemed, I don’t know. Spooked.”

Truthfully, he hadn’t even known Pam was capable of fear. One time a group of guys had tried to break into their cash register and Pam had dispensed with them using only the blunt end of a broom. Another time, a kitchen fire had started out back and the whole building had been flooded with thick, blinding smoke. Pam had casually waded through the flames, wafting the smoke from her face like it was a fruit fly. She hadn’t left until everyone was safe, and only then did she leisurely amble outside, a handbag nestled in the crook of one arm and a wad of cash in the other, looking less like she was escaping a burning building and more like she was on her way to the bank.

Max gnawed at her lip, and Eli could tell that she was debating how much to reveal. “Mrs. Taylor came in the other week. She told me her son—you know the tall one, plays the clarinet?—well, he was missing.”

Excerpted from King of Dead Things, copyright © 2024 by Nevin Holness.

The post Read an Excerpt From Nevin Holness’ King of Dead Things appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Horror

Read an Excerpt From Jennifer Thorne’s Diavola

A sharp twist on the classic haunted house story, exploring loneliness, belonging, and the seemingly inescapable bonds of family mythology.

By Jennifer Thorne

|

Published on March 14, 2024

1

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Jennifer Thorne’s Diavola, a sharp twist on the classic haunted house story exploring loneliness, belonging, and the seemingly inescapable bonds of family mythology—out from Nightfire on March 26.

YOUR FLESH AND BLOOD

Anna kicked off the annual Pace family vacation with a lie. It was the only smart move, and she didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it.

Benny had wanted to maintain their usual twin-dependent status by meeting up on Friday and flying together to Florence from Newark, a compromise between New York and Philadelphia, but doing so would have involved her sharing a row with his newish boyfriend for the better part of nine hours, and besides the natural human inclination to avoid torture, Anna had better plans.

So she made her excuses—last-minute client meeting Friday afternoon, stupidly important one, ugh, her agency was such a pain, she really needed this vacation—and Benny rolled his eyes with her, not at her, a crucial difference.

Anna arrived in Florence early Thursday morning and stayed alone in a shoebox Airbnb apartment near Piazza Santa Croce.

In the afternoon and into the evening, she sat on a precariously thin half-moon balcony with her sketch pad stretched across her bare legs, trying to capture the soul of the skyline, until the wine she’d been drinking blurred the lines, and she set it all aside and went out to simply stroll.

La passeggiata, they called it. She liked it—the flow, the freedom, the cacophony of the people around her, and beauty absolutely everywhere she looked.

Friday was travel day for the rest of the Pace family, and although the Florence airport was miles away, she woke up feeling their arrival like a to-do-list item she’d been trying to ignore, a psychic tap-tap-tap on the shoulder. Hey! Remember us? Your flesh and blood? Don’t you care at all?

Buy the Book

Diavola

Jennifer Thorne

Buy Book

Diavola

Jennifer Thorne

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Mom and Dad’s flight from Ohio, via a changeover in Gatwick, landed at 7:28 a.m. Central European Summer Time—they’d forwarded her the itinerary—then they’d wait for Benny and the New Boyfriend, whom they’d not yet had the pleasure of meeting, and shuttle them in their rental car south into the Chianti region to the medieval hilltop village of Monteperso. Nicole and her circus would roll into town around the same time and make their own way over to the villa. A joyful, almost complete, Pace family reunion would be underway by lunchtime.

Anna doubted her absence would be felt all that acutely, despite what they were sure to say to her later.

She hit the galleries on Friday. L’Accademia. The Uffizi. Molto bene. Overwhelming in the best way.

She’d been careful not to tell the family when her fictional Saturday flight was arriving, which gave her time for a brioche and an espresso and one more stroll Saturday morning before she grabbed her shoulder bag and hauled herself out of Florence. She hopped a southern train into the town nearest Monteperso, then sat on a curb in the station’s parking lot and booked an Uber.

The driver, a young guy with mussed, curly hair and a sparse mustache, spoke a little English.

“You sure you want to go to Villa Taccola?” he said as he cut off another car on a sharp right turn out of town. “I could take you… anywhere else.”

“Should I be worried?” Anna asked, watching the landscape scroll past her window, one lovely postcard after another. Skinny cypress and squat olive trees, tidy lines of vineyard hills, beautifully crumbling walls, villages that had been clinging to their rocky brown hillsides for a thousand years or more. The occasional jarring modern sight: a massive satellite dish on a house, a fence plastered with ads for a summer funfair.

Her brain would filter those images out later, she knew. People tended to remember only the pretty parts of their vacations, and Anna was no different.

“No, no, I’m joking,” the driver said, but he watched her through the rearview mirror, eyes tracking downward, and she wondered idly whether it was him she should be worried about. She envisioned the possibility. Uber driver with a few of his local buddies, a different car parked down a dirt track, waiting to find her alone.

“Where do you live?” she asked him in Italian. Dove abita?

In the mirror, his eyes slid back to the road, just in time for him to avoid oncoming traffic driving too centrally on a switchback.

Her heart thudded with the near miss. She bit her lip, adrenaline pulsing upward.

He replied in Italian. “Not far from where you’re staying.”

Anna stretched. “What’s fun to do around here?”

“Everything is fun if you are fun,” he answered. At least, she thought he did. Her actual facility with Italian wasn’t nearly as good as her accent.

“Good point,” she said. In English.

Up ahead, she saw a small wooden sign too overgrown with ryegrass to read. A narrow country track stretched along it to the right. The driver turned so abruptly she nearly fell over, and she heard him chuckling from the front seat as she rearranged herself.

They passed a field where a gangly goat stood tied to a post, next to a sagging soccer ball. From the long grass beside him, an orange cat emerged, stretched its back, and lazily trailed the car. Anna craned her neck to peer through the back windshield, tracking its path along the road.

By the time she’d straightened again, they were there.

Villa Taccola.

“I can come back, take you out, have some fun,” the driver started to say as he stopped the car, but she hurried out, mumbling, “Grazie mille, arrivederci.” She slung her bag onto her shoulder and stepped through the iron gates of the villa.

Anna heard the car idle on the drive for a full minute before it crunched a turn and left her behind. I’ ll keep a rock in my pocket when I go for walks here alone, she thought, even while knowing she’d never bother.

There were two excessively large SUV rentals parked just to the right of the iron gates, signaling that the gang was all here, but as Anna approached the villa, she felt entirely alone. Unnaturally so. There was something careful about the energy here. Not calm, exactly. More… preserved in amber. Crickets twitched their relentless song around her, unseen. A brown lizard on the sunny courtyard tiles lay so still that Anna assumed it was dead until it twitched at her approach. There was a perfect circle of dirt surrounding the house and drive, inside of which even weeds didn’t grow. Not well-tended gravel. Dirt. Remnants of dead plants poking up in places. The sky was solid cerulean blue and the day was hot. Hotter by the minute. Breezeless.

Anna slowed her step, allowing the sense of this place to wind tight around her. The sunlight and shadow, the isolation. Something else she couldn’t yet name. She’d have taken out her sketch pad and plunked down right there, cross-legged in the front courtyard, capturing her first impression of this six-hundred-year-old villa—the afternoon light stretching across the pale brown stones of the flat façade, casting shadows that looked like teeth—if she didn’t think she’d be caught. Somebody would spot her, take offense, mention it to the others, setting the combative script for the rest of the week.

Not this time. Anna wanted this vacation. She’d actually looked forward to it.

She set down her shoulder bag and looked around, making a mental sketch instead, marking the gently worn tile roofline, the square tower that rose elegantly from the western wall. There was a single tall window set high in the tower, thick curtains drawn, obscuring the view inside, but as Anna peered up, hand shading her eyes, she saw the fabric move like someone had been spying but had darted away to hide.

Hi, girls.

Anna wasn’t surprised her nieces were up there. If she’d been the youngest of the group and gotten here first, she’d have bagged the tower bedroom too.

In any case, she’d been spotted. Time to join the party.

She rapped on the front door. Listened for footsteps.

A movement at her feet startled her into stumbling. The orange cat. She’d nearly trampled the poor thing. A tom, she saw now, not even remotely neutered. He’d walked all this way from that field to greet her with a dance around her ankles, but apparently these ubiquitous, feral Italian cats were the same as American cats—as soon as she bent down, he slinked out of reach, no longer interested.

Anna opened the front door.

Her eyes picked out the old before the new, everything quotidian blurring past notice. She saw smoke-blackened wood beams, stone walls, a frayed wall hanging with a pastoral image woven into it—dancing nymphs dangling clumps of grapes from their joined fingers.

Anna walked through the large, recessed entry hall now doubling as a living room, and mapped a kitchen off to the right through a wide archway, as well as a dim corridor to the left, leading to bedrooms, presumably. There was an extension out beyond the living room, with steps descending into a brighter space—a contemporary build-out?

“Heya,” she called to the house, mostly out of a sense of obligation. She was constantly being accused of sneaking up on people. Her voice echoed faintly against the stone walls. Nobody answered. The villa sat silent, apart from a dull hum she couldn’t quite identify as insect or electric.

Someone’s in here, Anna thought. Listening.

She turned slowly, taking in the weathered wooden floorboards in the entryway, the stones lining the kitchen arch, the terra-cotta tile on the walls and kitchen floor. One of the ceiling’s long wooden beams had a large divot, as if something had bitten a chunk out of it at some point in the past five hundred years. A few items of furniture looked nearly as old as the beams. The rest, Anna suspected, was bought in one big trip to a home goods outlet: the living room’s beige sectional furniture and large, bland coffee table, a flat-screen television fixed over the great, gaping mouth of a fireplace. The kitchen had herbs and baskets of fruit and root vegetables hanging from the ceiling, pots dangling over the dining table that extended through the archway, but it looked to her like it was arranged for effect. More Epcot Italy than the real thing.

And yet there was something idiosyncratic about Villa Taccola. The whole house suggested pentimenti, original brush-strokes covered over by something else. The same subject in a different style. Past mistakes hidden by fresh paint. What mistakes had been made here? she wondered.

Anna peeked into the nearest of the bedrooms—bare, pristine, minuscule, a single bed crammed against a sloping wall. Obviously hers, so she dropped her bag down to claim it.

She flicked the bathroom light on and off, pointlessly curious—it was, you know, a bathroom—then tiptoed through the living room, wary of disturbing the quiet, and peered down at what indeed looked to be a modern addition in the back.

Well-designed, she had to admit, if jarringly contemporary, two stories of glass wall looking out on a stunning vista: those neatly lined vineyard hills, a church tower above a cluster of buildings in the distance, and much nearer, a pale blue square swimming pool, bright little figures dotting the water and the deck.

There they were.

Anna trotted down the stairs into the extension, taking in another line of open bedroom doors to the right, and set into that big glass wall, the door to a back patio where clothes had been hung out to dry. As she passed through a sitting area cluttered with her nieces’ books and toys and electronics, a movement caught her eye. She turned in time to see one of the bedroom doors click shut.

After Anna caught a startled breath, she snorted. What a warm welcome. And she was supposed to be the antisocial one? Maybe someone was changing clothes, didn’t want to be caught bare-assed. Oh lord, if Anna saw her brother-in-law naked, she’d never hear the end of it.

Stepping around the edge of the coffee table, Anna spotted a long tail, gray and ragged, and jumped back quickly so whatever it was wouldn’t scurry across her feet. A closer examination, breath held, proved somehow more disturbing—not a live creature, nor a dead one. A possum. Toy. Thing? Anna shook her head and left it where it lay, under the coffee table.

Outside the villa, that buzzing sound trebled, joining the rhythmic song of the crickets. Cicadas? Frogs? What did she know. She’d lived in the city too long.

Down past the patio, a path of sparse stepping stones led to a long wooden table for alfresco dining on which a skinny black-and-white cat had draped itself like a pelt rug, paying her no mind.

Farther down the path, Anna found a flagstone patio with a clay oven and loungers arrayed to take in the view. Waves of heat rose off the patio. Anna wondered whether they could just plop a pizza down on the flagstone floor and cook it that way.

She shaded her eyes to get the panorama effect of the grounds. This place was huge, by far the biggest vacation rental they’d ever stayed in. Must have been expensive.

I could get lost here, Anna thought.

She heard Waverly’s and Mia’s high-pitched shouts and splashes, their dad growling monosyllables like an ogre as she made her way down the path to the pool. At the pool gate, shaded by olive trees, she heard Nicole snap, “Do not splash in this direction, thank you.”

Anna’s hand froze against the latch.

Last chance. She could turn back, issue one more lie, say her flight got canceled, hang out in Florence, head elsewhere. Anywhere.

But somebody up at the house—not, apparently, the girls?— already knew she was here. She’d checked in to Villa Taccola, like it or not.

Anna clanged the gate shut behind her to announce her presence. Nobody glanced up. The girls were facing the other way in the pool, riding on Justin’s arms like a fairground ride. Dad was squinting over his glasses at a paperback called Strike Force Two with a big red 10% off sticker on the cover, and Mom and Nicole were discussing something requiring their full attention, judging by the lines in Nicole’s forehead. Or maybe her sister always looked that way these days. It had been a good seven months since Anna last saw her.

“I made it,” Anna announced, and when nobody turned, she bent down to wrap an arm around her mother’s shoulders.

Mom shrieked. Anna kissed her cheek anyway. Nicole reeled back, hand to her chest like she’d been shoved.

“Anna, you lunatic!” Mom laughed, fanning herself. “Why do you sneak up on us like that?”

Anna did the cheeks-lightly-grazing-air-kiss thing Nicole always went for, then turned to Dad, who propped his paperback carefully open on his lap before craning his neck to say hello.

“Did you have a good flight?” He sounded like a customs officer.

“Yeah, fine,” Anna answered.

And that was the end of that conversation.

“Girls, say hi to Auntie Anna,” Nicole ordered.

“Hi, Auntie Anna,” Waverly recited, swimming in the opposite direction.

Jaded by age seven, apparently. Anna was impressed.

“Get in the pool, Anna!” little Mia shouted, at five as yet unjaded.

“Let her get settled in first,” Justin said, hoisting Mia on his hip.

“You kidding? I’m boiling.” Anna kicked off her sandals, hiked up the hem of her dress and waded straight into the shallow end.

Waverly swiveled around, eyebrows raised. “Did you bring a swimsuit?”

“Of course.” Anna waded in a circle, feeling the water grip her thighs, ice cold.

“Why don’t you go put it on, sweetie, so you don’t get your nice dress wet?” Mom suggested. It wasn’t a bad idea, but she could see a different kind of judgment in her mother’s eyes when she turned to her, and a pinch to the corners of her sister’s smile that hadn’t been there a minute ago.

Anna remembered last Christmas acutely now. Nicole had gotten drunk, cornered her in the bathroom and told her to stop flirting with her husband, which was—sorry—ludicrous. Justin was nice enough and had been borderline attractive nine years ago at the wedding, but he’d dissolved into a dad bod before they’d even had kids, and whatever charisma he’d used to win Nicole over was either gone now or reserved for the nine-to-five of his sales exec job. Some people were into that middle-of-the-road Ohio guy thing, no judgment, but not Anna, and she’d told her sister as much, which had not gone over as well as she’d hoped it might.

Anna waded out of the pool without greeting Justin. He didn’t seem to care.

She spotted yet another cat, solid gray, as it slid under the bottom of the gate and straight to Anna, rubbing itself against her wet legs.

“Don’t splash,” Waverly shouted to Mia. Her little sister went slack, suspended by her Encanto floaties. “You’ll scare the kitty.”

This one really seemed to want Anna’s attention, so she bent down and gave it a pet. It felt dirty, bug ridden. She scratched it gently with her fingernails and it purred, arching.

“There are so many kitties here,” Mia cooed. “I love it.”

“I do too,” Anna said, as the cat slunk away again, disappearing in a blink.

“You like cats?” Waverly asked her from the side of the pool, her head resting on her skinny tan arms. She sounded surprised.

“Course I do,” Anna said.

“Why don’t you have one, then?”

“Leave your aunt alone,” Justin groaned, but Anna wasn’t bothered. It was a fair question, not a critique.

She sat down on the deck with her legs swirling in the water, considering. “I think you can like something without wanting to own it.”

Nicole muttered, “I’m not sure pets and Anna are a great combination,” not quite under her breath.

Anna’s eyes cut to her sister’s.

Nicole held her gaze. Am I wrong?

“You look rested, Anna,” Mom said, oblivious as ever to the tension. “Did you get some sleep on the plane?”

“Of course she did.” Nicole kicked her feet up on her lounger. “No kids. Heaven.”

Anna noticed a scowl pass over Waverly’s face before the wiry girl shoved herself away from the side of the pool and dove into the depths again.

Nicole wasn’t done. “What, did you drink wine, watch a movie, put your chair back and sleep?”

“I read a book, no movie, but yeah.” Anna felt like she was admitting to a crime.

The book was another lie, to be fair. She’d watched trashy reality shows for a solid six hours.

“I hate you,” Nicole said, closing her eyes. “I still haven’t recovered from our flight. Red-eye, and these two didn’t sleep a wink.”

“Did you not sleep?” Anna grinned, kicking a splash at Mia and Waverly that made them squeal with giggles. “You little devils.”

“Daddy slept!” Mia said, paddling back to him.

“Yeah, let’s not bring that up again,” he murmured to her with a wink.

“So are Benny and the boyfriend hiding from me or what?” Anna asked, peering back at the house. The villa looked much less elegant from this angle. The great glass extension blocked the original architecture, creating the effect of something amputated and replaced with the wrong prosthesis. The modern bit was far too squat for the rest of the villa, and the midday sun reflected uncomfortably against all that glass. In contrast to the blinding new-build, the stone tower loomed unnervingly dark, like a great shadow cast by nothing.

How did you even get to that tower? She hadn’t seen a stairway to it from the inside.

“They’ve gone to Pisa,” Mom said. “Christopher wanted to see it. He was adamant.”

“Have you met him?” Dad grunted to Anna from behind his paperback. “It’s Christopher. Not Chris. Full name. Christopher.”

“Who’s up in the house, then?” Anna asked.

“Nobody right now.” Mom smiled. “They’ll be back around six. Benny’s very excited to see you. Didn’t really want to drive that far, but Christopher was not taking no for an answer!”

So nobody was in the villa, rustling curtains, shutting doors.

Anna thought about making a haunted-house joke, it was there for the taking, but she didn’t want to freak out her nieces, so she said to Dad, “Yeah, I met Christopher. Benny brought him up to the city and we had dinner.”

“When?” Mom asked.

Anna shrugged. “A month or so ago.”

“You never told me.”

Anna didn’t argue the point. A lull hit the conversation, filled by that swelling ambient drone.

“Benny seems happy,” Nicole said.

Anna could sense her sister’s eyes boring into her through the dark panes of her glasses. A glare with a message: Don’t fuck this up for him. As if Anna were that powerful. And that malicious.

Anna bit back half a dozen caustic responses, then settled for, “He does, doesn’t he?”

Nicole flopped back against her deck chair, annoyed into submission by Anna’s calmness, and that was reward enough.

Mia swam to Anna’s dangling legs and raised her arms. “You wanna come out, Meems?” Anna asked.

Mia nodded, her teeth chattering.

Anna hoisted her up, let her sit on her lap, soaking her dress. She didn’t mind. It cooled her off, but Mom tutted “Go and put your swimsuit on!” while Nicole groaned “Just watch, she’ll jump in fully dressed,” and Anna felt life force siphoning out of her like a caffeine crash.

“Good idea,” she said, setting Mia gently to the side with a wink. “Be right back.”

“Right back” was another lie, meant to pacify, to just get through the next hour and the one after that. Pretty much the name of the game for the next nine days.

Tread lightly. Survive.

She slipped on her sandals and slid away up the path.

“This is so nice,” Anna heard her mother say behind her. “Everybody together.”

Excerpted from Diavola, copyright © 2024 by Jennifer Thorne.

The post Read an Excerpt From Jennifer Thorne’s <i>Diavola</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts The Library Trilogy

Read an Excerpt From Mark Lawrence’s The Book That Broke the World

Two people living in a world connected by an immense and mysterious library must fight for those they love…

By Mark Lawrence

|

Published on March 13, 2024

1

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Book That Broke the World, the second installment of Mark Lawrence’s Library trilogy—publishing with Ace on April 9^th.

“Speak!”

Kerrol twisted free and raised his hands apologetically. None of his unparalleled skills at reading people were required to understand how close to the edge Evar stood. “I’m sorry for your loss, brother.”

“You said you could find her!” Evar snapped, unwilling to let go of the offered hope but also unwilling to believe it.

“I needed you to come with us.” Kerrol lowered his gaze. “Couldn’t leave you there for the next skeer that happened by.”

Evar wasn’t aware he’d swung for Kerrol until Clovis caught his wrist and pulled the blow aside. “Enough!” She pushed between them. Kerrol stepped back, unruffled, as if he’d anticipated both the attack and their sister coming to his aid.

“You don’t even know!” Evar shouted at both of them. “You don’t even know…” He jerked his arm free of Clovis’s grip. “Livira was the Assistant!” He tried to stop shouting, tried to steady his voice, but it kept breaking around surfacing emotion. “Her spirit. Her ghost. It entered the Assistant centuries ago. She was trapped in there ever since. The other one, Malar, was trapped in the Soldier. Until…”

Clovis stepped back, frowning, minute shakes of her head to express her disbelief. “No.”

“He certainly thinks it’s true,” Kerrol observed.

“IT IS TRUE!” With effort, Evar reeled in his anger. “It’s true. They raised us. Two humans trapped in assistants raised you, Clovis.”

Buy the Book

The Book That Broke the World

Mark Lawrence

Buy Book

The Book That Broke the World

Mark Lawrence

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Clovis shook her head more fiercely, but when she opened her mouth to deny it, no words came.

“I wasn’t lying.” Kerrol drew Evar’s attention to himself. “Misleading perhaps. I know your human’s in that book. Take it to the Mechanism and you’ll be together again, in a manner of speaking. It will help.”

“I don’t have the book,” Evar growled. He wasn’t even sure if there was a book anymore.

“So, what we need is an assistant to tell us where it is,” Kerrol said. “And whilst I don’t know where to find one of those with any great precision, I do know that it will be out here and not back in there.” He waved a hand at the corridor leading back to their chamber. “Plus, if that skeer decides to move, any of us still in there may well be trapped for another two hundred years.”

Evar’s shoulders slumped, his anger diffused. He couldn’t feel aggrieved against Kerrol, even though he was sure he’d been expertly manipulated.

Clovis shook her head a final time. “Come on.” She led off along the wall. “And quietly. This is skeer territory. There’ll be more of the bastards coming. Lots more.”

Evar refused to be led away. “Where’s Starval?” He looked back at the corridor. He wasn’t leaving Starval behind.

“With Mayland,” Kerrol said. “I saw them both go into a different pool.”

“Mayland…” Evar still hadn’t come to terms with the idea that Mayland hadn’t died, he’d just left, and had been in and out of the Exchange all this time they’d been mourning him. “Why did Starval—”

“I don’t know.” The pain of the admission ran through Kerrol’s words.

“Enough!” Clovis said. “Come on!”

“Where are we going?” Evar finally allowed himself to be led, and fell in behind her.

“Outside. I can’t fight them all by myself. I’m good… but not that good. We need warriors.”

If it wasn’t for needing to find Livira’s book Evar would have asked why they should fight the skeer at all. He wouldn’t have cared if they claimed the library while there was a whole world out there to explore with Livira. Instead, he asked, “And you know the way, do you?”

“I know that staying still is not the way to the outside,” Clovis said, “and that if we walk in a straight line for long enough, we’re bound to reach the edge at some point.”

“At some point.” Evar nodded. Clovis didn’t yet understand quite how large the library was. If they chose the wrong direction, they might walk until they got old and still not find the other side.

Evar trudged behind Kerrol, who in turn followed Clovis. They had no food, no water, and doubtless they would find—or be found by—more skeer long before they met an assistant. Bound tightly in thoughts of Livira, Evar couldn’t find the space to care about his own prospects. He’d spent a lifetime trapped with the one he had come to need most, and hadn’t known it. Instead, he’d bent his whole being towards escape. And here he was, trailing through the great beyond, discovering it to be no different to the place he’d come to despise. No different, except that it lacked her. How many people, Evar wondered, had spent their youth, their whole lives, battering at locked doors, only to find—if they ever managed to open them—that there was nothing on the other side they couldn’t have found on their own side? When they were children, the Assistant had often told them a tale that seemed to capture this “wisdom” in a handful of lines, a tale about three goats wanting to cross a bridge. The lesson had sailed above Evar’s head. Mayland had noted that the same mythology pierced a thousand cultures like a spear driven through sentience of every kind, perhaps even that of goats. And still, despite it all, Evar had pounded on his door.

And that was where, in the end, he’d found her. That was where his extravagant race to “save” her had ended. Before his precious door. She’d even been the one to open it for him. When he’d finally understood the riddle of the book, understood that Livira had been locked away in the Assistant’s flesh for all these lifetimes, and started to run back to find her… what had he expected? He’d been so focused on getting there in time that he’d given no thought to what would happen next. Had he believed he could haul the girl bodily from the Assistant’s flesh? It hadn’t been her body that had gone into the Assistant, it had been her ghost. But the blood and bone of her, where had that gone? Those had vanished when she went from the now into the past through that portal in the wood between. The whole thing made his head hurt, even without considering the book—Livira’s book—which had somehow eaten its own tail and existed looping around two centuries in the past, like an infinity sign burned through the years. None of it—

“Evar!”

Evar startled out of his thoughts. “What?”

“This.” Clovis held up a plate of skeer armour, almost large enough to cover her chest. It looked strangely weathered, like the wooden doors in the city’s poorest quarter, porous and weakened by age. “They shed them from time to time.”

Looking around, Evar saw that the shelving had driven them from following the chamber wall and that they were in a long aisle that vanished into the distance in both directions, shelves rising above them for several times his height. A ladder on broken wheels leaned across the gap ahead of them.

“They’re close.” Clovis sniffed the air.

Evar pushed his selfishness aside. He might not be overly bothered right now if his misery saw him sleepwalking into a fatal encounter, but his siblings would share that fate. In the absence of Starval he was the expert on concealment and evasion. Clovis would come into her own if they came face to face with the skeer, but it would be better if that didn’t happen.

“They can probably scent us too.” Evar scanned the shelves. He pulled a couple of books from shoulder level, opened them both, then discarded them. “Keep your eyes open for anything written in Carcasan. The more substantial tomes. They’ll be written on tweel vellum.” Evar didn’t know what tweels smelled like in life; however, their cured skins carried a gentle but penetrating reek. Wrapping a person’s feet in a few pages and secreting loose leaves around their body would confuse the nose of even the best hunting dog.

Evar took hold of the ladder. “I’ll go up and have a scout around.”

Clovis caught his arm. “Keep your mind on what you’re doing. Daydreaming about your sabber-girl will get us all k—”

“I’m focused.” Evar pulled free and began to climb.

From on high the chamber presented itself very differently. The shelf tops resembled banding across rolling hills or the swells of some alien ocean. In places they were completely level with each other; elsewhere their heights jiggled around some common mean, but generally they grew or shrank gradually, creating slopes. Where the height changed dramatically from one aisle to the next a cliff face formed. These were rare but drew the eye.

Evar stayed on the ladder for a long time, raising his head above the shelf top just enough to see. At last, convinced that no skeer had dared the heights, he moved from the ladder to the top boards in one fluid motion, keeping low. Something towards the middle of the chamber had caught his eye but he’d needed more elevation to understand it. Even now he lacked the required height. He stood up tall, ignoring his sister’s hiss of caution.

In a great bowl formed by the increasing shortness of the shelves sat something much larger than any living creature Evar had seen. Not that it was alive—but it appeared to have been modelled on a beast that struck a chord in Evar’s memory. Crouched as it was, knees to chest, head down, thick overlong arms wrapping its legs, the thing was almost spherical. It seemed to be fashioned from metal plates, steel, bronze, and brass, and decorating every limb was long golden fur, so cunningly cast into the metal that it truly looked like a shaggy pelt.

To Evar, the strangest thing about it was not its size or the manner of its construction but the fact that he recognised the creature on which the titan had been modelled. He had seen its much smaller cousins when he had tried his first and only off-world portal. It had taken him to a library where the air itself had been poison, driving Livira back immediately. Only the fact that he’d been a ghost there had allowed him time to look around. But those creatures had been half his height.

“What is it?” Clovis’s hiss came from ankle level. “What do you see?”

Evar motioned her to silence. Unnervingly, despite being at least a quarter of a mile away, the mechanical being raised its head and looked in their direction. It unclasped the hands around its knees, each sporting a blade-like claw that jutted from the back. The great blunt head tilted left, then right. The faint popping sounds reaching Evar must have been loud retorts as ancient joints unlocked. He could see that, inexplicably, the golem bore a single dull iron manacle around its left wrist. A band of metal that would have encircled Evar, Clovis, and Kerrol if they stood close together.

“Oh crap.” Evar didn’t know how he knew the thing wanted him dead. But he did know it.

The roar lagged behind the opening of the golem’s tooth-lined mouth, but when it arrived it shook the air. Evar was already sliding down the ladder with Clovis barely keeping ahead of him.

Kerrol looked at the pair of them expectantly.

“We need to run,” Evar said. “Now!”

Excerpted from The Book That Broke the World, copyright © 2024 by Mark Lawrence.

The post Read an Excerpt From Mark Lawrence’s <i>The Book That Broke the World</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Horror

Read Liz Kerin’s “Amoxicillin” — A Story Set in the World of Night’s Edge

A prequel story to Liz Kerin’s dark fantasy duology.

By Liz Kerin

|

Published on March 12, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share “Amoxicillin”, a standalone prequel story set in the world of Liz Kerin’s dark fantasy vampire duology. The first novel, Night’s Edge, is available now, and the sequel, First Light, publishes April 23rd with Tor Nightfire.

Reader discretion is advised due to sexual content, blood and gore, religious trauma, and questions surrounding consent.

Author’s Note

This story is based upon characters from the Night’s Edge duology. That being said, you can read this story at any time—whether that’s before you’ve read the books, between the two installments, or after you’ve read them both. Night’s Edge revolves around single mother Izzy, who suffers from an incurable vampiric illness, and her young daughter Mia, who protects her and keeps her secret. The sequel, First Light (April 2024), continues Mia’s journey as she searches for the man who gave her mother a thirst for blood and destroyed their lives.

This story takes place two months before the events of Night’s Edge. Reader discretion is advised due to sexual content, blood and gore, religious trauma, and questions surrounding consent.

AMOXICILLIN

A Night’s Edge short story

“If ye have sought to do wickedly in the days of your probation
Then ye are found unclean before the judgement-seat of God;
And no unclean thing can dwell with God.”

Nephi 10:12, The Book of Mormon

July 5, 2010
Salt Lake City

If you attract the wrong kind of man, then you’re the wrong kind of woman.

If you let him glimpse the animal you are, you’re giving him permission to be one, too.  Especially in the beginning. If you want him to call you the next morning—to see you as a whole person—you need to “leave a little to the imagination.” That’s what Mom used to say.  

You’ve worked hard to understand this. Still, you keep failing. Failed again last night.

And yet, you somehow knew to take your phone to bed. Expected it to ring. Something in the way he reached for your hand. That cold, electric snap, like waking from a bad dream.

It feels nice, to have expectations again.

“Sorry. You were sleeping—”

“Nah, I heard my phone and I… What’s up?”

“I should’ve texted, I know it’s early. But I didn’t want to wait and I don’t like to text, when it’s important—”

“Oh yeah?” A smile slithers to your lips and wraps itself around your voice. 

“What are you doing later?”  

You prop yourself against a pillow: an ancient wool throw Mom made when she was a kid, hand-embroidered with a sprig of white daisies. You pick the fraying stitches as a silky shimmer moves through your chest.

“Uh, I’m off work, ‘cuz of the holiday. I was gonna take Mia to this barbecue at my friend Ruby’s this afternoon—”

“I mean tonight.”

* * *

The year Mia was born, Mom would cover the 5AM feeding so you could sleep till 7 and get to work by 8. She’d lie in the recliner with the baby on her chest, murmuring “Sweet girl, sweet girl,” like an incantation over her tiny peach-fuzz head till she fell asleep. Sometimes you’d wake up and listen through the door. Close your eyes and imagine you were still the one in her arms.

You wonder if she said that to you. If she was afraid she didn’t say it enough, like there was a secret number she needed to hit in order to make it true.

The day you told her about the baby, she folded your hands in hers, kissed them, and whispered, “I stopped reading my scriptures when your father died. This is my fault.”

But it wasn’t. You know what’s inside of you: An unkillable blackness that inhales prayers and spits them back out like quills. A hurricane that floods your mouth with ugly words and parts your legs.

You’re either born a sweet girl, or you’re not.

* * *

You love Ruby, but you hate going to her parties. Hate exchanging niceties through grit teeth with all the people you shed a decade ago. You go because of Mia. You also hate how much Mia loves their house. The way she rambles about their trampoline and their hot tub and Chloe’s American Girl collection every time you drive across town. She’s ten; she doesn’t understand how it cuts you. And that’s on purpose. You decided a long time ago that you weren’t going to complain to her because you’d hate to make her think you were complaining about her.

You don’t talk about the things you’ve given up. The friends you left behind. The shifts you took at work that nobody else wanted. Overtime. Double overtime. How exhaustion thickens in your lungs till you’re bent double and want to throw up. But you’ve done okay. Better than anyone expected, anyway.

“We have a hot tub too, y’know.” You meet Mia’s eye in the rearview.

“It’s not the same.”

“Sure it is. Might even be the same brand.”

“The Vaughns don’t have to share it with the neighbors. Also, they clean theirs.”

“They don’t. They have a guy for that.”

Ruby Vaughn was a sweet girl who married a sweet man with an engineering degree from BYU. Their daughter Chloe is no exception. You don’t begrudge Mia’s doe-eyed fascination with their bougie shit because you’re hoping some of that sweetness rubs off on her.

Then again, you and Ruby grew up together. And it didn’t rub off on you.

* * *

“Do you think she might be able to stay for a bit, after the party?” You sidle up to Ruby with a plate of watermelon. “I can pick her up around 10:30.”

“No prob. They’re gonna zonk anyway. Look at ‘em.”

You follow her eyes to the trampoline, ping-ponging with squealing kids.

“Two at a time, Nate! Get down till it’s your turn!” Ruby sighs before her gaze swerves back to yours. “Where you headed? Cooler party than mine?”

 “I uh… I met someone.”

She drags her lawn chair in a semicircle so you’re face to face. “Izzy! Way to bury the lead. When?”

“Last night?”

“And you’re seeing him again… tonight?”

You take a moment before answering. You don’t want to talk too loud, in front of these people. Ruby’s friends and family. People you used to see at church. People you’ve known your whole damn life, who have nothing better to do than whisper. Who don’t even wait till your back is turned.

Buy the Book

First Light

Liz Kerin

Buy Book

First Light

Liz Kerin

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

You already feel like you’ve said too much. You pull your lower lip into your mouth. It’s starting to scab, but the wound is still fresh.

You can still taste blood.

“It’s too fast, isn’t it—”

“No, no! This is great. You deserve it,” she says, her stare sharpened to a point.

You both know what she means, when she says that.

This kind of behavior was off the table, when Mom was still alive. Part of your agreement. She’d have your back, provided you stayed off of it. But she’ll be gone two years this September.

You’re free now.

“So.” Ruby’s eyes gleam. “Tell me everything.”

The thing about Ruby is she thinks she wants to know everything, but you can’t indulge her. Not if you want to keep her. There’s a part of her that wants to live vicariously through you, like you’re some sort of trashy romance novel she can pick up whenever she’s feeling bored—which is often. A symptom of getting married at nineteen. But your life isn’t fiction. She can’t help but be scandalized whenever she remembers it’s real. 

You’ll never forget how it felt to tell her about Benji ten years ago: What happened at the gallery. How it kept happening every time you went to his studio. How his wife knew the whole fucking time and how you knew she knew. When you made Ruby sit on the phone with you while you peed on that stick… it changed things between you. For a long time. Her silence shattered you. When she came back around, she was the only friend you had.

Which is why you won’t tell her about last night. Well, it’s partly that. The other part… you’re still trying to explain the other part.

His gaze snagged yours while he was pacing the parking lot, cradling his phone with a furrowed brow, as though he were looking for someone. You tossed your hair and walked right up to him. Left Mia alone in the dark on your picnic blanket. You don’t know why the hell you did that. How any of this happened. How all the right words bubbled to your lips.

Ya lost?

No, but I think I might’ve lost my family.

Wanna grab a beer and come hang with mine?  

You can still feel the muggy air between your bodies as he drew closer, inch by inch, in the black breaths between fireworks. You kissed him, even though Mia was sitting less than six feet away with her back turned. Slid his long, cold fingers into your mouth and up your skirt. When he asked if you were sure, if it was okay, you said yes. You know you said yes. You hear yourself say it, every time you play it over in your head.

Yes.

You feel it, like he carved the word inside of you.

You keep waiting for that inevitable wave of white hot shame, even though you’re pretty sure Mia never saw anything. You know you should feel bad about it. But there’s no room in your head. You’re shocked you had the mental fortitude to put your shoes on the right feet this morning, let alone steer the fucking car with your daughter in the back.  

Yes.

You gape at the little popcorn children on the trampoline as you robotically bring a sliver of watermelon to your mouth. But you don’t bite down.

Have you eaten at all today?

Ruby’s brother Greg skulks into your periphery. You feel his hungry gaze before you see him as he shoves a greedy, chlorine-moist hand into a bag of chips on the table beside you. 

You hate the way he looks at you. The way he’s always looked at you, since you were little kids. Like you’re made of glass and he can see all that wine-dark wickedness churning under your skin. You shimmy your cutoffs so they lie flat across your thighs and carefully cross your legs. Waiting for him to move off before you say anything else.

Ruby knows well enough to wait, too.

“Uh, well there’s not much to tell, considering we just met last night—” You say once Greg clears out, sucking the salt from his grubby fingers, one by one.

Ruby gawks at you. “Izzy. I’ve been piping frosting and filling water balloons since 7AM. I’m dying over here.”

“I dunno, he’s just a cool guy who’s in town from Colorado visiting his family for a while and uh… yeah. We’re gonna hang out and see where it goes.”

“Where in Colorado?”

“Oh, I don’t—” Do you not remember? Or did you not even ask?

The whole thing feels strange all of a sudden. Wrong. Gooseflesh clings to your skin like a wet coat, blocking out the sun.

You don’t know anything about him. All you got was a name, a bloody lip, and ten vile, gorgeous minutes under a blanket while your daughter watched the fireworks.

But he called. Called because he wants more than that.

Right?

Why else would he call?

“You’re no fun,” Ruby huffs, blowing a wayward curl from her face.

“I mean, it’s new. I don’t know what to say about it yet. Maybe after tonight.”

Ruby’s brows arch as she nods. Like she knows why you’re not spilling the whole story. But of course she does. Ruby knows you—you and the ugly thing you were born with, who asks for ugly things on your behalf.

* * *

He’s driving a dusty silver Mustang with California plates. The back bumper puckers around a sizable dent. You rack your brain, sure he said he was visiting from Colorado last night. But maybe you remembered wrong.

The car smells faintly of cigarettes, like he just tried to air it out. You don’t mind, though. It reminds you of Benji’s studio, where you first learned you didn’t mind that sort of thing.

You buckle your seatbelt and he pulls up a few feet so you’re directly underneath a streetlight. He studies you with an exacting grin and that soft, self-effacing laugh again. The pit of your stomach twitches, freshly shaven skin prickling with heat under your skinny black jeans: the ones you used to wear in art school, with the denim slashed to gills across each knee. You don’t have a lot of new clothes. Don’t have a lot of things you’d wear on a date.

If that’s what this is.

Well, of course it is.

Unless all the choreography has changed, since the last time you did this. Unless—

“Sorry, just wanted to—” He laughs again, eyes bouncing from yours. “Last night it was dark and I couldn’t like, fully appreciate… anyway. Hey.”

“Hi.”

“You look great.”

A spot on your calf throbs, where you cut yourself shaving.

* * *

You’re heading downtown, to a brewery you’ve never heard of. You don’t like to go out, when you drink. You swore you’d never touch alcohol again, after what happened with Benji. Of course, that was ten years ago, back when you were begging for forgiveness at council meetings. Everything is different now. Still, you’d prefer to do it privately: Abottle of wine at home. Mia curled in your lap like a cat. Watching Finding Nemo for the 500^th time.

But maybe a drink tonight will help calm your nerves.

It’s funny. You weren’t anxious last night, when you approached him. When you kissed him. Like someone was flashing a script on a teleprompter. Now…

“You grew up around here, yeah?”

“I uh…” Did you tell him that, last night? “Yeah. My parents, too. My grandfather built the house I lived in when I was little.”

“So then… is this cool? Going for drinks, and everything?”

“Oh. I’m not… I don’t belong to the church anymore.”

“Gotcha.”

“As if being single with a kid wasn’t a dead giveaway.” You pluck the threads of your jeans with a caustic laugh.

“I wasn’t gonna pry.”

“Still can’t stand coffee, though.”

He smiles in the dappled yellow of a stoplight as it turns red. “That’s funny. Me neither.”

He holds your gaze as the car stops and the air between you thickens. Like it might not be safe to breathe. A motorcycle outside the window putters in the silence.

You wish he’d say something else.

All of a sudden you’re regretting this. Making such a bold move last night. You know full well that that’s not the right foot to start out on.

Not how you get a boyfriend.

You feel his hand on the back of your neck—that ice cold snap again. He kisses you like a scream. Piercing, frantic, mouth wide open. Something that might have shocked, even frightened, a younger, more timid version of you.

But that’s not who you are anymore. Whoever you are, right now in this electric, alien moment… that’s the person he wants and the person you want to be, more than anything. You scream right back, red light thrumming behind your eyelids. Your whole body softens, bidden by that sweet, heavy ache in your hips, and you’re drunk with certainty that you’re about to do something deliciously stupid.

“Fuck—” He says into your mouth. The shape of the word against your tongue drives a hot spear right through you.

There’s a strange taste there. Warm and silvery.

Blood. That’s blood. If he bit you, you didn’t even feel it.

The light turns green. Your vision is getting hazy for some reason. The light breaks into pieces and starts swirling around you like phosphorescent fireflies.

Two more intersections. Silence in between screams. Your stoned, strobe-like gaze blinks red, yellow, and green. You reach for his belt, but your hand feels numb. Like it isn’t yours.

“Hang on, hang on—”

“Sorry.” Your tight throat goes dry.

Not how you get a boyfriend. Not how—

“No, no, no. I just mean… ” He pulls a labored breath and moves your hand away. His is shaking. “We’re about five minutes from my place. If I turn left up here.”

“Okay.” You don’t even think about it. Like someone just switched that teleprompter back on.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure you’re sure.”

“I said yes.”

He guides your hand back where it was before.

Not how you get a boyfriend.

* * *

It’s obvious that he doesn’t really live here. Just passing through. Which is better, you think, than the kind of man who might want to settle down in a place like this—or worse, someone who’s from here. He doesn’t have to tell you—it’s clear from the tacky fake plants and rustic, desperately aspirational Hobby Lobby wall décor—an apartment owned by someone named Debbie or Louise or something. He keeps it dark, though. And the kitchen is spotless. No cups in the sink, no stains on the white quartz. That’s nice, you think. A man who picks up after himself. But he doesn’t let you linger there long.

“I just want you to know…” You peel your body away with a single, painstaking step as you stand framed in the bedroom door. Your mouth is still swimming with the silvery taste of your own blood. “I don’t like… I don’t do this.”

“It’s okay, y’know. We don’t have to.” His voice sounds muffled and strange, like he’s whispering through a paper tube.

You don’t answer. But you don’t move off, either. Everything inside you is soft and slick and you’re afraid you might lose your balance. You blink, and those phosphorescent fireflies are back in your periphery, circling your heavy head like a crown.

He searches your foggy face, then draws you back in. “But it’s also okay if you want to.”

* * *

When Mia was eight months old, Mom caught Matt Callahan going down on you after you snuck him in through the window at 2AM. He lived down the street and was home from Notre Dame for the summer. You thought Mom would think he was a catch. Didn’t think it would sting her too bad, if she found out you were hooking up. It’s not like you had to worry about your fucking honor anymore.

Four brutal, heart-scorching days passed before she spoke to you again. She fetched Mia for her nighttime feedings and afternoon walks, but didn’t say a word. She finally breached the subject over cold cereal and acrid, past-its-prime OJ the morning of the fifth day.

“I don’t know where you learned the things you think you know about men, Isobel. But it wasn’t from me.”

“Matt’s good guy, Mom—”

“Matt’s not gonna marry you, so I don’t know how you can say that.”

From her high chair, Mia started whimpering.

“Think of your daughter before you think of doing that again.”

You nodded. Choked down the stale juice. And took the baby into your arms.

* * *

Benji and Matt fought you every goddamn time you asked them to use protection.

This time, you don’t have to. He’s prepared. Like he does this a lot. You used to think that was a bad thing. Like everything else that might make you feel good.

He makes space for you on top and waits for you show him you’re ready… even though you both know he’s already tasted it. You square your hips and guide him toward the deepest part of you.

You deserve this. So goddamn much.

You collapse against his chest as his breath hits your neck. “Is this okay?”

You don’t know what he’s talking about. He’s already fucking you.

You just nod. Not sure you heard him correctly.

He asks again, louder this time. Still buried in the crook of your neck. That hollow above your collarbone.

“Baby, I need to hear you say it.”

“It’s… yeah. Of course it’s…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A sweet, sharp twinge erupts from the place his mouth meets your skin and a satiny gray haze descends in front of your eyes—a sheer curtain of dark tears you can’t blink away.

…Wait.

Something’s not right.

Something’s…

There’s a faraway sound. The moaning ghost of your own voice.

He holds you in place as you slacken: One hand on your hip, the other twisted in your hair. Your tempo changes, lulled into a new sort of gravity. Like an enormous beast is licking you clean.

Your body starts floating in pieces all around you: Beautiful, jagged shards of light falling in slow motion. Self-loathing slips through your fingers like black water.

You catch it on your tongue as if it’s rain.  

Copper and honey and cigarette smoke.

You realize you’re sipping from his open mouth, and he’s on top of you now. Or maybe he’s sipping from yours. One of you laughs. You’re not sure who.

…Wait.

A question stabs the space between your lungs. But it doesn’t get past your lips. Past all that smoke and molten copper.

Light hurdles into your eyes, hot and feral. Like you’re pulling the sun toward you on a string.

Yes.

It’s just gray, after that.

* * *

You’re in the old Volvo on a Sunday. Backseat. First Grade. Kindergarten? “Music and the Spoken Word” is on KSL. The Tabernacle Choir sings “Climb Ev’ry Mountain.” You’re picking a scab on your knee.

You saw Ruby’s brother Greg this morning.

“Mommy, what happens if I don’t get into heaven?”

“Don’t say things like that. We’re all going to heaven. As a family.”

“But what if I get left out?”

“I’d never let that happen.”

“Even if I did something bad? And then I died?” You’re crying now.

She doesn’t say anything.

Her blinker clicks as she waits at a light. Tick-Tunk. Tick-Tunk.

You wipe your runny nose on your sleeve. “What’s it feel like?”

“What?”

“To die.”

“There’s no more pain, and then you go to heaven.”

“No, I mean before that.”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think it’s like?”

You scratch the scab too hard. Blood pours down your leg.

“Like falling asleep next to someone you love.”

* * *

You blink and the gray falls off like dust.

It’s so dark in here you have to rub your eyes to make sure they’re open.

You’re warm, though. Dressed. Cocooned in a nest of blankets.

You worm to a seated position with a muted groan as the opening chords of a headache pound the space behind your eyes. You’re back in your body… but it’s not a comfort. You’re aching to escape it again. You wish you could gut yourself with a single sharpened nail and throw your entrails against the wall. Watch them slide to the floor in a hot, voluptuous heap.

…What?

A light comes on in the kitchen. You shield your tender gaze from the glare like you’ve just clawed your way out of the womb.

In half a breath, he’s back in the bedroom, sitting next to you. Like he moved with that flicker of light.

You’re still missing time. Gaps between events.

“You okay? You kinda had me worried.”

You suddenly remember that bolt of uncertainty. The question you couldn’t seem to ask.

“I tried to wake you up, but—”

He reaches for your hand, but you’re slow to close your fingers.

Your college suitemate Megan got rufied at a gallery opening sophomore year. You remember the horrifying, underwater sensation she described. The moment she said she was sure the guy made his move. But the two of you haven’t had anything to drink. That’s not what this was.

“Can I get you anything? It’s late, but we could probably order some food—”

You open your mouth, waiting for an answer to lurch from your scratchy throat.

“Izzy?”

He turns on the bedside lamp, and you see he’s placed a glass of water there for you. You meet his gaze, round with concern. The color of his eyes seems darker than it ought to be—a peculiar opacity that makes you wonder if that gray haze is coming back. But when he pivots toward the lamp a second later, green-gold flecks emerge around his pupils and the shadow of his gentle smile comes to rest there. You realize it’s the first time, aside from those two seconds blushing under the streetlamp, that you’ve seen him in the light. Like you’ve been craving a facsimile of his energy without understanding how all his pieces fit.

“Talk to me. You good?”

“I’m uh… sorry, this is gonna sound weird—”

His unassuming laugh washes over you. “Most of my favorite conversations start out that way.”

He offers you the water, but you don’t take it.

“I’m serious. When did I… fall asleep? Exactly?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean was it… during? Or—”

“Oh.” He inches closer. You tighten the wad of blankets around your shoulders. “No. You got dressed and I asked if you were ready to head out but you said you needed to close your eyes for a few minutes.”

You stare into the sheets. Midnight blue with silver stripes. You run your nails between them, two at a time, before you shamble to your feet.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

In the mirror, you see it: a Band-aid at the base of your neck, on the left hand side, where your shoulder starts to curve at a soft incline. You pull the edge, wincing as it protests against your raw flesh.

The wounds are red pinholes with an inch of space between them. Darkness creeps into the surrounding skin, swollen like an overripe plum.

This, you remember. But you don’t remember if it hurt.  

Your stomach turns, but instead of somersaulting up your throat it sinks and simmers between your legs.

What the fuck, what the fuck—

You think about your own entrails again, luscious with black blood as they slide down the wall. Your mouth waters, like you can taste it. Copper. Smoke. The smack of your spent bodies.

You feel like you’re still high. Or just dying to feel it again.

Whatever it was.

You study your ruptured flesh in the harsh burn of the vanity light, then smooth the bandage back into place. You didn’t notice before, but the underside is slick with disinfectant.

“I should go,” You say under your breath as you make your way back to the bedroom. Wondering at what point, and where, your shoes were removed from the equation.

You haven’t looked at him. He’s still sitting on the bed where you left him.

“If that’s what you want,” he replies softly. But it’s like he’s tugging your gaze on a fishing line.

When you meet his eye, you know you’ve understood each other. You see your shoe in the corner of the room, but you don’t move toward it. Your stomach makes another stunning turn.

“Do you want to talk?” He asks.

You try to swallow, but it’s like your mouth is full of ash.

“Yeah.”

“C’mere.”

You shuffle toward the bed and sit. Still staring at your shoe across the room. In the silence you scratch the bandage, realizing you’ve caught a strand of your hair in it.

What time is it?

Mia. Oh God.

When did you say you were going to pick up—?

“I think we had a shitty misunderstanding and I don’t want to start things off like this.” This time, when he reaches for your hand, you close your fingers around his.

“Yeah.”

“I really like you.”

“Same.”

“I kinda think… and you can tell me if I’m wrong. I hardly know you. But—” Again, he offers you the water on the nightstand. You take a long drink as he goes on. “When you told me you don’t do stuff like this—like, the way you said it? You just… you seemed upset.”

“It’s hard to explain—”

“And then when we started…  I mean, that’s why I got worried. Why I asked if you were okay. ‘Cuz it kinda seemed like you…  went someplace else. I dunno.”

Your breath catches. You want to look askance. Away from his face. But you can’t seem to.

“I had this buddy, when I was a kid. And sometimes he would like, slide to a different part of his brain whenever something reminded him of his brother, who died. Like, died right in front of him, in a car accident. Really fucking horrible. Anyway, if anyone ever mentioned his brother he’d kinda stare off into space and start saying a bunch of random bullshit about like, Star Wars or nuclear submarines or whatever. But his mom told everyone to ignore it, that his therapist said he was dissociating and it was totally normal.” He interrogates your vacant stare. “Anyway, I started wondering if maybe that’s what was going on with you.”

You yank that hair from underneath the Band-aid, trying to free it, but it snaps.

“What’s the deal with Mia’s dad? Is he in the picture?”

You don’t know what you thought you were going to talk about, but it wasn’t this.

You shake your head.

“That must have been really hard.”

It’s strange, because you’re sure someone must have said this to you before. But you can’t remember.

“The thing is, I really wanted her,” your voice staggers back to life. “And my mom promised me everything would be okay. But then, when we went and told our bishop I was pregnant, she said I was engaged to be married. Which was an issue. Considering the guy was already married.”

“Shit.”

“I honestly thought he was gonna leave his wife and come live with us. I called him every fucking day for six months. He blocked my number.” You laugh with a hitch in your throat, reaching for that wad of blankets again. He helps you drape the comforter over your shoulders. You didn’t realize you were shivering.

“After that, my mom said I had to go in for council. They made me like… stand up and talk about how it happened. In detail.”

“Who’s they?”

“These… guys. The bishops.”

“That’s fucking awful.”

“Yeah.”

He slides a hand underneath the blanket and rubs your back. Taking time on each vertebrae, working his way up.

Your mind sways to Benji. How he used to fuck you in the mirror, in his studio. You’d avert your gaze, every time. It made you sick to see yourself. You’d stare at the easel or your jeans in a ball on the floor. Count the fibers in the carpet as he coaxed you down on all fours.

You’d leave your body, even though you wanted him to have it.

It never made sense.

This was like that, but it felt good. You don’t hate yourself the way you did back then.

You don’t want to question it anymore. Just want to feel it again.

“You might be right,” you finally say.

“About?”

“How I probably… went somewhere else. Like your friend. I dunno.”

“Listen,” he says with a cold laugh. “Shame is a hell of a drug.” He kisses your brow where that headache was building. It’s gone now. “But you don’t need to feel that way with me. Okay?”

You let him kiss your lips. Not a scream this time. All soft, careful reassurance.

You want to ask about the wound on your neck. You should. But you can’t find the words. And he hasn’t acknowledged it, either.  

“H-hang on.” You break the kiss. It’s like swimming upstream. “What time is it?”

There’s no clock in here, and your phone’s in your purse. Wherever that ended up.

“Um…” He gets up and digs his phone from the pocket of his pants on the ground. “6:15?”

You bolt upright. “AM?”

For the first time, you glimpse the heavy blackout curtains on all the windows, edges secured with duct tape. You could’ve slept the whole goddamn day and never known it.

“Holy shit.” You lunge for your shoes in the corner as your chest constricts. “I was supposed to pick up my daughter at 10:30—”

“You got plenty of time—”

“Last night.”

“Oh.”

The bed pulls you like a vortex. You stare at the indentation your body occupied a moment ago. That nest of warm blankets. His mouth.

But there’s something stronger pulling you in the opposite direction. You corkscrew into your shoes. Stumble toward the kitchen. He’s right behind you.

“I’ll drop you off. Just lemme take a shower and I’ll—”

You fish your phone out of your purse on the kitchen counter. 12 missed calls from Ruby.

“No. I need to just… I gotta go. Now. I’ll call a cab.”

“You sure?”

You don’t know why you nod. Of course, you’d rather have him drive you. He should. But for some reason you feel like you’re not supposed to take him up on it. Like there’s dialogue flashing on that teleprompter again.

“Thanks for offering, though.”

* * *

You run home and change before heading to Ruby’s house, even though it’s going to make you even later. You try your best with some makeup on your neck; the bandage draws too much attention. But the wound’s still too fresh and the concealer refuses to stick. You opt for one of your work button-downs, fastened all the way to the top.

Thankfully, Ruby’s too frazzled getting her brood ready for summer camp to chew you out like you deserve.

“I’m just glad you’re okay. Don’t do that again. You scared me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t want to drive till I’d sobered up and I lost my phone at the bar.”

You’d rather lie about getting shitfaced and be judged for it than answer any questions about what you did instead. Not when you still have so many of your own.

Mia darts down the hall and hugs you, rustling the fabric around your neck. Your throat tenses, like a serrated blade is carving the corners of your wound.

“Wanna grab a bite, before you guys head out?” Ruby stands at the stately kitchen island, holding a banana in one hand and a yogurt in the other.

“I’m not hungry.”

* * *

Mia kicks the back of your seat as you drive. Thump, thump, thump.

“I need to go home and get my beads, for camp.”

“We don’t have time, we’re going straight there.”

“Mom, it’s Tuesday. I always bring them on Tuesday, that’s when we make jewelry. Remember?”

“Well, tell everyone you’re sorry and it’s my fault.”

You feel her sneering at your back. Thump, thump, thump.

“Where were you?”

You don’t answer right away. Thump, thump—

“Mia.”

“Sorry.”

You shift your weight. Pain pours from your neck down the front of your body, slow like sap.

“What’d you think of that guy, the other night?” You ask. Studying her reaction in the rearview mirror.

“What guy?” As if there were anyone else you could possibly be referring to.

“Devon.”

“Oh. From the fireworks?”

“Yes.”

She squirms with a frown. Redirects her gaze out the window.

“He was weird.”

“Mia.”

“You asked me what I thought.”

You fight the urge to snap back. Like you don’t know exactly who taught her how to spar like that.

“Is that where you were?” She asks after a moment. Quieter now. Her small voice winds its way around your heart.

“I won’t be late again. I promise.”

She doesn’t reply. Just keeps staring out the window. Your collar itches.

You flip your mirror down as you roll toward a stoplight, and your eyes jerk to a pin-sized bloodstain seething through the fibers of your shirt.

From your purse, your phone vibrates.  

* * *

You sit in the parking lot at work. You know you should eat something before you start your shift, but you’re still not hungry.

Hey im sry again if that was weird for u

im around tho, if u wanna hang again sometime. u let me know ok?

The messages throb at you.

You don’t want to go inside. Not till you’ve made a decision.

None of this was weird till a shrill little voice in your head started telling you it was.

The quickness of it. The wound on your neck. That exquisite, otherworldly detachment.

You might not know exactly what happened in that room last night or why, but you know you wanted it. You said yes.

You still want it.

Maybe this is who you are—who you’ve been all along. A woman who says yes.

And maybe that’s okay.

Not weird at all, I’m fine. Glad we had that talk.

good good ok J

what time u off work

* * *

July melts into August. Fades to a sweet, sleepless blur, like your body is determined to make up for lost time. As though you’ve been waiting for him your whole life.

He asks you, over and over, night after night, if you want to go somewhere. Do something. Eat. Drink. See a movie.

“No.”

You just want to get off and gray out. As many times as possible. Strip, sweat, surrender. Wake up, shower, and do it again.

No man on earth would argue with that.

There’s something he likes about using his teeth. You don’t mind, as long as Mia can’t see the marks. He’s good about that.

Besides, it doesn’t hurt.  

It’s getting harder and harder to go home after you blink the gray away. If it weren’t for Mia, you’d stay all night and sleep all day. Skip work, skip dinner, skip your whole entire life. She’s the only thing keeping you tethered. The instant you return to your body, you can feel her. Pulling you across the darkness and back to your door.

Well, Ruby’s door. She’s there three nights a week now.

That’s how you try to do this.

He is not allowed at your apartment.

Think of your daughter before you think of doing that again.

“You should let me meet her.”

“You’ve met her.”

“Not really. I actually like kids, y’know. It’s not like… a problem for me—”

Your eyes rise to meet his, and you almost say yes. But something needles at you.

“I’m just not sure she’s ready.”

* * *

One night, you come over and he’s slow to answer the door. He’s usually there the instant you hit the buzzer. He says hello between grit teeth, like he thinks he can make you believe it’s a smile. He limps toward the couch, favoring his left side, and folds you into his lap before you can ask any questions. Guides your tight skirt up past your thighs, making sure you can feel how hard he already is. But you can’t help but gasp when he undresses and you glimpse the furious, blistered black-and-blue lesion on his right calf.

“Holy shit. What happened to you?”

His gaze is opaque. Inscrutable. Like he’s not sure what you’re talking about at first.

“Oh.” He follows your gaze to his leg. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry? We need to like, go to Urgent Care or something. Right away—”

He hangs his head, like meeting your eye might set him ablaze. Pulls up his pants.

“It’s fine. It’ll go away.”

“It doesn’t look fine.” It really hits you then, how much you don’t know about him. You can’t even begin to imagine how he might have hurt himself. At work, on some rogue piece of machinery (wait, what’s his job)? On a hike, after pissing off a snake (does he even hike)? 

Finally, he looks at you.  

“I guess this was gonna come up sooner or later,” he says, a tremor in his voice. “I’m sorry I haven’t been honest with you.”

“What do you mean?” What you want to say is, I’m sorry I never asked.

A sweet girl would have wanted that. His honesty. To know him—not just his body. But if he sees the flash of guilt in your eyes, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

The pit of your stomach flickers as he reaches for your hand.

“I have this… problem. It’s an auto-immune thing,” he says, like it hurts to shape the words. “It’s genetic, so it’s not like you can catch it by hanging with me or anything like that. But there’s a lot of random shit I’m allergic to. This right here?” He rolls up his pant leg, exposing the festered wound. “I scraped myself on a rusty shovel yesterday while I was helping my brother do some yard work.”

You’re not sure what to say for a moment. The most pathetic response imaginable stumbles from your lips. “When was the last time you had a Tetanus shot?”

There’s that self-effacing laugh again. “Babe, a Tetanus shot isn’t gonna fix this.”

A soft hiatus falls.

“Does it hurt?”

“Of course. But I’m used to it.”

“Is there any medication you can take?”

“Not yet.” He says with a cramped smile. “Just gotta steer clear of all the stuff that fucks with me. Rust. Caffeine. Too much sun.”

You glance over at the blackout curtains, edges smothered by layers of duct tape.

“Is this okay? I totally understand, if this is like… weird for you—”

“No. It’s okay.” Emotion sticks in your sternum like a knife. “I’m just sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He tucks a tendril of hair behind your ear and slides you back into his lap. Gray twinkles in the corner of your eye as his lips brush the nape of your neck. Two icy fingers nudge your wet, silky thong aside and find their way to your heat. “I’m not.”

* * *

A few nights later, the air conditioning is on the fritz and you desperately need to breathe something clean so the two of you decide to go for a walk in a nearby park. It’s closed, but you hop a fence.

It’s the first time all summer that you’ve left the apartment.

He talks about his dad—the whole reason he’s in town—whose slow, grisly death has forced him to reckon with his own fate. Both have that same rare disease lurking in their blood. He says he’d run for the fucking hills if he could, but it’d be like betraying himself.

You tell him about Mom. Cancer they found two years too late. How she wanted to die the same day your father did but missed the mark by a week. How you pretended you still believed in heaven, for her sake.

He takes your hand to help you back over the fence. Holds onto it and kisses the place your fingers interlock. “You’re not seeing anyone else right now, are you?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.” Your chest swells.

“Good. Me neither.”

* * *

You know it’s stupid, but you’ve stopped using protection. He doesn’t seem particularly concerned. Confesses he’s fantasized about being the one who got you pregnant. It’s so fucking good the first time there are tears in your eyes and the gray isn’t gray anymore. It’s pitch perfect black.

* * *

He says he’s been thinking he might stay in town, after his dad passes. Get a job here. He’s living off his savings right now. Grabbing odd gigs where he can. Driving trucks. Fixing computers. You tell him when that day comes that the two of you should go someplace else.

“I never meant to stay here. You shouldn’t, either.”

“Where do you wanna go?” He cracks the window and lights a cigarette. Eases it between your lips and lets you take the first sip.

“Dunno, I always thought I’d like it in Maine or New Hampshire, or something like that.”

“Fucking cold up there.”

“It’s a change.”

“Is that what you’re looking for? A change?”

Fractured lamplight partitions his face, wreathed with smoke, as he fixes you with a velvety stare. You nod.

* * *

“Mom. We need to go shopping.”

Mia stands silhouetted by the light of the empty fridge. She slams it and spins to meet your gaze.

“You’ll be at Chloe’s house in a couple hours. You can have dinner there.”

“I’m hungry now.” Her stare burns a hole between your eyes. “Aren’t you?”

I shrug.

“You’re really skinny.”

You cast her a sidelong grin. “Why, thank you.”

She looks at you like she wishes she knew how to prod further. As if you’d know how to answer, if she did.

* * *

You toss frozen chicken nuggets and bruised apples into the cart with haphazard abandon. Mia clutches a package of Double-Stuf Oreos to her chest. The ripe rapture of fruit wafting from the produce aisle beckons like a snake charmer. You snag a peach and tear the flesh with your chattering teeth. Pluck the sticker with the barcode from your mouth so you don’t forget to pay for it.

You can’t explain the appetite loss. If you’re hungry, you hardly feel it, and you never eat at his apartment—as if emptiness can’t exist there.

It’s only on the intervening days that you start to feel your body again. Start to ask questions.

Mia’s gaze rests on the sinewy peach pit in the basket. She doesn’t see you reach under your shirt to scratch at a scab, smarting as it chafes against your waistband.

* * *

Your phone rings while you’re checking out. Ruby.

“Hey. You got a sec?”

You don’t like when conversations start this way. You’re supposed to take Mia to her house in an hour.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Look, Rob and I were talking… and we think we need to give the kids a break for the rest of the week.”

“Oh. Okay.”

You swipe your credit card. Your hand is trembling. Mia’s already ravaged the package of Oreos, and you steal one from her as you cradle the phone against your shoulder.

“Izzy… I just… This past month—”

“I’ll make it up to you guys, I promise. Chloe’s welcome at ours anytime, if you and Rob want to take a trip or—”

“That’s really nice. But that’s not why I wanted to… I’m just a little worried. This isn’t like you.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry, I’m not calling for an apology.” There’s a flustered edge to her honeyed voice. She’s used this tone with you once before. The day you called her while you peed on that stick.

“I guess I’ve been losing track of time,” you offer after a moment. “My boyfriend’s dad is dying and I’ve just… yeah.”

Your throat closes around the words. You have not called him your boyfriend. Not out loud.

Ruby exhales into your ear. “Y’know, I’d love to meet him. Maybe me and Rob can take the two of you to dinner this weekend.”

Your empty stomach wrenches. There is nothing glaringly wrong with this plan. But it’s the same way you felt when he asked to spend time with Mia: A cold, primal shield rising around your heart.

“I’ll see what he’s up to.”

“Maybe next weekend is better, though. Mia’s been missing you.”

That edge in her voice draws blood. Or maybe you just want it to. You deserve it, after all.

You know you can’t just dump your kid at someone’s house every other night for six weeks. Something is seriously wrong with you. In what world did you think this was okay?

“I’m sorry, again.”

“It’s all right, Iz. Just… I’m here, okay? If you ever need… Well, I mean—” She hesitates. Like she’s taking it back. You can’t help but wonder if every kind word she’s ever had for you has been lip-service. Submissive Latter Day sweetness on auto-pilot.

Your cheeks glow. “I’ll let you know about next weekend.”

* * *

Hey I’m sorry but i can’t make it tonight

Wait what’s wrong?

Nothing just need to stay here w Mia

Nbd I can come to you

Sorry, she just wants it to be us. I feel bad I haven’t been around.

Three hours pass. No response. You can’t stop fidgeting. Your hands are chapped you’re wringing them so goddamn hard.

You try calling midway through The Princess Diaries when you notice Mia’s dozed off on the couch. Straight to voicemail.

I’m sorry. Are you mad?

Another two hours. You stare at the stagnant text chain. Picking your scabs under your shirt.

Mia asks for ice cream before bed. You don’t have the energy to argue with her.

You pace the bedroom, clutching your phone like a crucifix. He’s taken this as a rejection. Because it is. And yet… that shield won’t budge. You don’t want him in the same room as your daughter. It doesn’t make sense. Don’t you trust him? Don’t you know each other, by now? If your roles were reversed, you’d feel like absolute garbage if someone you loved didn’t want you spending time with their child.

Because he does.

Doesn’t he?  

Do you?

Neither of you have said it. But what the hell else could this possibly be, between you?

* * *

A few minutes after 1AM, you check on Mia, sound asleep with one leg sticking out from under the comforter. You both sleep like that. Mom used to say you liked to “let your feet breathe.”

What’d you get up to tonight?

Still, no reply. Another hour passes. You lie awake, gaping at the ceiling. Itching that scab till it opens and your fingers are slick with blood. You want to cry, when you slip them inside you. There’s no gray, no soft place to land. Just the cruel, incessant glare of the hurt you’ve just caused.

Nothing. I miss you.

Come here.

* * *

You know it’s horrible. Sometimes you acknowledge a thing is horrible but you still do it.

Or maybe only horrible people do that.

You tiptoe into the driveway, carrying your shoes. Double lock the front door behind you. You watch her bedroom window for a light, wondering if she heard you start the car. Part of you wishes she’d wake up. That she’d stop you.

That you didn’t need her to stop you.

* * *

She can tell, when you leave. But her questions are smaller now. Not, “Where were you,” because she knows. The question now is, “Why?” But she never says it aloud. She knows, as well as you do, that there’s no reasonable answer. You just go. Every night. But you’re back in the morning. That has to count for something.

Right?

You’re buzzing, all day long. You don’t have time to catch up on sleep and you don’t want to. You go through your glassy-eyed paces at work. Waiting for nighttime. Waiting for the hour all the stoplights blink yellow so you can speed across town in one fell swoop. Waiting for him to unspool you like dark ribbon till you disappear.

That scab on your waist is still gnawing at you. It’s hot and it stings like some filthy insect keeps boring into your skin, deeper and deeper till it’s tucked between the folds of your brain. Now that you’re going every night, there are more of them.

Now, it hurts.

* * *

Monday morning, you’re home by 6AM. Mia starts school today.

You sag against the wall of the shower, water pelting your spine. Pearls of blood hug the jagged contours of your body and spill down the drain. The offending scab glows under the scalding hot water. You can’t stop itching it. Inflammation prairies across your abdomen.

You lie down in the tub, plug the drain, and pour rubbing alcohol all over your perforated body. Writhe, retch, and vomit bile between your breasts.

You think you pass out. Because the next thing you know, Mia’s knocking on the door, saying she needs to brush her teeth.

* * *

You pass out again at work, just before lunch. Which you probably should have eaten, if your co-worker Grace wasn’t already driving you to the ER.

You slump like a ragdoll in the lobby as your consciousness contracts to a single star then yawns back open. Grace brings you some juice and peanut butter crackers from the vending machine, but it only helps for a few minutes. You sleepwalk to the examination room when they finally say your name, and when you glance at your phone you notice the time. Mia’s going to be out of school soon. When the bus drops her off, there won’t be anyone to let her in. She’s never been a latchkey kid; you’re usually home by 4:15. You ask Grace to pick her up, and she agrees. For the first time in weeks, you feel like you’ve done something right.

You gawk into the black screen of your phone as you wait for the doctor. You wish you could text him. Tell him what happened. But you’re too embarrassed. Like you let him down, somehow.

* * *

“Ms. McKinnon,” the young, raven-haired resident says as she enters. “Your blood sugar is dangerously low, and you’re suffering from acute anemia.”

You nod. Not like it’s a surprise.

“We’re going to put you on a fluid drip for the next few hours and send you home with some dietary recommendations.”

“Okay.”

You reach down to scratch your inflamed wound, realizing too late that you shouldn’t have touched it. The doctor studies the way you wince. The wall of tears in your eyes.

“Anything else you want to talk to us about, while you’re here?”

Slowly, you tug the bottom of your shirt from your too-large waistband. You’ll just show her the bad one. Not the rest of them.

But it’s too hard to hide the whole minefield. You know she’s seen more than the infected spot. She thinks you don’t notice when she recoils.

“Okay so… we’re gonna prescribe you some antibiotics for that. Right away. What happened?”

“My… my friend’s got this horrible dog. It went after my daughter, and I stopped it.”

“Did you report this attack to the police? The state of Utah has a pretty strict zero-tolerance law when it comes to—”

“I mean, it’s my friend. I can’t just—”

“It’s a public safety issue. Plus the health department requires we file a report, if a patient presents with an animal bite.”

“I see.”

The doctor’s dark eyes comb over you like barbed wire.

“I’ll write up a prescription for Amoxicillin for the infection. Take that twice a day for two weeks then check back in with me at the end of the month.”

When the nurse returns with the health department paperwork, you hold your breath and scribble Ruby’s address as the site of the dog attack. They’ve got that German Shepherd. Polly or Poppy, or something like that. You always forget.

“You guys can like… keep it anonymous, right?” You croak as the nurse whisks the documents away.

“I’ll find out.”

Your veins crackle with ice.

* * *

You don’t cry till you see Mia in the waiting room, sitting next to Grace. You don’t know which one of you cries first.

You hobble toward her, but draw back when she hugs you, afraid to disturb your infection. Afraid you might scream in front of her.

All of a sudden it’s so, so cold in here.

Grace supports one side of you. Mia’s got the other.

“C’mon, Mom. We’re gonna go home.”

* * *

You fill your prescription and get ready for bed early. Mia asks if she can sleep in your room. You don’t even mind, that it feels like she’s keeping tabs on you.

But there’s something you need to do first.

You pace the patio as the day darkens like a bruise. Pressing the phone to your ear with a trembling hand.

“I’m not coming tonight.”

“What’s going on?”

You sink into a deck chair. There’s the flick of a lighter on the other end. You wish you had something of your own to smoke right now.

“You sound upset,” he says when you don’t answer. “Did something happen?”

“I just… We need to—” You stare into the cracks between weatherworn floorboards. “I passed out at work and had to go to the hospital today.”

“Shit. Izzy. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I-I dunno. I didn’t want to worry you. I—”

“What did you tell them?” All the warmth evaporates from his voice. Destabilizing you, like your legs might give out again.

“I didn’t… I mean—”

“I need to know exactly what you said.”

“I said a friend’s dog bit me.”

He clears his throat and his tone thaws. “Okay.”

“But that’s not why I wanted to…” God, but it aches. In every fucking part of you.  “I don’t think I can see you anymore. I’m sorry.”

He’s so silent you wonder if the call dropped. Till he breathes out. A sigh that slices straight through you.

“Can I say something to you? Before you make a decision like that?”

“Devon, I’ve already… My daughter’s so upset. I can’t just keep—” Tears creep down your clammy face. “What is this? Why are we… Why do you—”

“Izzy—”

“Why are you hurting me?”

He swallows. Sniffs. Filling the awful dead air.

“You told me it was okay.”

Your nerves itch with shame. It’s true. You did.

But it wasn’t a contract. You’re allowed to change your mind.

Aren’t you?

“Listen,” He goes on. Gentler now. “Why don’t I come over, so we can have this conversation in person?”

“N-no.”

You clear a lump from your throat, and your abdomen spasms, bidden by your infection.

“Babe—”

“I-I just…”  

“I care about you. So much. You know that, right?”

Mia emerges in your bedroom window. Watching you from above. Snags the edge of your vision and holds it tight.

“Fine,” he cuts the silence. “I hear you. I’ll give you some time to think.”

You nod. As if he can see you. And it’s almost like he does.

“Take care of yourself, Izzy.”

You hang up before he can say anything else. Dig the phone into your quivering lips, salty with fresh tears.

* * *

You pop three Ambien to keep yourself from wandering out after dark.

You can’t remember the last time you slept so much. Fourteen hours.

You dip into your sick days and take the rest of the week off, determined to wash the summer away and let your body mend. On Friday, Mia says Chloe was crying at school because someone came and took their dog away. Peggy.

All the while, the texts keep coming.

let me kmo when ur ready to talk

I’m really sorry, idk how i can make this better. I need u to tell me.

See this is why i didn’t want to talk to u about being sick and everything. i was afraid u would reject me and obviously I was right. I guess i was hoping u would be better than that. L

I dont think i deserve complete and total ghosting tho

thats pretty awful all things considered

i honestly thought we had something rly amazing

but wtf do I kno

fuck my dad just fucking died

That one comes Sunday morning.

You need to go grocery shopping again. Last night you slept through dinner and you feel awful because you know Mia ate ketchup and crackers. You order Domino’s and it gets her through the day. You promise to hit the supermarket tomorrow morning. You’re still so goddamn tired you don’t trust yourself to drive.  

Mia has a spelling test tomorrow. You do your best to help her study.

“I think I’m okay to sleep in my own room tonight,” she says later, chewing her toothbrush the way she does when she’s too tired to make a concerted effort.

You kiss the top of her head. “Thank you for being so good this week, baby.”

She wraps her arms around your waist, toothbrush pincered between her incisors. Gets a little white foam on your shirt. You smile and wipe it away, guiding a wisp of copper hair from her mouth and behind her ear.

There’s so much more you want to say, but you don’t have the vocabulary for it. Maybe someday, when she’s older. When she needs to understand these things.

What you wouldn’t give, if that day never came.  

* * *

For the first time all week, you can’t sleep. Midnight. 1:00. 2:00.

Storm-tossed, you start fumbling around in the darkness and slither a hand out from under the sheets. Reaching for the phone on your nightstand.

As if you didn’t know, the whole damn night, that it was going to come to this.

I’m so sorry to hear about your dad

U ok?

Send. All the air in your lungs calcifies.

He calls less than thirty seconds later.

“This sucks so much.” His voice is strange. Gooey and distant. Like he’s drunk, but with a fierce, anguished urgency you can’t seem to place.

“It’s gonna feel that way, for a while. I know you wish you’d had more time with him, but at least you—”

“No, I mean… I mean yes. I do. But… this. Is the thing that sucks.”

“What?”

“I love you. I need to see you.”

Now, his voice is razor sharp. Cutting you in a hundred tiny, terrible places.

“Please. I’m like… ten minutes from your place.”

Your stomach drops to your feet, then slinks back up the length of your body. You clench your thighs together, then your teeth.

“I need you so fucking bad.”

The words worm past your ribs, flooding your chest.

“We can just talk. Would that be all right?”

You’re not answering because you know what you’ll say, if you do.

 “Actually, I kinda lied. I’m like… across the street.”

“Oh…” You finally say, but it’s more of a strangled exhale. “My daughter’s here.”

“We’ll be quiet. She’ll never know.”

Your heart pounds in your skull.

You haven’t given him a chance to do right by you. Maybe he’s come around. He knows he’s not allowed to hurt you anymore. You’ve made that clear.

“Yes or no, babe?”

Your tongue taps your palate. Forming one word, then the other.

“I don’t wanna wake her up, so I won’t knock.”

You slide out of bed. Pad toward the front door. Squeeze the deadbolt like a trigger.

“Okay. It’s unlocked.”

“Amoxicillin,” copyright © 2024 by Liz Kerin

The post Read Liz Kerin’s “Amoxicillin” — A Story Set in the World of <i>Night’s Edge</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Horror

Read an Excerpt From C.J. Cooke’s A Haunting in the Arctic

A deserted shipwreck off the coast of Iceland holds terrors and dark secrets in this chilling horror novel from the author of The Lighthouse Witches.

By C.J. Cooke

|

Published on March 7, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from brand new horror novel A Haunting in the Arctic by C.J. Cooke, available now from Berkley.

We decide to explore the abandoned village of Skúmaskot on the other side of the bay. It takes us almost an hour to walk there. It’s not actually that far, maybe a half-mile loop, but the snow is deeper on the far side than it is on the beach, nudging right up to the shore. Fresh virgin white that comes up to our waists, huge chunks of ice floating in the bay.

It isn’t completely frozen, though, as the sea cuts rivulets through, so we can’t skate across. We have to climb up the side of the volcano to find a pathway, and even there we’re forced to zigzag up and down the valley to avoid the geothermal steam pumping out of the earth.

When we finally make it to the village on the other side, we discover that there are about thirty buildings, not just the ten that I had counted from the other side of the bay. The older buildings are traditional torfbæir, turf houses, constructed out of flat stones and turf, with grassy A-frame rooftops that are doused with snow – more like igloos than turf houses. Leo is able to climb up there and film the old turf beneath the snow.

Snow has clogged the doorways, though we could enter some of the tin huts that were still standing. They’re empty, save some bits of turf. We manage to pull some of it out and carry it back to the ship for the fire.

The next morning, it’s snowing, and the air inside my cabin is so cold it stings my face. Leo lights the fire bucket and Samara makes hot tomato soup for breakfast, dishing it into our plastic bowls. I don’t question it. It’s a relief to hold something warm in my hands, and the flames that begin to lick the sides of the oil can feel so good that I think for a moment about the fire gods worshipped by ancient tribes. I would worship this oil can, and this soup, simply because they bring respite from the biting cold.

We eat in silence, too cold to speak. But after a few moments, Jens gets up and says he’s going outside for a walk.

‘Are you off to do some filming?’ I ask.

He shakes his head, not making eye contact. ‘Just a walk. Got to stay fit.’

‘If you’re not taking your drone,’ Samara says, ‘could I borrow it? Just for a little bit?’

Jens raises his eyebrows, and I wait for him to say no.

‘I was going to film more of Leo’s stunts,’ Samara explains. ‘But I kind of thought it might be cool to alternate between the headcam and the drone this time.’

Buy the Book

A Haunting in the Arctic

C.J. Cooke

Buy Book

A Haunting in the Arctic

C.J. Cooke

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

‘Sure,’ Jens says. ‘Do you know how to use it?’

Samara nods. ‘I think so. I’ll look after it, I promise.’

He takes out the controller and sits down next to her, giving her the low-down on how to manoeuvre it.

‘How about I film from the ship?’ I say. I’m feeling warmer, now, and outside the fog is beginning to lift. ‘We can cut between the three shots. Get some wide shots to create more perspective.’

‘Sounds great,’ Leo says.

Samara and Leo head off towards the rocks at the far end of the beach. It’s still light, though just barely. I’m glad I suggested filming from the stern of the Ormen—the waves are spectacular, rising up to the deck like charging horses before spreading across the black sand as a fine white lace, and the trio of lava rocks sticking out of the sand look epic against the purpling sky. They look like guardians, watching over the ship. A dramatic canvas for a dramatic scene, in other words.

I wait while Leo stretches his calves and Samara sends the drone further up the bay, capturing landscape footage before he starts.

I set my coffee mug on the ground and begin filming; my thinking is that I will capture more than I need and edit accordingly.

When I press ‘record’, though, I notice a third figure on the beach, about ten feet away from Leo. A woman, judging from the slight curve at the waist and the long hair.

I stare and squint, determined not to lose sight of her. It’s her, the woman I saw the first day. I open my mouth to call out, then decide to keep filming.

Leo has stopped stretching, his hands on his hips, his face turned to her. Samara turns back, too, clutching the controller and the drone. I watch with intensity. They’re talking to this woman. I give a small laugh. Thank God. I’d thought I was seeing things before.

She’s not wearing a hat or coat, though, and it’s freezing. I can see her dark hair and what looks like a pale jumpsuit or dress. I lower the camera quickly, wondering if I should go and help. But then Leo turns to me and waves, like he’s inviting me to come and join them. Maybe the woman needs help.

I head across the deck quickly and climb down the ladder, my mind racing. Who is she, and how long has she been out here? How has she managed to survive these temperatures without proper clothing?

By the time I climb down the ladder, the woman is no longer there. Leo and Samara are walking back towards me, chatting. The woman is gone.

‘Did you get it?’ Leo says when I reach them.

‘Oh my God, tell me you got that backflip off the big rock,’ Samara says to me. ‘I think I messed up with the drone. It was incredible, wasn’t it?’

I open my mouth but realise I’m too confused to answer.

‘You OK?’ Samara asks. ‘You look like you saw a ghost.’

I give a nervous laugh, and their faces fall. ‘Who were you talking to?’ I ask.

‘Who?’ Samara says.

I tell them both what I’d seen, just minutes before – a woman standing between them. They looked like they were all chatting. I thought maybe she needed help. She wasn’t dressed like the rest of us, all wrapped up in puffer coats and woolly hats. She was wearing a long, pale dress, no hat.

Leo and Samara turn back to stare at the spot on the beach with the rocks.

‘When?’ Samara says. ‘Where is she?’

I feel awkward, and I see Leo’s gaze hardening.

‘But you got the footage, right?’ he asks.

‘She was literally right here,’ I say, ‘where you both were standing by the rocks.’ I pull out my phone to show him.

I rewind the footage right to the beginning. Leo and Samara appear on the screen but there’s nothing of the woman. I try again, then zoom in.

‘Where?’ Leo asks.

I can feel myself growing flustered. Samara and Leo are sharing looks while I rewind the footage. Where the hell is it?

‘I really did see someone,’ I say. ‘It looked like you were all talking. I have no idea why it didn’t film…’

Leo’s expression darkens. ‘Are you fucking with me?’ he says.

I snap my head up. ‘No, I’m not.’

I feel so confused, I keep rewinding the footage, as though the woman will appear again. Why isn’t she there? I saw her on the screen. I know I filmed her.

Samara puts a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. ‘How about we go back and I’ll get it from the ship?’ she says.

Leo looks up. ‘The light will be gone soon. We can do it tomorrow.’

‘I must have been mistaken,’ I say quietly, my cheeks burning. Leo throws me a look of disgust before turning and heading to the Ormen.

Inside, I feel embarrassed all over again. Jens is back from his walk and is making a coffee.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘You get the footage?’

‘No, we fucking didn’t,’ Leo says, and storms off to his cabin.

‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ I say.

‘You want company?’ Jens asked.

I still feel too embarrassed. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘I’m just heading along the beach.’

The truth is, I have a small torch in my pocket, and I am heading back along the beach specifically to check out the big rocks where I saw the woman next to Leo and Samara.

I don’t know what I’m looking for, exactly. But I know I saw something. I suspect I’ll find that the rocks are angled in a way that creates a shadow, and even though it’s getting dark I have this urge to see it up close and piece together the puzzle.

The sea is roaring and hissing, the powerful waves punching down on the sand. I try to keep clear of the tide in case I get dragged out by a rogue wave – I know the drill – so it takes a while until I can step up on to the rocks and check them out.

Up close, they are exactly as they appeared from the Ormen, only bigger and rougher, no sign of shadow casting or hidden contours.

I understand a little more now why Leo was disappointed that I didn’t capture his backflip; they’re huge—one fall and he’d have broken his neck.

I walk back to the ship, defeated and angry at myself. Leo hates me now, I’m pretty sure of it.

I brought my motion sensor module, which attaches to the camera and forces it to turn towards movement; I usually use it when there are predators about.

Now, I set up my camera on a tripod and position it at the window of the main cabin that overlooks the beach. The sensor is super sensitive, and it makes the camera record the first ten seconds of whatever it picks up. I think I’ve done this for myself more than anything else.

‘What’s that for?’ Samara asks when she sees what I’m doing.

‘To film the horses,’ I say. ‘I saw them the other night, galloping across the beach.’

‘Really?’ she says. ‘I’ve not seen any.’

The truth is more sinister than horses.

I need to prove to myself that I saw what I saw.

From A Haunting in the Arctic, published by arrangement with Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2024 by C.J. Cooke.

The post Read an Excerpt From C.J. Cooke’s <em>A Haunting in the Arctic</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Amanda Jayatissa

Read an Excerpt From Amanda Jayatissa’s Island Witch

Set in 19th century Sri Lanka and inspired by local folklore, the daughter of a traditional demon-priest tries to solve the mysterious attacks terrorizing her coastal village.

By Amanda Jayatissa

|

Published on March 6, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Amanda Jayatissa’s Island Witch, a horror novel inspired by Sri Lankan folklore—out now from Berkley.

The moon was high in the sky as I walked home from the exorcism—a luminous disk casting a ring on the clouds that surrounded it. We’d have a full moon in a few days again, and full moons were always auspicious.

The trees swayed gently in the night breeze, their leaves silver in the moonlight. If I closed my eyes and really listened, I could hear the gentle hum of the wind competing with the light chirp of the odd cicada. It throbbed with familiarity. Normally, this would put me at peace. Tonight it made the hairs on my arms stand up. My dream kept returning, unwelcome, to my thoughts. It was like someone was speaking to me.

She’s brought this on herself. No one can help her now.

My eyes fluttered open.

I heard a sound. A rustling. Footsteps, maybe. The strange sensation that I was being watched. Or followed. My dreams came flooding back to me and I held my breath, listening hard.

I hadn’t taken a torch of my own. I’d been far too distracted by the exorcism and Aloysius’s accusations. But I felt silly now. It might have come in useful for protection if I needed it. I should have known better than to wander by myself like this, especially since the attacks. Most mothers wouldn’t dream of letting their daughters out even to their back gardens. Mine was the same, except she had no clue that I wasn’t safely tucked away in my sleeping mat.

I felt for my suray, the talisman that dangled around my neck. My father had given it to me a month before, around the same time he told me that I wouldn’t be able to accompany him during his practice anymore. The talisman was made of brass and shaped into a small tube. It held a prayer inscribed on a rolled sheet of copper. It was meant to protect me, but I never understood from what.

Buy the Book

Island Witch

Amanda Jayatissa

Buy Book

Island Witch

Amanda Jayatissa

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

“Please stop with all the questions, duwa. Just promise me you will never take it off, do you hear?” he had said, tying it around my neck. He had been sad, and a part of me was glad that he was. There was an ache that started within me that day, and it had yet to stop.

The suray was warm between my fingers as I listened again for the footsteps, cursing myself for being so foolish and being out here alone.

But I heard only the wind rattling between the trees.

Taking a deep breath, I continued forward.

“I am safe,” I muttered to myself. “This jungle is my home.”

I settled into a quick rhythm, my feet easily navigating their way across the soft, mossy floor. I had nothing to fear, I kept reminding myself.

That’s when a pair of arms grabbed me from behind, pulling me off the path and behind a large tree, pressing my back against its trunk as a hand clamped down on my mouth.

I’d been wrong to ignore the whisperings of the attacks when the entire village had been warning me for weeks. I’d been so stupid for ignoring my dreams. My eyes tried to focus as my body froze in fear. If I could see the yaka, then maybe I could save myself somehow. I braced, expecting the worst.

“Shh!” A familiar voice, behind a beautiful, wide smile.

“Raam!” I gasped. “You scared me.” I wanted to frown. To show him that I wasn’t happy. That he shouldn’t shock me like this. But my lips betrayed me as they curled into a grin of my own, even as my heart showed no sign of slowing down.

“I’m sorry.” The moonlight highlighted the dimples on his cheeks as the remaining droplets of my fear dissolved away. I was still breathless, only now it was breathlessness of a different kind. He leaned over, his lips brushing my forehead before he pulled away, releasing me from the tree. He smelled of sea salt and coconut, and I wished he had held me there just a while longer.

“What are you doing here?”

“I knew you’d come for the tovil, so I thought I’d wait. See if I could catch you on the way home. I’ve been missing you.” His hand reached for mine, entwining our fingers together while my heart glowed brighter than the stars.

“I’ve missed you too.” I felt heat on my cheeks. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. I don’t think I could really put into words how much I had longed for him. Not just that I wished he was with me, but that an entire piece of me was gone whenever we were apart.

“So? How are you? Are you still having those dreams?”

I shrugged. It felt wrong to give him details. How I had seen the yakshaniya’s face so clearly last night. How the taste of blood felt lush and satisfying on my tongue. How I was waking up further and further from home. It would only make him worry.

“How is work with your mother?” he tried again.

“Work with her is, you know—” I shrugged for the second time. He had been far more enthusiastic than I was when I told him about the turn of events at home. A cruel, ugly voice in my ear whispered that it was probably easier to explain to his family that he hoped to marry a seamstress rather than a Capuwa’s daughter, but, again, I shook it off. Raam was supportive and kind. An eternal optimist, searching unabashedly for the brighter side to things.

“I know.” He smiled back. That smile again. I forced myself to take another breath.

Still holding my hand, he led me back to the path.

“Come on. Let me walk you back.”

“It’s too dangerous, Raam. What if someone sees?” Like every other girl in my position, I had to keep Raam a secret. After all, while we had spoken about marriage, Raam hadn’t exactly committed yet.

“More dangerous than you being by yourself in the jungle at night?”

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t. My weak protest was halfhearted, and he knew it. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye so soon.

We’d been together for over two years now, though it had become more serious these last few months. Once we became formally betrothed, we’d finally be able to interact with each other in public. There was something exciting about meeting in the jungle, slipping out of my hut in the middle of the night, racing back before my parents awoke. But the last few times I went to meet Raam at night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed.

Raam was waiting for the right time to speak to his father—a man he feared far more than anything that happened in the jungle. It upset me that he’d been delaying it for so long, even though Raam had patiently explained it to me many times. I supposed, if I tried hard enough, I could understand. I knew what it felt like to disappoint your family, even if, in my case, I wasn’t quite sure why. I didn’t want that for him. But Raam’s father had recently been appointed to a senior position at the harbour, a role that came with more than just a significant pay raise. His whole family had recently converted to Christianity, for one. And everyone, especially Raam, his eldest son, was expected to support the British and be exemplary townsfolk. His father had even secured a junior clerk position for Raam, and even though he claimed to hate it, I could tell that this was a significant achievement for his family.

As soon as things settled down, Raam promised, he would speak to his father, and mine. I just had to be patient a few more months.

And more importantly, my mother, who had actively started seeking proposals for me since my eighteenth birthday, needed to be patient too. Even then, Raam and I would have to pretend that we weren’t already devoted to each other, that he’d simply noticed me at the market or at the temple, or some other socially acceptable location, and that he wanted my hand in marriage.

A lump rose in my throat. I wished that I could talk to Neha, my oldest friend, about this now, but she barely even looked at me when we passed in town. We’d once giggled about boys we thought were handsome, not that there were particularly many of them, but Neha had chosen a different life. Now she spoke of sin.

Sin. We’d used the term to pity someone. “Sin for him,” we’d say, “he didn’t catch enough fish at sea this morning.” Or if we accumulated enough sins, we might be reborn as something bad in our next life—perhaps a dog, or a person from a lower caste. The nuns in my old school, however, used it to talk about the burning fires of hell. Sin was something dirty. A disease we might catch, that would damn us for eternity with no chance to ever redeem ourselves. I often wondered if Neha shared this belief now.

Because there was nothing sinful in the way Raam’s body felt next to mine as we walked. Or if there was, I didn’t care.

“So, did you ask them?” Raam’s voice was low in the fresh jungle air, sucking me back to reality.

“Ask them what?”

“About going to the Devinuwara perahera? It’s happening in a little over a week. You said you’d ask your mother if you could go? So that we could meet?”

“Umm…” I frowned. I didn’t remember this. But then, I often did get a little too caught up in Raam when I was with him. Like his presence alone was intoxicating—making me forget the rest of the world. Making me forget myself.

“You got scared and didn’t ask, did you?” Raam’s words jibed at me. He grinned. “Don’t worry. There’s still plenty of time.”

I wanted to ask him then if he’d decided when he was going to speak to his family. I’d been nervous about it ever since I heard about their conversion to Christianity. There was little doubt in my mind that they would approve of my father’s profession. But my mother had told me that you shouldn’t ask questions unless you were truly prepared to hear the reply, because it might not be the answer you want. And I didn’t want to ruin the moment. The night was too beautiful.

We walked silently. I was increasingly aware of my palm getting sweaty in his, the way his breath traversed in and out of him—slow and lazy, unlike mine.

He stopped for a moment, holding me back. My heart hammered in my chest. He was going to kiss me. I took a deep breath to steady myself. There was an ache in me that only deepened the longer I spent time with him.

“Hang on,” he murmured.

“What is it?” I whispered. I gave him a small smile.

“Shh.”

A small rabbit hopped onto the path in front of us. Its white fur shone brightly as it stopped and sniffed at some weeds on the jungle floor. It didn’t pay us the slightest bit of attention.

“Sweet, isn’t it?” Raam asked.

“Yes,” I said, my mind still on the kiss I hadn’t gotten yet.

“I wonder if—” But he was interrupted.

A mongoose darted out from the shadows, grabbing the rabbit’s neck in its jaws before disappearing again.

A small scream found its way out of my throat.

“Shh,” Raam said, pulling me close.

“Oh, Raam, can’t you stop it?”

His smile was different this time. More sympathetic.

“This is why I love you, Amara. You’re so kind. So innocent.”

“Like the rabbit who just got killed?”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. His face was just inches from mine. I could feel his breath fan against me. “I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

And then his lips met mine, and the rabbit and the mongoose and the demons that preyed in the jungle all evaporated into the night sky.

Excerpted from Island Witch by Amanda Jayatissa. Copyright © 2024 by Amanda Jayatissa. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved.

The post Read an Excerpt From Amanda Jayatissa’s <i>Island Witch</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Science Fiction

Read an Excerpt From Natasha Pulley’s The Mars House

A new queer SF novel about privilege, strength, and life across class divisions.

By Natasha Pulley

|

Published on March 5, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Mars House by Natasha Pulley, a queer science fiction novel about a marriage of convenience between a Mars politician and an Earth refugee—out from Bloomsbury on March 19.

January didn’t sleep much, not because he was worried about the flood, but because nobody had any saline solution and he had to throw away his lenses. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get home half blind. He lived in Hackney, which was over the far side of the city, and he hated the idea of asking anyone to help him get there. Most of the company were just like Terry; still children really, and though everyone was incredibly kind, it was asking too much.

He jolted awake because somewhere close by on the canal, a lonely flood siren was going off, but muffled; he had a feeling that the angry lady who ran the coffee shop on the corner had stuffed a tea-towel in it.

He got up carefully. Everyone was asleep on the floor, bundled up in nests of blankets and cushions stolen from the nice seats in the auditorium. He skirted the edge of the room, not at all able to tell if he was about to step on a person or just a suggestively shaped ball of bedding. When he got to the window, he had to stare for a long time to put together what he was seeing, blurred as it all was.

The canal water was right below the window. Covent Garden had flooded up to the second floor, and all around it, people were sitting on roofs.¹

It was still raining. Opposite, a man he usually only ever saw dressed in a suit, getting cross into a phone at the café, was sitting on a fold-up chair under a bivouac, cooking something on a gas stove.

A puffin was sitting on the windowsill, looking just as interested to have found a January as January was to have found a puffin. Puffins were always much tinier than he imagined, and the markings on their faces made them look sad, but this one seemed cheerful. It had some fish. It must not have minded people, because it waddled across to sit by his arm. He was wearing black; maybe it thought he was just a giant puffin.

In a bright orange canoe, just opposite him on the canal, Always Angry Lady from the café lifted a hand. He only knew it was her because she always wore the same yellow head scarf.

January waved. “Hi. Anything on the news?”

“Horrible disaster, emergency services in crisis, everyone at Westminster’s fucked off to fucking Manchester,” she said.

“Right. Where are you off to?” he asked, in case it was a sensible idea everyone here could copy.

“See if I can get a boat out to Peterborough.”

He didn’t know anyone in Peterborough. With a lurch, he realized that he didn’t know anyone anywhere but here. His mum’s vineyard in Cornwall had been sold to a French family with a poodle and triplets. They knew him by sight, because her grave was on the edge of the land and he visited it sometimes, but that was it.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Fuck it all,” she said, and paddled off.

Buy the Book

The Mars House

Natasha Pulley

Buy Book

The Mars House

Natasha Pulley

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

He jumped when, somewhere over the rooftops, something exploded. It was a deep bang that juddered the skeleton of the building. The puffin jumped too, and whirred away.

The conductor touched his shoulder. “Internet’s gone,” she said. “I think we need to get out and find out what’s going on. And some food. There’s twenty-five people here.”

“How?”

She pointed downwards. There was a lost rowing boat bumping against the wall. After a murmured discussion with the director, they climbed down into it, January to row and the conductor to navigate.

Without much hope, they tried supermarkets first. Everything was flooded. The front doors were underwater. They had to give up. Instead, they concluded that what was needed was to find some people who might know what was going on or where you could get help.

As always, there were beacon lights punching up to the storm clouds above St Paul’s Cathedral, and hologram signs to say that you could find shelter there if you had nowhere else. It would have news screens too. The two of them hesitated, because it was a long way to row, but it was downriver and the current would carry them toward the cathedral, at least.

By the time they guided the little boat up to the great bulk of the cathedral, January’s hands were raw, even where he had wrapped his sleeves over them. Away from the silt of the Thames, the water here was very, very clear, and blue; he could see right down to the ancient steps, thirty feet below the hull.

Plenty of other people had had the same idea, and the way in was crowded—the vast doors formed a bottleneck as people had to slow down to duck under the arch of the portico—but it was eerily quiet. The only voices came from the high screens projecting the news down into the gloom of the aisle, and the thousands of little boats floating there. The muted light from the stained glass windows patterned people and water in colours. January and the conductor eased their boat into a space close to a statue of a saint which, when it had been set there, must have been twenty feet above the ground. Now, the water rippled around the hem of its robe.

The news was being projected around the inside of the great dome. Although there were speakers everywhere, it was hard to hear; the echoes were so severe it all sounded as though everything was being said twice, half a second apart.

The conductor, who had been standing up to direct him, sat down next to him now on the bench. In the boat next to theirs, an exhausted-looking man lifted his tiny daughter out to sit at the saint’s feet.

“… emergency restrictions banning all travel. Flooding is widespread beyond the capital, presenting a significant danger to life. The national rail network has suspended services across the south and southeast. The Prime Minister, who was evacuated to Manchester late last night, has pledged emergency aid to the capital as soon as possible.”

As soon as possible didn’t sound very soon.

On the way back to the theatre, the two of them broke into the top floor of a camping shop and stole gas stoves, torches, batteries, and everything else they could think of that might be useful. They found a supermarket on the upper floor of a shopping centre too, open and crowded, shelves emptying fast. He waited in the boat while the conductor hurried in, tense, because he had watched someone tip a girl out of her boat into the water to steal it two minutes before. Perhaps he looked big enough to be trouble, or perhaps there were just better boats around, but nobody tried anything. The sky was grey and quiet. Very quiet. There were no helicopters.

After a week, it was impossible to get enough food, and they rationed. Then they rationed more. Down the street, a lady who’d had the presence of mind to take a fishing rod onto the roof with her caught salmon and brought some around to everyone she could, but it wasn’t much. January had never been so hungry.

They spray-painted SOS—25 PEOPLE onto the roof, and all along the street, people did the same.

In fits and starts, most of the dancers tried to leave, just in case they still had a home to go to, but everyone came back pale and shocked, with stories of whole streets underwater. January tried too, only to find that the entire canal where he lived was sealed off, the water littered with dead sea birds. There were exposed electrical lines under there somewhere, a ragged emergency worker explained. It was a miracle he hadn’t been at home.

On the morning of the fifteenth day, he wondered for the first time if they might actually die here, if it had been stupid to wait so long, if they should all have found boats and rowed as far as they could while they still had the energy and the supplies.

The helicopter came two hours after that.

The crew spoke only Mandarin, and nobody in the company did apart from school-level stuff, but they managed to be reassuring all the same. The director put all the youngest kids on the first round, then was hustled onto the second herself. January was among the last. He was so exhausted by then that he could hardly hold on to the harness on the way up. At the top, the deck was already full of other rescued people, some of them ebullient and some, like him, numb with relief. He couldn’t make them out well. He still couldn’t see properly, and he was beginning to realize that he was going to be stuck like that for a while now. It didn’t matter any more. He let his head bump against the wall, listening to the roar of the engine. He had no idea where they were going, but as they veered away, he found he didn’t care, and when they landed at an airfield where people in orange jackets were handing out food parcels and blankets, he was so happy to see dry ground that he almost didn’t understand when a translator came around with a clipboard and asked if he would like to seek asylum in Tharsis.

“Where’s that?” he managed. He opened the food parcel, in which there was a wonderful, inexplicable packet of marshmallows. They tasted so good that it was hard to think. He offered the translator one. He had been looking around for the rest of the company, but he couldn’t see anyone. Other people were saying that the helicopters were taking different loads of people to different camps to try and even out numbers.

“Mars,” the man said gently, shaking his head at the marshmallow offer. “The Chinese colony? They’re funding this centre. Ships are coming, for refugees.”

Ships are coming. January hadn’t realized how used he was to the certainty that no one was coming, and no one ever would come, because they never did. To hear that they were—he didn’t even know what that swell of feeling was. Not relief, because relief implied somehow that you’d been aware of feeling bad before, and not even gratitude, because you were grateful when someone passed you the salt or when they remembered your birthday. That wasn’t what you felt when someone you had never met sent ships from another world.

Not far away, another translator was trying to dissuade a big family from travelling to Saudi Arabia. The coast guard there, she was saying, were turning back refugee boats. People were drowning. And don’t even think about trying to get a visa. They say they’re making visas available, but that means they’ll let about five people in and call it a day. No, it doesn’t matter if your mother’s already there. They don’t care. Half the world wants to get to Dubai. Unless you’re a rocket scientist, forget it.

January blinked hard and realized he’d lost the thread of what his translator was saying. His hearing had tuned out.

“Say again, sorry?” he said. It was bizarre, the fog in his head. He could only just peer through it at passing thoughts. Most of them were to do with marshmallows.

“We can get you going with the paperwork now,” the translator repeated, as if it were all normal. “They’ve made it very straightforward.”

January swallowed. “I can just—go? Just like that?”

“Just like that, honey,” the man said. “It’s disaster relief. And Tharsis always needs immigrants. It’s a big move, but honestly, no legal hurdles here. They really do want people. You won’t sit in some miserable camp for months, and there’s no restrictions on refugees working. There are restrictions on what Earthstrong people can do, but even so. There’s more work than they’ve got people to do it. Basic stuff, but—it’s work.”

“Earthstrong…?”

“The gravity there is only a third of ours. It can be pretty dangerous to let you just walk around when you’ve come straight from here.” The man hesitated. “Been a bit of a kerfuffle about it lately, but it’s still better than Saudi or China.”

It was the first time that January really understood that normal life was over. He had thought he might die, but he hadn’t thought about what would happen if he lived. London wasn’t going to recover. There would be no more theatre. There was probably no getting to other countries either; the floods must have displaced millions of people, which would mean millions pouring towards international borders. Those borders were already slamming shut.

The simple, stupid truth was that all he wanted to do was go where there was food and heat. He was aching less with hunger than a kind of shock that it was so easy for everything to just collapse, for life to go from boring visits to the café and wondering if it was extravagant to get hot chocolate instead of coffee, to—this. He felt like he would agree to anything just to make it stop, even though he hadn’t even had that bad a time and it hadn’t lasted very long, and actually he was fine.

He didn’t know the first thing about Tharsis, but he did know he didn’t have it in him to try and get to Riyadh or Lagos or Beijing. He wasn’t made of hard enough stuff for that.

And the famous thing about Mars was that there was no water.

That sounded pretty bloody marvellous.

“Yes please,” he said. “I’d like to go.”

Excerpted from The Mars House, copyright © 2024 by Natasha Pulley.

1. To foreigners, it seemed stupid for England to have a capital city that spent most of its time sinking, but the fact was that most of London—when it was built—was only ever about four metres above the level of the Thames. The lofty hills of Bloomsbury and Mayfair (a whole thirty-eight metres above sea level) still had to have canals. Unfortunately those canals also tended to flood the moment they saw some rain, which was usually, much to the ire of the people who owned the increasingly devalued town houses, and much to the joy of the local octopus population, who then gained access to some pretty exciting wine cellars. ︎

The post Read an Excerpt From Natasha Pulley’s <em>The Mars House</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Horror

Read an Excerpt From Gwendolyn Kiste’s The Haunting of Velkwood

A suburban ghost story about a small town that trapped three young women who must confront the past if they’re going to have a future.

By Gwendolyn Kiste

|

Published on February 29, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Gwendolyn Kiste’s The Haunting of Velkwood, a horror novel about three childhood friends who miraculously survive the night everyone in their suburban hometown turned into ghosts—out from Saga Press on March 5.

My head spins, everything in me going numb. It feels like I’ve been turned inside out, my skin flayed and tacked back on again, and maybe that’s exactly what’s happened. Maybe that’s the only way to get into this place.

But what I know for sure: I’m here. Back on this street, back where I used to belong.

When I woke up this morning, it was the end of fall, but in this neighborhood, it’s summertime, jubilant sprinklers cascading over lawns, the solstice sun baking the pale concrete. The street’s bathed in jaundice yellow, the whole world like a desaturated photo. I try to remember if it ever really looked like this, or if this is merely a trick of the afterlife, this place becoming more a memory than a flesh-and-blood reality.

Either way, I’m looking into the past, and I’m not sure yet that I like what I see.

I inhale a ragged breath, and the thin air burns my lungs. I wonder how long I can survive here. I wonder how long anyone can survive.

At least I already know how long I’ll stay. One hour and not a minute over. That’s what Jack suggested, and after what happened to Grace, I won’t take any chances. At least not any more chances than I’ve already taken.

With my hands steady, I start the timer and then I start walking, right down the middle of Velkwood Street. It’s only a few steps at first, my vision gauzy, as though I’m peering through a hundred layers of chiffon. The pavement is solid beneath my feet, but it barely feels real.

Our neighborhood was never built for subtlety, every house arrayed in candy-colored siding, the roofs with sharp, almost comical angles. We all lived in split-levels with the same floorplans, the mid-century equivalent to making it in suburbia, but that dream was a short-lived one. The street was dated, almost kitsch, by the time we started high school.

“We’re stuck in the past,” Brett once said, as she and I sat together on the curb, each of us devouring one half of a cherry twin pop we procured from the local ice cream truck. “We’ll never escape it.”

“You don’t know that,” I said, my fingers stained red. But maybe she did.

As I keep moving, I count the houses. All eight of them are here, right where they belong, three on the left side of the street, and five on the right. A lopsided arrangement, but it wasn’t supposed to stay like this forever. We were supposed to get new houses, new neighbors, new possibilities. But that never happened. Instead, two of the houses had been vacant since we were in junior high, the For Sale signs still in the front yards, like a promise nobody could keep.

I don’t look too long at them. I keep heading toward the place where I once belonged, the fourth house on the right, almost at the end of the street. Almost at the end of the world.

Buy the Book

The Haunting of Velkwood

Gwendolyn Kiste

Buy Book

The Haunting of Velkwood

Gwendolyn Kiste

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Nearby, there are empty cans of Coca-Cola abandoned on the curb, ants swarming around the sweetness, hundreds of them coming from every direction.

I’m passing Grace’s house now, the second on the right, the slider windows gazing out at me, the pink trim glinting in the sun. Everything in Grace’s life was always pink and bright and cheerful. Her mother would have it no other way.

“The problem with you girls is that you need to smile more,” she used to tell us when we all stayed for sleepovers, and my stomach would always clench, because from the look on Brett’s face, she wasn’t ever thinking about smiling. She was always thinking of spitting right in Mrs. Spencer’s eye.

The sun shifts in the sky, disappearing behind a patch of pale clouds, thick as marshmallow fluff. That’s when I see them. Two people walking across the verdant yard. Grace’s younger brothers maybe. It looks like them, arrayed in grimy Mötley Crüe T-shirts and hand-me-down Levi’s, one of them holding a Spalding basketball. This is it, a chance to finally meet someone. To ask them what’s happened. To ask them about Sophie.

They drift out of the yard and onto the street, their figures obscure and wavering. I squint at them, shielding my eyes from the blazing sun, but I still can’t recognize them, and as they get closer, I realize why. My vision’s clear now, but they’re not. Their faces are blurred out, almost as if they’re moving too fast, a hundred expressions flashing by at once, joy and dread and rage mingling together. Their skin’s gray as a thunderstorm, but they don’t seem to notice. They just keep moving forward.

Moving right toward me.

I seize up, my feet turned to lead, a scream lodged in my throat. I’m sure they’ve spotted me here, I’m sure this is it. But they pass me by, as though everything’s normal, as though they don’t see me at all. And that’s probably for the best, because without a clear mouth to speak, I doubt they could help me much. I doubt they can help themselves much either.

I’m running now, away from them, away from everything, heading deeper into this neighborhood, even though I should retreat, back the way I came, back into reality. Except right now I’m not sure where reality is.

So I run toward the place where I grew up. Toward where my family should be.

Up ahead, at the house next to ours, there’s another figure sitting out front. Only this one isn’t the same as the other two. She has a face, and I recognize her in an instant.

Mrs. Owens, creaking back and forth on her half-rotted porch swing. A widow from way back, we used to think she was the only lonely person on Velkwood Street. That was a long time ago, back when we didn’t know much about loneliness. Or much about ourselves.

“You don’t belong here,” she’s saying, and hope threads through me, because I’m convinced she’s talking to me. I sprint across the sidewalk, rushing onto her lawn, just glad to see a face, an actual face.

“How are you?” I blurt out, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch at the question. I watch her for a while before waving my hands in front of her. There’s nothing, not a hint of recognition.

I’m right here, but I’m nowhere at the same time.

“Don’t you listen?” she asks, her voice like rusted nails. “I told you already you don’t belong here.” She’s scowling hard at something, and I follow her gaze until I spot it.

A frog sitting on her front step, staring off at nothing, its expression as impassive as the seasons.

“You should move along,” Mrs. Owens says, still glaring at the frog. “You don’t have much time.”

And I don’t have much time either. My house is only next door. I’m almost there. I’m almost home.

“Maybe we can talk later,” I say to her, and I hope I’m right.

Grass crunches like brittle bone beneath my feet as I cross the yard. A sharp breeze shivers down the street, the air turning thick and fragrant with honeysuckle, like something out of a dream. I hold my breath and keep going, all the way up the narrow walkway that leads to my front door. Gladiolas creep along the perimeter of the house. The summer before I left for college, I planted the bulbs with Sophie, the two of us in old overalls, dirt caked beneath our fingernails.

“How long will it take them to grow?” she asked, her arms wrapped around my legs.

“A few weeks until we see the first sprouts.” I pulled her close, and she hugged me a little tighter. “Three or four months before flowers.”

She crinkled up her nose. “Why do they take so long to grow?”

“The same reason you do,” I said with a laugh. “You’ve got to give things time.”

Now the flowers have all the time in the world. And so does Sophie.

I’m on the front step now, everything I want and everything I fear wrapped up in this moment. My heart squeezed tight in my chest, I reach to knock on the front door, but I don’t have a chance. The lock clicks on the other side, and my mother is suddenly standing right in front of me.

She doesn’t look like those terrible figures from the sidewalk. Instead, everything about her is the same as I remember. Her wide eyes as blue as tidepools, a bolt of gray tucked behind one ear, the same furrowed lines between her brows.

“I’m home,” I whisper, but the same as Mrs. Owens, she doesn’t see me. Nobody can. In here, I’m the ghost, the trespasser, the spirit who can barely disturb the air.

From the book: The Haunting of Velkwood by Gwendolyn Kiste. Copyright © 2024 by Gwendolyn Kiste. Reprinted courtesy of Saga Press, an imprint of Simon and Schuster.

The post Read an Excerpt From Gwendolyn Kiste’s <em>The Haunting of Velkwood</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Lee Mandelo

Read an Excerpt From Lee Mandelo’s The Woods All Black

An Appalachian period piece that explores reproductive justice and bodily autonomy, the terrors of small-town religiosity, and the necessity of fighting tooth and claw to live as who you truly…

By Lee Mandelo

|

Published on February 28, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Lee Mandelo’s The Woods All Black—a novel equal parts historical horror, trans romance, and blood-soaked revenge, all set in 1920s Appalachia—out from Tordotcom Publishing on March 19.

KENTUCKY, 1929

I.

The passenger train heaved to a stop at Hazard station. Coal smoke from its stacks silted the muggy air. Leslie Bruin took his cap from his knee and his travel bag from beneath his seat, tucking the former over a crop of wavy hair and the latter over a ride-sore shoulder. The train car, sleepy throughout the trek from Louisville, now bustled: girls laughing, bags thumping floorboards, the cigarette man calling out to disembarking passengers. Leslie traded a quarter for two packs as he stepped onto the platform. The end-of-summer heat hadn’t cracked in the eastern counties, and a small crowd loitered in the station house shade eyeing the new arrivals. Porters offloading luggage hollered directions down-platform. With a sigh, Leslie turned toward the clamor to rescue his saddlebags.

“Miss Bruin,” called a tall, sun-worn gentleman across the way.

Miss was far from his preferred form of address, but Leslie pasted on a smile regardless, as he recognized the speaker. “Good to meet you again, Mister Hansall.”

“Jackson is fine, ma’am,” he said, convivial grin creasing his face. “There’s a car ready to drop us at the travel post. You need any refreshment before we hit the road?”

“I could use a sip of water, once I’ve collected the bags. Shall we?” Leslie gestured to the porters.

“Don’t worry yourself, I’ll carry those,” Hansall said.

The nurses of the Frontier Service had no trouble lugging around their supplies, or else how would the work get done, but rather than kicking up a fuss Leslie smiled and nodded—amiable, businesslike. Hansall returned the sentiment with a tap to the brim of his hat and set off to make himself useful.

A squat, glittering geode propped open the station house door; the stenciled glass announced “Whites Only.” South of the Ohio River those signs fruited like fungus on rotten wood. At least a quarter of the ladies whose drinks he’d stood while traipsing across Chicago on leave would be banned from stepping over the threshold—but in need of a piss and a cold drink, he crossed unimpeded. A ceiling fan stirred stale air. The solitary girl at the counter squinted at his trousers and cotton shirt then said, “Good afternoon, Nurse.”

“Am I so obvious?” Leslie asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Would any other woman wear pants and boots in this weather?”

“Then I’m caught out,” he said. “A soda, please?”

“Comin’ right up.”

As she bent to open the refrigerator the loose collar of her dress flashed silk brassiere and cleavage. Leslie stuffed his hands in his pockets, wrenching his gaze away. The clerk sat a perspiring bottle of Coca-Cola on the countertop. He swigged a mouthful of syrupy fizz and she watched silently with arms crossed under her breasts. In a city whose rules he understood, he might’ve chatted to her, but out here the risks outweighed the rewards considerably.

Buy the Book

The Woods All Black

Lee Mandelo

Buy Book

The Woods All Black

Lee Mandelo

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

When a family came through the door with one caterwauling babe in arms, Leslie set his Coke aside. Given he’d already been read by the clerk he ducked into the ladies’ restroom to do his business, emerging to find Hansall by the station entrance: hip cocked and cap beneath his arm, short sleeves cuffed nigh to the shoulder. His maleness carried such ease.

“Ready whenever,” he said.

A dusty Ford awaited, its driver hanging an arm out the window. Leslie boosted himself into the truck bed beside his saddlebags. It was twenty-five miles of paved road in the Model A, then another fifteen on horseback before reaching Spar Creek—ideally ahead of nightfall. The isolated mountain town was Leslie’s farthest post since rostering on with the FNS in ’25, as well as his first without a partner, but Breckenridge’s orders were clear. With luck Leslie would see babies birthed, children vaccinated, and adults’ ailments resolved in record time; without luck, he’d be wintering in the hills.

Hansall thumped the quarter panel like a mare’s flank and asked, “Mind if I ride in the cab?”

“Suit yourself, I’ll rest back here,” Leslie answered.

“You army girls are too tough for me.” His chuckle was fond and dismissive.

The automobile creaked when Hansall clambered in. Leslie dropped his head against the wooden rail. Sunlight beat down meanly, so he dragged his cap over his face, breathing in the funk. Sweat prickled beneath his armpits and breasts. No worse than silent afternoons spent on the front by the River Marne, rotating rest shifts on the ambulance cot with a fellow nurse, their once-starched uniforms limp with the sweat of terror and exhaustion. Nothing, ever again, could possibly be so bad as the terminal months of ’17 and the gore-fetid soil of Champagne—the brief season of life from which he was sometimes unsure he’d returned. Frontier nursing might not fit his unsettled spirit, but it was the closest he’d found to meaningful labor in his decade stateside. At least delivering infants and stitching up farm accidents provided his trained hands with work while his agile, ugly brain strayed, and strained, and gnawed upon itself.

The Ford rattled out of the gravel lot, breeze nipping through the buttons of his shirt. The ride steadied as they reached the road, and as green foothills rose around them—the spurs of mountains older than time—Hazard fell away from view. Anticipating long hours on horseback, Leslie coasted into the twilight place ahead of sleep: arms crossed loose over his belly, chin drooping, leg notched over his pack. When a letter had summoned him back from leave he’d expected an assignment to the newly christened Hyden Hospital. Instead, the note informed him that the minuscule town of Spar Creek had requested a nurse—with Leslie’s own name already appended by a local, Jackson Hansall, whom he’d met during a previous rotation at the coal mine another town over.

He’d been considering quitting the service to see if this time he could wedge himself into the role expected of him in the city: nightshift at a factory, an apartment safe enough for his girl to bring clients around, and constant vigilance against nosy neighbors ratting them out. He’d almost resolved to turn down the assignment. Then he’d come home from the bars to find another Dear John missive neatly folded on his bedside table, sealed with a mauve lipstick print and telling him what a sweet husband he’d make for some other girl, some other time. The FNS summons that arrived on its heels at least offered the comfort of orders to be followed.

The truck jounced to a halt, rousing Leslie from his stupor. He tucked his cap through his belt and mopped his face dry. A traveler’s stable large enough to house twenty horses awaited them, its barn doors open wide. Manure and hay stink merged with the verdancy of the woods. Hansall rounded the backside of the truck at the same moment Leslie hopped down from the tailgate.

“If there aren’t problems on the trail, we’ve got about five hours’ ride ahead,” he said.

Raspy with road dust, Leslie said, “Then let’s get to it.”

Bidding their driver farewell, supplying two fresh horses, and heading out along the dirt  track toward Spar Creek took less time than expected. Old-growth trees rose around the trail and its hewn guide fence. Cicadas and birdsong clashed with the steady clop of hooves. Hansall led their expedition in companionable silence, his back an easy straight line used to the seat. Leslie looped his reins around the saddle knob, and the chestnut mare simply followed on. The last vestiges of his metropolitan life sloughed away as natural isolation arose.

Traversing the five-hundred-mile stretch between his northern city and a counties assignment transformed Leslie into a simpler thing, someone whose worries were limited to saddle-soreness and the pinch three centimeters beneath the shrapnel scar on his thigh—either nerve damage or a metal sliver. The nursing service patch on his jacket emptied his body of its contrary desires and replaced them with a set of tasks: no longer a person, but a purpose. Survival was simpler that way.

Light slanted through the canopy at strange low angles, and toads began to croak from the shadows. Suddenly aware of encroaching night, Leslie asked, “How much further?”

“Maybe thirty, forty-five minutes,” Hansall said, unperturbed.

A brief time later they arrived at a fork in the trail and turned left. The path crested the belly of a hill then pitched downward, widening to funnel them into a protective holler. Underneath twilight stillness, water babbled over stones. Stands of oak and beech, sycamore and dense honeysuckle amplified the sound until it enfolded them. The orange sunset burned on the horizon through a break in the foliage and fireflies dazzled in the air.

Leslie kneed his mare to trot up alongside Hansall’s. The gloom appointed both their faces with carnival masques of shadow. Hansall gestured ahead, his no-doubt-welcoming smile reduced to a slash of teeth.

“That’ll be us through the clearing,” he said.

The nape of Leslie’s neck crawled. He slapped at it and his palm came away smeared with the corpse of a fat black spider. His thighs clamped, but the mare ignored him; he wiped the remains on her flank. Unease wriggled its nasty legs around inside him. Somehow, despite all his years in one form of service or another, Leslie never noticed the boundary for too late to turn back now until he’d already gone and crossed it.

The trail mouth spat them out right on Spar Creek’s doorstep.

The town filled a bowl made by three steep, converging hills. Dual rows of clapboard buildings flanked the dirt-and-shale center lane. Farther down stood the church, homesteads with sleeping dogs on their porches, one large barn, and a schoolhouse. Beaten grass paths led into the night, ranging toward fields, animal pens, cabins and maple shacks and hunting blinds. The distant sound of workmen singing—part cow’s bellow, part melodic shout—floated on the air. Leslie wheeled his horse to a stop. Light glowed behind thin curtains in all the breeze-gapped windows. One matronly woman cast them a blank glance while locking her shopfront, but otherwise the lane stayed empty. A frontier nurse’s arrival usually provoked far more curiosity.

“We’ll be putting you up in our back cabin,” Hansall told Leslie. “Sarah should have it all readied.”

“Thank you,” he said.

They rode on past the general store and a smattering of homes. Near the community barn, drying tobacco scented the air. A two-horse cart with lanterns hung fore and aft bounced up the perpendicular trailhead, stacked with fresh leaves to be hung. Four men on the cusp of adulthood walked alongside. The leading pair were clearly related, both towheaded and farm-stock broad. The two lagging behind were just as clearly not: one barrel-chested and bald-shaven aside from his ginger beard, the other wiry-slight with a gathered knot of long dark hair. The youthful softness of his cheeks was offset by a flat and flinty scowl, which caught on Leslie then flinched aside. Leslie fought the urge to raise an eyebrow.

One of the blonds hollered, “Home again, Jackson?”

“Home again, and with a nurse to show for it!” he replied.

Leslie waved off their hellos—as well as their notice of his riding trousers, his army boots and cap—but Hansall didn’t pause, so they cantered on away.

“Who’s the kid with the attitude?” Leslie asked.

“Oh, that’d be our Stevie Mattingly,” he said in a tone of tolerant amusement.

Several yards past the main thoroughfare, nestled in a copse of trees, sat a yellow-painted house with its own well, outhouse, barn, and back cabin. Hansall swung down from the rented horse and walked her across the lawn to the front post. He had built himself a comfortable life down a coal chute drawing lifeblood out of the hills, and it showed on his well-appointed land. Leslie scrubbed a thumb over his teeth, clearing grit from the ride, and hitched his mare as well. The front door opened on a woman wearing a brown skirt and white shirt belted at the waist. Her long, sandy hair hung loose.

“Sarah, meet Miss Bruin,” Hansall said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Sarah replied coolly.

“Would you mind showing her back to the cabin while I get the horses in?”

“Of course.”

Leslie dipped a bow as Sarah descended from the porch. Bare feet and ankles flashed beneath her hemline. With his travel pack swung over one shoulder, Leslie followed her around the backside of the house. The westernmost hill swallowed the lingering sun and night spilled across the holler.

Sarah pointed him to the cabin. “There’s a washbasin ready for you, and leftovers from dinner. We share the same outhouse. Knock on the back door if you’re needful.”

“Thank you—” Leslie began.

Sarah turned heel and strode away.

A handsome married woman giving him the cold shoulder wasn’t entirely a surprise. He muttered, “Well, all right.”

The single-room cabin contained an iron stove with a pipe through the roof; a brass bedframe topped by mattress, quilt, and pillow; a desk with water basin and lantern; a scuffed cedar cabinet; and a swinging pane-glass window, left open. Moths fluttered around the lantern. Lowering the latch behind him, he unfastened his boots then stripped to boxers and undershirt. Muggy night air meant mosquitoes, so with a groan he swung the window shut. He had a number of interlocking tasks he’d need to start first thing on the morrow: secure a location to run services from, determine the receptivity of the townspeople to nursing, count the children and pregnant or aiming-to-be-pregnant women, diagnose any parasitic infections or other health troubles, and ultimately establish himself as an authority… but never too much of an authority, lest the local doctors or aunties sense a threat to their monopolies.

And lastly, though the FNS would turf him if word got ’round, he had to keep an eye peeled for those secret, vital needs. Wives tired of childbearing but unfamiliar with preventatives; young men clueless on how to please their paramours; girls whose bodily education began and ended in the church pew; fellows who weren’t quite fellows, and ladies who weren’t quite ladies: once he’d integrated into town life, the whispers would start to arrive at his ear, and he could apply the sexological knowledge he’d gathered in Europe. He’d grown proficient at pursuing his own crosswise labors from within the troubled system he served; that was the real reason he’d stuffed himself back into a nurse’s role. In the meantime, he collapsed onto the creaking mattress and drew a book from his pack. Orlando: A Biography, which he’d secured from a city shop during his preparations for Spar Creek. Novels had always supplied him with the comfort, understanding, and indulgence life otherwise lacked. Swaddled by fantasies of being elsewhere or else-when, plied with a woman’s tender kisses and safe from harm—during those psychic travels he could be free, and desirable, and whole. Thumbing to his dogear, he read, Nature, who has played so many queer tricks upon us, making us so unequally of clay and diamonds…

A tree limb cracked like gunfire, too close for comfort. Leslie smacked the book closed and shot bolt upright. His reflection flickered in the window’s black glass, hollow-eyed and broad-shouldered, staring reproachfully. Though he sat rigid waiting for another noise, none came, aside from the distant creek murmuring through the eaves.

Excerpted from The Woods All Black, copyright © 2024 by Lee Mandelo.

The post Read an Excerpt From Lee Mandelo’s <em>The Woods All Black</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Space Opera

Read an Excerpt From L.M. Sagas’ Cascade Failure

A fierce, messy, chaotic space family, vibrant worlds, and an exploration of the many ways to be—and not to be—human…

By L.M. Sagas

|

Published on February 27, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from L.M. Sagas’ debut Cascade Failure by L.M. Sagas, a high-octane, sci-fi adventure out from Tor Books on March 19.

JAL

Somewhere in Jal’s file was a note from an old crewmate that read, Jalsen Red will either be the reason you die, or the reason you live. Good fucking luck.

With a love letter like that on his record, he should’ve figured pretty quick that his Guild career was on the fast track to nowhere. Would’ve saved a lot of folks a lot of grief, but Jal just wasn’t made to be a thinker. Wasn’t in his DNA.

They’d seen to that.

Just as well. If he thought too much about what he was doing, he’d just as likely turn back the way he came; hop that rickety old shuttle back to the ass-end of the O-Cyg spiral, away from the hustle and bustle of the outpost. That was what a thinking sort of man would’ve done.

Jal ducked his head and kept walking, glancing around the hangar through a dirt-brown mess of shaggy hair that had gone too many days without a washing. Must’ve been a dozen ships there—rows of shiny hulls and top-of-the-line gear, idling on docks suspended fifty-some-odd decs above an airlock. He paused by the rail to look down as one of the doors lurched apart with the groan of well-used metal, coughing up another shuttle with the Trust’s big, embellished T stamped on each side, up top, and just about everywhere else they could stick it. Shit, probably would’ve stamped it inside the plumbing, if they thought anybody’d ever see it. It was all about the brand. The Trust was the centuries-old answer to what always seemed to Jal to be a pretty stupid question: What would happen if we let a bunch of big-money business types go out and settle space? No governments, no oversight, just carte-goddamn-blanche to claim and build and grow as they pleased. A handful of corporations spreading like fungus in the black, swallowing each other and anything smaller than them, until everything was smaller than them. As long as Jal’d been alive, they’d been the only game in town.

Newcomers, he thought. Only ships coming out of the center of the spiral ever looked that nice. The ones headed outward, deeper into the frontier circles, had taken a few more knocks in their time, carting prospectors and workers out to make their fortune in the next cluster of newly terraformed planets. He tipped his head in a half-assed salute and pushed off the rail. Best of luck to you. God willing, they’d find better luck out there than he had.

Back into the crowd. He’d have to get used to that again— all the people. Merchants and mechanics hawking their wares, pushing their carts down gangways barely wider than Jal’s arm span. Crews out stretching their legs before their next trip. It didn’t matter how much he tucked his shoulders and hugged the rails; he still got bumped into and jostled and mean-mugged for his trouble. Halogen lights burned above like hundreds of white dwarfs, stinging his eyes through the shaded lenses of his specs. So bright, and so busy, and so blaring, and if he let himself focus on all of it, get drawn into the sights and sounds and scents of being surrounded by so many strangers in a strange new place, he’d forget how to breathe.

But.

He’d come this far, gotten this close. Closer to the center of the spiral, closer to civilization, closer to home. He could keep going a little while longer, to hell with the rest. Head down, keep moving—he was good at that.

Down the gangway a few rows, he spotted a ship with its cargo bay door down, engines running. Contestant number one. Running engines meant they’d just gotten in, or they were just leaving, and judging by the couple of guys slow-walking their way back up the ramp, he leaned toward the latter. “You got need of an extra hand?” he said under his breath. He’d practiced it so many times on the shuttle ride in that he’d lost count, but hadn’t yet had occasion for an audience. Shuttle rides to the outpost were cheap—handful of caps would cover the fare, though a meal and legroom would cost you extra— but heading any farther inward was a pocket-emptying sort of enterprise, and Jal’s pockets had nothing but lint. Leave rich or stay poor: those were the options, out in the frontier. The last one just never seemed to make it into the ads.

His gut was in a weaver’s knot as he came up on the ship, mouth gone dry and sour. “You got need of an extra hand?” he croaked out again, voice breaking in the middle. Yeah, fine, he was rusty. Hadn’t said much to another person in years that wasn’t yessir and no sir and fuck you, sir. Although ’scuse me was making its way back into his vocabulary with gusto. “You got need—”

A flash of gray paint above the wing of the ship stopped him in his tracks. Too abruptly, it turned out, because a slip of a woman in coveralls bounced off his back with a curse so colorful he might’ve laughed under different circumstances. Instead, he barely managed to rasp out one of those “’scuse me”s as she strode on past, light glinting off the fine polymer filaments woven into her dark braids. An augmented? You didn’t see a lot of Biomech out this far. He couldn’t have stopped and asked her anyway. She was too far down the gangway, for one; and for two, that weaver’s knot seemed to have lodged itself in his throat.

A flag. Just a stupid painted flag, gray against the hull’s sleek silver and emblazoned with a spiral of white stars, but Jal’s heart still stumbled over the next few beats. It was the banner for the Guild—two parts paramilitary, one part gig economy. Thousands of different crews in thousands of different ships taking thousands of different jobs from the Guild-sanctioned postings, all bound up together with a simple guiding principle: the neutral preservation of life. Felt like a lifetime since he’d worn that flag on his shoulder. He’d have happily gone another lifetime without seeing it again.

Shit. He cut left, angling away from the Guild ship and down the gangway. Had they seen him? He didn’t risk a glance back, cutting his way through the crowd as quick as he could without drawing attention.

“Refurbed cables!” barked a merchant from a cart piled high with coils of wire. Which, Jal had learned, was just a fancy way of saying stolen. Lifted from ships when nobody was looking, identifiers buffed off and cleaned up so nobody’d know them from the rest of the pile. “Half the price, just as nice!”

The woman he’d bumped into, the augmented in the coveralls, picked over the stacks of cables with a disinterested eye. Not really shopping, just killing time—waiting for somebody, maybe, and she didn’t even look at Jal as he slipped past.

Not you, either, he thought, passing a shiny-hulled shipping vessel with its cargo door dropped. No Guild flag in sight, but she was loaded to the gills, and a pair of merchants squabbled on the dock over who saw her first, so they must’ve seen some serious scratch from whoever that ship belonged to. Only folks out there with capital like that were with the Trust, and he’d just as soon avoid them, too.

He passed a few more like that, ducking between carts and crews with his hands in his pockets and his duffel on his shoulder, trying not to squint at the sting of the lights. His specs, like the rest of him, had seen better days: scratched lenses, thinning tint, and a strap hanging on by about four threads and a prayer. Not a lot of opportunities to fix them up, where he’d been.

“You got need of an extra hand?” he repeated to himself. It’d turned into a mantra, of sorts. A meditation. Keep your eyes on the next foothold, his mama used to tell him. The rest is just noise.

There was just so much of it, though. The noise. He used to love crowds—the snatches of conversations, the new faces. Windows into the lives of total strangers that made the universe feel big and small at the same time.

Now, though, the busyness of the hangar chafed at him. Made his head ache and his teeth grind, and as he passed the next shipping rig in the line, there was that fucking flag again. Half the crew stood outside it, staring straight at the walkway. No way they miss me. But if he stopped, doubled back, he could draw their attention, and he’d just be headed straight back to the other Guild ship. Do something. He was running out of time. Another dozen steps, and he’d be in front of them. Do something.

Buy the Book

Cascade Failure

L.M. Sagas

Buy Book

Cascade Failure

L.M. Sagas

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. There. The noise faded, and for a blissful half second, all he heard was the soft pneumatic hiss of a dropping cargo bay door.

A smile kissed the corner of his chapped, chewed-raw lips. In a hangar full of sparkling newness, the old gyreskimmer perched in the next slip was like a glimpse back through time. They’d been decommissioned back when Jal was still picking up rocks on his home moon, but somehow, this one had dodged the scrap fields and made her way clear out to the pioneer rings. Bet you’ve got some stories to tell. And best of all, he reckoned none of them involved the Guild.

GS 31–770 Ambit was the only designation on the hull, painted and repainted above one wing. No flag, no shine, no slick-tongued merchants with the gleam of caps in their eyes. Not the prettiest thing to look at—the kind of classic that was only three rusted bolts away from scrap, with mismatched parts and a half-dozen layers of paint showing through nicks and scratches—but somebody’d taken care of her where it mattered. Sleek-cut lines like a phosphomoth midflight and engine thrumming so steady and smooth it could’ve been a lullaby. Old or not, that ship was likely as fit to glide through the black as any craft in that hangar.

Which did fuck-all to loosen his shoulders as he peeked through the open cargo door. No movement inside, at least none that he could make out, and eyes like his didn’t miss much. We really doing this? The duffel on his shoulder said yes, but the weight on his chest said on second thought, twenty-eight’s awful old for leaps of faith. He’d never been too keen on ship living, as a matter of principle and proportion—they didn’t tend to build deckheads with heights like his in mind—but he couldn’t even look inside of one lately without his intestines twisting themselves up like bootlaces.

Just didn’t seem like he had another choice.

Least this coffin’s got character, he thought, and with a sigh in his throat and a shudder threatening the top of his spine, Jal started up the ramp.

Tall son of a bitch that he was, squeezing into the close quarters of a ship had never been easy, but this one felt tighter than most. Low-slung wires dragged across the top of his head as he ducked into a cargo bay so short he could nearly flatten his palms against the ceiling, and barely wide enough for a rover and a couple weeks’ worth of supply crates. Not a long trip, then. Good. He hoped they were headed the right direction.

“’Scuse me,” he called as he moved deeper into the bay, fingers skimming along the top of the rover, but he didn’t get an answer. Didn’t seem likely the whole crew would disembark without locking their ship up nice and tight, especially in the frontier, but there had to be some reason the door had dropped. He didn’t hear anyone moving around inside, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Excuse me?”

A sudden, familiar hiss sounded behind him, and he turned in time to watch the hatch rise. Moved too quick for him to beat it, but just slow enough for Jal to think, Well, that can’t be good, before the last sliver of light from the hangar shrank from view.

There was a certain kind of finality in the click of the locks and the ear-popping pressure of a new atmo system kicking on, as if to say, You’re stuck now, boy.

“Out-fucking-standing.” He kicked the door, once, steel-toed boots against a metal much, much harder. She was built solid, that old ship, and for want of a code for that door panel, he figured he wasn’t getting out the way he came in.

The rest is just noise. His pulse pattered on the back of his tongue, sweat gathering under the layered collars of his ratty button-up and refurbed blue coat. He straightened his back and turned away from the hatch, eyes on an open doorway on the other side of the cargo bay. Either he’d find a way out, or he’d find whoever crewed the ship—whichever way, it’d serve him better than standing there, beating on a three-dec-deep hunk of metal and screaming himself blue.

Nice folks, nice folks, nice folks. A new mantra, fingers crossed at his sides because you never regretted the luck you didn’t need. Please be nice folks. They kept a homy ship, at least—much homier on the inside than the outside. He passed the makeshift gym tucked into the corner of the cargo bay, with a punching bag and weights all packed up nice and tight in case the gravity got shifty. A toolbox sat against the wall, wrenches nestled side by side with bags of dried fruits and wafers in case whoever was working got peckish, and Jal’s stomach gave an impatient snarl to remind him it’d been nearly a day since anything’d passed his lips but water. Colorful little hand-knit creatures watched him from the top of the box with seed bead eyes as he ducked through the doorway and into a narrow hall.

Somebody’d painted the walls. Not the plain old white or beige or gray the manufacturers usually slapped on the walls to hide the metal underneath—this was some kind of soft blue, or maybe lavender? He was shit with colors, and his specs didn’t help. Everything looked a little greener through the tint.

“Hello?” He peeked into an open door to his right. Sick bay was his guess, less from the bed and sparse setup of equipment, and more from the sharp stink of antiseptic. An alcove sat opposite the sick bay, with an open porthole and a ladder plunging down into the belly of the ship, but he didn’t hear anything coming from below, so he walked past. Between hanging planters and covered bulbs, loose string tapestries hung on the walls. He’d never seen anything quite like them, some woven together in patterns too abstract to guess and some streaked with phosphorous strands that glowed against the rest. The glowing ones reminded him of the augmented’s hair, pops of bright against the dark. He fought the urge to touch them, to wind them around his fingers, but nothing ever felt as soft as it looked.

Ahead, the hallway forked around one more room, and Jal knew before he even looked inside that it was the galley—a spartan kitchen setup on the near left wall, shelves stacked along the others. He probably could’ve spat from one doorway, cleared the four-top in the middle of the room, and hit the door on the other side. Small but lived-in; ship had a theme, and—fuck, were those apples on the shelf? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fruit that didn’t come out of a sealed foil pack.

His mouth watered, and the low-grade headache he’d been ignoring gave a quick spike behind his eyes. Fasting was right up there with thinking on the list of things he wasn’t designed for, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to swipe himself some breakfast. Dinner? Hard to keep track of time with all the traveling. Hard to keep track of much of anything.

He was halfway through the galley when something darted out from the shelves. Dark and small—barely shin height—and so quick he couldn’t make out what it was as it streaked past his legs. Some kind of animal, maybe? Startled the shit out of him, whatever it was. He stumbled back and nearly knocked a potted plant off the middle of the table, peering off in the direction the blur had darted. Toward the bridge, he thought, if he hadn’t gotten turned around, but a dividing wall blocked the view from the galley. On his side of the wall, somebody’d put up a glass board, and what looked like years’ worth of paint pen marks had been scribbled, erased, and scribbled over again. Little notes like add nori to req list and fed bodie this morning, the asshole is lying, and in a different hand, NO SPARE PARTS IN THE GALLEY. He paused over the last line, angling his head. The straight, heavy lines looked vaguely familiar; he nearly read them in a different voice. Gruffer, to-the-point, like—

“Something I can help you with?”

Jal jumped again, like a flea on a hot plate. Twice in as many minutes. The fuck is up with this ship? People didn’t sneak up on Jal. People were noisy, even when they tried to be quiet— sometimes especially when they tried to be quiet. They also smelled. Good or bad, they always smelled, and he’d never in his life been in the room with another human being and not known it.

And yet.

A whole-ass person stood in the doorway of the galley, so close he could’ve reached out and touched them if he hadn’t been too busy backing into the glass panel. First time for everything. Wry was better than panicky, but his muscles had already tensed to bolt.

The stranger smiled pleasantly enough, standing in the doorway like they’d been there the whole time. Close-cropped hair and proud shoulders, round features shaped in a patient smile. Their clothes flowed like water over their skin, silken robes in fluorite shades of blues and greens and purples that somehow looked vibrant even through Jal’s specs. For a beat, all he could think about was the way their skin caught the lights, like a clear night’s sky dusted with stars, but even that wasn’t right. Didn’t do them justice. Theirs was the kind of beautiful that words didn’t quite grasp—not the kinds of words Jal knew, at least. His world hadn’t had much use for poetry. Or for pretty things.

For lack of anything better to say, he swallowed hard and asked, “You got need of an extra hand?” Do better. He’d practiced this. “I’m a good worker.” That part was true. “Don’t bring any trouble with me.” That part wasn’t. “All I need’s a meal a day and passage to your next stop, wherever it is.” Long as it was closer to the interior, it didn’t much matter to him.

The stranger arched an eyebrow, still smiling that inscrutable smile. “Who couldn’t use a bit more help every now and again?” Their voice, a clear middle tone as pleasant as their smile, somehow seemed to be coming from everywhere. Above him. Behind him. “But I think we could do better than a meal a day, Mister…” they trailed off, expectantly.

“Tegan,” he said. He’d practiced that, too. My name’s Tegan. Call me Tegan. Tegan, Tegan, Tegan.

The stranger’s nose gave the faintest wrinkle, but it disappeared so quickly Jal thought he might’ve imagined it. “Welcome aboard,” they said. “I’m Captain Eoan.” Oh-ahn, deliberately, like they didn’t expect people to get it right.

I know that name. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard it, but he swore he knew it. Why do I know that name? Something felt strange about that ship. Something was wrong.

Eoan extended a hand from the trim of their flowing robes, and Jal, too flustered to do anything else, reached out to shake it. Or try to, at least. His fingers passed straight through. Static pricked his palm, charged particles suspended where skin and bone should’ve been. No heat, no cold, just a current that stood the hairs on his arm on end.

Eoan’s dark eyes laughed. “Figure it out?” they asked, and once again, it sounded like they’d had this conversation a time or two.

It was another first for Jal, but though he never claimed to be the sharpest pick in the mine, he liked to think he wasn’t the dullest, either. “You’re AI.”

“Less of the A, if you don’t mind,” Eoan replied, still smiling. “You of all people ought to know that being engineered and being authentic aren’t mutually exclusive.”

A chill washed down the back of his neck, sinking between the blades of his shoulders like a cold rain. “Me of all people,” he echoed past the tightness in his throat. “All due respect, Captain, you don’t know me.”

“I suppose that’s true,” they said, thoughtfully, and damned if Jal couldn’t hear the but coming before their lips ever shaped the word. “But I know your name isn’t Tegan. And I know that you look very different from your enlistment photo. Gone a bit long in the hair, haven’t we, Ranger Jalsen?”

They held out their hand, and his face—his enlistment photo— appeared above their palm. It was like looking at a stranger, or maybe at a ghost. At the base of the photo, around his shoulders, scrolled a bright orange banner.

Jal’s mouth went dry, fingertips tingling as his blood started pumping to more useful places. Heart. Lungs. Legs. You’re wrong, he wanted to say. You’ve got me confused with somebody else. But he couldn’t find the words, or the air to speak them. They know. It was a trap. They saw me, and they opened the door, and they fucking know. Except knowing was only half the problem; it was how they could’ve known. Scanned his face or ran his prints, that part wasn’t too tricky. But to match them to his enlistment record? The only folks who had access to Guild records were—

No.

“Captain Eoan.” It sounded like someone else speaking, someone far away and muffled by the roar of blood in his ears. He had recognized that name, though it felt like a lifetime ago that he’d seen it on his transfer request form, right next to that damning red DENIED. “Guild Captain Eoan.”

“The one and only, as far as I’m aware.”

His lungs wouldn’t expand in his chest, heart beating against his ribs so hard it ached. Jal glanced down the hallway. Fewer doors meant fewer chances for Eoan to block him in; he could make a break for it. Run, he thought. Fucking run. Because the way he saw it, the only way out of the minefield he’d strolled into was his own two legs and a hell of a lot of distance. He’d deal with the door when he got there. Somehow.

“Please, don’t,” said Eoan, as if they knew.

Too late. He was already halfway down the hallway, banking off the corner where the hall curved around the mess. His boot treads were long gone, but the floor’s diamond texture kept his feet under him as he sped toward the cargo bay.

Eoan flickered into place a few decs down the hall from him. “Please, Ranger Jalsen. There’s really no reason—” That projection blinked out as Jal ran through it, and another one blinked into place by the sickroom door. “—to leave in such a rush. If we—” Past another one, and the next appeared in the doorway to the cargo bay, expression flat. “—could only take a moment to discuss, I’m sure we could get it all sorted—”

Jal had just hit the end of the hall when that telltale pneumatic hiss from the hatch echoed through the cargo bay. A blade of blue-white light appeared as the door opened, casting shapes across the crates. People-shaped blurs approached up the gangway, and Jal skidded to a halt by the rover with a sick lurch in his stomach.

“There you are,” Eoan said from all around him. He didn’t see their projection anymore, but he was too busy watching the door. The blurs became people again as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, and damned if it wasn’t the woman from the gangway again, with the grease-smudged coveralls and raven plaits.

She wasn’t alone. Beside her stood a man, easily as tall as Jal but built much sturdier. Silver streaked his short hair and beard, though his forties were still a few years ahead of him, and his shoulders were the kind of wide that made you think they’d borne their share of burdens and then some.

Jal could tell the moment they saw him. The woman cocked her head with the most fuck you, fuck this, fuck’re you doing here look he’d ever seen, and the man—

CRACK!

The crate the man had been holding had dropped from his hands, old wood splintering on impact and contents scattering like confetti across the floor. Potatoes. Carrots. Every-color citrus, and produce Jal didn’t even recognize. A head of something leafy came rolling toward him, bouncing off the tip of his boot as the rest of the cargo bay stood still.

“You.” Jal knew that voice, hoarse as it was. Knew it like he’d known the handwriting on the wall, like he knew the green-brown eyes gone wide under furrowed brows, like he knew the calluses on the hands stretched out like they still had something to hold.

Huh, he thought, errantly, with a fist squeezing around his quick-beating heart. You got gray, old man.

Then he ran. Sprang forward, launching himself up the hood of the rover, vaulting across its roof, and sliding down off the back square between the two newcomers. It’s not him, whispered a desperate little voice from the depths of his head, struggling up from under a wave of run, run, run that threatened to drag it under. It can’t be him.

Out onto the too-bright gangway. Tears stung his eyes, white stars bursting across all those shiny hulls and strangers with someplace else to go.

“Stop!” That voice again. Damn that voice. It wasn’t supposed to be there. How the fuck could it be there? And on and on went those frantic little whispers in his head, not him, not him, not him. “Goddamn it, Jal!”

His name. Of all the stupid things that could’ve damned him, it was the sound of his own name in that grit-and-gunshot voice that did it. He stumbled on his next step—runners like him didn’t stumble, didn’t slow, didn’t stop, but he did. His outsoles caught on thin air a few decs down the gangway, that fist around his heart clamping down until he swore his pulse stopped dead. His name, punctuated by the crack of charged air, was Jal’s only warning.

The last thing Jal felt before the world dropped out from under him was a slug between his shoulders and the most terrible sense of déjà vu.

Excerpted from Cascade Failure, copyright © 2024 by L.M. Sagas.

The post Read an Excerpt From L.M. Sagas’ <em>Cascade Failure</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts cozy science fiction

Read an Excerpt From Grace Curtis’ Floating Hotel

Misfits, rebels, found family—and a mystery that spans the stars

By Grace Curtis

|

Published on February 26, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Floating Hotel , a cozy science fiction novel by Grace Curtis, out from DAW on March 19.

Carl

was twelve years old the first time he laid eyes on the Grand Abeona Hotel. It was ghostly as a daytime moon, hovering low between columns of twisting, griddled rock, above a crevasse darkly spiderwebbed with cables and crawlers and great nodding anvils. He took it at first for an apparition, because it looked so much like those patches of shimmering air that appeared sometimes in his vision after he’d been punched. And he had been punched—twice, in fact, against the side of the face, because the first one hadn’t knocked him down. Once the dealer of the punch had slunk away in search of other victims, Carl crawled out to the back steps and pressed his temple against the cool metal railing, watching the stars spin around. Whenever he moved his pupils, the aberrations would move as well, so that he could never look at them dead on. But the Abeona stayed; she did not shift away from his gaze. That was how Carl knew that what he saw was real.

Once he realized that, he remembered that there’d been stories going around about some ritzy hotel ship coming into orbit, a divine visitation from the inner systems, there to prey upon the scant handful of genuine tycoons who lived in (and owned) the planet’s single city. He had heard these rumors and thought that they were probably true. But part of him still had not believed. Not until he saw the Abeona floating there.

Hoxxes was an imperial mining colony, an unhappy place that looked from orbit like a pumice stone, populated by displaced people whose brief lives were made bearable with substances that shortened them. Many dwelled there but nobody was really at home. In a few decades the whole planet would be unlivable, harvested by its occupants into a poisonous oblivion. Things had been easier in Carl’s grandparents’ time. But as the Emperor grew older his paranoia swelled, and the pace of production swelled with it, and the churn of war swallowed cheap material faster than the soil could provide.

Things, never good, were getting steadily worse.

Buy the Book

Floating Hotel

Grace Curtis

Buy Book

Floating Hotel

Grace Curtis

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

As grim as life was on Hoxxes, Carl’s decision to leave was mostly about his family—though the less said of them, the better.

Afterward, when people asked why he’d run away to join the hotel, Carl would shrug and say, with the muted smile that became his trademark: “It was love at first sight.”

There was a pull-out drawer in the kitchen where Carl’s guardians kept their loose change. He picked it clean and shrugged into an overlarge padded miner’s coat, turning up the cuffs to retain the use of his hands. With his pockets jingling, he sprinted down the shadowed alleys, between looming high-rises set into cliffsides of rust-colored rock, until he came to the departure station for the city-bound suspended tram. One by one he slotted the coins into the machine, trying hard to keep his hands from shaking. Half a kilo of metal transformed into a single plastic ticket that unlocked a stuttering twin door. The tram swept high above the pits, circular caverns spiraled with walkways, each descending level swarming with machinery and life. And in the sky, still unmoving, still there even after he knuckled his eyes, was the hotel.

Carl found the departing shuttle easily enough. It was in the airbay in the center of the city, guarded by a chauffeur in a crisp tuxedo who rang a brass bell and called in a melodic, undulating voice: “All aboard the Grand Abeona! Customers queue here!”

A length of red carpet rolled down from the entrance hatch and onto the concrete road, held snug to the steps by a set of gold clasps. The luxury was an intrusion into dull reality; a lolling tongue from a red-lipped mouth, a flavor of things to come. The sight sent a shiver through Carl’s heart.

A curious crowd circled the shuttle entrance like a flock of birds. “Move along now,” the chauffeur called, spreading his arms to shoo them back. “Make way for guests, please. Make way.”

Carl ducked beneath the man’s elbow and beelined for the guest queue, where a woman in a fur coat and peacock-swirl hat was struggling to lug her luggage trunk up the steps.

“’Scuse me, ma’am,” said Carl. “May I give you a hand?”

She looked down at him, this eager and malnourished boy practically swimming in his own jacket, the presence of a bruise already making itself known in the corner of one cheek. A lesser person might have kicked him, or yelled that they were being robbed. Instead she said, “Well, aren’t you just a perfect little gentleman. Go on, then. Grab it underneath. Mind you don’t trap your fingers.”

Inside the shuttle, the drone of the city fell away into a velvet hush. Carl drank everything in: plump cushions on every seat, each crowned with a complimentary mint; a faint rose-petal smell in the pressurized air; the sweet prerecorded warbling of a string quartet. They hadn’t even left the atmosphere yet, and already Carl felt like he was in a different universe. He found an unobtrusive spot on the back wall and stood there, willing himself not to be noticed.

Bodies moved busily up and down the aisle. The chauffeur said, “Gentlefolk, to your seats, please.” And the gentlefolk sat.

Quietly as he could, Carl placed a hand on the back of the nearest chair, his fingers sinking deep into the covering. A low rumble sounded somewhere beneath his boots. Everything was trembling, even the walls, even the plush seat. One of the passengers was sipping coffee from a patterned saucer; Carl watched the liquid ripple, waiting for it to upend into the man’s lap as they soared into the air.

Then the humming stopped.

“Thank you,” said the chauffeur. “We have arrived.”

There was a lengthy hiss and a clunk as the docking tube attached on the other side; a light pinged green, and the hatch swung open.

The guests stood, and Carl fell in with them, lifting extraneous luggage—“Let me get that for you, sir.” “Thank you, lad.”—trotting through the disembarkation hall and into the reception.

And there he stopped.

They all did.

Stopped, simply to marvel.

There is a level of wealth above wealth, a level of luxury that surpasses the common idea of luxury, which is all about holograms and loudspeakers and moving images, gilded statues and subservient bots. There is an idea that rises beyond those ideas. It is called “class.”

Class, the story goes, cannot be purchased. This is not strictly true. Money is an integral piece of the puzzle. The difference is that, in the case of class, money is a means to an end. It is not the end itself.

The Grand Abeona Hotel was an analog paradise, a place where the walls distinguished themselves not only by fine papering, but by the complete absence of screens. The restaurant menu was displayed on a sort of mechanical abacus, and when the options updated, they twirled about of their own volition, click-clacking as the correct letters slid into place. Music was live and performed throughout the day. Important documents were sealed in tubes and sucked through a network of hydraulic glass pipes.

The crowning glory was the feature known as the Galactic Diorama. It was a disc-shaped display in the middle of the lobby showing a model of the current solar system, each planet spinning on an independent axis around the central sun—and called “galactic” because it could supposedly be altered to display every occupied system in the Milky Way. Stored in the artist’s cupboard on the ground floor were over a thousand hand-painted stars, planets, moons, gas giants, attachable rings, asteroids and other celestial detritus. And, of course, there was the Abeona herself, moving freely between them all on a magnetized mobile that was programmed to reflect the present coordinates of the ship.

Not for the Abeona were the sharply curled edges of a gilt pedestal, the bone-bruising hardness of a veined marble floor, sallow gold and lace trim. It was built from warm blocks of color, fan lights up the walls, varnished wood paneling, armchairs waiting to eat you up, bristling potted plants as high as the arches, and all of it arranged carefully, with a painter’s eye. The hotel was not designed by committee. It was the work of singular vision. It looked like something somebody loved.

Carl’s mind was young; the shape of reality was still something loose and malleable to him. Taking in the sight of the entrance hall for the first time, he sincerely believed that he was dreaming. His eyes rose to the ceiling, searching for shoals of shimmering fish that he thought might be circling the chandelier. His ears listened keenly for the rustling of angels’ wingtips.

A polite murmur brought him back to himself. He was standing in the path of the crowd, and moved, apologizing, slipping further in, then further still, past the reception, up the curving steps, a waterfall of color. He padded from hall to hall, following his ears, or his nose. Listened to the wandering notes of a saxophone from the raised stage. Watched people in the pool from the windowed gym, hexagons of quivering light cast through the speckless water, inhaling the scent of chalk and chlorine. A sudden squeak as a foot pivoted on the tiles.

He rode up and down the elevators, enjoying with distinct pleasure the husky woman’s voice that sounded with each parting of the doors: First floor. Third floor. Seventh floor. Mind your step. He walked boldly up to the bar and asked if he could have one of the nuts from the little bowl. The bartender laughed, told him to wait, and whispered something in her colleague’s ear. A minute later he was handed a bowl of oysters, garnished in butter and parsley, with a side of buttered bread. He picked it clean and had to be stopped from trying to eat the shells.

Midnight found Carl sitting cross-legged on the floor of the cocktail bar, staring at the domed glass wall. This was the top floor of the hotel, a miniature planetarium, smelling tartly of lime and gin and warm with sophisticated laughter. The evening was winding down. Behind him, servers drifted between the high tables, slotting salt-crusted glasses between their fingertips, flat wrists balancing stacked plates. Carl was trying valiantly to stay awake. He didn’t know what would become of him once the night was over.

Someone placed a mug by his side and vanished before he could turn to thank them. He warmed his face in the steam for a moment, and then sipped it, tasting chocolate richer than molten gold and almost as hot. A bite of cinnamon, a twist of orange. Heaven.

He became aware of a presence at his side. A woman, ageless, severely beautiful, perfectly composed—mother-of-pearl hair over a creaseless suit. She smiled down at him.

“Have you had fun, Carl?” Her voice was husky.

He blinked himself awake. “You know me?”

“I’m the manager. It is my business to know everyone.”

Self-conscious now, he retreated deeper into his jacket. “Yes, Miss Manager, I’ve had fun.”

“Call me Nina.”

“Yes, Miss Nina.”

They admired the stars.

Carl licked the chocolate from his upper lip and asked, “Are you going to send me back?”

He was already resigned to it, perhaps even a little relieved. Like a condemned man who thinks, Let’s get the pain over with.

But the manager shook her head. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“Noticed what, ma’am?”

“These are different stars. That shape there…” she pointed a single perfect fingernail at a certain point of light “… is the dwarf planet Rahel. We can’t send you back. You’re six billion miles from home.”

Carl said, “Oh.”

He looked at Rahel, squinting into the bluish light, wondering how many dwarves lived down there.

“Miss Nina?”

“Yes?”

“What happens now?”

“Hmm.” A curl of ivory came loose from her hair. She tucked it back under her ear, thoughtful. “That’s up to you, Carl. If you want, we can send you home once we’ve completed our tour of the system. Or…”

He looked up at her.

“… Or you can stay,” she said. “If that’s what you want. We can always use a few more helping hands.”

Quietly, he said, “I’d like to stay, please.”

Nina nodded. “Very well.”

It was October 2, 2774.

Excerpted from Floating Hotel (DAW, March 2024), copyright © 2024 by Grace Curtis.

The post Read an Excerpt From Grace Curtis’ <em>Floating Hotel</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Vanessa Le

Read an Excerpt From Vanessa Le’s The Last Bloodcarver

Nhika is a bloodcarver. A coldhearted, ruthless being who can alter human biology with just a touch…

By Vanessa Le

|

Published on February 21, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Vanessa Le’s The Last Bloodcarver, a young adult novel set in a Vietnam-inspired fantasy world—out from Roaring Brook Press on March 9.

Consciousness returned to her in the form of monkey chatter and birdsong, and then the chill of a cold floor beneath her. Pain came last, itching its way back under her skin despite her attempts to silence it. Every leak she plugged only caused another to spout.

Her cheek stung against the gritty concrete. With a groan, Nhika collected herself to a sitting position, eyes adjusting to the dark. Now she saw where the chatter came from—she was in a menagerie, turtles and colorful birds and monkeys stacked in cages, some dead. And she, a bloodcarver, was just another caged animal sitting in the midst of it. It was a small warehouse, and yet the Butchers had managed to stuff in as many black-market commodities as they could—ivory tusks spanning one table and powdered something or other caked into squares on another. Still more merchandise lay behind stapled wooden crates, labeled HAZARDOUS MATERIALS.

So, this was the Butchers’ Row.

With a jolt, she remembered her ring. Nhika fumbled through her layered clothing with shackled wrists, ribs and shoulders wailing at every movement, until she found it still tangled around her neck; the Butchers must not have deemed it valuable enough to take. And truly, it wasn’t—not to anyone but her. It was made of bone and onyx, with a fracture down the center from the fire. No one else could read the inscription on the inner band, three characters that formed her familial name: Suonyasan. No one else would find value in those insets of bone along the onyx, each fragment taken from a heartsooth in her lineage. No one else would notice that the band was incomplete, with space yet meant for her grandmother, for her, for those who were supposed to come after.

Buy the Book

The Last Bloodcarver

Vanessa Le

Buy Book

The Last Bloodcarver

Vanessa Le

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

She tucked the ring back under her collar, then rose. Each breath came with a stabbing ache, but she knew her body intimately enough to understand what it was trying to tell her. Nhika staggered forward, fingers catching the chicken-wire mesh of her cage as she scanned for an escape.

Now she’d really done it. She’d played into many Yarongese stereotypes when she learned most Theumans wouldn’t see her any other way—the blood-hungry bloodcarver, the sea-loving immigrant, the hapless charity case—but now she’d fallen into a new one: a ware in the Butchers’ Row. Another item to cross off the list. Nhika felt no one could put her in a pigeonhole if she climbed in there herself, but this particular trope was deadlier than the rest. She tried not to think about how the Butchers’ Row had commodified other bloodcarvers before her as exotic goods, and she didn’t linger on the fate that awaited her if the wrong client purchased her. No, she was going to get the hell out of here.

A monkey perked up at her movement, then moved to the corner of its cage to watch her, head cocked.

“Hey, little guy,” she cooed, dragging herself toward him. “We’re stuck in this together, aren’t we?” She extended a hand, three fingers pressed together as though she held a treat. It piqued his interest and he reached out, tiny fingers scrabbling at hers.

With newfound speed, she snatched his arm. From that touch, she flooded his anatomy with her own consciousness. She made it quick, shutting down his pain receptors before stopping his heart. That was easy to do with animals, much harder on humans; humans could feel her influence, so their own anatomies fought her for control. Animals were never so lucky; the monkey collapsed, and from his still-warm body she siphoned all his energy stores before they could dissipate in death.

With the newfound calories and nutrients, Nhika restored some of her wounds. She released the calcium from his bones to deposit into her own, reappropriated the components of his lustrous hair to seal the splits in her skin. Tissue generation was always an expensive process, and she sucked the monkey dry of his energy, watching as his body stiffened and seized with rigor mortis. It was a kinder fate than what awaited him on the Butchers’ Row, if the table of severed monkey paws was any indication.

Some of her pain ebbed, the receptors satisfied with her soothing. Nhika stood, giving the monkey a grateful look. “Thank you. And, erm . . . ​sorry about that.”

His corpse twitched in understanding.

Now, for her escape.

She yanked at the chicken wire, but it’d been fastened tightly. Then she jiggled the door, not surprised to find it locked. Nhika frowned. In Yarongese folklore, there were bloodcarvers who could give themselves superhuman abilities: a rhino’s strength by maximizing the chemistry of their musculature, or unbreakable bones by perfecting their calcium matrices. Of course, she knew only of the legends. Her parents had fled Yarong long before she’d been born, and those abilities—if ever they truly existed—had been left on the island.

Nhika didn’t dare try those tricks now for fear of wrecking her own anatomy in the process. A stone of calcium deposited in the wrong place, a muscle grafted to the wrong bone . . . ​She’d need more than monkeys to fix all of that. While Yarongese people with her gift had the ability to alter anatomy through touch and thought alone, it was as much a science as medicine, each procedure requiring practice and study like any surgery might. But desperation was a powerful motivator.

Before she could get desperate enough to experiment, the click of lights echoed around the warehouse and the rafters came alive with incandescent bulbs. Nhika’s eyes adjusted again, blinking away the temporary blindness as the broad expanse of the warehouse came into full view. Creatures woke from slumber in the corners of the building, and she could see a metal door on one side, crowded with boxes, from which a group of people emerged.

They meandered their way between pillars of crates toward her, admiring wares on the way. A crocodile here, some snakes there—yes, yes, all fascinating, but Nhika knew she was the true marvel.

“And here we have her,” said a woman at the front of the group. Her clothing was a mere imitation of refinement, with wraps of colored rayon and scarves to conceal a too-tight dress. Two of Nhika’s captors were in her attendance, followed by a stately gentleman she assumed was the client. He had the posture of an aristocrat, back straight and neck angled, as though he was accustomed to looking down on people. A fine black robe, embroidered with silver herons, draped his shoulders to reveal a well-tailored dress shirt underneath.

He narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized her.

Good, there was a doubt there, and his lips pursed with the haughtiness of a man with something to prove. He looked her up and down, seeming unimpressed by what she had to offer, before passing the Butcher a trenchant look that held a silent question: Is she real?

“She fell down the side of a building just this morning,” noted one of her captors, as though by way of explanation. “Now look at her. Back on her feet. She’s healed herself.”

“Oh? Was I meant to act injured?” Nhika quipped.

The client leaned forward, hands clasped behind his back and eyes narrowed. “I want proof before purchase. I’m not interested in consuming a regular human.”

“Proof?” The Butchers looked uneasily between one another, but all Nhika heard was that he was planning on eating her. Panic spiked, slipping through her control, and she staggered backward in the cage. She’d heard of the superstition, something about how eating the heart of a bloodcarver could grant immortality, or good health, or libido—it changed with each iteration. All false, of course, but that had never stopped the Butchers’ Row.

The woman cleared her throat. “Certainly. I, um . . .”

“A knife, if you would,” the man said, holding out a gloved hand.

“What are you intending?” the woman asked, eyes narrowed.

“If she’s a bloodcarver, she would heal a fatal wound,” he said. When they didn’t give him a weapon, he scoffed and perused the tables, finding a knife near the animal cages still crusted in monkey blood.

The Butcher opened and closed her mouth with quiet protests, and at last she managed, “You would injure one of my wares?”

“Yeah, you would injure one of her wares?” Nhika echoed.

“It would not be an injury if she’s truly a bloodcarver,” the client reasoned. “Isn’t that right?”

Nhika prayed the Butchers would keep insisting, but they only exchanged nervous glances before the woman dipped her head in resignation. Nhika threw up her hands. “Hold on a moment. Let’s talk this through. You’re a smart man—you caught the farce. I’ll admit it: I’m a fake! No need to trouble yourself for proof,” she babbled, her eyes trailing from his knife to his face. His impassive expression told her that murder was little more than an inconvenience to him.

Her gaze flicked to the monkey cages. Would she have enough energy to heal a fatal wound? And even if she did, her fate was determined—he’d buy her and chop her up for parts. Her bones would get powdered into tea and her liver eaten with shark fin soup, as though her gift of bloodcarving could survive beyond the grave.

Nhika swallowed. Perhaps, if she could feign death, bleed out in front of his eyes without dying, he’d pass her over. That’d give her more time for escape. But how? How? Her mind raced for ideas, recalling the old anatomy books she and her grandmother had stolen from medical colleges. How to die without dying? How to survive as a corpse?

The jangle of the padlock rattled her back to the present focus. The client was unlocking the door and she considered escape. But her legs and hands were chained—how far could she go? She searched the Butchers for a key ring.

“Careful, Mr. Zen, sir,” the woman cautioned, her expression pained. Not for Nhika, but for her client. “One touch and she has access to all your vital organs. It’s a certain death.”

“I’m well aware,” Mr. Zen said, but he opened the door anyway.

Nhika bolted, but he grabbed her wrists with a gloved hand and drove the blade straight into her gut.

The pain came before she could react. Nhika doubled forward, then fell to the floor as he withdrew the blade. She gasped on the concrete as her blood pooled beneath her. Her mind reeled with panic, so many emotions lighting up her attention at once, all her body’s alarms flaring, every muscle clenched against the threat of death. Too much to parse through. Overwhelming. So much blood. She was dying.

No. Her focus returned to her, sharp above the muddle of her pain. Breathe, Nhika, breathe. She would not survive all these years alone only to die here, in the Butchers’ Row—no, she’d make sure her death meant something.

Pain receptors off. Her skin fizzled to silence. There, now she had room to think. Next, she muted the buzz of adrenaline and stress hormones coursing through her—she’d take it manually from here.

First, stop the bleeding. She’d lost too much already in her floundering, but now she pulled every last ounce of energy out of her stores to mend tissue, starting from the inside out. Organs first, to stop the internal hemorrhaging. And then the peritoneum, to hold her viscera in place. As for her skin, she let that weep a little, just for show—convince him she wasn’t a bloodcarver; give him nothing to bid for. She would not heal herself today just to get eaten tomorrow.

She’d have to fake shock. That wouldn’t be hard; her body was already preparing for it. But she shunted her remaining blood inward, constricting superficial vessels, until she was sure she looked as pale and colorless as a Theuman. She felt the remainder of her fuel dwindling like a candle on its last inch of wick, and she bled it conservatively to feed her charade.

The client clicked his tongue. “Just Yarongese. Figured as much.”

“No!” one of her captors protested. “She’s faking it. I can assure you. She’ll have a pulse.”

Oh, Mother. If they checked her pulse, it’d be over. She couldn’t risk shutting off her carotid, or else she’d truly be dead.

Keys jangled again. Nhika considered giving up her play and accepting her fate. Instead, she prepared to jump him, to suck him dry of his energy stores and escape the place. At the moment, with her body in torpor and her energy reserved, the very thought of moving sowed fatigue into her bones.

But when he stooped beside her, he didn’t check her neck. Instead, he took her hand. Nhika resisted the smile. While she couldn’t shut off blood to her brain, she didn’t mind clamping off a radial artery.

The client placed gloved fingers at the edge of her wrist, but she’d already constricted the vessel. His fingers pressed deeper, trying to feel for a pulse through his silk gloves, and he waited a laboriously long time. Numbness needled its way into her thumb, tingles spiking across her palm, before he finally lifted his fingers.

Blood flooded back into her hand. The client clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Look what you’ve made me do. I’ve killed a girl for nothing.”

“She’s still breathing, I assure you,” the woman protested. Nhika remembered to hold her breath.

“Enough of this,” the client snapped. She heard the clatter of a knife. “The next time you call me, make sure it’s not over a ghost story.”

There was silence, and then footsteps, growing farther away from the cage. In the distance, the door opened and banged shut.

Someone slammed a fist against her cage, rattling the bars. “You insufferable witch,” the Butcher growled, the malice in her voice lethal. “Wake up. I know you’re alive.”

Nhika opened an eye. Then another. Only the Butchers remained, and she rolled herself onto her back, too spent to sit up. Blood stained the floor, caking her hair to her face and wetting her clothes. She was alive, though she must’ve looked like a corpse.

“You won’t be able to pull that trick every time,” the woman spat.

“What trick?” Nhika rasped. “Your client wanted a demonstration. I thought I put on quite a show.” She licked blood from her teeth, her stomach flipping with hunger at its sweetness. “If you don’t mind, I need food.”

“You think you can make demands here?”

“Healing expends a tremendous amount of calories. If you don’t feed me, my death won’t be an act.”

“No more tricks, bloodcarver.”

Nhika drew herself up against the back of her cage, feeling the mesh dig into her skin. Everything felt a little raw, the skin learning to feel again after she’d shunted away its blood. “Let’s make a deal. If you can find a buyer who doesn’t plan on killing or eating me, I’ll be cooperative.”

The woman gathered her things to leave, hesitating with an answer. Nhika wondered if she was actually considering it, making bargains with her merchandise. But she turned to leave with her lackeys and gave a huff as a final parting gift. “We’ll sell you to the highest bidder. What they plan to do with you is not my concern.”

Excerpted from The Last Bloodcarver, copyright © 2024 by Vanessa Le.

The post Read an Excerpt From Vanessa Le’s <em>The Last Bloodcarver</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Hafsah Faizal

Read an Excerpt From Hafsah Faizal’s A Tempest of Tea

An orphan girl is willing to do whatever it takes to save her self-made kingdom…

By Hafsah Faizal

|

Published on February 20, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Hafsah Faizal’s A Tempest of Tea, the start of a brand new YA duology teeming with vampires, romance, and revenge—out now from Farrar, Straus and Giroux Books for Young Readers.

JIN

Jin loved the sea. The hush hush of the waves, the lazy sway of the moored boats. He loved its lie, the calm that masked strength like a beast unprovoked.

It reminded him of Arthie, who was already waiting as he passed the dry dock where the skeletons of vessels stuck out every which way, all broken bones and sorry masts. The windows of the port agen­ cies against the cliff face were dark, bur closer inland, the proprietor’s usual late-night haunt, Eden Teahouse, was still lit like a lighthouse at sea.

Jin stuck his hands in his pockets, ignoring the way his limbs seized at the sight of a fire flickering in a bin by the steps. Yellow. Orange. Red. RED. The glint of a pocket watch pulled him free, followed by Arthie’s comforting scent of coconut and a dark blend of tea that reminded him of a midsummer’s night.

Arthie glanced at the flames and then at him before deciding against whatever she’d wanted to say, brushing hair out of her eyes. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

They crossed the dock where the stone was shot through with dark mold. Arthie swept her hand down her side in reassurance. She treated Calibore like a lucky charm, though she’d never admit to it being one. Jin could understand that; she’d only ever had herself to rely on.

“Mister Proprietor,” Arthie called, climbing the trio of weepy steps to the open porch where their landlord was seated at one of the tables exposed to the salty air. The teahouse was three stories made of soggy wood instead of brick and coated in sea rot instead of lacquer. Eden—both the place and the drinks it served—was a disgrace to tea.

“Casimir!” The proprietor’s voice cracked in surprise. He was a polished older gentleman with a tiny mustache and specs as round as his bowler hat. He also happened to be one of the few people Arthie didn’t mind seeing every month to hand off a wad of duvin.

“Long night?” she asked, because she didn’t know small talk.

“Quite,” the proprietor replied, flinching when Arthie dragged one of the chairs along the ground to sit opposite him. Jin leaned against the post near her and rapped on the grimy glass window. He would have preferred to have this meeting indoors, but he suspected Eden wouldn’t be much better inside.

Buy the Book

A Tempest of Tea

Hafsah Faizal

Buy Book

A Tempest of Tea

Hafsah Faizal

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

The door jangled open and a slender man glided out. “Welcome to Eden. Where our tea sends you to heaven—” he stopped when he saw Jin and Arthie, who cocked a brow at each other, and turned his attention to the proprietor. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

Jin wasn’t sure if he should be insulted that they weren’t asked or honored to be spared.

“Oh, we won’t be drinking, but thank you for asking,” Arthie said anyway. She refused to drink tea that wasn’t loose-leaf Ceylani. “My friend here will indeed have another cup. Jasmine, if you will?”

The man looked to the proprietor, who had the good sense to nod.

“Steeped extra well,” Arthie added. Jin held back a snort. Jasmine was fickle, it had to be steeped for an exact number of seconds before it became too bitter to stomach. The man hesitated, but Jin silenced him with a look.

Lips pinched, the server disappeared inside, and the proprietor glanced from one Casimir to the other. Was he thinking about all the years they’d seen together? How they’d changed his life as much as he’d changed theirs?

Before their building was Spindrift, it was a museum known as the Curio, glittering from its prime location at the top of Stoker Lane, boast­ ing artifacts from the colonies that the residents ofWhite Roaring turned a pretty penny to see. That is, until Arthie decided those artifacts had to disappear and, worse, be mysteriously replaced with private collections stolen from thirteen homes in the capital’s richest neighborhoods.

Of course, they’d have to do the stealing.

“Why?” Jin had wanted to know. It was ambitious: two weeks’ worth of work in a night, and if they were sloppy, they’d rot in prison for the rest of their lives.

“Did they ask that when they came to take what was mine?” she replied. Those artifacts had been brought to Ettenia on East Jeevant Company ships.

Jin had called it theft.

“Reclamation,” Arthie had said, her Ceylani tongue stumbling across the word. By then, he had taught her letters using old news­ papers and her iron will.

The atrocity was on the cover of every paper the next day, destroy­ ing the Curio’s reputation overnight. With headlines ranging from How could they do such a thing? to Did the Curio believe no one would notice?

It was ironic the same questions were never asked when Ettenia did that elsewhere.

Still, no one believed the Curio would have destroyed their own artifacts, let alone stolen from someplace else. Only a curse could have caused such a thing to happen. And so, the building sat vacant for months because potential buyers feared falling under the same curse.

Jin still remembered stepping up to the proprietor’s house one night beside Arthie. She was fourteen, Jin two years older.

“It’s cursed,” she’d reminded the proprietor. Cursed by the Casimirs, neither she nor Jin said aloud. ”And you know as well as I do that you’ll have no takers.”

The proprietor, Arthie had learned, was running short on money, enough that he looked at them and then lingered on her pistol before he finally asked, “What do you suggest I do?”

“Give us six weeks,” she said.

“We’ll turn the place around and give you a cut of our profits,” Jin continued. He pretended to think. “Say, ten percent?”

“Fifteen,” the proprietor shot back immediately, exactly as Arthie had said he would.

She grinned and countered. “Thirteen. Only right for a cursed place.”

It was the pistol, Arthie would later tell Jin after hammering out the finer details, and not the proprietor’s desperation that made him accept her offer. There was a little bit of fairy tale in it after all. She might not be White Roaring’s savior, but she had its respect, however begrudging.

Eden Teahouse’s bells jangled as the man returned with a tray. The proprietor took his first sip and immediately spat it back out while Jin watched his misfortune with pity.

Arthie was all teeth. “Not to your liking, Mister Proprietor?”

Jin could have sworn she grew in height by a few inches whenever she was scornful. To heaven indeed.

“Thank—” the proprietor cleared his throat, face twisting as he pushed his cup across the table. Jin bit his tongue. The sea beat at the rocks, laughing. “Thank you.”

Jin leaned over and snapped a biscuit in two. “It’s on us.”

“Now,”—Arthie stared at the proprietor until the man looked away—”we’re not ones for gossip, but we’ve been hearing whispers.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems Spindrift is behind on our dues,” Jin said.

The proprietor said nothing, but he wrung his hands and couldn’t meet either of their eyes. That was enough proof of his guilt.

“Five years now. Not a single missed payment,” Jin continued, quiet and slow.

“Each one bigger than the last,” Arthie added.

The proprietor scratched at his head with a laugh that rattled like dice in a drunk man’s cup.

Jin gripped his umbrella. “What’s with the laugh?”

He mopped at his brow, muttering incoherently. Their proprietor had indeed been compromised.

“Next time, I’m placing a bet,” Arthie told Jin.

“I was only trying to be optimistic,” he replied. He’d expected more from the man. If Jin was being honest, he was even hurt by the betrayal.

In one sharp move, Arthie snatched the specs off the proprietor’s face and slammed them on the table. The lenses shattered but remained in place. One loose stone made for an imperfect foundation, and the proprietor was faulty mortar in her empire. He sputtered in surprise.

“Put them on,” said Arthie.

The proprietor didn’t move.

“Put them on,” Arthie repeated, voice as quiet as the night. “Or Jin will help you.”

Jin scanned the dry dock and the surrounding offices. Behind the glass of Eden Teahouse, the thin man was smart enough not to obtrude. The proprietor reached for the specs with trembling hands, hesitating before putting them back on his face.

“Do you see how the world looks when you wrong me?” she asked. This was why Arthie didn’t need dead bodies littering the streets of White Roaring. She had her ways. They kept her clean and the whis­ pers rolling.

He clutched at the specs and nodded.

“Let’s try this again,” Arthie said. “Why is the Horned Guard speaking of eviction when we’ve abided by our agreement for half a decade?”

“I might have even thought we were friends,” Jin said with a sad laugh.

The proprietor… stopped. He stopped trembling, he stopped wringing his hands. Jin thought he might have stopped breathing too.

“They threatened my family,” he finally said. The admission was a whisper on the breeze. “I know what the pair of you are capable of, but I also know your limits. You might threaten me, you might threaten to run my coffers dry or never let my daughters marry, but you will not kill them.”

Arthie went still.

“Our arrangement is no longer because in two weeks the building will no longer be mine. I—I am deeply sorry.”

She flinched at the kindness in his tone, the pity. Jin didn’t know how to react. If the building no longer belonged to the proprietor, who did it belong to, and what did that mean for them and Spindrift?

“Who are ‘they?'” Arthie asked.

The proprietor pulled a letter from his coat and set it on the table. The wind ripped at its edges, but he held it in place. Jin pushed away from the post and looked over Arthie’s shoulder, his stomach sinking at the sight of that insignia with horns that curled like those of the devil.

The Ram was kicking them out. In two weeks.

Arthie looked down at the proprietor. “Leave White Roaring.”

The man’s head snapped up. His eyes were fractionated and comical behind the shattered lenses. “But—but my properties.”

Excerpted from A Tempest of Tea, copyright © 2024 by Hafsah Faizal.

The post Read an Excerpt From Hafsah Faizal’s <em>A Tempest of Tea</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Martha Wells

Read the First Chapter of Martha Wells’ The Death of the Necromancer

The second volume of The Book of Ile-Rien, in an Updated and Revised Edition.

By Martha Wells

|

Published on February 22, 2024

2

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Book of Ile-Rien by Martha Wells, a revised and updated edition of both The Element of Fire and The Death of the Necromancer. This new omnibus collecting the author’s preferred texts is forthcoming from Tordotcom Publishing on February 27! Please enjoy the first chapter of The Death of the Necromancer along with an introduction by the author. You can find the first chapter of The Element of Fire right here.

A Note From Martha Wells

The Death of the Necromancer was my third novel, and was published by Avon Eos in 1998. It’s the supernatural Victorian/La Belle Epoque mystery I wanted to read at the time, set in a somewhat aged-up version of Ile-Rien from The Element of Fire. It was a Nebula Finalist, and the first/last time any of my work was nominated for a major award until All Systems Red in 2018. I also revised this edition in 2022.

This book was originally written around 1995-1996, and revisiting it was not quite as painful an experience as it was for my first novel, The Element of Fire. I’d learned a lot in the time between the two books. Again, I’ve tried to keep the feel of the original while bringing it up to a standard I’m happy with today.

The Death of the Necromancer
Chapter One

The most nerve-racking commissions, Madeline thought, were the ones that required going in through the front door. This front door was simply more imposing than most. Lit by gray moonlight, the monumental façade of Mondollot House loomed over her, studded with lighted windows. High above the street the pediment was a passionately carved relief of the hosts of Heaven and Hell locked in battle, the shrouds of doomed saints and the veils of the angels flying like banners or hanging down to drape gracefully over the stone canopies of the upper windows. A quartet of musicians played from an open balcony somewhere above, entertaining the guests as they arrived. Glass sconces around the doorway had been an unfortunate modern addition; the flicker and peculiar color of gaslight made it look as if the door was meant to be the mouth of Hell itself. Not a serendipitous choice, but the Duchess of Mondollot has never been singled out for restraint or taste, Madeline thought, but kept an ironic smile to herself.

Despite the frosty night air and the chill wind off the river, there were other guests milling around on the wide marble portico, admiring the famous pediment. Madeline tucked her hands more firmly into her muff and shivered, partly from the cold, partly from anticipation. Her coachman received his instructions and urged the horses away, and her escort, Captain Reynard Morane, strolled back to her. She saw the flakes of snow on the shoulders of his caped greatcoat, and hoped the weather held until later tonight, at least. One disaster at a time, she thought, with an impatient shake of her head. Let’s just get inside the place first.

Reynard extended an arm to her. “Ready, m’dear?” She took it with a faint smile. “Very ready, sir.”

They joined the crowd of other guests milling toward the entrance.

The tall doors stood open, light and warmth spilling out onto the scuffed paving stones. A servant stood to either side, wearing the knee breeches and silver braided coats of old-style livery. The man taking the invitations wore the dark swallowtail coat of fashionable evening dress. I don’t imagine this is the butler, Madeline thought grimly. Reynard handed over their invitation and she held her breath as the man opened the linen-paper envelope.

She had come by it honestly, though if she had needed to she could have gone to the finest forger in the city: an old man nearly blind, who worked in a dank cellar off the Philosopher’s Cross. But she could sense something stirring in the eaves overhead, in the dimness high above the reach of the gas lamps. Madeline did not look up and if Reynard was aware of it he betrayed no reaction. Their informant had said a familiar of the sorcerer who protected the house would guard the door, an old and powerful familiar to spy out any magical devices brought in by the guests. Madeline clutched her reticule more tightly. Though none of the objects in it were magical, if it were searched, there was no way a sorcerer of any competence whatsoever could fail to recognize what they were for.

“Captain Morane and Madame Denare,” the man said. “Welcome.” He handed the invitation off to one of the footmen and bowed them in.

They were ushered into the vestibule where servants appeared to collect Madeline’s fur-trimmed paletot and muff and Reynard’s greatcoat, cane, and top hat. A demure maid suddenly knelt at Madeline’s feet, brushing away a few traces of gravel that had adhered to the hem of her satin skirts, using a little silver brush and pan specially designed for the purpose. Madeline took Reynard’s arm again and they passed through the entryway into the noisy crush of the main reception area.

Buy the Book

The Book of Ile-Rien

Martha Wells

The Element of Fire & The Death of the Necromancer – Updated and Revised Edition

Buy Book

The Book of Ile-Rien

Martha Wells

The Element of Fire & The Death of the Necromancer – Updated and Revised Edition

The Element of Fire & The Death of the Necromancer – Updated and Revised Edition

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Even with the carpets covered by linen drapers and the more delicate furniture removed, the hall was opulent. Gilded cherubs peered down at the milling guests from the heavy carved molding, and the ceilings were frescoed with ships sailing along the western coast. They joined the crowd ascending the double staircases and passed through the doors at the top and into the ballroom.

Beeswax, Madeline thought. They must have been at the floors all night. Beeswax, and sandalwood and patchouli, and sweat, heavy in the air. Sweat from the warm presence of so many finely clothed bodies, and sweat from fear. It was all so familiar. She realized she was digging her gloved nails into Reynard’s arm in a death grip, and forced her fingers to unclench. He patted her hand distractedly, surveying the room.

The first dance had already started and couples swirled across the floor. The ballroom was large even for a house this size, with draped windows leading out onto balconies along the right-hand side and doors allowing access to card rooms, refreshment, and retiring rooms along the left. Across the back was a clever arrangement of potted winter roses, screening four musicians already hard at work on the cornet, piano, violin, and cello. The room was lit by a multitude of chandeliers burning expensive wax candles, because the vapors from gas were thought to ruin fine fabrics.

Madeline saw the Duchess of Mondollot herself, leading out the Count of… of something, she thought, distractedly. I can’t keep them straight anymore. It wasn’t the nobility they had to be wary of, but the sorcerers. There were three standing against the far wall, older gentlemen in dark swallowtail coats, wearing jeweled presentation medals from Lodun. One wore a ruby brooch and sash of the Order of Fontainon, but even without it Madeline would have known him. He was Rahene Fallier, the Court Sorcerer. There would be women sorcerers here too, more dangerous and difficult to spot because they would not be wearing presentation medals or orders with their ball gowns. And the university at Lodun had only allowed women students for the past ten years. Any female sorcerers present would be only a little older than Madeline herself.

She nodded to a few acquaintances in the crowd and she knew others recognized her; she had played the Madwoman in Isle of Stars to packed houses all last season. That wouldn’t affect their plans, since everyone of any wealth or repute in Vienne and the surrounding countryside would be in this house at some time tonight. And of course, someone was bound to recognize Reynard…

“Morane.” The unpleasantly sharp voice was almost at Madeline’s left ear. She snapped her fan at the speaker and lifted an eyebrow in annoyance. He took the hint and stepped back, still glowering at Reynard, and said, “I didn’t think you showed yourself in polite society, Morane.” The speaker was about her own age, wearing dress regimentals of a cavalry brigade, a lieutenant from his insignia. The Queen’s Eighth, Madeline realized. Ah. Reynard’s old brigade.

“Is this polite society?” Reynard asked. He stroked his mustache and eyed the speaker with some amusement. “By God, man, it can’t be. You’re here.”

There was a contemptuous edge to the younger man’s smile. “Yes, I’m here. I suppose you have an invitation.” It was too brittle for good-natured banter. There were two other men behind the lieutenant, one in regimentals, the other in civilian dress, both watching intently. “But you always were good at wiggling in where you weren’t wanted.”

Easily, Reynard said, “You should know, my boy.”

They hadn’t drawn the eye of anyone else in the noisy crowd yet, but it was only a matter of time. Madeline hesitated for a heartbeat—she hadn’t meant them to become conspicuous in this way, but it was a ready-made diversion— then said, “You’ll excuse me a moment, my dear.”

“All for the best, my dear. This would probably bore you.” Reynard gave her all his attention, turning toward her, kissing her hand, acting the perfect escort. The young lieutenant nodded to her, somewhat uncomfortably, and as Madeline turned away without acknowledging him, she heard Reynard ask casually, “Run away from any battles lately?”

Once away she moved along the periphery of the dancers, heading for the doors in the left-hand wall. A lady alone in the ballroom, without a male escort or other ladies as companions, would be remarked on. A lady moving briskly toward the retiring rooms would be assumed to require a maid’s assistance in some delicate matter and be politely ignored. Once past the retiring rooms, a lady alone would be assumed to be on her way to a private tryst, and also be politely ignored.

She passed through one of the doorways leading off the ballroom and down the hall. It was quiet and the lamps had been turned low, the light sparking off the mirrors, the polished surfaces of the spindly-legged console tables and the porcelain vases stuffed with out-of-season flowers. For such a luxury the duchess had her own forcing houses; the gold flowers Madeline wore in her aigrette and on her corsage were fabric, in deference to the season. She passed a room with a partly open door, catching a glimpse of a young maid kneeling to pin up the torn hem of an even younger girl’s gown, heard a woman speak sharply in frustration. Past another door where she could hear male voices in conversation and a woman’s low laugh. Madeline’s evening slippers were noiseless on the polished wood floor and no one came out.

She was in the old wing of the house now. The long hall became a bridge over cold silent rooms thirty feet down, and the heavy stone walls were covered by tapestry or thin veneers of exotic wood instead of lathe and plaster. There were banners and weapons from long-ago wars, still stained with rust and blood, and ancient family portraits dark with the accumulation of years of smoke and dust. Other halls branched off, some leading to even older sections of the house, others to odd little cul-de-sacs lit by windows with an unexpected view of the street or the surrounding buildings. Music and voices from the ballroom grew farther and farther away, as if she was at the bottom of a great cavern, hearing echoes from the living surface.

She chose the third staircase she passed, knowing the servants would still be busy toward the front of the house. She caught up her skirts—black gauze with dull gold stripes over black satin, ideal for melding into shadows—and quietly ascended. She gained the third floor without trouble but going up to the fourth passed a footman on his way down. He stepped to the wall to let her have the railing, his head bowed in respect and an effort not to see who she was, ghosting about Mondollot House and obviously on her way to an indiscreet meeting. He would remember her later, but there was no help for it.

The hall at the landing was high and narrower than the others, barely ten feet across. There were more twists and turns to find her way through, stairways that only went up half a floor, and dead ends, but she had committed a map of the house to memory in preparation for this and so far it seemed accurate.

Madeline found the door she wanted and carefully tested the handle. It was unlocked. She frowned. One of Nicholas Valiarde’s rules was that if one was handed good fortune, one should first stop to ask the price, because there usually was a price. She eased the door open, saw the room beyond lit only by reflected moonlight from undraped windows. With a cautious glance up and down the corridor, she pushed it open enough to see the whole room. Book-filled cases, chimneypiece of carved marble with a caryatid-supported mantel, tapestry-back chairs, pier glasses, and old sideboard heavy with family plate. A deal table supporting a metal strongbox. Now we’ll see, she thought. She took a candle from the holder on the nearest table, lit it from the gas sconce in the hall, then slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

The undraped windows worried her. This side of the house faced Ducal Court Street and anyone below could see the room was occupied. Madeline hoped none of the Duchess’s more alert servants stepped outside for a pipe or a breath of air and happened to look up. She went to the table and upended her reticule next to the solid square shape of the strongbox. Selecting the items she needed out of the litter of scent vials, jewelry she had decided not to wear, and a faded string of Aderassi luck-beads, she set aside snippets of chicory and thistle, a toadstone, and a paper screw containing salt.

Their sorcerer-advisor had said that the ward that protected Mondollot House from intrusion was an old and powerful one. Destroying it would take much effort and be a waste of a good spell. Circumventing it temporarily would be easier and far less likely to attract notice, since wards were invisible to anyone except a sorcerer using gasçoign powder in their eyes or the new Aether-Glasses invented by the Parscian wizard Negretti. The toadstone itself held the necessary spell, dormant and harmless, and in its current state invisible to the familiar who guarded the main doors. The salt sprinkled on it would act as a catalyst and the special properties of the herbs would fuel it. Once all were placed in the influence of the ward’s key object, the ward would withdraw to the very top of the house. When the potency of the salt wore off, it would simply slip back into place, probably before their night’s work had been discovered. Madeline took her lock picks out of their silken case and turned to the strongbox.

There was no lock. She felt the scratches on the hasp and knew there had been a lock here recently, a heavy one, but it was nowhere to be seen. Damn. I have a not-so-good feeling about this. She lifted the flat metal lid.

Inside should be the object that tied the incorporeal ward to the corporeal bulk of Mondollot House. Careful spying and a few bribes had led them to expect not a stone as was more common, but a ceramic object, perhaps a ball, of great delicacy and age.

On a velvet cushion in the bottom of the strongbox were the crushed remnants of something once delicate and beautiful as well as powerful, nothing left now but fine white powder and fragments of cerulean blue. Madeline gave vent to an unladylike curse and slammed the lid down. Some bastard’s been here before us.

* * *

“There’s nothing here,” Mother Hebra whispered. She crouched in the brick rubble at the base of the barred gate, hands outstretched. She smiled and nodded to herself. “Aye, not a peep of a nasty old sorcerer’s ward. She must’ve done it.”

“She’s somewhat early,” Nicholas muttered, tucking away his pocketwatch. “But better that than late.” Tools clanked as the others scrambled forward and he reached down to help the old woman up and out of the way.

The oil lamps flickered in the damp cold air, the only light in the brick-lined tunnel. They had removed the layer of bricks blocking the old passage into Mondollot House’s cellars, but Mother Hebra had stopped them before they could touch the rusted iron of the gate, wanting to test to see if it was within the outer perimeter of the ward that protected the house. Nicholas could sense nothing unusual about the gate, but he wasn’t willing to ignore the old witch’s advice. Some household wards were designed to frighten potential intruders, others to trap them, and he was no sorcerer to know the difference.

The tunnel was surprisingly clean and for all its dampness the stale air was free of any stench. Most inhabitants of Vienne thought of the tunnels beneath the city—if they thought of them at all—as filthy adjuncts to the sewers, fit for nothing human. Few knew of the access passages to the new underground rail system, which had to be kept clear and relatively dry for the train workers.

Crack and Cusard attacked the bars with hacksaws and Nicholas winced at the first high-pitched scrape. They were too far below street level to draw the attention of anyone passing above; he hoped the sound wasn’t echoing up through the house’s cellars, alerting the watchmen posted on the upper levels.

Mother Hebra tugged at his coat sleeve. She was half Nicholas’s height, a walking bundle of dirty rags with only a tuft of gray hair and a pair of bright brown eyes to prove there was anything within. “So you don’t forget later…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t forget you, my dear.” He produced two silver coins and put them in the withered little hand she extended. As a witch, she wasn’t highly skilled, but it was really her discretion he was paying for. The hand disappeared back into her rags and the whole bundle shook, apparently with joy at being paid.

Cusard had cut through several bars already, and Crack was almost finished with his side. “Rusted through, mostly,” Cusard commented, and Crack grunted agreement.

“Not surprising; it’s much older than this tunnel,” Nicholas said. The passage had once led to another Great House, torn down years past to make way for Ducal Court Street, which stretched not too many feet above their heads.

The last bar gave way, and Cusard and Crack straightened to lift the gate out of the way. Nicholas said, “You can go now, Mother.”

The prompt payment had won her loyalty. “Nay, I’ll wait.” The bundle of rags settled against the wall.

Crack set his end of the gate down and turned to regard Mother Hebra critically. He was a lean, predatory figure, his shoulders permanently stooped from a term at hard labor in the city prison. His eyes were colorless and opaque. The magistrates had called him a born killer, an animal entirely without human feeling. Nicholas had found that to be somewhat of an exaggeration, but knew that if Crack thought Hebra meant to betray them he would act without hesitation. The old witch hissed at him, and Crack turned away.

Nicholas stepped over the rubble and into the lowest cellar of Mondollot House.

There was no new red brick here. Their lamps revealed walls of rough-cut stone, the ceiling arched with thick pillars to support the weight of the structure above. A patina of dust covered everything and the air was dank and stale.

Nicholas led the way toward the far wall, the lamp held high. Obtaining the plans for this house, stored in a chest of moldering family papers at the Mondollot estate in Upper Bannot, had been the hardest part of this particular scheme so far. They were not the original plans, which would have long since turned to dust, but a builder’s copy made only fifty years ago. Nicholas only hoped the good Duchess hadn’t seen fit to renovate her upper cellars since then.

They reached a narrow stair that curved up the wall, vanishing into darkness at the edge of their lamplight. Crack shouldered past Nicholas to take the lead and Nicholas didn’t protest. Whether Crack had sensed something wrong or was merely being cautious, he had learned not to ignore the man’s instincts.

The stairs climbed about thirty feet up the wall, to a narrow landing with a wooden ironbound door. A small portal in the center revealed that it would open into a dark empty space of indeterminate size, lit only by the ghost of reflected light coming from a door or another stairwell on the far wall. Nicholas held the lamp steady so Cusard could work at the lock with his picks. As the door groaned and swung open, Crack stepped forward to take the lead again. Nicholas stopped him. “Is something wrong?”

Crack hesitated. The flicker of lamplight made it even harder than usual to read his expression. His face was sallow and the harsh lines around his mouth and eyes had been drawn there by pain and circumstance rather than age. He wasn’t much older than Nicholas’s thirty years, but he could have easily passed for twice that. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Don’t feel right.”

And that’s the most we’ll have out of him, Nicholas thought. He said, “Go on, then, but remember, don’t kill anyone.”

Crack acknowledged that with an annoyed wave and slipped through the door.

“Him and his feelings,” Cusard said, glancing around the shadowed cellar and shivering theatrically. He was an older man, thin and with a roguish cast of feature that was misleading—he was the nicest thief that Nicholas had ever met. He was a confidence man by vocation and far more used to plying his trade in the busy streets than to practicing his cracksman’s skills underground. “It don’t half worry you, especially when he don’t have the words he needs to tell what he does think is wrong.”

Nicholas absentmindedly agreed. He was wondering if Madeline and Reynard had managed to leave the house yet. If Madeline had been discovered interfering with the ward… If Madeline had been discovered, we would surely know by now. He pushed the worry to the back of his mind; Madeline was quite capable of taking care of herself.

Crack appeared at the gap in the doorway, whispering, “All clear. Come on.”

Nicholas turned his lamp down to a bare flicker of flame, handed it to Cusard, and slipped through the door.

Hesitating a moment for his eyes to adjust, he could see the room was vast and high-ceilinged, lined by huge rotund shapes. Old wooden tuns for wine, or possibly water, if the house had no well. Probably empty now. He moved forward, following the almost weightless scrape of Crack’s boots on the dusty stone. The faint light from the opposite end of the chamber came from a partly open door. He saw Crack’s shadow pass through the door without hesitating and hurried after him.

Reaching it, he stopped, frowning. The heavy lock on the thick plank door had been ripped out and hung by a few distended screws. What in blazes… ? Nicholas wondered. It was certainly beyond Crack’s strength. Then he saw that the lock had been torn out from the other side, by someone or something already within the cellar room. The angle of the distended metal allowed no other conclusion. That is hardly encouraging.

Nicholas stepped through the door and found himself at their goal. A long low cellar, modernized with brick-lined walls and gas sconces. One sconce was still lit, revealing man-high vaults in the walls, each crammed with stacked crates, metal chests, or barrels. Except for the one only ten paces away, which was filled with the bulk of a heavy safe.

The single lamp also revealed Crack, standing and watching Nicholas thoughtfully, and the dead man stretched at his feet.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow and came farther into the room. There were two other bodies sprawled on the stone flags just past the safe.

Crack said, “I didn’t do it.”

“I know you didn’t.” Engineering Crack’s escape from the Vienne prison had been one of the first acts of Nicholas’s adult criminal career; he knew Crack wouldn’t lie to him. Nicholas sat on his heels for a closer look at the first corpse. Startled, he realized the red effusion around the man’s head wasn’t merely blood but brain matter. The skull had been smashed in by a powerful blow. Behind him, Cusard swore in a low voice.

Exonerated, Crack crouched down to examine his find. The dead man’s suit was plain and dark, probably the uniform of a hired watchman, and the coat was streaked with blood and the filthy muck from the floor of the cellar. Crack pointed to the pistol still tucked into the man’s waistband and Nicholas asked, “Are they all like this?”

Crack nodded. “Except one’s had his throat torn out.”

“Someone’s been before us!” Cusard whispered.

“Safe ain’t touched,” Crack disagreed. “No sign of anyone. Got something else to show you, though.”

Nicholas pulled off his glove to touch the back of the dead man’s neck, then wiped his hand on his trousers. The body was cold, but the cellar air was damp and chill, so it really meant little. He didn’t hesitate. “Cusard, begin on the safe, if you please. And don’t disturb the bodies.” He got to his feet to follow Crack.

Cusard stared. “We going on with it, then?”

“We didn’t come all this way for naught,” Nicholas said, and followed Crack to the other end of the cellar.

Nicholas took one of the lamps, though he didn’t turn the flame up; Crack didn’t seem to need the light. Finding his way unerringly, he went to the end of the long cellar, passing all the boxes and bales that contained the stored wealth of the Mondollot family, and rounded a corner.

Nicholas’s eyes were well adjusted to the dark and he saw the faint light ahead. Not pure yellow firelight, or greasy gaslight, but a dim white radiance, almost like moonglow. It came from an arched doorway, cut into a wall that was formed of old cut stone. There had been a door barring it once, a heavy wooden door of oak that had hardened over time to the strength of iron, that was now torn off its hinges. Nicholas tried to shift it; it was as heavy as stone. “In here,” Crack said, and Nicholas stepped through the arch.

The radiance came from ghost-lichen growing in the groined ceiling. There was just enough of it to illuminate a small chamber, empty except for a long stone slab. Nicholas turned the flame of the lamp up slowly, exposing more of the room. The walls were slick with moisture and the air stale. He moved to the slab and ran his hand across the top, examining the result on his gloved fingers. The stone there was relatively free of dust and the oily moisture, yet the sides of the slab were as dirty as the walls and floor.

He lifted the lamp and bent down, trying to get a better angle. Yes, there was something here. Its outline was roughly square. Oblong. A box, perhaps, he thought. Coffin-sized, at least.

He glanced up at Crack, who watched intently. Nicholas said, “Someone entered the cellar, by a route yet undetermined, stumbled on the guards, or was stumbled on by them, possibly when he broke the lock on the older cellar to search it. Our intruder killed to prevent discovery, which is usually the act of a desperate and foolish person.” It was Nicholas’s belief that murder was almost always the result of poor planning. There were so many ways of making people do what you wanted other than killing them. “Then he found this room, broke down the door with a rather disturbing degree of strength, removed something that had lain here undisturbed for years, and retired, probably the same way he entered.”

Crack nodded, satisfied. “He ain’t here no more. I’ll go bank on that.”

“It’s a pity.” And now it was doubly important to leave no trace of their presence. If I’m going to be hanged for murder, I’d prefer it to be a murder I actually committed. Nicholas consulted his watch in the lamplight, then tucked it away again. “Cusard should be almost finished with the safe. You go back for the others and start moving the goods out. I want to look around here a little more.” There were six other men waiting up in the tunnel, whose help was necessary if they were to transport the gold quickly. Crack, Cusard, and Lamane, who was Cusard’s second-in-command, were the only ones who knew him as Nicholas Valiarde. To Mother Hebra and the others hired only for this job, he was Donatien, a shadowy figure of the Vienne underworld who paid well for this sort of work and punished indiscretion just as thoroughly.

Crack nodded and stepped to the door. Hesitating, he said again, “I’ll go bank he’s not here no more…”

“But you would appreciate it if I exercised the strictest caution,” Nicholas finished for him. “Thank you.”

Crack vanished into the darkness and Nicholas stooped to examine the floor. The filth and moisture on the pitted stone revealed footmarks nicely. He found the tracks of his own boots, and Crack’s, noting that the first time his henchman had approached the room he had come only to the threshold. In the distance he could hear the others, muted exclamations as the new arrivals saw the dead men, the rumble of Crack’s voice, a restrained expression of triumph from everyone as Cusard opened the safe. But there were no footmarks left by their hypothetical intruder.

Kneeling to make a more careful survey, and ruining the rough fabric of his workman’s coat and breeches against the slimy stone in the process, Nicholas found three scuffles he couldn’t positively attribute to either Crack or himself, but that was all. He sat up on his heels, annoyed. He was willing to swear his analysis of the room was correct. There was no mistaking that some object had been removed from the plinth, and recently.

Something that had lain in this room for years, in silence, with the ethereal glow of the ghost-lichen gently illuminating it.

He got to his feet, meaning to go back to the guards’ corpses and examine the floor around them more thoroughly, if the others hadn’t already obliterated any traces when carrying out the Duchess’s stock of gold.

He stepped past the ruined door and something caught his eye. He turned his head sharply toward the opposite end of the corridor, where it curved away from the vaults and into the older wine cellars. Something white fluttered at the end of that corridor, distinct against the shadows. Nicholas turned up the lamp, drawing breath to shout for Crack—an instant later the breath was knocked out of him.

It moved toward him faster than thought and between the first glimpse of it and his next heartbeat it was on him.

A tremendous blow struck him flat on his back and the creature was on top of him. Eyes, bulging because the flesh around them had withered away, stared at him in black hate out of a face gray as dead meat. It bared teeth like an animal’s, long and curving. It was wrapped in a once-white shroud, now filthy and tattered. Nicholas jammed his forearm up into its face, felt the teeth tearing through his sleeve. He had kept his grip on the lantern, though the glass had broken and the oil was burning his hand. He swung it toward the thing’s head with terror-inspired strength.

Whether it was the blow or the touch of burning oil, it shrieked and tore itself away. The oil set the sleeve of Nicholas’s coat afire; he rolled over, crushing the flames out against the damp stone.

Crack, Cusard, and Lamane suddenly clustered around him. Nicholas tried to speak, choked on the lungful of smoke he had inhaled, and finally gasped, “After him.”

Crack bolted immediately down the dark corridor. Cusard and Lamane stared at Nicholas, then at each other. “Not you,” Nicholas said to Cusard. “Take charge of the others. Get them out of here with the gold.”

“Aye,” Cusard said in relief and scrambled up to run back to the others. Lamane swore but helped Nicholas to his feet.

Cradling his burned left hand, Nicholas stumbled after Crack. Lamane had a lamp and a pistol; Crack had gone after the thing empty-handed and in the dark.

“Why are we following it?” Lamane whispered.

“We have to find out what it is.”

“It’s a ghoul.”

“It’s not a ghoul,” Nicholas insisted. “It wasn’t human.”

“Then it’s fay,” Lamane muttered. “We need a sorcerer.”

Vienne had been overrun by the Unseelie Court over a hundred years ago, in the time of Queen Ravenna, but as far as the superstitious minds of most city people were concerned, it might as well have happened yesterday. “If it’s a fay, you have iron,” Nicholas said, indicating the pistol.

“That’s true,” Lamane agreed, encouraged. “Fast as it was, though, it’s miles away by now.”

Perhaps, Nicholas thought. Whether it had actually moved that quickly, or it had afflicted him with some sort of paralysis he couldn’t tell; his mind’s eye seemed to have captured an image of it careening off the corridor wall as it charged him, which might indicate that its movement toward him hadn’t been as instantaneous as it had seemed.

This was the lowest level of the Mondollot wine cellars. The lamplight revealed cask after cask of old vintages, some covered by dust and cobwebs, others obviously newly tapped. Nicholas remembered that there was one of the largest balls of the fashionable season going on not too many feet above their heads, and while a large supply had undoubtedly already been hauled upstairs, servants could be sent for more casks at any moment. He could not afford to pursue this.

They found Crack waiting for them at the far wall, near a pile of broken bricks and stone. Nicholas took the lamp from Lamane and lifted it high. Something had torn its way through the wall, pushing out the older foundation stone and the brick veneer. The passage beyond was narrow, choked by dust and filth. Nicholas grimaced. From the smell it led straight to the sewer.

“That’s where he came in.” Crack offered his opinion. “And that’s where he went out.”

“Ghouls in the sewers,” Nicholas muttered. “Perhaps I should complain to the aldermen.” He shook his head. He had wasted enough time on this already. “Come, gentlemen, we have a small fortune waiting for us.”

* * *

Still inwardly cursing, Madeline took a different stairway down to the second floor. They had planned this for months; it was incredible that someone else would scheme to enter Mondollot House on the same night. No, she thought suddenly. Not incredible. On every other night this place was guarded like the fortress it was. But tonight hundreds of people would be allowed in and she couldn’t be the only one who knew of a good forger. This was an ideal time for a robbery and someone else had seized the opportunity.

She reached the ballroom and forced herself to calmly stroll along the periphery, scanning the dancers and the men gathered along the walls for Reynard. He would expect her back by now and be where she could easily find him. He wouldn’t have joined a card game or… Left, she thought, with a wry twist of her mouth. Unless he had to. Unless he got into a fistfight with a certain young lieutenant and was asked to leave. He would not be able to insist on waiting for her, not knowing where she was in the house or if she had finished with the ward. Damn. But with the ward gone, it would be possible to slip out unnoticed, if she could get down to the first floor…

Madeline saw the Duchess of Mondollot then, a distinguished and lovely matron in pearls and a gown of cream satin, heading directly toward her. She stepped behind the inadequate shelter of a tall flower-filled vase. In desperation, she shielded her face with her fan, pretending to be screening herself from the lecherous view of an innocent group of older gentlemen standing across from her.

But the Duchess passed Madeline without a glance, and in her relief she found herself closely studying the man trailing in the older woman’s wake.

He was odd enough to catch anyone’s attention in this company. His dark beard was unkempt and though his evening dress was of fine quality it was disarrayed, as if he cared nothing for appearances. And why come to the Duchess of Mondollot’s ball, if one cared nothing for appearances? He was shorter than Madeline and his skin appeared pale and unhealthy even for late winter. His eyes glanced over her as he hurried after the Duchess, and they were wild, and perhaps a little mad.

There was something about him that clearly said “underworld,” though in the criminal, not the mythological sense, and Madeline found herself turning to follow him without closely considering her motives.

The Duchess strode down the hall, accompanied also, Madeline now had leisure to notice, by a younger woman whom Madeline knew was a niece and by a tall footman. The Duchess turned into one of the salons and the others followed; Madeline moved past, careful not to glance in after them, her eyes fixed farther down the hall as if she were expecting to meet someone. She reached the next closed door, grasped the handle, and swung it open confidently, ready to be apologetic and flustered if it was already occupied.

It was empty, though a fire burned on the hearth and a firescreen was in place, shielding the couches and chairs gathered near it in readiness for ball guests who desired private conversation or other amusements. Madeline closed the door behind her carefully and locked it. All these rooms on this side of the corridor were part of a long suite of salons and there were connecting panel doors to the room the Duchess had entered.

The doors were of light wood, meant to swing open wide and interconnect the rooms for large evening gatherings. Madeline knelt beside them, her satin and gauze skirts whispering, and with utmost care, eased the latch open.

She was careful not to push the door and the air in the room swung it open just enough to give her a view of the other room’s carpet, and a thin slice of tulip-bordered wallpaper and carved wainscotting.

The Duchess was saying, “It’s an unusual request.”

“Mine is an unusual profession.” That must be the odd man. His voice made Madeline grimace in distaste; it was insinuating and suggestive somehow, and reminded her of a barker at a thousand-veils peep show. No wonder the Duchess had called her niece and a footman to accompany her.

“I’ve dealt with spiritualists before,” the Duchess continued, “though you seem to think I have not. None required a lock of the departed one’s hair to seek contact.”

Madeline felt a flicker of disappointment. Spiritualism and speaking to the dead were all the rage among the nobility and the monied classes now, though in years past it would have been feared as necromancy. It certainly explained the man’s strange demeanor.

She started to ease away from the door but with fury in his voice the spiritualist said, “I am no ordinary medium, your grace. What I offer is contact of a more intimate, lasting nature. But to establish that contact I require something from the body of the deceased. A lock of hair is merely the most common item.”

Necromancy indeed, Madeline thought. She had studied magic in her youth, when her family had still hoped she might demonstrate some talent for it. She hadn’t been the best student, but something about this pricked her memory.

“You require a lock of hair, and your fee,” the Duchess said, and her voice held contempt.

“Of course,” the man said, but the fee was clearly an afterthought.

“Aunt, this is ridiculous. Send him away.” The niece, bored and faintly disgusted with the subject.

“No,” the Duchess said slowly. Her voice changed, quickened with real interest. “If you can do as you say… there seems no harm in trying…”

I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Madeline thought, though she couldn’t explain her uneasiness with the whole idea, even to herself.

“I have a lock of my son’s hair. He was killed in the Parscian colony of Sambra. If you could contact him—”

“Your son, not your husband?” The spiritualist was exasperated.

“What does it matter to you whom I wish to contact, as long as your fee is paid?” The Duchess sounded startled. “I would double it if I was pleased; I’m not counted stingy,” she added.

“But your husband would be the more proper one to contact first, surely?” The man’s tone was meant to be wheedling, but he couldn’t disguise his impatience.

“I don’t wish to speak to my husband again, alive or dead or in any state between,” the Duchess snapped. “And I don’t understand what it could possibly matter to you who—”

“Enough,” the man said, sounding disgusted himself. “Consider my offer withdrawn, your grace. And the consequences are your own concern.” Madeline clearly heard the hall door slam.

The Duchess was silent a moment, probably stunned. “I suppose I’ll never know what that was about. Bonsard, make sure that man is conducted out.”

“Yes, my lady.”

I’d do more than that, Madeline thought. I’d summon my sorcerer, and make sure my wards were properly set, and lock away any relics of my dead relatives. That man was obsessed, and he wanted something. But it wasn’t her concern. She eased away from the door, waited a moment, then slipped out into the hall.

* * *

The safe had yielded to Cusard’s ministrations and proved to hold nearly sixty small gold bars, each stamped with the royal seal of Bisra. Nicholas’s men had already packed them on the sledges they had brought and started back down the tunnel under Cusard’s direction when Nicholas, Crack, and Lamane caught up to them.

Nicholas motioned them to keep moving, lifting one of the heavy bars with his good hand to examine the crest. The Duchess of Mondollot maintained a trading business with one of the old merchant families of Bisra, Ile-Rien’s longtime enemy to the south. This fact was little known and in the interest of keeping it that way, the Duchess did not store her gold in the Bank Royal of Vienne, which Nicholas knew from experience was much harder to break into. The Bank would also have expected the great lady to pay taxes, something her aristocratic mind couldn’t countenance.

Mother Hebra clucked at his burns and made him wrap his scarf around his injured hand. Lamane was telling the others something about the sewers being infested with ghouls and in such a nice part of the city, too.

“What do you make of it?” Cusard asked Nicholas, when they had reached the street access of the maintenance tunnel, which opened up behind a public stable across Ducal Court Street from Mondollot House. The other men were handing up bars of gold to be stored in the compartment under the empty bed of the waiting cart. The street boys posted as lookouts worked for Cusard and thus for Nicholas too, as did the man who ran the stables.

“I don’t know.” Nicholas waited for the men to finish, then started up the bent metal ladder. The cold wind hit him as he climbed out of the manhole, the chill biting into his burns, making him catch his breath. The horses stamped, restless in the cold. The night was quiet; the men’s hushed voices, the distant music from Mondollot House, and the clank of soft metal against wood as the gold was packed away in the special compartment under the wagon bed all seemed oddly loud. “But I’ll swear it removed something from that room Crack found,” he said as Cusard emerged.

Cusard said, “Well, I don’t much like it. It was such a sweet little job of work, otherwise.”

Someone brought Nicholas his greatcoat from the cart and he shrugged into it gratefully. “I don’t either, that you can be sure of.” The wagon had been loaded and he wanted to look for Reynard and Madeline. He told Cusard, “Take the others and get home; we’ll draw attention standing here.”

The driver snapped the reins and the wagon moved off. Nicholas walked back down the alley toward Ducal Court Street. A layer of dirty ice and a light dusting of snow made the streets and alleys passable; usually they were so choked with mud and wastewater that pedestrians had to stay on the promenades or use the stepping stones provided for street crossings. He realized Crack was following him. He smiled to himself and said aloud, “All right. It didn’t go at all well the last time I sent you away. But no more ghoul-hunting tonight.”

At the mouth of the alley, Nicholas paused to remove the small hairpieces that lengthened his sideburns and changed the shape of his mustache and short beard, and rubbed the traces of glue off his cheeks. The touches of gray in his dark hair would have to be washed out. He never appeared as Donatien except in disguise: if any of the men who had participated on one of these jobs recognized him as Nicholas Valiarde it could be ruinous. Maintaining the masquerade wasn’t much of a hardship; in many ways he had been practicing deception for most of his life and at this point it came easily to him.

He buttoned and belted his greatcoat, took the collapsible top hat and cane from one of the pockets, and tugged a doeskin glove onto his uninjured hand. With the other hand in his pocket and the coat concealing everything but his boots and gaiters, he was only a gentleman out for a stroll, a somewhat disreputable servant in tow.

He paused across the wide expanse of street from Mondollot House, as if admiring the lighted façade. Footmen stood ready at the door, waiting to hand down late arrivals or assist those making an early night of it. Nicholas moved on, passing down the length of the large house. Then he spotted their coach, standing at the corner under a gas streetlamp, and then Reynard Morane waiting near it. Nicholas crossed to him, Crack a few paces behind.

“Nic…” Reynard stepped down from the promenade to meet them. He was a big man with red hair and a cavalryman’s loose-limbed stride. He took a close look at Nicholas. “Trouble?”

“Things became somewhat rough. Where’s Madeline?”

“That’s the problem. I had the opportunity to provide a diversion for her but it went too well, so to speak, and I found myself asked to leave with no chance to retrieve her.”

“Hmm.” Hands on hips, Nicholas considered the façade of the Great House. For most women of fashionable society, getting out of the place unnoticed would have been an impossible task, but Madeline had studied tumbling and acrobatics for the more active roles in the theater and she wouldn’t necessarily need a ground-floor exit. “Let’s go around the side.”

Mondollot House was flanked by shopping promenades and smaller courts leading to other Great Houses and it was possible to circle the place entirely. The shops were closed, except for one busy cabaret set far back under the arcade, and all was quiet. There were no entrances on the first floor of the house except for an occasional heavily barred carriage or servants’ door. The terraces and balconies of the upper floors were all later additions: originally these houses had been impenetrable fortresses, frivolous decoration confined to the rooftops and gables.

They made one circuit, almost back to Ducal Court Street, then retraced their steps. Reaching the far side, Nicholas saw the panel doors on a second-floor terrace fly open, emitting light, music, and Madeline.

“You’re late, my dear,” Reynard called softly to her. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Oh, be quiet.” Madeline shut the doors behind her. “I’ve had to leave my best paletot behind because of you.”

“We can afford to buy you another, believe me,” Nicholas told her, concealing his relief. He should know her abilities too well by now to worry much about her safety, but it had been a disturbing night. “And it’s well earned, too.”

Madeline gathered her delicate skirts and swung over the low balustrade, using the scrollwork as a ladder, and dropped to land in a low snowdrift just as Nicholas and Reynard scrambled forward to catch her. She straightened and shook her skirts out, and Nicholas hastened to wrap his coat around her. She said, “Not so well earned. I didn’t have a chance to distract the ward because someone had beaten me to it.”

“Ah.” Nicholas nodded, thoughtful. “Of course. I’m not surprised.”

“He never is,” Reynard said in a tone of mock complaint. “Let’s discuss it somewhere else.”

Excerpted from The Death of the Necromancer, copyright © 2024 by Martha Wells.

The post Read the First Chapter of Martha Wells’ <i>The Death of the Necromancer</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Martha Wells

Read the First Chapter of Martha Wells’ The Element of Fire

The first volume of The Book of Ile-Rien, in an Updated and Revised Edition.

By Martha Wells

|

Published on February 15, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Book of Ile-Rien by Martha Wells, a revised and updated edition of both The Element of Fire and The Death of the Necromancer. This new omnibus collecting the author’s preferred texts is forthcoming from Tordotcom Publishing on February 27! Please enjoy the first chapter of The Element of Fire along with an introduction by the author, and check back on February 22 for an additional excerpt from book two.

A Note From Martha Wells

The Element of Fire was my first novel, written around 1989-1990, a few years after I graduated from college. When I was writing it I had no idea if it would be published or not, or even if I’d actually be capable of writing a whole novel, I just had a lot of hope. I’d wanted to be a writer for a long time, since I was a teenager, but had had no luck selling short stories to magazines. Amazingly, it was published in 1993 by Tor Books. I revised this new edition in 2022.

For me revisiting past work is an often painful experience. Thirty-four years ago I was a different person, a different writer. I’ve tried to keep the feel of the original while bringing it up to a standard I’m happy with today.

The Element of Fire
Chapter One

The grappling hook skittered across the rain-slick stone of the ledge before dropping to catch in the grillwork below the third-story window. Berham leaned back on the rope to test it. “That’s it, Captain Sir. Tight as may be,” the servant whispered.

“Well done,” Thomas Boniface told him. He stepped back from the wall and looked down the alley. “Now where in hell is Dr. Braun?”

“He’s coming,” Gideon Townsend, Thomas’s lieutenant, said as he made his way toward them out of the heavy shadows. Reaching them, he glanced up at the full moon, stark white against the backdrop of wind-driven rain clouds, and muttered, “Not the best night for this work.” The three men stood in the muddy alley, the dark brocades and soft wools of their doublets and breeches blending into the grimy stones and shadow, moonlight catching only the pale lace at the wrists or shirt collars of Thomas and his lieutenant, the glint of an earring, or the cold metal sheen on rapiers and wheellock pistol barrels. It was a cool night and they were surrounded by failed counting houses and the crumbling elegance of the decaying once-wealthy homes of the River Quarter.

Thomas personally couldn’t think of a good time to forcibly invade a foreign sorcerer’s house. “The point of it is to go and be killed where you’re told,” he said. “Is everyone in position?”

“Martin and Castero are up on the tannery roof, watching the street and the other alley. I put Gaspard and two others at the back of the house and left the servants to watch the horses. The rest are across the street, waiting for the signal,” Gideon answered, his blue eyes deceptively guileless. “We’re all quite ready to go and be killed where we’re told.”

“Good,” Thomas said. He knew Gideon was still young enough to see this as a challenge, to care nothing for the political reality that sent them on a mission as deadly as this with so little support. Glancing down the alley again, he saw Dr. Braun was finally coming, creeping along the wall and uncomfortably holding his velvet-trimmed scholar’s robes out of the stinking mud. “Well?” Thomas asked as the sorcerer came within earshot. “What have you done?”

“I’ve countered the wards on the doors and windows, but the inside… This person Grandier is either very strong or very subtle. I can’t divine what protections he’s used.” The young sorcerer looked up at him, his watery eyes blinking fitfully. His long sandy hair and drooping mustache made him look like a sad-faced spaniel.

“You can’t give us any hint of what we’re to find in there?” Thomas said, thinking, This would have been better done if I hadn’t been saddled with a sorcerer who has obviously escaped from a market-day farce.

Braun’s expression was both distressed and obstinate. “He is too strong, or… he might have the help of some creature of the Fay.”

“God protect us,” Berham muttered, and uneasily studied the cloudy darkness above. The others ignored him. Berham was short, rotund, and had been wounded three times manning barricades in the last Bisran War. He claimed that the only reason he had left the army was that servants’ wages were better. Despite the little man’s vocal posturing, Thomas was not worried about his courage.

“What are you saying?” Gideon asked Dr. Braum. “You mean we could fall down dead or burst into flame the moment we cross the threshold?”

“The uninitiated so often have ill-conceived ideas about these matters, like the fools who believe sorcerers change their shapes or fly like the Fay. It would be exceedingly dangerous to create heat or cold out of nothing—”

“Yes, but—”

“That’s enough,” Thomas interrupted. He took the rope and tested it again with his own weight. The first floor of the house would be given over to stables, storage for coaches or wagons, and servants’ quarters. The second would hold salons and other rooms for entertaining guests, and the third and fourth would be the owner’s private quarters. That would be where the sorcerer would keep his laboratory, and very likely his prisoner. Thomas only hoped the information from the King’s Watch was correct and that the Bisran bastard Grandier wasn’t here. He told Gideon, “You follow me. Unless, of course, you’d like to go first?”

His lieutenant swept off his feathered hat and bowed extravagantly. “Oh, not at all, Sir, after you.”

“So kind, Sir.” The brickwork was rough and Thomas found footholds easily. He reached the window and pulled himself up on the rusted grating, balancing cautiously. He felt the rope jerk and tighten as Gideon started to climb.

The window was set with small panes of leaded glass and divided into four tall panels. Thomas drew a thin dagger from the sheath in his boot and slipped the point between the wooden frames of the lower half. Working the dagger gently, he eased the inside catch up. The panels opened inward with only a faint creak. Moonlight touched the polished surface of a table set directly in front of the window, but the darkness of the deeper interior of the room was impenetrable. It was silent, but it was a peculiar waiting silence that he disliked.

Then the window ledge cracked loudly under his boots and he took a hasty step forward onto the table, thinking, Now we’ll know, at any rate. Dust rose from the heavy draperies as he brushed against them, but the room remained quiet.

“Was that wise?” Gideon asked softly from below the windowsill.

“Possibly not. Don’t come up yet.” Thomas slipped the dagger back into his boot sheath and drew his rapier. If something came at him out of that darkness, he preferred to keep it at as great a distance as possible. “Tell Berham to hand up a light.”

There was some soft cursing below as a dark lantern, its front covered by a metal slide to keep the light dimmed, was lit and passed upward. Thomas waited impatiently, feeling the darkness press in on him like a solid wall. He would have preferred the presence of another sorcerer besides Braun, the rest of the Queen’s Guard, and a conscripted city troop to quell any possibility of riot when the restive River Quarter neighborhood discovered it had a violent foreign sorcerer in its midst. But orders were orders, and if the Queen’s guards or their captain were killed while entering Grandier’s house secretly, then at least civil unrest was prevented. An inspired intrigue, Thomas had to admit, even if he was the one it was meant to eliminate.

Buy the Book

The Book of Ile-Rien

Martha Wells

The Element of Fire & The Death of the Necromancer – Updated and Revised Edition

Buy Book

The Book of Ile-Rien

Martha Wells

The Element of Fire & The Death of the Necromancer – Updated and Revised Edition

The Element of Fire & The Death of the Necromancer – Updated and Revised Edition

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

As he reached down to take the shuttered lamp from Gideon, something moved in the corner of his eye. Thomas dropped the lamp onto the table and studied the darkness, trying to decide if the hesitant motion was actually there or in his imagination.

The flicker of light escaping from the edges of the lamp’s iron cover touched the room with moving shadows. With the toe of his boot Thomas knocked the lantern slide up.

The wan candlelight was reflected from a dozen points around the unoccupied room, from lacquered cabinets, the gilt leather of a chair, the metallic threads in brocaded satin hangings.

Then the wooden cherub supporting the right-hand corner of the table Thomas stood on turned its head.

He took an involuntary step backward.

“Captain, what is it?” Gideon’s whisper was harsh.

Thomas didn’t answer. He looked around the room as the faces in the floral carving over the chimneypiece shifted their blank white eyes, their tiny mouths working silently. The bronze snake twined around the supporting pole of a candlestand stirred sluggishly. In the woolen carpet the interwoven pattern of vines writhed.

Keeping hold of the rope, Gideon chinned himself on the window ledge to see in. He cursed softly.

“Worse than I thought,” Thomas agreed, not looking away from the hideously animate room. Unblinking eyes of marbleized wood stared sightlessly, limbs and mouths moved without sound. Can they see? Or hear? he wondered grimly. Most likely they can. He doubted they were here only to frighten intruders, however effective they might be at it.

“We should burn this house to the ground,” Gideon whispered.

“We want to get Dubell out alive, not scrape his ashes out of the wreckage.”

“How?”

Good question, Thomas thought. The vines in the carpet were lifting themselves above the surface of the floor like the tentacles of a sea beast. They were as thick around as a man’s wrist and looked strong, and metallic glints that had been gilt threads in the weaving were growing into knife-edged thorns. It was only going to get more difficult. Thomas caught up the lantern and stepped down into a chair with arms shaped into gilded lampreys. They struggled viciously but were unable to turn their heads back far enough to reach him. From there he stepped down to the hardwood floor and backed toward the doorway.

Gideon made a move to climb into the window but the viselike tentacles were reaching up above waist-height and groping along the edge of the table. Thomas said, “No, stay back.”

At the sound of his voice the vines whipped around and stretched out for him, growing prodigiously longer in a sudden bound. Thomas threw himself at the door.

The latch was weak and snapped as his weight struck it. He stumbled through and caught himself, just as something thudded into the dark paneled wall in front of him. He dropped the lantern and dove sideways, scrambling for cover between two brocaded chairs and the fireplace.

Embedded in the wall, still quivering, was a short metal arrow; if he had come through the doorway cautiously it would have struck his chest. The lion heads on the iron firedogs snapped ineffectually at him as he pushed himself farther behind the chairs, thinking, Where the hell is he? The sputtering candle sent shadows chasing across crowded furniture and everything moved. Then in the far corner he saw the life-sized statue of an archer. Naked to the waist and balancing a candleholder on his head, he was drawing a second arrow out of the bronze quiver at his side and putting it to his short bow.

Rolling onto his back to make himself a smaller target, Thomas dropped the rapier and drew one of his wheellocks. He’d loaded both pistols down in the alley, and now as he wound up the mainspring, an arrow thudded into the overstuffed chair seat. The other chair began to edge sideways using the clawed feet at the ends of its splayed legs; without thinking Thomas muttered, “Stop that.” He set the spring, braced the pistol on his forearm, and fired.

The plaster statue shattered in the deafening impact. The shot scarred the wall behind it and filled the room with the stink of gunpowder.

Thomas got to his feet, tucked away the empty pistol, and picked up his rapier. Now the whole damned house knows I’m here. He hadn’t planned to do this alone either, but the vines filling up the first room and curling round the doorway into this one committed him to it.

Avoiding the animate furniture, he went to the door in the opposite wall and tried the handle. It was unlocked, and he eased it open carefully. The room within was dark, but the archway beyond revealed a chamber lit by a dozen or so red glass candelabra.

Thomas pulled the door closed behind him and moved forward. The dim light revealed stealthy movement in the carvings on the fireplace mantel and along the bordered paneling. In the more brightly lit chamber beyond the arch, he could see an open door looking out onto the main stairwell.

He stopped just before the fall of light from the next room would have revealed his presence. There was something… Then he heard the creak of leather and a harsh rasp of breath. It came from just beyond his range of sight, past the left side of the arch. They knew Grandier had hired men to guard the house; it was the only way the King’s Watch had been able to trace the sorcerer, since there was no one in the city who could identify him. The man in the next room must have heard the shot; possibly he was waiting for the protective spells to dispose of any intruders. Thomas had planned on something to distract the sorcerer’s human watchdogs, to send them down to the lower part of the house, if Gideon would just get on with it…

From somewhere below there was a muffled thump, and the floorboards trembled under his feet. Thomas smiled to himself; shouts and running footsteps sounded from the stairs as the hired swords hastened for the front door. In theory, he wasn’t disobeying the King’s orders to keep the raid on Grandier’s house secret. Placed correctly, a small charge of gunpowder could blow a wooden door to pieces while making little noise, and the houses to either side of Grandier’s were empty anyway.

The waiting guard did not take the bait with the others, but went forward to stand at the doorway into the stairwell, his rapier drawn. He was big, with greasy blond hair tied back from his face, and dressed in a dun-colored doublet. Thomas had already decided to kill him and had started forward when the man turned and saw him.

The hired sword’s shout was muffled by the clatter of his comrades on the stairs and he rushed forward without waiting for help. Thomas parried two wild blows, then beat his opponent’s sword aside and lunged for the kill. The man jerked away and took the point between the ribs instead of under the breastbone, dropping his weapon and staggering back. Cursing his own sloppiness, Thomas leapt after him, grappling with him and trying to drive his main gauche up under the man’s chin. In another moment Thomas eased the limp body to the floor. Blood pooled on the rug and on his boots, but hopefully the others were occupied below and there was no one left to follow his trail.

He glanced quickly around the room and noted it was free of the sorcerous animation. There was a closed door on the opposite wall, and it bore examining before he ventured out onto the main stairs.

As Thomas was reaching for the handle, he felt a sharp stab of unease. He stepped back, his hand tightening on his sword-hilt, baffled by his own reaction. It was only a door, as the others had been. He reached out slowly and felt his heart pound faster with anxiety as his hand neared the knob.

Either I’ve lost my senses, he thought, or this door is warded. Testing it with his own reactions, he found the ward began about a foot from the door and stretched out to completely cover the surface. It was a warning, with a relatively mild effect, more than likely meant to keep the hired swords and servants away from this portion of the house. It could also explain why the dead man hadn’t left his post to investigate the pistol shot or to follow his comrades to the front entrance. He had been guarding something of crucial importance.

Thomas stepped back and kicked the center panel, sending the door crashing open. Beyond was a staircase leading upward, softly lit by candlelight glowing down from the floor above.

Bracing himself, Thomas stepped through the ward and onto the first step, and had to steady himself against the wall as the effect faded. He shook his head and started up the stairs.

The banister was carved with roses that swayed under a sorcerous breeze only they could sense. Thomas climbed slowly, looking for the next trap. When he stopped at the first landing, he could see that the top of the stairs opened into a long gallery, lit by dozens of candles in mirror-backed sconces. Red draperies framed mythological paintings and classical landscapes. At the far end was a door, guarded on either side by a man-sized statuary niche. One niche held an angel with flowing locks, wings, and a beatific smile. The other niche was empty.

Thomas climbed almost to the head of the stairs, looking up at the archway that formed the entrance to the room. Something suspiciously like plaster dust drifted down from the carved bunting.

A tactical error, Thomas thought. Whatever perched up there wasn’t decorative. He took a quiet step back down the stairs, drawing his empty pistol. The air felt warm; beneath his doublet, sweat was sticking the thin fabric of his shirt to his ribs. From the powder flask on his belt he measured out a double charge and poured it into the barrel. He pushed the bullet and wadding down with the short ramrod, thinking that it would be quite ironic if the pistol exploded and ended the matter here.

Thomas wound and set the spring, carefully aimed the pistol at the top of the archway, and fired. The fifty-caliber ball tore through the light ornamental wood and into the body of the plaster statue that clung to the molding above the arch. Thomas shielded his face as splintered wood and fragments of plaster rained down. A sculpted head, arm, and pieces of a foot thudded to the floor.

He climbed the last few steps and stopped at the front of the gallery, which was now wreathed in the heavy white smoke of the pistol’s discharge. This next trap wasn’t bothering to conceal itself.

Ponderously the angel statue turned its head toward him and stepped out of its niche in the far wall. Thomas shoved the empty pistol back into his sash and drew the second loaded one, circling away from the angel. It was slow, its feet striking the polished floor heavily, plaster wings flapping stiffly.

It stalked him like a stiff cat as he backed away. He wanted to save the pistol for whatever was behind the next door, so he was reluctant to fire.

Then his boot knocked against something that seized his ankle. He fell heavily and dropped the wheellock. It spun across the polished floor and somehow managed not to go off. Rolling over, he saw that the hand and arm of the broken statue had tripped him and was still holding onto his ankle. He drew his main gauche and smashed at it with the hilt. The hand shattered and fell away, but the angel was almost on top of him.

With a desperate scramble backward, he caught the base of a tall bronze candlestand and pulled it down. The heavy holder in the top struck the statue in the temple and knocked loose a chunk of plaster. It reared back and Thomas got to his feet, keeping hold of the candlestand. As it lurched toward him again he swung the stand. A large piece of the wing cracked and fell away as the blow connected. The creature staggered, suddenly unbalanced.

Past the stumbling statue he saw movement on the stairs. There were dark writhing shapes climbing the steps, dragging themselves upward on the banisters. He backed away, realizing it was the vines that had sprung out of the carpet in the first room. Are they filling the entire house? The situation was horrible enough, it hardly needed that. And he had known he couldn’t get out the way he had gotten in, but he had hoped to have the front door as an option. Now that way was blocked. Thomas dropped the candlestand and turned to the other door.

He pulled it open and one quick glance told him the room seemed unoccupied by statues. He slammed the door closed as the angel lumbered awkwardly toward him, and braced against it as he shoved the bolt home. He stepped back as the thing battered against the other side.

Moonlight from high undraped windows revealed shelf-lined walls stacked with leatherbound books, most chained to the shelves. It was a large room, crowded with the paraphernalia of both library and alchemical laboratory, quiet except for the erratic tick of several lantern docks. There was a writing desk untidily crammed with paper, and workbenches cluttered with flasks and long-necked bottles of colored glass. It smelled of tallow from cheap candles, the musty odor of books, and an acrid scent from residue left in the containers or staining floors and tabletops. He drew his rapier again and moved around the overladen tables, inherent caution making him avoid the stained patches left by alchemical accidents on the floor. He knew he would have to come back to this house at some point: the desks and cabinets crammed with scribbled papers would undoubtedly hold some of Grandier’s secrets, but now he hadn’t time to sort the vital information from the trash.

Thomas circled the rotting bulk of a printing press and a cabinet overflowing with ink-stained type, and stopped. At the far end of the room, hidden by stacked furniture and shadows, was a man seated in a plain chair. He faced the wall and seemed to be lost in thought. Dressed in a black cope and a baggy scholar’s cap, his face was angular and lean in profile and his hair and beard were gray. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

Then Thomas saw the shimmer of reflected moonlight from the window and realized the man was encased in an immense glass ball. Wondering at it, he took a step forward. The enigmatic figure didn’t move. He went closer and lifted a hand to touch the glass prison, but thought better of it.

As if the gesture was somehow perceptible to the man inside, he turned his head slowly toward Thomas. For a moment his expression was vacant, eyes fixed on nothing. Then the blue eyes focused and the mouth smiled, and he said, “Captain Thomas Boniface. We haven’t formally met, but I have heard of you.”

Thomas had not known Galen Dubell closely, the fifteen years ago when the old sorcerer had been at court, but he had seen the portraits. “Dr. Dubell, I presume.” Thomas circled the glass prison. “I hope you have some idea of how I’m to get you out of there.”

There was another heavy crash against the door. The statue, the animate vines, or something else was battering its way in.

“The power in this bauble is directed inward, toward me. You should be able to break it from the outside,” Dubell said, his composure undisturbed by the pounding from the door.

It would be dangerous for the old sorcerer but Thomas couldn’t see any other way. At least the heavy wool of his scholar’s robe would provide some protection. “Cover your head.”

Using the hilt of his rapier, Thomas struck the glass sphere. Lines of white fire radiated out along the cracks. The material was considerably stronger than it looked, and cracked like eggshell rather than glass. He hit it twice more, then it started to shatter. A few of the larger shards broke loose, but none fell near the old man.

Galen Dubell stood carefully and shook the smaller fragments out of his robes. “That is a welcome relief, Captain.” He looked exhausted and bedraggled as he stepped free of his prison, glass crackling under his boots.

Thomas had already sheathed his rapier and was overturning one of the cabinets beneath the window. He stepped atop it and twisted the window’s catch. Cool night air entered the stuffy room as he pushed it open. An ornamental sill just below formed a narrow slanted ledge. Leaning out, he could see the edge of the roof above. They would have to climb the rough brickwork.

He pulled his head back in and said, “I’m afraid we’ll have to take the footpad’s way out, Doctor.” He just hoped the old man could make it, and speedily; the battering at the door was growing louder.

Dubell scrambled up the cabinet easily enough. As if he’d read Thomas’s thought, he said, “It’s quite all right, Captain. I prefer the risk to more of Urbain Grandier’s hospitality.” He might have the easier time of it; he was almost a head taller than Thomas.

As Dubell pulled himself carefully out onto the narrow sill, the door gave way.

The sorcerer used the scrollwork around the window casement as a ladder, drawing himself up toward the roof. Thomas swung out onto the sill after him and stood, holding onto the window frame. Broken fragments of brick sprinkled down as Dubell grasped the edge of the roof above.

Thomas boosted him from below and Dubell scrambled over the edge. Digging fingertips into the soft stone, Thomas started to pull himself upward. Dubell had barely been able to grasp the ledge from here; Thomas knew he would have to stand on top of the cornice before he could reach safety.

There was a crash just inside. Straining to reach the edge of the roof, Thomas bit his lip as something gave way beneath his left boot. Fingers wedged between the soft brick, he groped for another hold and felt the mortar under his hand crumble.

From above, Galen Dubell caught his arm in an iron grip and supported him as he found another foothold. For a man who must do little with his hands besides write or do scholarly experiments, Dubell was surprisingly strong. The man’s gentle demeanor made it easy to think of him as nothing more than an aged university don and to forget that he was also a wizard.

Thomas scrambled over the edge, his muscles trembling with the strain. “I thank you, Doctor,” he said, sitting up, “but there are those at court who won’t appreciate it.”

“I won’t tell them about it, then.” Breathless with exertion, Dubell looked around, the damp breeze tearing at his gray hair and his cap. “Are those your companions?”

There was a shout. The two men he had stationed atop the tannery were waving from the edge of the next roof.

“Stay there!” Thomas shouted back. “We’ll come to you.”

Slowly they made their way up the crest of the pitched roof to the edge where the others were throwing down some planks to bridge the gap. The slate tiles were cracked and broken, slipping under their feet. They had just crossed the makeshift bridge to the tannery when Thomas turned to say something to Dubell; in the next instant he was lying flat on the rough planks with the others as the timber frame of the building was shaken by a muffled explosion. Then they all retreated hastily across the tannery roof, choking on acrid smoke, as flames rose from the Bisran sorcerer’s house.

* * *

“So much for keeping this quiet,” Thomas remarked to Gideon. The two men sat their nervous horses, watching from a few lengths down the street as Grandier’s house burned. There was a crash as the façade collapsed inward, sending up a fireworks display of sparks and an intense wave of heat. The neighborhood had turned out to throw buckets of water and mud on the surrounding roofs and mill about in confusion and panicked excitement. The real fear had subsided when the residents realized the fire was confining itself to the sorcerer’s home, and that only a few stray sparks had lit on the surrounding structures.

Three of the hired swords had been taken alive, though Thomas doubted they would know much, if anything, about Grandier’s intentions. His own men had obeyed their orders and come no farther than the front hall, so they had been able to escape the fire. There had been one casualty.

Gaspard, one of the men who had been posted in the court behind the house, had been hit by a splintered piece of flaming wood as he tried to escape from the explosion. His back and shoulder had been badly burned and he had only escaped worse by rolling in the muddy street. Dubell had insisted on treating the injury immediately, and Thomas was only too glad to permit it. Now Gaspard sat on a stone bench in the shelter of a hostler’s stall, his shirt and doublet cut away so Dubell could treat the blistering wound. Berham was handing the sorcerer supplies from Dr. Braun’s medical box and Dr. Braun himself was hovering at Dubell’s elbow. Thomas suspected that Berham was providing more practical assistance than Braun.

“The fire is hardly our fault.”

Gideon shrugged. “Blame Grandier for it.”

“Yes, he’s a cunning bastard.”

Gideon glanced at him, frowning. “How do you mean?”

Thomas didn’t answer. Dubell had finished tying the bandage and Martin helped Gaspard stand. As Castero led their horses forward, Thomas nudged his mare close enough to be heard over the shouting and the roar of the fire. “Gaspard, I want you to ride with Martin.”

“Sir, I do not need to be carried.” The younger man’s face was flushed and sickly.

“That was not a request, Sir.” Thomas was in no mood for a debate. “You can ride behind him or you can hang head down over his saddlebow; the choice is yours.”

Gaspard looked less combative as he contemplated that thought, and let an exasperated Martin pull him unresisting to the horses.

Berham was packing the medical box under Braun’s direction while Dubell stared at the fire. Thomas had been considering the question of why Grandier had not killed Galen Dubell. The answer could simply be that Grandier might have wanted to extract information from the old scholar, and his plan had gone awry when the King’s Watch located the house. But somehow he didn’t think it was going to be simple. The fire should have started when I broke the glass ball. Yes, it served the purpose of destroying Grandier’s papers, but why not kill all the birds with one stone? Unless he wanted us to rescue Dubell. But why? To announce his presence? To show them how powerful and frightening he was? To make them distrust Dubell?

As Berham took the medical box away to pack on his horse, Thomas waved Dr. Braun over and leaned down to ask him, “Is it possible for Grandier to… tamper with another sorcerer, to put a geas on him?”

Braun looked shocked. “A geas can be laid on an untrained mind, yes, but not on a sorcerer like Dr. Dubell.”

“Are you very sure about that?”

“Of course.” After a moment, under Thomas’s close scrutiny, Braun coughed and said, “Well, I am quite sure. I had to put gasçoign powder in my eyes to see the wards around the house, and a geas, or any kind of spell, would be visible on Dr. Dubell.”

“Very well.” That was as good as they were going to get without taking the old scholar to Lodun to be examined by the sorcerer-philosophers there, and there was no time for that.

Dubell came toward them. “An unfortunate fire,” he said wearily. “There was much to learn there.”

“I thought you said it was dangerous to create fire out of nothing?” Thomas asked Braun, exercising a little of his frustration on the most annoying target.

“It is,” Braun protested, flustered.

Dubell smiled. “It depends on one’s appreciation of danger.”

“So much does,” Thomas agreed. “They’ll have some questions for you at the palace.”

“Of course. I only hope my small knowledge can aid you.”

“We’ll find Grandier,” Gideon said, coming up beside them.

Dubell’s eyes were troubled. “If he continues his mischief on such a grand scale, he will be hard to miss. He’ll also be a fool, of course, but he may not see it that way.”

“Oh, I hardly think he’s a fool,” Thomas said. Castero and Berham had gotten Gaspard mounted up behind Martin, and they began to turn their horses away from the crowded street. As the others went down the alley, Thomas took one last look at the burning house. So far Grandier had shown an odd combination of ruthlessness and restraint, and he was not sure which he found more daunting. The sorcerer had snatched Galen Dubell out of his home in Lodun, indiscriminately slaughtering the servants who had witnessed it. For no practical reason, since Lodun University was full of wizards and scholars of magic who had been able to divine Grandier’s identity within hours of examining the scene. Yet the fire that could have been so devastating stuck to Grandier’s house like pitch and refused to spread to the ready tinder of the other old buildings. As much as he might wish to, Thomas couldn’t see it as a gesture of defiance. He only wondered where, in what corner of the crowded city, the word had passed to watch for a sorcerous blaze in the night, and what to do then.

Excerpted from The Element of Fire, copyright © 2024 by Martha Wells.

The post Read the First Chapter of Martha Wells’ <i>The Element of Fire</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Sarah Beth Durst

Read an Excerpt From Sarah Beth Durst’s The Spellshop

Kiela and her assistant, Caz the sentient spider plant, navigate the low stakes market of illegal spellmaking and the high risk business of starting over.

By Sarah Beth Durst

|

Published on February 14, 2024

1

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Sarah Beth Durst’s romantasy debut The Spellshop, a lush cottagecore tale full of stolen spellbooks, unexpected friendships, sweet jams, and even sweeter love—publishing with Bramble on July 9.

“I came to apologize,” Larran said.

Oh! That was nice! But wait, no, he couldn’t be here right now. Kiela had left the spellbooks piled on the bed, and who knew what was happening with the in-progress spell in the garden… He really had to go away. “You didn’t need to do that.”

Standing on the front step, he hadn’t crossed over the threshold, but he also wasn’t showing any signs of wanting to leave. Glancing behind her, out the back door to the garden, she saw Caz hide the spellbook beneath her father’s shirt. I can’t let him come in.

“I did. I mean, I do,” he said. “I… pushed too hard. With the chimney. With the eggs. I didn’t ask what you wanted.” He was blushing. “I’m not really good with people.”

You and me both, she thought. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.” She wanted to add: Now, leave. But she couldn’t figure out how to phrase it politely.

“I’m sorry I caused you to,” he said. “And I promise I won’t show up uninvited again.”

He looked so earnest and so obliviously unaware of the fact that he was already in violation of that promise that she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Other than right now,” he clarified. “Allow me to make it up to you…” He took a step forward, as if to walk through the doorway, and Kiela wedged herself diagonally, leaning her shoulder against one side of the doorframe while her feet were in the opposite corner, as if that were a casual and normal way to stand. He halted.

“If you’d like to make it up to me…” She paused, hoping a brilliant idea would come to her. What could she propose? A walk in the woods? A trip into town? A visit to the bakery? What would interest him enough that he’d abandon his idea to come into her house, where he could see the spellbooks and discover she’d cast a spell in the garden… “Your merhorses!”

He looked confused, and she was suddenly aware of how ridiculous it was for her to think she could block the doorway if he decided he wanted to walk through. He towered over her without even trying. If he wanted to, he could have scooped her up one-handed and set her aside, but thankfully, he stayed put on her front step. “My merhorses?” he repeated.

“You offered to let me ride one,” Kiela said.

Wait—was that what she wanted to do? She’d never done such a thing. She’d seen it, when she was a kid, and she’d begged her parents to let her try. When you’re older, they’d always said, but by that time, they’d moved to the city, where there were no merhorses or merfolk or anything but minnows and trash in the canals.

Caz piped up behind her. “You did! You said it. Before. I heard you.”

“I didn’t think you wanted…” Larran began, and then he shook his head. “Yes, that’s a wonderful idea. The ocean’s warm today. Perfect weather for it. I just didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Of course I am!” She smiled brightly at him, and it felt so fake that she thought her cheeks might crack. She hoped he couldn’t tell that under normal circumstances she would never voluntarily suggest any kind of extended social activity. If he’d shown up just an hour later, after she’d had time to hide all the evidence…

Cheerfully, Caz shooed her outside. “Great! It’s settled. Have fun, you two.” Shoving with his tendrils, he shut the door firmly behind her.

“If you want to change your clothes…” Larran suggested.

“Nope, I’m fine as is.”

“Your skirt will get wet. Likely, all of you will—”

“I’ll dry,” she said quickly. “I’m not made of sugar.”

Larran smiled at her, and Kiela looked up at him and hoped this wasn’t a mistake.

He led the way toward the path through the forest, and she glanced back to see Caz plastered against the window, filling the panes with his leaves, as he watched to ensure they left. She then followed Larran through the green, to the cliffs. The wind had picked up, and it blew her blue hair into her face. She pushed the strands back behind her ears. Waiting for her at the top of the wooden stairs, Larran held out his hand.

She blinked at it. “I’m fine.”

He blushed, lowering his hand. “Ah. Of course.”

Just because she’d lived most of her life in the city didn’t mean she was incapable of doing anything for herself. The sooner he learned that, the better they’d get along.

Buy the Book

The Spellshop

Sarah Beth Durst

Buy Book

The Spellshop

Sarah Beth Durst

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Of course, he’d be more impressed with my ability to be independent if I hadn’t almost burned down my house, lost my one and only chicken, and violated imperial law all within twenty-four hours. At least he didn’t know about the last one. She intended to keep it that way.

Kiela followed him down the stairs, holding on to the railing as the wind picked and pulled at her hair and her clothes. The sea was choppier than it had been when she’d gathered the rosebuds. White crests rose and disappeared. She heard waves crash against the rocks as if they wanted to shatter them.

He hadn’t said anything since they’d started down, and she wondered if he was regretting agreeing to this. And fixing her chimney. And gifting her eggs, cheese, and cinnamon buns. He’d only stopped by to apologize; he couldn’t have anticipated a brief courtesy call turning into an outing in which he’d have to spend time with her. Why had he said yes? He can’t have been charmed by my friendliness, Kiela thought. She hadn’t encouraged any of it.

Perhaps it had to do with whatever had happened when they were children. She wondered again what she’d done back then to make him feel he had to try so hard to be nice to her now. Or what her parents had done. But instead she asked, “How do you ride a merhorse?”

Turning his head, he smiled back at her, and she knew she’d asked the right question. “First, you need to earn one’s trust…” He went on to describe the different merhorses in his herd and which treats they preferred. “Sian, she’s the golden mare, is fond of tomatoes. I discovered that when the apple trees on Caltrey sickened and wouldn’t produce anymore. You might want to start with her. She can be fast, but she won’t play tricks.”

“Tricks?” Kiela asked.

“A few of them like to submerge with riders on them,” Larran said. “Merhorses have a sense of humor, you see, but it’s not quite a human sense of humor.”

Maybe she should have stayed back at the cottage and found a different way to distract him from the spellwork in the garden. The merhorse herders had always looked so gloriously wild and free when she used to watch them as a child. Now it was beginning to sound a bit more reckless. She wasn’t used to taking risks.

That’s a good enough reason to do it. Her life seemed to be all about taking risks lately, starting the second she’d taken the lift down to the canals. Maybe that’s who I need to be now if I want to thrive here—a person who takes risks.

He led her past his house, a sweet yellow cottage squeezed between the cliffs and the sea. It had a porch that wrapped around the front, as well as a balcony on the roof. Rocks served as a buffer between his porch and the waves. He paused to remove his boots and socks, and she did the same, leaving them safe on the sand. She used the ribbons on her skirt to hike it up above her knees.

Following Larran, she climbed barefoot over the stones that jutted out into the sea.

Spray flew into the air as the waves crashed against the boulders. He straddled two rocks, put his fingers in his mouth, and whistled. The whistle pierced the wind.

In answer, several merhorses neighed.

Kiela watched the herd swim toward the shore. There were at least a dozen of the half-fish half-horse animals, and each was as beautiful as the sea itself. Water sprayed from the manes, and Kiela couldn’t tell what was horse and what was ocean.

Closer, she could see how sleek and perfect they were. They weren’t like some of the illustrations in the library’s illuminated manuscripts, half a horse stuck unceremoniously to half a fish. Instead, they were one cohesive creature. The horse head and neck, with forelegs, flowed into a sleek dolphin-like body that narrowed into a gorgeous mermaid-like tail covered in shimmering scales. Their coloration varied from pale to jewel tones—shades of blue, green, purple, and red. One was as golden as the sun.

Kneeling, Larran snapped his fingers. “Sian, to me!”

He beckoned to Kiela to come closer as one of the mares separated herself from the rest and swam forward, her hooves pawing at the waves as her tail propelled her toward the rocks. She was a rich gold with black streaks in her mane, and her eyes were a fathomless blue.

“Aren’t you a beauty,” Kiela cooed.

The horse-fish tossed her mane as if she understood her.

From one of his pockets, Larran produced a tomato. This time, he didn’t have the excuse that he was rushing to her smoke-filled house. He simply had a tomato in his pocket. She wondered if they ever ended up squished. He handed it to Kiela.

“Hand flat,” he said softly. “Offer it to her.”

Squatting next to him, Kiela held the tomato out flat on her palm. Water from the wet rocks soaked into the hem of her skirt, but she ignored it—she’d dry, eventually.

Sian swam forward and then treaded water a few feet too far away.

“You’re new, that’s all,” Larran said, still soft. “She’s being cautious, but not as wary as she could be. If she was with foal, she’d never have come this close. But she isn’t. None of them are.”

There was a note in his voice that sounded… sad? Worried? She wanted to ask more questions. Were they supposed to be with foal? If so, why weren’t they? But before she could form the words on her lips, Sian stretched out her neck and swam closer.

Kiela held still, marveling to be so close to such a beautiful creature. They were one of the wonders of the Northern Sea. No one knew how they were created, whether by a deliberate spell or by accidental magic, but the stories claimed they’d suddenly appeared one season, while a group of island fisherfolk were trying and failing to catch any fish. Day after day, the fisherfolk had been returning with empty nets. Their families were starving, and their villages were dying. But then one day, the merhorses appeared and drove the fish directly into their nets.

From then on, there was a relationship between the islanders and the merhorses. Herders like Larran would care for the herds, ensuring they were healthy, helping them with the often-dangerous birthing of foals, feeding them when the winter drove the fish too deep for the horse-fish to dive. In return, the merhorses would aid the fisherfolk in their boats during the spring, summer, and fall.

“The key,” Larran said, so close to her ear that she felt the warmth of his breath, “is to not be afraid. She won’t let you drown. You need to trust.”

What if this time the merhorse decided she didn’t like her rider? What if that nonhuman sense of humor that Larran had mentioned caused her to dunk Kiela? To think it funny if she panicked, flailed, and drowned? Larran wouldn’t have agreed to this if he didn’t think it would be okay.

She didn’t know if she trusted Sian.

But part of her wanted to trust Larran. She just didn’t know if it was the sensible part or the new reckless part. She thought of what she’d done in the garden with the seeds and the spell. Even knowing how dangerous it was, she didn’t regret the attempt. I’ll try again. And again. Until it works. It was worth the risk.

“How do I mount?” Kiela asked.

“Like this.” And then his strong arms were around her waist, lifting her onto the back of the horse-fish. He lowered her gently, as if she were a precious thing he didn’t dare break. She felt the warmth of his skin through her shirt, and then she felt the cold of the waves as her legs dipped into the ocean. She hiked her skirt up to her thighs, but it was already soaked.

He held her a moment longer, allowing the merhorse to become accustomed to her.

“How do I steer?” she asked.

“You don’t,” he said. “She steers. You ride.”

He then released her. Instinctively, she leaned forward and grabbed onto Sian’s mane as the merhorse lunged away from the rocks. Sea spray and wind spattered Kiela’s face.

The merhorse picked up speed, jumping through the waves like a dolphin. Kiela clung to her mane, feeling as if she were holding on to seaweed, slippery but soft. She let out a shriek as Sian leaped over the top of a large cresting wave, and then she laughed as they sailed down the other side.

She’d never felt anything like this. It was terrifying. And wonderful.

She felt as if her blood had become the wind, and her breath had become the sea spray. She tasted salt, and she tasted freedom. Both were glorious.

They galloped away from the island into the wide blue.

Beside her, Kiela saw Larran on a purple merhorse. He had the widest smile on his face, and she knew she was seeing him in his element. This was where he belonged. This was what he loved. She could see it as plainly as she could read words on a page. He’d allowed her into his world with this ride. It was a gift, as much as the cinnamon buns and the chimney repair.

It was easy to be annoyed with him for the way he’d overstepped. But maybe, after this, she could forgive him. At least a little. Maybe he was just as awkward with people as she was, in his own way.

The men and women on the fishing boats raised their hands in greeting as Kiela and Larran rode by. Larran waved back. She didn’t dare release the mane, but she smiled as they passed.

Soon, they were beyond the last of the boats. Only blue was around them. Waves swelled gently, and the horse-fish slowed. They swam side by side, and Kiela caught her breath. On their sail in the library boat, she and Caz had been surrounded by as much blue, but somehow this was different. She felt a part of it, linked to the sea.

Her dress was soaked, and her skin was saturated. She had goose bumps all over from the chill of the wind, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want this to ever end.

“You like it?” he asked, almost shyly.

Kiela turned to him with a smile that felt like a laugh. “Oh, yes!”

“Not everyone does.”

“I guess I’m not everyone.” He smiled. “You’re not.”

It was the first time such a sentiment felt like a compliment.

At a leisurely pace, they rode in companionable silence back toward shore. Halfway there, she remembered the question she wanted to ask: “Why hasn’t Sian foaled?”

“None of them have,” he said with a sigh. “Not for five years.” Five years? “Not one in five years?”

“A merhorse doesn’t foal easily. They aren’t as fertile as other creatures, and their birthing… It’s difficult, and often fatal for the foal. Sometimes for the mother as well. It used to be the sorcerers would visit twice a year, once to help them conceive and once to help with the birthing. We’d have new foals every single year, at least five or six. Sian’s herd… It used to be triple in size.”

As Bryn had said, the herd was dwindling, which meant the fisherfolk would catch less, which meant the islanders would have less to eat and less to trade. Kiela thought of how run-down the village had looked and the hint of desperation, of flat-out poverty, she’d seen in the people. Behind the friendly smiles, there was a lot of struggling going on. It might not have been visible to Kiela as a child—and indeed, it might not have been true when she was a child, since the emperor had only just begun to tighten the laws and withdraw the sorcerers—but it was clear now.

She rode the rest of the way deep in thought.

When they reached the rocks, Larran helped her dismount. She thanked Sian and also Larran. “That was magnificent,” she said sincerely.

He smiled, again a bit shyly. “I’ll take you whenever you want.”

“I’d love that.”

“If you’d like to join me for a meal… and to dry off…”

Her blouse stuck to her skin, her blue hair was plastered to her neck, and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But there was an idea that had dug its talons into her mind and wouldn’t let go. “I have to check on my garden. And Caz. There’s a lot to be done around the house.”

Larran’s smile dipped, and for an instant, she wished she’d said yes. “I understand.”

She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t him. Not this time. She wasn’t just making up excuses to leave. Pulling on her socks and boots over her wet feet, she said, “Another time?”

He brightened. “Another time,” he agreed.

Excerpted from The Spellshop, copyright © 2024 by Sarah Beth Durst.

The post Read an Excerpt From Sarah Beth Durst’s <em>The Spellshop</em> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts F. T. Lukens

Read an Excerpt From F.T. Lukens’ Otherworldly

When a familiar from the Other World meets someone who doesn’t believe in the supernatural…

By F.T. Lukens

|

Published on February 13, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Otherworldly by F.T. Lukens, a young adult fantasy adventure out from Margaret K. McElderry Books on April 2.

Ellery closed their eyes. “And what is on the agenda for today?” 

“A sleepover.” 

Ellery glanced at the window. “It’s, like, ten in the morning.” 

Knox shrugged. “Yes. Yes, I know. But it’s freezing out, and I have noticed that you are not a fan of being outside in the cold. Or anywhere really that’s not the apartment.” 

“You’re not wrong.” 

“Besides, it sounds fun. Staying in for the day. With you.” A blush swept across his cheekbones. 

Ellery’s stomach fluttered. Their whole body went hot. “Okay. That’s fine. How do you envision your sleepover?” 

Knox grinned. “Movies. Pizza. Ice cream. Doing each other’s makeup? Gossiping? A pillow fight?” 

Ellery raised a finger. “Movies, pizza, and ice cream are fair game. I’m horrible at makeup; we’d need Zada for that. I have no gossip, as you and Zada and Charley are the only people I know. And you literally had a concussion last night, so a pillow fight is also out. But we can still make it fun.” 

“Sounds great,” Knox said, making jazz hands. 

Ellery shook their head and heaved a playful put-upon sigh. They crossed to the kitchen for a glass of water. “I can’t believe I get stuck with the familiar who wants to live out every teen drama fantasy,” they said as they filled their glass from the tap. 

Knox laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “What? I’m technically a teenager.” 

“You’re immortal.” 

“So? I’m totally a teenager. I even have the weird adolescent impulses.” 

Ellery choked on their drink, wheezing as the water went down the wrong pipe. They plunked their glass on the counter, coughing, eyes watering. “What?” they managed after a few seconds.

Knox’s brow furrowed. “I literally ran away from home. Are you okay? What did you think I meant?” 

“Nothing!” Ellery said quickly, mopping up the spilled water. “How about you pick a movie or TV show and we get this party started?” 

Ellery disappeared into the hallway and pressed a hand to their thundering heart, mouth open and cheeks flushed. They weren’t going to survive this day if Knox kept saying things like that and acting innocent on top of it. 

Buy the Book

Otherwordly

F.T. Lukens

Buy Book

Otherwordly

F.T. Lukens

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Zada wasn’t kidding about this crush business. Ellery’s emotions were out of control, but in the wildest, most exhilarating way. A small voice that sounded a lot like Charley reminded Ellery to be careful, that it was called a “crush” for a reason. And, to be fair to the voice, Knox had said something about having a secret last night. But he’d also told Ellery he liked them. And, for once, Ellery wanted to follow Charley’s advice to not make other people’s problems their own. Whatever the secret Knox had, it wasn’t their issue. And instead of worrying about the money they were losing by not working today, Ellery decided they’d enjoy the fact that they had a cute boy who liked them and a rare day off to spend with him. Ellery wanted to bask in the crush. They wanted it so badly. 

After Ellery freshened up and changed out of their outfit from the night before into a pair of pajamas—because what else did you wear at a sleepover?—they placed a grocery order that included popcorn and ice cream and all sorts of toppings to go with it. Ellery knew they would be judged for ordering ice cream in the middle of a snow flurry, but well, it’d been snowing for years; there was no way that everyone gave up ice cream just because it was winter. 

They went back into the living room and settled by Knox on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. Knox draped a blanket over both of their legs. 

“What did you choose?” Ellery asked, hoping their voice came out even and not at all affected by Knox’s proximity. 

“This scary television show about teen witches, werewolves, and wyverns,” Knox said, gesturing toward the screen. “Have you seen it?” 

“No, I haven’t. But I heard it’s good.” 

Knox grinned as he tapped the play button. “Let’s see if they get any of the lore correct.” 

The groceries arrived during the second episode, and they paused the show to each make massive ice cream sundaes. After the fourth, Ellery ordered their pizza and made a face when Knox advocated for pineapple, but added it to half anyway. 

During the fifth episode, with Knox leaning into their side, Ellery had seen enough. They threw up their hands. “Oh my goddess, don’t trust that guy!” they yelled at the screen. “He’s trying to lure you into the trap. Why are you believing him?” 

Knox huffed in amusement. “You really think he’s the bad guy?” 

“Of course! All signs point to that dude. He’s totally shady.” 

“But he’s been nothing but nice. He’s given her no reason not to trust him.” 

Ellery crossed their arms. “No, but she’s naïve to think he doesn’t have an ulterior motive. Blind belief only causes problems. And she’s just setting herself up to be hurt.” 

Knox raised his eyebrows. Ellery dropped their hands and scrunched down in the blanket, blushing under Knox’s intense attention. 

“I mean, maybe.” 

A character screamed onscreen, but Knox didn’t look away from Ellery. “You said your family prays to the goddess, but you didn’t believe me when we first met.” 

Ellery debated pulling the blanket completely over their head. “Belief is difficult for me,” they said. 

“Why?” 

“Because my parents believed, and look where it got them. They prayed and prayed, and their prayers went unanswered. Instead of taking matters into their own hands, they waited for some mystical solution. One that never came. I grew up believing that they knew best because they were the adults, and it hurt when I realized that they didn’t. That I had to be the pragmatic one.” 

Knox’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault. You said you ran away. I basically did too. I came here to earn money for my family, but that wasn’t the only reason I left. I couldn’t handle it all anymore.” 

“Do you think you’ll go back?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe not. It’s hard to trust them. It’s something that’s bled into my other relationships as well.” “With Charley and Zada.” 

Ellery nodded. “I love them both. And I want to trust them when they tell me that they love me too, and that they want me here, or that it doesn’t bother them that I invaded their space. But like I said, it’s difficult.” 

“I understand,” Knox said, though he sounded pained. “I know you don’t trust me.” 

Oh. “I believe that you are what you say. And I trust that you’ll hold to our bargain.” 

Knox frowned. “It’s signed in blood. I have to follow it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ellery hastened to add. “It’s a me thing. It’s not you. I promise. And for the record, I really—” 

A knock at the door cut Ellery off, which was fortuitous because Ellery didn’t know how to navigate whatever situation would arise from blurting out their feelings. Especially if what Knox had said in his concussed haze the night prior was true—that he liked Ellery in return. 

Ellery scrambled off the couch and opened the door to accept the pizza. They brought it over to the table and handed Knox one of the paper plates stacked on top. 

“It’s fine,” Knox said, helping himself to a slice of pineapple pizza. “I understand.” 

“Do you?” 

“You’ve been hurt by people you loved. It’s made you wary. That’s nothing to apologize for.” He gestured toward the TV. “Just like August refuses to let Manny into the circle yet, because of her cheating ex-boyfriend.” 

Ellery huffed in amusement. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

Knox smiled. “Hopefully, though, once you get to know someone, you’ll be able to trust them.” 

Ellery ducked their head. “I’m trying.” 

“Now,” Knox said, settling back onto the couch, “let’s see if this other character is really the bad guy as you say.” 

Within the next few episodes, Ellery was proven wrong: the character was not the bad guy, but he did wind up dead, and then undead. Sometime during the last few episodes of season one, Zada waltzed into the apartment and stopped short. 

“Well, this is a mess,” she said, eyeing the pizza box, drink glasses, and empty bowls containing remnants of ice cream, pretzels, and popcorn. “Oh,” she said, pointing to the television, “is this that werewolves, witches, and wyverns show? I only made it to episode nine. Which one is this?” 

“Eleven, but episode ten was filler,” Ellery said. 

“Budge over,” she said, dropping onto the couch, effectively squishing Ellery closer into Knox’s side. Knox was forced to drape his arm over the back of the couch, so Ellery was snug against him. “I can’t believe that one guy wasn’t the evil one,” Zada said, eyes glued to the screen. “Too bad the writers killed him off.” 

“He’s an undead now,” Knox offered helpfully. “Episode ten wasn’t completely filler.” 

“Oh, awesome.” She jutted her chin at the pizza box. “Do I smell pineapple?” 

“Yes.” 

“Excellent,” she said, stealing a slice. The episode opened with the characters at a loud house party dancing and drinking from red plastic cups, flashing lights bathing them in different colors, fast music overwhelming the speakers. 

“That looks fun,” Knox said. Ellery didn’t miss his wistful tone, and apparently neither did Zada. 

“A party?” 

“Yes. I don’t think I’ve ever participated in something like that. With humans,” he clarified. 

Zada hummed in acknowledgment. 

That’s how Charley found them hours later, the three of them huddled together on the couch, Ellery half asleep on Knox’s chest, Zada curled into Ellery’s other side, and Knox with wide eyes watching the final episode of the season. 

“What’s this?” she asked. 

Zada waved her hand and shushed her. “Almost over, babe.” 

“Is this that dragons show?” she asked, squeezing into the tiny space left on the couch. Ellery grunted as Zada knocked in their side, which forced them to squeeze closer into Knox, which was not such a hardship. 

“Wyverns,” Knox corrected. 

“Oh, I wanted to watch this,” she said, settling in. 

“Spoilers, babe. This is the last episode.” 

Charley shrugged. “No worries. I’ll watch from the beginning later.” 

Ellery lifted their head. “You are literally chaos in human form, aren’t you?” 

Charley beamed. “You’re just now realizing?” 

Knox and Zada shushed them both as the episode reached its climax. Five minutes later, they all stared at the screen. Knox’s mouth hung open. 

“That’s it?” 

“They didn’t reveal the killer,” Zada said in disbelief. She gestured at the screen. “And they left Grant stuck in the cave with Manny, and it’s about to be a full moon!” 

“And Pala doesn’t know their magic won’t work against the wyverns and is walking straight into a nest,” Knox said. “Ugh.” He jabbed the off button on the remote. “Cliffhangers are so disappointing.” 

“Well,” Charley said gently. “I heard it was renewed for a season two. That’s good news, right?” 

“Unless it’s filming right now, it won’t air anytime soon,” Zada said, bottom lip in a pout, arms crossed over her chest. “And Knox . . .” She trailed off. 

Knox’s body went taut under Ellery. Ellery peeled themself from where they’d been draped over him. 

“Oh,” Zada said, hand over her mouth. “I didn’t—” 

“It’s okay,” he said with a forced smile. “Anyway, at least the show has given me an idea,” he added, rubbing his hands together, “for my next human experience.” 

Ellery’s heart sank, because they already knew. “A party?” they hazarded. 

Knox grinned. “A party.”

Excerpted from Otherworldly , copyright © 2024 by F.T. Lukens.

The post Read an Excerpt From F.T. Lukens’ <i>Otherworldly</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Hannah Kaner

Read an Excerpt From Hannah Kaner’s Sunbringer

The gods are whispering of war in this sequel to Godkiller.

By Hannah Kaner

|

Published on February 12, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Sunbringer, the second book in the Fallen Gods epic fantasy series by Hannah Kaner—publishing with Harper Voyager on March 12.

Arren’s brain raced as he neared death. It was what Elo always praised him for, his quick thinking, his decisiveness. What if Hseth had been wrong? What if he did not need her power to be loved? What if there was a story here, capable of winning their faith? That was how gods were made.

‘I gave my life for Middren,’ he said, resting his fingers on his open chest. ‘All I have done… for Middren…’

Peta nodded. ‘I know…’ she said.

The other knights were beginning to understand. Arren heard a creak as one, then another, then all of the guards fell to their knees.

But it was too late. Too late for this last grasp at hope, at love. His hand dropped to the floor. His breath faded. None of them dared say a word.

A spark from the fire leapt out just as the dawn broke through the clouds. The ember ran across the wooden floor, the carpet, racing up Arren’s arm and into the cavity where his heart had been. There, it bloomed.

Hestra. She took root in his heart and once more her power filled him, warming his blood and sending it rushing. His gasping lungs swelled with air, bringing light and life to his body. He breathed.

Buy the Book

Sunbringer

Hannah Kaner

Buy Book

Sunbringer

Hannah Kaner

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

He gripped the commander’s arm, dizzy with the sudden change. Death to life. Dark to light, as the sun illuminated all of them in gold.

Another chance.

Arren forced strength into his voice. ‘It is well,’ he said, and sat up. ‘I am well.’ He had learned this on the battlefield, suffused with fear, breaths from death, to channel strength, power, certainty. He stood on shaking legs without Peta’s help, trying not to show how terrified he had been. His commander stepped back, scared to touch him.

He would show no shame; nothing good would be built on shame. He stood tall, softened the planes of his face from pain into something gentler, then held out his shaking hands and showed his bare chest fully. The darkness within was now lit by Hestra’s fire, crowded with green moss and twigs.

The guards looked up at him, agape, uncertain. Uncertainty he could use. He saw himself in their eyes: a tale they could whisper, a myth he could build.

Hseth is dead. Hestra did not care for the crisis she had caused. Instead, her thoughts slammed into Arren’s mind, painful. No acknowledgement, no apology. The great god of fire is dead. Her shrines broken, her power gone.

Dead. Arren gritted his teeth. One damned crisis at a time.

‘We failed you,’ Peta whispered. Two of their guards deepened their bow, another gasped, horrified at the thought.

‘No,’ said Arren quickly. ‘No, Knight Commander. I gave my life, willingly, to kill the god of war and save our lands from destruction.’ That was not all true – Arren had not killed the god of war – but the truth didn’t matter. All that mattered was the story. The myths that made gods, brought them to life in their shrines. Stories bind hope and love to make it faith.

Peta touched her hand to the badge that pinned her cloak at her shoulder, the stag’s head before a rising sun, the symbol of Arren’s kingship. His defeat of the god of war, the gods he had risen beyond. Before his symbol had been a young lion, but that he had come to share with Elo; the king’s lion, so his friend had been called. Arren had to be something else.

‘I did what I must,’ he said softly. How many times had Hseth said such a thing to him? ‘A sacrifice is not a loss. We had to fight the tide of darkness, the chaos of the gods. We still fight it, we still must fight it.’ Hestra flared in his chest, and he put a hand there.

Wait, he thought towards her, hoping she understood him.

‘To bring sunlight back to us, to Middren,’ said Arren, threading his hopes together ‘to bring ourselves back from those nights of terror, we all must be willing to give our lives, even if it hurts us, even if it challenges our very soul.’

Hestra was still. Arren let the light of the sun brighten his curling mess of hair, let the flicker of the god’s flame twist impossibly in his heart. He was vulnerable. A single briddite blade would end him here and now.

‘If you, too, will make such offerings,’ he said, ‘then pledge to me.’ He splayed out his hand and put it over the rift in his heart. Like sunrays, like his symbol. His story.

Peta dropped to her knees and copied him: hand over heart, fingers spread wide. The others followed, hand after hand. Hestra’s flames stirred again, this time with delight, sensing what she also desired, more than anything. Faith. For a moment, in their eyes, they were both more than they had ever been. More than his mother’s unloved son. More than a lucky prince who won a war and no longer had the commander who won it with him. More than a little god of littler shrines, chipped away and forgotten. Together, they were greater than his flesh, brighter than his crown. All he had ever wanted to be.

‘Sunbringer,’ said Peta. Arren almost laughed with half pleasure, half delirium. This was more than an alliance with Hseth, a reliance on her power.

This was him.

The others murmured with her. ‘Sunbringer.’

‘Sunbringer.’

It was not enough, not yet. He needed more. He needed a nation.

He must become a god.

From Sunbringer by Hannah Kaner, published by Harper Voyager. Copyright © 2024 by Hannah Kaner. Reprinted courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers.

The post Read an Excerpt From Hannah Kaner’s <i>Sunbringer</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Katherine Arden

Read an Excerpt From The Warm Hands of Ghosts

During WWI, a combat nurse searches for her brother…

By Katherine Arden

|

Published on February 6, 2024

0

Share

We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Warm Hands of Ghosts by Katherine Arden, a historical novel with a speculative twist set during WWI—out from Del Rey on February 13.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she found Fa­land sitting beside her. She was startled. She hadn’t seen him cross the room. But he was there, rolling an empty glass between long fingers. “It’s Laura, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Laura. When had she told him her name?

“Do you like the wine?”

“Yes,” she said. She was so warm, the knife-edges of the world all blunted.

He refilled her glass deftly. “And you were wounded?”

He’d noticed, of course. How could he not? “I was.”

“Brave heart,” said Faland. “But surely you would stay home after that, in the arms of your family. Or are you so wild for adven­ture?”

“No,” she said. A hairline crack ran now through Laura’s enjoy­ment. There was something in his face, almost too subtle to notice. Malice? His sidelong stare seemed to see everything. The ghosts that Agatha Parkey swore she trailed: her mother, her father, her brother. The hope and long-denied despair that had dragged her back across the ocean. He seemed to see it all, to catalogue it, even to be laughing at it, in some secret place.

Didn’t he have patrons to serve? Pim was nowhere to be seen. Mary had put her head down and gone to sleep. Trying to turn the force of his gaze, Laura said, “Have you ever considered leaving Flanders? A man with your talent—” She fell silent, staring past Faland’s shoulder.

Standing in the middle of the room was the figure she’d seen in the road, the figure that had prompted her, half-instinctively, to cry out. It was the watcher from the gangplank in Halifax. The face from her dreams. Her mother with glass in her eyes, glass jutting from her body.

The glow of the wine vanished. Laura stumbled to her feet, back­ing away. She was wet, hungry, tired, ill.

Buy the Book

The Warm Hands of Ghosts

Katherine Arden

Buy Book

The Warm Hands of Ghosts

Katherine Arden

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

Faland shook his head, as though he’d understood something that vexed him. Then Laura blinked and the figure was gone. She stood panting, swaying on her feet. Lightly, Faland said, “You could stay here awhile. It would do you good, I think. You could stop being afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. He’d seen her staring in horror at nothing. Laura set her jaw. Madness stalked the Western Front, but she would not, could never, succumb. She was the steady one when others lost their heads. She must concentrate on what she’d come for: to learn what had become of Freddie. “I can’t stay. I have things to do.”

“Do you?”

Did she? Why was she in Flanders, really? To torment herself with the—

Across the room, Pim screamed. She was staring into the mirror over the bar, her expression reflected in the glass raw with equal parts hunger and horror. Laura didn’t think even a great obscenity would put that look on her face. “Pim—”

Faland had turned as well, almost impatiently, but then his shoul­ders stiffened. Laura could see in profile his lips pursed in a sound­less whistle. But there was nothing to see but a woman, her golden hair coming down, looking into a mirror. “What does she see?” de­manded Laura, already making her stumbling way across the room.

He didn’t answer; she didn’t know if he followed. Mary didn’t stir, her head still pillowed on her folded arms. The mirror itself glimmered, black with tarnish in spots, spider-webbed with cracks in one corner. Laura squinted into the depths but could see nothing that would have prompted Pim to—

A face, reflected in the mirror, swam into focus as she walked closer. It wasn’t hers.

Then she thought her heart would stop, because it was Freddie.

Freddie with eyes hollow and blank. Freddie with white threaded through the russet of his hair. Freddie with his expression strangely dim, puzzled. A reflection that wavered, as though her brother were caught in the tarnished glass.

She knew it was just a figment. Some sort of hypnotic suggestion. Faland had said she’d see her heart’s desire, and he’d meant it liter­ally. It was his voice working on her brain, along with the dimness, and the wine, and her fever. She knew. And still she turned to look behind her. No power on earth could have kept her from looking.

And of course he wasn’t there. Just a sea of men, drowsy, with—No. There. For an instant she could have sworn she saw russet hair, straight shoulders, haunted eyes. His name came tearing from her throat. “Freddie!”

But he was already gone, vanished between tables, between men, between shadows. He’d never been there at all.

She tried to follow anyway. Came up instantly against people dazed and stupid with wine, came up against her own drunkenness and doubt, her cramping leg. Found herself pushing like a woman in a nightmare, not even sure what she was looking for. There were so many doors. The room was ringed with doors. Which door? Take the right door, she thought confusedly, and she ’d find herself in a different world, she ’d find herself back in Halifax, be­fore the end of everything. She clawed her way out of the sodden crowd.

Fetched up against a person who caught her by the shoulders. “Gently, Mademoiselle,” said Faland. “You are hallucinating, fever­ish, you are not yourself.”

“My brother—I saw my brother.”

He didn’t let go. “That damned mirror. I’m sorry I said anything about it. You are very ill, you know.”

She pulled away, fighting for her balance. “No, I saw him. In the room. Not just in the mirror. I saw him.”

His face expressed nothing but puzzled concern. “Could your brother be here tonight? By coincidence? Forgive me, but why would you have to chase him? He’d come to you, surely.”

Of course he’d come to her. If he could. He wasn’t there. He was dead, and there was no such thing as ghosts. “No,” she whispered. The fight went out of her. “He couldn’t be here tonight.”

Faland’s face softened. “Then I am so sorry, Mademoiselle.” He offered her an arm. “I shall take you back to your companions. You should sleep. You should stay. You are in no condition to endanger—”

Endanger? His words reminded her of Pim, and she looked up. Pim was still standing in front of the tarnished mirror, utterly still, an expression of horrified longing on her face. “What’s wrong with my friend? What did she see?”

Faland’s green eye glittered with firelight, but the dark eye had no reflection. “It is often illuminating, to see your heart’s desire. But it is not always pleasant. You might have just discovered that your­self. Come, I will take you to her.”

Excerpted from The Warm Hands of Ghosts by Katherine Arden. Copyright © 2024 by Katherine Arden. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The post Read an Excerpt From <i>The Warm Hands of Ghosts</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Introduction

We’ll admit— the editors of this bestiary are not zoologists. We did consult a PhD in animal sciences, but she didn’t do any real work. We only hired her to appear more credible to the scientific community. The rest of us are florists. This makes us more qualified to conduct this research than just about anyone else. We spend all day touching beautiful things (both edible and poisonous), so we are experts when it comes to monsters. Monsters and flowers aren’t much different. Sometimes they are hard to tell apart—but a good florist knows what to look for.

Our customers rely on us to ease apologies (tulips; marigold; a single lily), to ensure everlasting affection (baby’s breath, red carnation), to see a beloved into the next life (orchid and rose). We bear a responsibility to convey our clients’ passions with accuracy. But what to do when primrose is not enough? When the greenhouse can no longer contain a client’s longing? Then—a bolder bouquet is needed.

A rose can say a lot, but a Yslani can say more. Why give a hyacinth when you could offer your beloved a Finlir, shaking on its knees?

Through fieldwork, ethnographic study, and somber reflection, we set out to prove that anything could, in the hands of a skilled florist and in a vase of the right size, become a bouquet.

(We have since learned that it is possible to learn too much.)

What follows is a compendium of regional creatures, studied and cataloged in the order in which we encountered them. We conducted this labor over the course of many months, and it cannot be said this time passed without significant setbacks. Still, we believe our report to be of value to any dedicated craftsman of the floral arts, as well as to the occasional interested outsider.

Do not be thrown by the many rumors in this text. There is much we cannot say for sure—unsubstantiated facts. What is true will not cleanly be separated from superstition. The truth is none of your business.

If you are not a florist but stubborn enough to read this anyway, here’s a test:

If you answered with anything other than a creature listed in this book, you’d be smart to revise your answer before they find out. The beasts here are a vain lot.

Here are a few more test questions:

Again, if you did not answer with one of the beasts in this text, you are only putting yourself at risk. We’re telling you this as friends. If this document acts as anything, let it be a map of hunger. Let it be flint. Let it be a warning.

Signed,

Dr. Larkspur, researcher
Dr. Ghost Pipe, researcher
Dr. Phlox, floricultural illustrator

Getly

The Getly sings, and its prey listens. Oh, what a sound, how riotous and sweet. The prey’s heart is a rattle seized to shake. Don’t stop singing, begs the prey, leaning closer to the Getly’s open mouth. Don’t stop singing. The Getly obliges, and the prey climbs into the Getly’s throat. The Getly sings until the prey has forgotten its own name. It sings of highways and shipyards, of hotel rooms and riverbeds. It keeps singing until the prey has slipped into its belly and dissolved, no longer a living thing but merely food: fuel for a song. 

Spotted Lepidome

Imagine a moth with pale, powdered wings. No, that’s not quite right. Here: imagine a bicycle. Now adjust your image of the moth to match the size of the bicycle. That’s closer.

Spotted Lepidome do not have a larval state but, rather, begin life fully grown. Not unlike a chrysalis, the Lepidome egg is outfitted with a brassy zipper, which grins open in the act of hatching.

Larkspur and Ghost Pipe’s first date was over a hatching Lepidome. The magic of each great wing emerging from almost-death—it was romantic. After the Lepidome flapped away, the editors went home together under the auspices of filing this report. They did not file this report. Thus, Phlox’s illustration was drawn with less than complete information. The beast does not actually have wheels—that was a misinterpretation of wording on Phlox’s part. It’s okay. He did his best with what he had. 

The Spotted Lepidome is named for an array of magenta eyes dotting its wings. The marks range between two inches and one foot in diameter. On a typical moth, similar eyelike markings serve to confuse predators into believing they are being watched. In the case of the Spotted Lepidome, however, these marks can actually see. Though it has not been confirmed, we theorize that Lepidome eye spots can see seventeen colors beyond those perceived by the human eye. They may also be able to see the future, sound waves, and the dead.

Prem

Anyone will tell you—Prems are a real nuisance. They turned that brand-new pair of shears to rust overnight. They drank the shine from the watering can, crumbling it in five minutes flat. Same with the steering column of Ghost Pipe’s car, which fell straight through his Volvo’s floor last summer while he was making out with Larkspur in the back seat. Prems have a thirst for good metal. They suck the glint out of it, leaving behind oxidation to drip in red flakes. A Prem’s mouth is round and opalescent, like a moon with a hole in it. The best way to keep them out of the house is to leave scrap metal in a pile in the yard. That will satiate them enough to leave the jewelry boxes alone. 

Blue-Bellied Ib

Ever since Ibs figured out how to use the phone, it’s been prank calls day and night. They’re terrible jokesters because Blue-Bellied Ibs cannot lie. Instead, they’ll ring you to tell it to you straight:

They’re purebred soothsayers. It’s okay to hate that. It’s okay to shoot the messenger. Rotisserie Ib is a good, filling meal, and if you eat it, you won’t have to listen to the truth anymore, ever again. Easy. 

Seed Vulpes

Most foxes are birthed hot and mammalian. The Seed Vulpes is not most foxes. It is born from a splitting pomegranate. Once free of this womb, it carries the fruit beneath its tongue—little blood drops sweet to the taste. It has been known to leave single seeds on the closed eyes of women abandoned by lovers. When the women wake, they find the Seed Vulpes at the foot of the bed, whistling. It whistles all the tunes the women’s lovers once hummed over the kitchen stove and recites their favorite comical vanity plates. When the women reach out to pet the Seed Vulpes, it grins, and the women decide it is better left untouched.

If a woman chooses to eat the pomegranate seeds left upon her eyes (as Larkspur may or may not have done), it can serve as an antidote to the sorrow the lover left behind. The seeds will take root inside the woman. They will sprout and tangle, will grow and grow and will not stop growing. Branches will extend into her fingertips and her knees, bloom into her throat, filling the emptiness her beloved’s abandonment gouged out. No more hollows. No more need. Only a sapling, thorny with claws, widening by the day. 

Excerpted from Fifty Beasts to Break Your Heart, copyright © 2024 by GennaRose Nethercott.

Buy the Book

Fifty Beasts to Break Your Heart

GennaRose Nethercott

Buy Book

Fifty Beasts to Break Your Heart

GennaRose Nethercott

Buy this book from:

• Amazon
• Barnes and Noble
• iBooks
• IndieBound
• Target

The post Read an Excerpt From GennaRose Nethercott’s <i>Fifty Beasts to Break Your Heart</i> appeared first on Reactor.