Gizmo's Reviews

#Review - A Crime Through Time by Amelia Blackwell #Mystery #Suspense

2026-08-06T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Miss Darcy Investigates (#1)
Format: 400 pages, Paperback
Release Date: March 31, 2026
Publisher: Pan
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery, Suspense

Cozy, quirky and utterly enthralling, A Crime Through Time is the debut from Amelia Blackwell – the start of a series where crime, time travel and Jane Austen collide.

Pemberley, 1799. When Miss Georgiana Darcy attempts to escape an unwanted marriage proposal, she isn’t expecting to end up quite so far from home. But after encountering a mysterious object in the nearby woods, she finds herself transported almost two hundred years into the future.

Saltram, 1995. At a grand country house where a film crew are busy shooting the latest Jane Austen adaptation, a terrible crime has been committed. And Miss Darcy – newly arrived, impeccably dressed and thoroughly confused – is the only witness.

It soon becomes clear that, somehow, Georgiana was meant to solve this riddle. With the help of a distractingly handsome Irishman named Quinn and a border collie named Watson, she sets out to stop the killer before they can strike again. But meanwhile, trouble is brewing back at Pemberley and time, it seems, is not on her side . . .

Amelia Blackwell's A Crime Through Time is the first installment in the author's Miss Darby Investigations series, and the author's debut novel. A Crime Through Time is a quirky, escapist debut that blends Jane Austen sequel vibes, cozy crime, time travel, and light romance into an entertaining (if uneven) romp. It launches the Miss Darcy Investigates series and centers on Georgiana Darcy (Mr. Darcy’s younger sister from Pride and Prejudice) as an unlikely time-traveling amateur sleuth.

The novel is set primarily between Pemberley in 1799 and Saltram House in Devon in 1995. Georgiana, now around 20 and still recovering from the near-scandal involving Wickham, faces an unwanted marriage proposal from the unappealing Baron John de Halighwell. Seeking solitude in the woods, she discovers a mysterious object—a Motorola pager—that transports her nearly 200 years forward. She lands on the grounds of Saltram House, where a film crew is shooting a Jane Austen adaptation (linked to Sense and Sensibility).

There she witnesses (or stumbles upon) a crime involving a groundsman’s death, becomes the only key witness of sorts, and teams up with a distractingly handsome Irish security guard named Quinn and a border collie named Watson to investigate while shuttling back and forth through time. Parallel troubles brew at Pemberley involving family (including Elizabeth’s difficult pregnancy) and social pressures. The premise is the book’s strongest asset: a clever collision of Austen’s world with 1990s Britain, fish-out-of-water humor, and cozy mystery tropes.

Georgiana’s reactions to modern life, technology, language, casual manners, music, and the chaos of a film set provide much of the comedy and charm. Blackwell (a Cornwall-based author with a deep affection for Austen, an MA in Creative Writing, and personal touches like naming a suitor after a family connection) shows clear research and love for the source material. She expands Georgiana beyond her more passive original portrayal into a curious, increasingly confident young woman who gains agency through her adventures.

Familiar figures such as Darcy, Elizabeth, Lady Catherine, and Anne appear with recognizable traits while allowing room for new dynamics. The dual timelines create a sense of two stories in one, and the short, often amusingly titled chapters help the pacing in places. Romance develops between Georgiana (“George” to Quinn) and the down-to-earth Quinn, offering a contrast between Regency constraints and modern possibilities, though the time gap creates inherent tension and an open-ended quality suited to a series.

The mystery involves murder(s) on the estate and the need to stop a killer, with Watson adding a touch of loyal canine companionship. As a series starter, it successfully plants seeds for future adventures (a sequel involving the Brontës has been mentioned in related materials) and leaves some questions open. It works best for readers who enjoy light, concept-driven fiction rather than rigorous locked-room puzzles or deep historical immersion.

Fans of Austen-inspired stories, time-travel romances, or gentle mysteries with humor (think elements of Thursday Next-style literary playfulness mixed with cozy vibes) are the clearest audience. Those seeking a meaty, clue-driven crime novel or strict fidelity to Austen’s tone and characters may find it lighter and more uneven than hoped.

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#Review - Whisper Creek by Allison Brennan #Thriller #Suspense

2026-08-05T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Standalone
Format: 323 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: June 23, 2026
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thriller, Suspense

After the sudden death of her husband, Ellen McKenna is doing everything she can to keep her Texas farm afloat. She and her family hope to expand their operation, but times are tough and making ends meet is more expensive than she imagined, much less trying to grow. Many of their neighbors in Cooke County have thrown in the towel and agreed to sell their farms to a local businessman, but despite similar pressure, Ellen refuses to let her dreams die.

On top of the usual hardships, a series of recent storms has left the region partly flooded, and as the heavy rain begins again one morning, all the members of the McKenna family jump into action to protect their land and animals. Ellen’s oldest son discovers an injured dog—and the dog leads him to a man barely clinging to life, the apparent victim of a brutal home invasion. Then, Ellen’s younger kids go to check on a nearby neighbor and walk into a threat none of them saw coming.

Before anyone can figure out what’s really going on in their idyllic rural valley, the storm picks up again in intensity, and the McKenna kids find themselves in over their heads with no way to call for help. To protect her farm--and her family—Ellen must face down all the forces trying to tear them apart.

Allison Brennan's talent for twisty, tense pacing combines with a deeply drawn family drama and the unforgiving power of nature in this compelling standalone thriller.

Whisper Creek by Allison Brennan is a standalone thriller that delivers a high-stakes blend of family drama, corporate greed, rural survival, and natural disaster set on a Texas ranch during a severe storm. A year after her husband John’s sudden death, Ellen McKenna struggles to keep Whisper Creek Ranch in Cooke County, Texas, viable for herself and her four children. The family hopes to expand the operation amid rising costs and tough times, but many neighbors have sold out to a determined local businessman (and the corporation behind him) eager to acquire land—and the mineral rights beneath it.

Ellen refuses to yield. As heavy rains return and the ground remains saturated from prior storms, the family mobilizes to protect their land, livestock, and property. Complications escalate quickly: an injured dog leads to the discovery of a man clinging to life after a brutal home invasion; younger family members checking on a neighbor walk into unexpected danger; sabotage has compromised the barn; and communication and escape routes fail as the storm intensifies. Ellen must protect both her farm and her family from human threats and the unforgiving power of nature.

Brennan crafts a taut, cinematic story that uses the storm almost as a character in its own right. The relentless weather—flooding, isolation, and the constant threat of rising water—amplifies every human conflict and creates genuine atmospheric tension. Short chapters and shifting perspectives keep the pace moving once the action ramps up, merging external dangers (burglars with a specific agenda, corporate pressure, sabotage) with internal family struggles around grief, responsibility, coming-of-age, and loyalty.

Ellen emerges as a compelling, grounded protagonist: a tough, practical widow and mother determined to honor her late husband’s dreams while looking out for neighbors. Her children feel distinct and believable in their roles and reactions, and supporting figures (including a cantankerous but caring grandmother) add texture and occasional levity. The rural Texas setting and everyday realities of farm life—protecting animals, dealing with weather damage, community interdependence—are rendered with authenticity that grounds the thriller elements.

Themes of land rights, small-farm survival against larger economic forces, and family resilience resonate, especially for readers who enjoy Yellowstone-style drama or novels by Colleen Coble and Ellen Crosby. Whisper Creek is a solid, engaging standalone that plays to Brennan’s strengths in tense pacing and character-driven suspense while adding a strong environmental survival layer. It succeeds best as an atmospheric page-turner for fans of domestic thrillers with heart, rural settings, and dual human/natural antagonists. It may feel a bit overloaded or less surprising for those seeking tighter, more unpredictable plots or pure procedural thrills.

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday Night

Rena Jones sat in the backseat of the King Cab pickup as the rain poured down like the sky had cracked open, pelting the top of the cab with a violent staccato beat. Her brother lay slumped beside her, his shirt soaked with blood and rain, his breaths coming in short gasps.

She pressed her trembling hands to the wound on his side. Her fingers were warm and sticky with blood, and no matter how hard she pushed, she couldn’t seem to stop it.

“Brock,” she choked, glancing at her husband, who was driving, his hands tight on the wheel as he navigated through unpaved back roads. Every bump and hole in the road had the truck bouncing and Sam grunting in pain. “We have to get Sam to a hospital.”

“No,” Sam ground out, his voice barely a whisper. His face was pale, jaw clenched, eyes pained. He was shaking, whether from shock or cold, she couldn’t tell.

The windshield wipers were going full force, slapping rhythmically against the glass, but the rain was winning. Water sheeted over the truck like they were underwater.

Tears stung her eyes, hot against the cold. “But—”

“He’s right,” Brock said from the front seat, turning halfway toward her. His face was hard, but his eyes showed his deep fear. He loved Sam just like she did. It had been the three of them for so long. Ever since Brock walked into her life when she was eighteen and they fell in love. It was her and Brock and Sam against the world. Doing what needed to be done to keep them above water. The three musketeers. The three amigos.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Brock insisted. “A flesh wound.”

“It’s not a flesh wound!” she snapped. “He’s losing too much blood. He needs stitches, a transfusion—something!”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam mumbled weakly. “Just … Let’s get home. You can patch me up. Like last time.”

Rena shook her head, throat closing. Last time was years ago, and the gunshot hadn’t been this bad. That time, it had gone in and out of his upper arm. He still had the scar, which he’d covered with a tattoo of a cypress tree that reminded Rena of the one that grew out of the swamp behind their Mimi’s house.

This time … there was more blood.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said, her voice low, furious. “Baldwin wasn’t supposed to be home.”

They’d been hired for four jobs. Four clean, silent entries. In and out, no one the wiser. Get the documents, break the computer, steal a few shiny things to throw off the scent. No one gets hurt. No one around to see them. The first two had been letter-perfect, no one suspecting the reason for the break-ins.

But this time? Tonight had turned into a damn nightmare and now they were stuck in the middle of a torrential downpour in an unfamiliar area in the middle of nowhere.

They’d entered through the back of the house after Sam disabled the alarm from the main box. He was so smart, her little brother. So damn smart. Her eyes burned, the deeply buried regrets that she should have done something, anything, to get Sam a real job, maybe even into college, rather than letting him follow her and Brock into a life of crime.

Intel had said Baldwin was in Dallas until Saturday, and he always took his German shepherd with him when he traveled. So, after Sam took down the alarms, they should have had all the time in the world.

But halfway through corrupting the hard drives, they heard three rapid barks from upstairs. A canine alarm. The dog sounded furious, then Rena heard a muffled voice.

Footsteps thundering down the stairs barely before they could register that they weren’t alone in the house.

Baldwin, shotgun in hand, stepped into the doorway with surprise, anger, and fear in his eyes.

Rena had screamed. Brock fired. The dog lunged. Gunshots coming from her husband and Sam. The loud report of the shotgun going off once, pump, twice. The dog yelped, crumpled. Baldwin fell back, clutching his chest. Or was it his throat? It all happened so damn fast.

And then Brock was screaming, dragging Sam out the front door. Rena’s ears still rang from the echo of gunfire. She wasn’t even sure which one of them had hit Baldwin.

But it wouldn’t matter who fired the fatal shot. They were either killers or accessories to murder.

Maybe he isn’t dead. Maybe he survived.

God, she hoped he survived. Please, God, let him live. Baldwin and Sam.

The rain had started somewhere in that chaos, while she waited with Sam bleeding in her arms as Brock brought the truck around. Now it was drowning the world.

“Fucking road’s flooding,” Brock muttered, his voice faint but with a hint of panic.

Her husband never panicked, so she knew this was bad.

“The rain just started—” she said, but she could see the rising water now, remembered the storm last weekend that had kept them in town until Tuesday night. They were supposed to be done by now, but they’d been delayed because of the damn spring rain. The unpaved back roads were turning into rivers. Mud slid under their tires.

“We’re trapped,” Brock said. “There’s no way through.”

“Sam’s bleeding out,” she said, heart thudding. “Brock, we can’t just sit here—”

“Fuck!” She jumped when Brock slammed his palm against the steering wheel, the sound cracking through the cab. “I’m sorry, okay? We don’t have any other choice.”

Before she could ask what he was planning, Brock swerved suddenly, tires crunching wet gravel, and they drove down a long, bumpy driveway. Trees loomed on either side, branches lashing at the truck from the wind. A flash of lightning illuminated outbuildings and a dark house. Brock killed the lights, then the engine.

Darkness swallowed them, but not silence. The storm outside raged, shaking their truck, tearing at her soul. They couldn’t stay here, she knew. Sam would die. Her brother, her younger brother, her only brother. She couldn’t let that happen.

A sob escaped her throat; she swallowed it.

“Do you trust me, Rena?” Brock said quietly.

She stared at him. The anger and fear in his eyes. And the love.

“Of course I do,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“We need to hole up tonight. Wait out the storm. We’ll patch Sam up. Assess his injuries. Then finish the job.”

She hesitated, heart hammering. “Okay,” she said at last. “Where?”

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Rena watched him disappear into the dark, every instinct screaming not to let him go. But she stayed. She held on to Sam’s hand, whispered reassurances, tried to believe them herself.

The rain was so thick she couldn’t see outside the truck. Then lightning flashed across the sky, lighting up the fields in stark white for a heartbeat before the dark came again. The trees writhed in the wind. Thunder rolled so loud it made her chest rattle. And she’d seen the dark house again in that moment of light.

She hoped it was empty; she feared it wasn’t.

But they had no choice.

“You’ll be okay,” she whispered to Sam, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. His eyes fluttered closed. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m going to be fine, Rena,” Sam said, his voice trying for everything is coming up roses but sounding more like this is the end of the world.

She hated this godforsaken rural county, this miserable state. The endless dark. The isolation. Out here, there were no sirens. No cell service. No one to save her brother.

And she couldn’t stop thinking—what if Baldwin had a silent alarm? What if someone had seen the truck? What if Baldwin wasn’t dead and could identify them? Or worse, what if he was dead and they were now murderers?

What if this was the beginning of the end?

“One more job,” she murmured to herself. “Just one more. Then we’re done.”

But the words felt empty. If Sam died, money couldn’t bring him back. Money would mean nothing to her without her family.

Ten minutes later, Brock returned, soaked and pale.

“I didn’t hurt nobody,” he said, breathing heavily. “But they understand.”

She turned toward him slowly, her stomach sinking. His eyes were too bright. His voice too calm.

“Brock…” she said, warning in her voice.

He looked away. “We need to save Sammy. Help me get him inside.”

She didn’t move.

Because she knew.

He hadn’t asked for help. He’d taken it.

And somewhere inside that farmhouse, someone now feared them enough to stay silent, at least for tonight.

They had crossed a line.

And Rena didn’t know if they’d ever find their way back.

CHAPTER TWO

Friday Morning

Ellen McKenna watched her son Jake ride off across the field on horseback alongside their ranch hand, Mateo Delgado. Yesterday they’d discovered that the run-in—a simple, three-sided structure used to give cattle shelter from the elements—had been seriously damaged during last weekend’s hailstorm. Overnight rain had caused part of it to collapse. With a brief break in the weather this morning, they planned to make repairs so the herd would have protection when the storm returned this afternoon.

The rain last night had been short-lived, but the already saturated ground couldn’t absorb the sudden two-hour downpour. The narrow gravel road that cut through their farm toward the pasture still had standing water, leaving the surface pocked and muddy, but fortunately it hadn’t been washed out. Jake and Mateo would also check for damage along the road, making notes and fixing whatever they could in the few hours they had before the rain was supposed to start up again.

She’d packed them each a full thermos of coffee and sandwiches in case the job took longer than expected. Their cattle grazed on the far side of their fourteen hundred acres, half of which was dedicated to their herd. There was plenty of high ground for the cattle to migrate to if the fields flooded. Most of their crops had survived the hailstorm last weekend, and though the ground was still saturated, the plants were thriving.

But they might not thrive if the fields flooded. They might lose everything.

They’d lost half their grapevines in the hailstorm, but it looked like the rest were going to flower. It would be the first year they had fruit on the vines.

It had been John’s dream to create their own wine label, but it had never been the right time to start the vineyard. Three years ago, after a particularly good year for cattle, they planted a small, uneven twelve-acre plot bisected by Whisper Creek. It was the perfect soil for wine grapes, according to John, who’d consulted with his closest friend—a successful vintner—on the project. On one side, they planted Tempranillo, on the other, Sangiovese. But it takes three years, sometimes four, for the vines to age and flower.

This was the year, and John wasn’t here to see it.

She looked up at the dark gray sky, thinking—believing—that her husband was watching over them, that he would see the first grape harvest. They wouldn’t have their own winery—she’d have to sell the grapes this year and maybe next—but it was a start.

And someday, she would turn the old bunkhouse into a winery and bottle their own label—a label John had designed years ago.

Whisper Creek Vineyard.

“John, I miss you so much,” she murmured.

Two and a half months from now, on July first, would have been their twentieth wedding anniversary. Now, she was a widow at forty-one.

It had been eleven months since her husband died in a tragic accident. Eleven months since her life had been shattered. She was still broken, but she’d put the pieces together as best she could for their four kids.

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#Review - Deathless by Julie Kagawa #YA #Fantasy

2026-08-04T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Fateless # 2
Format: 400 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: July 7, 2026
Publisher: HarperCollins US
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult, Dark Fantasy

How does one kill the unkillable?

Sparrow and her companions have been left with an impossible task: slay the immortal Deathless King, whose magic siphons the very life of the world to sustain himself.

The answer may lie deep in the past, when those who would become Deathless Kings stormed the sanctuary of the goddess of Fate, in an attempt to remove their threads from the Weave and become immortal. They broke off a piece of the goddess’s loom and hurled it to the earth, where it still lies at the center of a dangerous wasteland called the World Scar.

For any chance against the Deathless King, Sparrow and her companions must brave the World Scar and reach the loom, which would grant the power of a goddess. But the journey is fraught with danger, and the powerful Deathless King determined to find them.

And if the loom is reached—what will the power of a goddess do to a mere mortal? Sparrow has no choice but to find out.

Julie Kagawa's Deathless is the second installment in the author's Fateless series. Deathless picks up with former thief Sparrow confronting the consequences of her identity as the Fateless—someone who can unravel the fates and destinies of those she touches, yet has none of her own—while facing an immortal threat that is draining the world itself.

Sparrow and her companions (Kysa, Halek and Raithe) face an impossible charge: stop the Deathless King, an immortal whose magic sustains him by siphoning life from the land. The path forward leads into the past and a perilous journey toward a fragment of the goddess of Fate’s loom, hidden in the deadly World Scar—a lava-covered wasteland where even the air is poisonous.

Reaching it could grant goddess-level power, but the risks to a mortal (and the pursuit by the Deathless King) are immense. Sparrow travels with Scarab Clan warrior Kysa, the carefree Fatechaser Halek (on their giant flying rock beetles), and the assassin Raithe, whose budding romance with Sparrow grows more complicated, including a visit to his mystic homeland.

The group crosses dangerous territories, meets allies and foes, and navigates twists that keep the stakes high. The narrative balances the larger quest (confronting immortality and cosmic-scale threats tied to the Weave of fate) with personal costs, nightmares stemming from prior events, and interpersonal dynamics. Twists are deftly placed to maintain momentum through the Dead Lands and beyond.

Notably, the book incorporates necessary background from Fateless smoothly enough that new readers can follow, while rewarding series fans with deeper exploration of the lore around the Deathless Kings, the goddess Maederyss, and the Tapestry/Weave. As a middle book in a trilogy, it escalates the conflict effectively and ends on a cliffhanger designed to heighten anticipation for the finale.

Sparrow remains a compelling lead: a resourceful former thief grappling with power, responsibility, identity, and the absence of a predetermined path. Her emotional arc receives solid development alongside the action. The supporting cast shines—Kysa’s warrior perspective and cultural ties, Halek’s lighter, windswept Fatechaser philosophy providing contrast and humor, and Raithe’s enigmatic assassin background adding tension and depth.

Building on the desert city of Kovass, the Dust Sea, ancient Deathless Kings, the Thieves Guild/Circle, and the theological framework of Maederyss weaving the Tapestry of the World, Deathless expands into new regions like the World Scar, the Dead Lands, and Irrikah. Unique elements—giant flying rock beetles as mounts, poisonous wastelands, blood magic/undead forces tied to the immortal king, and cultural details of groups like the Scarab Clan—create an immersive, distinctive setting that blends high fantasy with post-imperial decay and mythic stakes.

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#Review - Of Venom and Vengeance by Mikayla Bridge #YA #Fantasy #Romance

2026-07-31T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Standalone
Format: 432 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: July 7, 2026
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)
Source: Publisher
Genre: YA, Fantasy, Romance

A deliciously dark standalone follow-up to the highly-anticipated YA romantic fantasy Of Flame and Fury, where star-crossed enemies gamble with their hearts, empires, and the fate of a lost god.

On an island marred by pageantry and pain, power comes at an impossible price. Inna is the perfect heiress to the Pallo crime family: poised, cunning, untouchable. Behind this glamorous facade, she hunts for the sinister truth of her sister’s death. Despite the cover-up she’s been led to believe, Inna can feel an enemy lurking in the shadows.

Rylan has sculpted himself into a talented thief for one reason: retribution for his family, who were murdered by Inna’s mother. Armed with illusion magic, Rylan plans to steal an ancient riddle from the Pallo vault, one that leads to a sleeping god. Whoever wakes the Serpent King will be granted any wish they desire. Rylan means to claim this power, and with it, Inna’s ruin.

But when Inna catches Rylan sneaking past her family’s security, they enter into a perilous alliance that neither intends to keep —even as bitter attraction ignites into something more.

Though some hearts aren’t meant to be stolen, and love knows nothing of blood-red revenge…

Of Venom and Vengeance by Mikayla Bridge is a dark YA romantasy standalone (companion novel) set in the same world as Of Flame and Fury. It follows dual protagonists navigating crime-family intrigue, illusion magic, a high-stakes heist, and a quest involving a sleeping serpent god. Inna Pallo is the poised, cunning heiress to a powerful crime family on an island defined by pageantry, pain, and power struggles. Behind her glamorous facade, she quietly investigates the suspicious death of her older sister, sensing a cover-up and an enemy closer than the official story suggests.

Rylan is a skilled thief driven by retribution: Inna’s mother was responsible for his family’s murder. Armed with illusion magic, he targets an ancient riddle locked in the Pallo vault—one that leads to the sleeping Serpent King, a lost god who grants any wish to whoever wakes him. Rylan intends to claim that power and use it to destroy Inna’s world. When Inna catches Rylan infiltrating her family’s security, the two form a perilous, reluctant alliance that neither fully intends to honor.

As they navigate family secrets, gambling dens, exploited magical sprites, and mounting dangers, bitter attraction complicates their mutual distrust and competing agendas. The story expands the existing world with new elements (particularly sprite lore and a different regional flavor of magic and society) while functioning effectively as a standalone, with only light Easter eggs or references for readers of the prior book. Inna is calculating, trained in the political and physical demands of her family’s world, and motivated by grief and a need for truth.

Rylan is guarded, witty, determined, and shaped by loss—morally gray in a way that fits the crime-underworld setting. Their enemies-to-lovers / forced-alliance dynamic is built on genuine conflict, distrust, banter, and the tension of knowing the other may betray them at any moment. Supporting figures (including family members and Inna’s former partner/bodyguard Celesse) add layers of complication, loyalty tests, and moral ambiguity.

A standout strength is the atmospheric setting: a glamorous yet sinister island of crime families, clubs, gambling, and spectacle with 1920s-adjacent vibes mixed with dark fantasy. The sprite lore receives particular praise—creatures with varied appearances, personalities, magics, and a darker reality involving exploitation and blood that contrasts with more surface-level perceptions. Illusion magic enables deception and thievery in compelling ways, while the Serpent King myth raises the stakes to something mythic and potentially costly.

The narrative blends murder mystery, family secrets, heist planning and execution, revenge, and a treasure-hunt-style quest. Themes of grief, betrayal, trust, the cost of power, and how pain is “repurposed” rather than simply healed run through the dual perspectives. This is classic YA enemies-to-lovers with forced proximity, reluctant allies who keep plotting against each other, slow-burn tension, and high personal stakes. The attraction is charged and dangerous rather than soft.

The story can be compared to works with crime underworlds, heists, and star-crossed tension (think elements of Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows, Chloe Gong’s style, Amanda Foody’s Ace of Shades, or These Violent Delights dynamics). If you are a reader who enjoys dark YA fantasy with revenge plots, reluctant alliances, illusion/heist magic, and complicated found (or forced) partnerships. Content notes commonly include violence, murder, family trauma/abuse, animal cruelty involving sprites, gambling, and related darker themes.

ONE. INNA

YEAR 1510 OF THE ALCHEMY AGE

Beneath charcoal clouds, sprites glowed a merciless sapphire, turning the shadows Inna crept through into a spotlight. Stealth was a lost cause as she tiptoed across tide-lashed docks in pink platforms. The shoes weren’t made for sneaking, but her mother’s rushed orders hadn’t left her with time to change.

The silk sprites summoned a lukewarm breeze, lifting Inna’s hair and swinging nearby bracket lanterns. Wooden piers creaked and battled the masculine voices up ahead. Illyre’s city lights and tourist crowds were distant memories out here among the small, discreet boats of poachers, smugglers, fishers. Inna had long since passed the sturdier, registered boats; decadent tourist ships painted silver and plum, her mother’s crest splashed across each stern.

Inna blinked through the salt mist and hurried toward the bobbing ship at the pier’s end. She wasn’t worried about being spotted. Anyone sailing this late wasn’t interested in ferrying guests around Ascira’s glittering skirts, watching sprites flit by while sipping from champagne flutes. They were here because they’d rather risk sea-monster-infested oceans than declare their goods on legal airships.

Even if Inna’s mother hadn’t described the ship she was to seek out, the smell soon gave it away: sharp and saccharine, like boiled sweets, contrasting the docks’ rusted iron and wet timber.

Inna bit down on her tongue, steeling her spine. Sprites’ odor was strongest when they were hungry. She’d have to be careful to keep any captured sprites locked away.

Behind Inna, a tall shadow sniffed. “How many sprites do they have down there? It smells like someone drowned in honey.”

“Hush.” Inna paused at the boat’s edge, turning to Celesse, her backup for tonight’s assignment. “Adelia said there’s only two poachers. It should be a quick retrieval.”

Inna ignored Celesse’s arched brow and reached into the satchel at her waist. She retrieved a slim glass vial, glowing dandelion-yellow with a liquid dose of sprite magic. With a too-tight grip, she uncorked the vial and lifted it to her lips.

The magic trickled down her throat like warm syrup. It fizzled through her limbs, pressing beneath her skin, eager to be expelled. She hoped to not have to use the warm weather magic: one stray spark could shatter a jar and free the sprites. The siphoned magic would only last a few minutes, anyway. Just long enough to offer backup in case the poachers caused trouble.

Inna reached inside her satchel for a second vial—her uncle always ensured she had a steady supply—and offered it to Celesse. She held it pinched between her nails so Celesse’s touch wouldn’t brush hers. But Celesse merely kept her brow raised and offered a minute shake of her head, leaving Inna’s arm outstretched.

“It’s a small ship,” Celesse cautioned. “The last thing we need is me sneezing sunshine and breaking out a starved sprite.”

A soft current—unrelated to the magic—hummed beneath Inna’s skin: the petty satisfaction of wielding what Celesse couldn’t. Despite whatever else her mother thought of her, Inna knew, at least when it came to shaping magic, she could do what was needed.

Inna slid over the boat’s lip. “Suit yourself. Keep watch up here.”

She crept across the deck, hands gliding over the worn railing, breath shallow. Light glowed from a narrow staircase leading to a cabin. The poachers’ laughter cut through the hush, floating up from belowdecks. Inna crouched behind a stack of crates and peered between slats of rotted wood. The magic in her veins encouraged her to move faster, warming her muscles against the evening chill.

At the bottom of the deck’s staircase, Inna spotted two sets of feet. In their shadows, three glimmering jars lined the floor. Tiny, shifting colors flickered within: sprites. Their wings pulsed, crystal shells clinking against the glass, searching for an escape.

How many poachers had died to seal them inside jars? To most, sprites were harmless, pretty things, capable only of dizzying lights and weak weather magic—until you stuffed them in cages and starved them. But to any underground buyers who knew the truth of sprite power? The thumb-sized weapons would fetch a hefty price.

These poachers were likely oblivious to the danger they’d trapped.

Inna’s heartbeat matched the rhythm of Celesse’s tapping foot. She steadied her breath, and raced down the staircase.

Inna rammed into the first poacher before he could turn toward her. The second, shorter poacher fumbled for a weapon as Inna ducked his flailing arms. She twisted his elbow until there was a sharp crack that sent his knife clattering to the floor. He yelped, eyes wide, as she lifted her own blade to his throat.

The poacher she’d thrown against the wall recovered quicker than expected, straightening to race for the stairs. She was tempted to fling her current captive to the floor—but a quick glance at his belt kept her still. The bastard had another two bottled sprites dangling from his leather belt. She couldn’t risk them breaking. Not without knowing how long it had been since they’d fed.

Inna opened her mouth to shout as a lean shadow flew down the steps, greeting the fleeing man with a swift kick to his torso.

“Too slow,” Celesse sighed, facing Inna. “I thought you were going to hover on the deck for a few more years.”

The taller man tumbled back from Celesse, coughing. His veined eyes darted between Inna and Celesse, eventually settling on Inna.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he sneered. “Get off my ship!”

Inna tightened her grip on her struggling poacher. The fizzing magic in her veins pressed at the insides of her fingertips, begging to heat her blade.

She glared at Celesse. “I told you to stay on the docks.”

Celesse narrowed her dark eyes and shrugged, rustling her steel shirt. Soft, crimson chain mail danced across her entire body in a protective jumpsuit. “And I told you to move quicker this time. I’ve booked a seat at a card game in forty-five minutes.”

Inna swallowed a sour, too-familiar frustration. She removed her blade from the poacher’s throat and, slowly, spun him to face her. “Untie the sprite jars from your belt, please.”

At some point, Celesse had withdrawn her own blade to press against the second poacher’s chest. Though he scowled, Inna’s poacher—with sprites tied to him like glitter-bound grenades—watched her with wide-eyed fear. Good.

Trembling, her poacher reached down and unclasped a sprite vial from a carabiner at his waist. He unclipped the other and held the two caged, glowing sprites toward her. The warmth and sweat from his hands fogged the glass, dimming the sprites’ soft, changing colors. They eventually settled on a cherry-pink shade, likely their natural hue.

Celesse swore. “Are those posy sprites? I haven’t seen any for months.” She turned to her pinned poacher. “How long have you had these little monsters trapped down here?”

Inna gnawed at the inside of her cheek. Posy sprites were usually only seen in the Molten Season, when the sky softened and warmth flowered across fields. Their season had ended months ago.

Inna pressed her blade back to her poacher’s throat. “Answer her.”

“A few weeks?” her poacher squeaked.

Guilt ghosted through Inna, easy to ignore. These two didn’t seem experienced. They’d probably heard rumors of sprites’ illegal value and taken their chances. Their accents were too sharp and clipped to be Asciran. They were likely from the nearby continent, Velande.

“Place the sprites on the ground with the others, and we’ll let you sail off,” Inna said. “You don’t want to be here any more than we want you here.”

Overhead, a dim lantern swung. The ocean lapped at the hull. The poacher beneath her blade glanced to Celesse, to his partner. His fingers twitched toward the thin lids keeping the sprites contained.

“Don’t try anything.” Inna pressed her knife deeper into the man’s throat, drawing a bead of blood just as sweat beaded down her back.

“Release the sprites,” the other poacher growled. “She just wants the damn things to sell for herself. We can at least make it harder for her.”

Inna grinned. “Want to test that theory? We don’t need any more posies for our supply this year. Go on. Open a vial.”

“Inna,” Celesse warned, inching back, toward the staircase.

The poachers exchanged frowns. Inna understood their confusion. To the world, sprites were harmless, floating baubles. Their siphoned magic could offer people no more than a few minutes of weather-infused party tricks. Through as many industries as they could sink their claws into, her family had ensured that sprites seemed a fickle tourist attraction. Not a magical, murderous gold mine.

“You’ve had those sprites in vials for weeks, right?” Inna asked. “They’ll die before you can smuggle them into Velande. Hand them over, and maybe I can find you something better to sell for us.”

Inna extended a hand toward her poacher’s caged sprites. The pink creatures pressed against the glass, as if reaching for her, for the magic humming through her. Slowly, carefully, she cupped the jars and—

A sharp creak sounded. Then, hurried footsteps.

A new figure flashed through the narrow cabin space, hurtling toward Inna.

She cursed and ducked in the same breath, releasing her trembling poacher. The new figure had too much momentum for the small space and collided with the opposite wall. A rusted weapon glinted in her grip.

Inna raised her knife and turned toward her attacker, a dark-browed woman with an impressive scowl. She must have been stowed away in the head of the ship. Steel whistled toward Inna’s ribs and she jumped back. She felt Celesse move behind her, keeping one poacher subdued.

“You didn’t even check the rest of the ship?” Celesse snapped.

Inna ignored Celesse and pivoted, catching her new opponent by the wrist. The woman twisted, her arm shooting out to press her knife to Inna’s neck. Breath short, Inna summoned forth the sprite magic in her veins, willing the golden warmth into the woman’s white-knuckled grip around the knife. She bit down on her tongue and pushed, wringing every drop of magic from that measly vial, focusing on the poacher’s grip against her neck.

A moment later, the poacher hissed, flinching back as her hand glowed blister-red. Inna drove her shoulder into the poacher’s ribs before knocking the heated weapon to the floor. The woman gasped, bending over. Inna felt a moment’s triumph before new hands gripped her neck from behind.

Lurching, Inna stomped down on her second attacker’s foot and shoved him into a wall as the last of the magic fizzled from her blood. Both poachers wheezed, and as the man behind her fell, so did a vial.

Inna heard glass shatter a half second before sprite light lit the cabin, color scattering like stars.

Two ravenous sprites burst free.

“Shit!” Celesse screamed, scampering back, abandoning her dazed poacher.

The freed sprites flew to the center of the cabin and the two standing poachers paused their attacks. Inna lunged in front of Celesse. Old, reflexive fear moved Inna’s limbs, keeping Celesse safe, and the sprites quickly chose the standing poachers as their prey.

The female poacher sucked in a sharp, startled breath as a sprite darted toward her.

Her mistake was opening her mouth.

The sprite shifted from pink to gold to crimson before dulling itself, like heat off stone, hiding behind illusion magic, bending light around its form. Dread crept down Inna’s spine. She knew what would come next.

The sprite slipped inside the poacher’s open mouth and down her throat.

The woman coughed. The other sprite hid itself, too, though this monster didn’t bother with an orifice, diving toward the shorter poacher’s left arm, the vein at his elbow’s crook. Almost too fast to follow, the sprite punched through skin and burrowed deep inside the poacher’s blood.

“Where did they…” the female poacher began, before a cough wracked her body. Blood trickled from her nose, reaching her upper lip before she crumpled to the ground.

“Farrah?” The younger, shorter poacher stepped toward his fallen colleague, oblivious to the blood trickling down his own arm—and then, from his nose.

Farrah’s fingers twitched, scarlet pooling from her fingernails. The young poacher managed another wobbly step before his knees gave way. His brown, bleeding eyes locked on Inna as he slumped beside Farrah.

Almost a minute passed in silence. The two poachers lay sprawled with the third curled, trembling, in a corner, when the sprites finally reappeared. Farrah jerked. A gargle escaped her throat. Blood bubbled from her lips, spilling down her chin, as the sprite—brighter, rounder—slid free. The other sprite, now a merry yellow, shot out of the younger poacher’s chest cavity and joined its friend in the air. One drifted leisurely toward Inna, its tiny body pulsing. Newly fed, it was near blinding to look at, even with the tinted, protective contacts Inna wore.

Inna felt Celesse stiffen as the sprite neared. It shifted to a bright orange, slow and sated.

“You’re safe,” Inna said to Celesse. “They’ve eaten their fill.”

Inna lifted a hand, pointer finger extended. The sprite hesitated, then landed on Inna’s finger, delicate as gossamer. So long as Inna wore the pendant around her neck, thrumming with a dozen sprites’ worth of magic, no sprite would attack her. It was an invaluable trinket, marking her as kin in the sprites’ eyes.

Celesse huffed. “Can you put it back in a cage, please?”

“Fine.” Inna nodded toward the remaining poacher. “Restrain him.”

The remaining poacher fought Celesse’s grip for an impressive few seconds before she knotted rope around his wrists.

“What … What did you do to them?” the man spat.

Slowly, Inna reached into her silver satchel and retrieved a small, empty vial. She lifted the vial and let its subtle glimmer reflect through the air, mimicking the sprites’ light.

She popped the lid open and shook it. Both sprites drifted toward the new cage, shedding petal-like crystals.

They inspected the bottle, tempted by curiosity; tiny stars caught in the wrong orbit.

Into the vial, out of the ship, Inna repeated to herself, a mantra. Another mission completed. Another step closer to what she needed, beyond her mother’s absurd tests.

Inna pressed down on the vial’s base, activating a small vacuum. Both sprites flew inside and Inna clicked the lid shut.

Triumph, a small, momentary rush not unlike the magic she’d drank, brushed through her. Neither Celesse’s jabs nor Adelia’s expectations could take this victory away. Missions like this gave her a shape, a worth in a world already drowning in magical importance.

Celesse ran a hand through her sleek ponytail. “You could’ve tried harder to stop the murder bugs getting out of the jars.”

“And you could’ve shot them down if you were that scared.”

Celesse worked security for Inna’s family most nights. The guard could hold her own in a fight. Even so, the real reason Inna kept her on missions—despite their prickly romantic history—was that Celesse was the best shot Inna had ever seen. Inna could see Celesse’s slinger—a mechanical slingshot rifle—tucked at her hip, surely loaded with pearls, ready to strike down any rogue sprites.

Ignoring Celesse’s glare, Inna pulled out her tele-comm. Thumbing the digital screen, she texted their address to the head of her mother’s cleanup crew. Pocketing the device, Inna bent to retrieve the other caged sprites along the ground and tucked them inside her satchel.

“What are we to do with him?” Celesse thrust a thumb toward the cowering poacher.

Before Inna could respond, a cool breeze descended the stairs, heralding a new presence. Her stomach lifted as a short figure glided toward the center of the blood-soaked cabin.

Her mother didn’t look at her, not at first. Instead, Adelia Pallo dipped her chin toward the remaining poacher. His breath hitched as he met Adelia’s gaze. Fresh fear lit his features like a struck match.

Finally, Adelia’s blue eyes turned to Inna, and the massacre at her feet.

“Sloppy,” Adelia noted, the single word plunging and twisting a knife into Inna’s gut.

Adelia’s black heels clicked as she strode toward the still-breathing poacher, and yanked him up by his dark hair. The man—likely still dazed from Celesse’s strikes—barely fought her grip.

Inna swallowed a lump, pulse drumming.

“Do we keep him alive for information and risk him escaping, running his mouth about sprite appetites?” Adelia’s pale eyes turned to steel. “Or do we kill him and lose potential knowledge?”

“Keep him alive,” Inna said, forcing her voice to stay flat, even. “We can keep him hidden.”

She’d found the poachers, hadn’t she? She’d recovered the sprites. She’d remained exactly what her mother had required.

Adelia paused. Trembling, the man tried to rise from his knees. He managed one foot beneath him when Adelia—faster than any sprite, Alchemist or god—retrieved the rusted blade from the ground, and slashed the man’s throat.

Inna didn’t flinch. She wouldn’t. But she couldn’t help her stomach’s churning as the poacher slumped beside his fallen friends. Blood seeped from his neck as he stilled.

Whether by steel or sprite, their deaths were on Inna’s hands. They were far from the first.

She shoved her knife—her sister’s old knife—back in her satchel and, just for a moment, a quick flicker, the ghost of Erika appeared beside the poachers, her body strewn, bleeding, broken.

Adelia wiped her blade on her silver trousers. “Wrong answer.”

Inna’s fists clenched. Her mother had told her there were two poachers on the ship, not three. But she held her tongue; she had a better chance of surviving an argument with Salta’s serpent god.

As Adelia turned back toward the stairs, she said, “You did well, Celesse.”

Celesse’s chest puffed, and Inna fought a sneer. Then, back to Inna, Adelia instructed, “Get these poachers to the nearest coroner on payroll. We don’t need curious sailors searching their bodies and seeing crystallized organs.”

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#Review - A Curse of Beasts and Magic by Jeaniene Frost #Fantasy

2026-07-29T00:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Beautiful and Beastly (#1)
Format: 368 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: May 26, 2026
Publisher: Bramble
Source: Publisher
Genre: Dark Fantasy

New York Times bestselling author of The Night Huntress series Jeaniene Frost returns with a brand-new series! It’s Beauty and the Beast meets The Witcher, except Beauty IS the Beast, and he’s the Warden keeping mythical beings in check in our world and beyond.

Raine Stone is living a nightmare. Ever since she survived the attack that killed her family, she's been hiding a terrible secret--and a Beast inside her.

It feeds on violence and chaos, but she restrains its urges by playing vigilante on the city streets. Until one night, Raine uses the Beast’s energy to heal an elderly gentleman from a seemingly random attack and discovers a new world of danger—literally.

Remington “Remy” Byrne knows the wall between a realm of deadly mythic creatures and our own world is very fragile. After all, he’s the Warden who guards the gateways between them. Raine’s Beast contains power that could tip the scales in a sinister plot against Remy’s rule—if she allies with him.

Will they be friends or foes…or will their dangerous attraction turn into something else? And can our world be saved by their explosive alliance?

A Curse of Beasts and Magic is the first installment in author Jeaniene Frost's Beautiful and Beastly series. The series is a dark contemporary romantasy/urban fantasy that flips the Beauty and the Beast premise so the heroine is the one carrying the Beast. The series marks the author's return, and it blends portal fantasy elements, action, political intrigue among mythical beings, and medium-heat romance.

Lorraine “Raine” Stone (26), an ER nurse, has lived with a secret for 11 years: after surviving the attack that killed her mother and grandmother, she carries “Beithíoch” inside her. It feeds on violence, chaos, and pain. She keeps it in check by drawing on the energy of her hospital shifts and by acting as a nighttime vigilante against street criminals, sometimes using the Beast’s power to heal others. One night she intervenes to save an elderly man from abduction, using that power in a way that draws the attention of his grandson, Remington “Remy” Byrne (243, not a typo).

Remy is far more than the polished CEO he appears to be. He is a Warden—a powerful magic-wielder responsible for guarding gateways between the human world and parallel realms filled with dangerous mythic creatures (including dragon shifters and the Tuatha Dé Danann), enforcing truces, and overseeing supernatural beings in his territory. Raine’s Beast makes her both a threat and a potential asset amid a plot against Remy’s position. What begins as wary antagonism and a strategic alliance (including a fake engagement/relationship for protection and access) develops into genuine attraction and mutual reliance, set against escalating dangers that pull them between the everyday world and other realms.

Raine is a determined, morally grounded survivor who has structured her entire life around containing something monstrous inside her. Her dual roles as caregiver (healer) and vigilante give her an appealing complexity; she is tough and resourceful yet isolated and sometimes naïve about the larger magical world she is suddenly thrust into. Reviewers often praise her heart and agency, even when noting occasional moments of impulsiveness or limited knowledge that feel realistic for her circumstances.

Remy is a classic powerful, morally gray, somewhat overbearing Warden/CEO type—authoritative, secretive for strategic reasons, protective, and carrying his own burdens and walls. Chemistry builds through banter, forced proximity, shared danger, and gradual trust. Their dynamic leans enemies-to-lovers and fake-dating with strong “touch her and die” energy; many readers found the push-pull and eventual emotional payoff satisfying, though some wanted more open communication or a slower emotional burn. Supporting characters (including family elements that hint at found-family potential) add flavor, even if not all are deeply developed yet.

Tropes include fake dating/engagement, enemies-to-lovers, forced proximity, morally gray hero, and monstrous secrets. Attraction is intense, and the physical chemistry is emphasized. Spice is moderate. Frost constructs a layered setting: the ordinary modern world intersects with fragile gateways to other realms, Wardens as magical law enforcement, aura-based perception of violence/power, and a mix of familiar (shifters, fae-adjacent beings) and distinctive elements (specific creature abilities, transportation methods, political machinations).

Pacing is generally fast, driven by action, chases, and escalating threats, balanced by quieter character and relationship moments. Overall, I enjoyed the set-up and beginning of this story, and wish that had continued for a few more chapters without the rush to jump each other's bones. It felt like Raine was engulfed by too many plot points, additional characters, and magical politics to really shine. She does get a few moments at the end to kick some ass.

CHAPTER ONE

I had to let the Beast feed tonight. I didn’t want to, but if I didn’t, what came next would be a lot worse.

I hurried along the rain-slicked Baltimore streets. The Inner Harbor area was still packed with people even though it was midnight. I wasn’t here for one of its many bars or late-night eateries, though. It just happened to be between my apartment and the hospital where I worked.

I kept walking. It only took a few blocks past the Inner Harbor’s more touristy area for the neighborhood to noticeably change. Abandoned buildings and iron-gated windows now dotted the rows of townhouses and mostly closed businesses. Foot traffic was also down unless you passed a bar. I was passing one now, and two twenty-something guys spilled out of it. With a sloppy smile, the brunet staggered after me.

“Hey, hot stuff, come here,” he slurred.

“No thanks,” I said firmly, and tucked some of my long, too-curly brown hair back into its ponytail.

“Come on!” he tried again.

Did he really think catcalling would work, especially on someone wearing medical scrubs? He was lucky I didn’t take him up on his offer. Even now, my vision changed, showing red swirls haloing the catcaller’s gloomy gray aura.

I tried to sidestep him, but he reached out and yanked me against him.

“Not so fast!” His hands ran down my sides, and—

Darkness stabbed out from my fingernails, turning them into sharp claws. I sank them into the catcaller. The Beast inside me clamped onto that supernatural tether, burning through the violence in the man’s psyche.

He screamed, and the red flares in his aura dimmed.

I snatched my hand away, shoving him and that inner Beast back. Otherwise, the Beast would consume the catcaller’s life force once it was done feasting on his violence.

The catcaller nearly fell. His friend caught him before he hit the pavement. My claws vanished with the same speed as the burn marks in my would-be groper’s skin.

“What the hell, Jackson?” his friend hissed, pulling the catcaller away. “Sorry, he’s drunk,” he said to me.

Jackson sagged in his friend’s grip. He was barely conscious from the Beast devouring his violent energy. The red flares were now gone from Jackson’s aura, too, leaving him haloed by what looked like an ashen cloak.

“What happened?” Jackson managed to mumble.

You became a snack, I thought grimly, increasing my pace as I walked away. But unfortunately, I still need a meal.

I never intended to be a nurse by day and a violence-eating vigilante by night, but here I was, twenty-six and doing both. Okay, a little more than both. I’d also given secret, supernatural assistance to a patient during my nursing shift tonight, even though doing so had consequences.

Desperate animals will gnaw off their own paw if left long enough in a trap. Well, I was the Beast’s trap, and using its power to heal made it desperate enough to gnaw through me unless I fed it what it craved most—violence.

I reached the next intersection, looking ahead to see if the Walk or Stop light was on. A bright light suddenly seared my vision. For a second, I thought it might be a passing car’s headlights, and then I realized it belonged to a person.

That person moved out from behind a cluster of people waiting for the light to change. I expected to see a small, wide-eyed face. Auras that radiant usually came from children. Instead, I saw the wrinkled visage of an elderly man. He had pale skin, gray hair, and he was dressed like he’d been cosplaying as a nineteenth-century librarian.

Two men suddenly ran up behind the elderly man. Their auras were bloodred and unusually tall, looming and swaying over them. One pressed his hand against the man’s mouth and dragged him off in the opposite direction.

The light changed. People crossed the street, oblivious to what had happened behind them. It was so fast, I would have missed it, too, if I hadn’t been staring right at the elderly man.

I went after them. I normally didn’t take on two guys at once, but the old guy was in trouble. That made these kidnappers my next meal. When the Beast was done with them, they’d be alive, but like the catcaller, they’d be a lot less dangerous.

His kidnappers moved unusually fast. I ran, but I still couldn’t keep up. Thankfully, the man’s aura left a trail of light that I followed. It led into an alley behind a pawnshop.

I normally avoided this part of town, but I kept going. The Beast’s hunger grew with every step. It wanted to kill them. I wouldn’t let it. I couldn’t rid myself of the Beast, but I could damn sure keep it on a diet.

I caught up with the two captors in time to see them haul the man over a fence. Now they were in the back of a scrap metal depository. Moments later, I heard a cry: “Stop! That hurts!”

The Beast surged, sensing the violence. I didn’t free it—I never willingly did—but I didn’t force it all the way back.

The Beast’s power scalded me. My skin felt too tight and my pulse raced. I took my coat off, threw it over the fence, and cleared the six-foot height in one leap.

The kidnappers spun around. The hoods of their sweatshirts were now down, revealing that one was blond and the other had brown hair. The old man was on the ground, blood streaming down his forehead. The brown-haired kidnapper gripped a metal pipe, its edge dripping with crimson.

“Drop it,” I said.

They laughed.

I didn’t blame them. I was only five-four, with an average build, and I had no weapons. Well, none that they could see.

The Beast let out a growl through my throat that caused the two men to pale. Yeah, no normal person could make that sound.

“The hell?” the blond one whispered.

I sprang toward the pipe-wielding guy. My front kick smashed into his chest. He went down, the pipe clattering from his hand. Not laughing now, was he? With my mixed martial arts training plus the Beast’s added power, I’d kicked him harder than someone five times my size.

The blond guy lunged at me.

The Beast’s claws shot out. I was about to drive them into him when something knocked me over from behind. My forehead slammed onto the concrete. Pain filled me, my vision swam, and I tasted blood.

What the hell?

The dark-haired guy was still on the ground, and the blond was right in front of me. Who had hit me from behind?

I scrambled to my feet and whirled around.

Nothing. Whoever it was must’ve backed into the yard where the night’s shadows thickened to a dark gloom. The stench of cayenne and ozone washed over me, so thick I almost gagged.

I whirled back. The blond was still there, but the other kidnapper was gone. A huge snake now rose up to stare at me. Holy shit, that thing was bigger than a telephone pole!

“Whatever you are, you’re dead,” it hissed at me.

It could talk?

My shock was costly. The snake’s strike slammed into me like a giant hammer. I fell back. Coils wrapped around me. I tried to fight it off, but it squeezed me like a massive fist.

Air burst out of my lungs. I tried to suck more in and couldn’t. Panic strafed me. I’d known there had to be other supernatural creatures aside from the one inside me. Now I’d finally found one, and it was trying to kill me.

The stench of agave drowned me as those coils squeezed harder. My bones groaned. Pain slashed through me. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I was being crushed to death.

My skin burned and a vicious inner slash felt like acid. I knew that pain. The Beast was here.

Everything went black, and—

—I spat out a mouth full of ashes. The wind tried to blow more back in. I clamped my lips shut.

I was in the middle of the metal yard, naked and bloody. Nothing was left of the huge snake or the other kidnappers except piles of cold ashes swirling in the night breeze.

Dammit, I hadn’t wanted to kill them. The thing inside me was a murderer, but I wasn’t. Not by choice. Now I’d killed again, and it had been someone with a supernatural secret like me. All the answers I could’ve finally gotten, gone. The frustration cut like a knife.

At least I kept them from murdering that poor man. Unless the Beast had killed him, too? I couldn’t see his bright aura anymore. The Beast was full and satiated, and it had sunk too deep within me.

“Sir?” I called out.

No answer.

My heart lurched. The Beast normally only ate the violent, making their red auras an Open for Dinner sign to my supernatural stowaway. Don’t ask me why it preferred them. No one gave me a Beast’s Guide to Binge Eating when I became infected with the thing eleven years ago. At first, I thought I might be a werewolf, but sadly not. If werewolves were real, those lucky fuckers only had to deal with their inner monsters one weekend a month. I had to deal with mine every single day.

But if the Beast was hungry enough, it would eat anyone, violent or no.

“Where are you, sir?” I called out again, snatching my coat off the fence where I’d left it.

“Here,” a pained voice groaned.

I put my coat on and ran toward his voice.

I found the man slumped by a large heap of scrap metal piled up for sorting. Blood streamed from his head, and clear liquid that might have been spinal fluid leaked from his nose. If I didn’t do something, he’d die.

I put my hands on his head while pulling on the Beast’s power. Three minutes later, I was bent over, vomiting from channeling too much magic, too fast.

Gentle hands smoothed back my hair. “There now, lass,” the man said in a lilting Irish accent. “You’re all right.”

My gag turned into a choked laugh. I sat back, wiping at my mouth. “More importantly, how are you?”

He gave me the sweetest smile. “Alive, thanks t’you. Thought you meant to kill me when you turned into a beithíoch.”

Did he just call me a “behemoth”? Eh, that was a kind descriptor compared to whatever the Beast was. More importantly, I’d healed him, but now I had to leave town. Again. At best, whichever police officer took the man’s report would think that he was overwrought from the attempted kidnapping, but I couldn’t take that risk. Not after nearly getting arrested in Georgia last year.

I bit back my disappointment. I was just starting to get comfortable here. I had a decent job, a place to live where the neighbors didn’t question my late-night comings and goings, and even a pet now. Still, safety beat out comfort.

“Do you have someone to call to pick you up?” I asked him.

He gave me a look of such heartbreaking confusion, I patted his arm. As a nurse, I’d seen that look on countless dementia patients before. He didn’t remember who to call.

“Do you know your name?” I asked in a softer voice.

His whole body trembled as he said, “No.”

“It’s fine,” I said, patting him again. “I can still help you. Do you mind if I look in your pockets?”

He didn’t mind, but to my dismay, he lacked a phone, wallet, or any identification. He only had a single, laminated business card with FRONTVIEW REPUBLIC printed on the front and a handwritten phone number on the back.

My brows went up. Frontview Republic was one of the largest commercial real estate and investment corporations in the Northeast. Their name had been splashed across headlines recently due to a big project in Maryland and Pennsylvania.

“Stay here,” I said, and searched for the rest of my stuff.

I found my clothes and purse near the bloodstains and ash piles. The huge snake and the other kidnappers must have put up a hell of a fight. The Beast normally killed too quickly to draw anyone’s blood.

I couldn’t believe I’d finally come across another supernatural creature, only to still end up knowing nothing.

Rain started pouring in sheets. I used the deluge to wash the blood off my face and hands. Then I shoved the remains of my ripped-up medical scrubs into my coat’s deep pockets. The rain should wash away all the kidnappers’ blood as well as their ashes, leaving no trace of their deaths behind.

I returned to the man and led him to an awning that blocked most of the rain. Thankfully, my burner phone was working, which meant the Beast had been free at least ten minutes. Nothing electronic worked around the Beast when it first took over. I dialed the number on the business card and put it on speaker while I checked the man for more injuries.

“Who is this?” a smooth baritone voice answered.

“Is this Frontview Republic?” I asked.

“Who is this?” the voice repeated with such command that I almost said “Raine Stone” before I caught myself.

The man’s condition was tragic, but it had also saved me. He could tell everyone that he’d seen a woman transform into a huge creature that had killed two men plus a huge snake, and no one would believe him. Maybe I didn’t have to move again after all.

“Do you know a sixty-something man with an Irish accent who dresses like he raided a Sherlock Holmes movie set?” I asked.

“Yes.” His tone changed to palpable menace. “Where is he?”

“Safe,” I replied shortly. “But he very nearly wasn’t. Some men kidnapped him and almost killed him tonight.”

“Oh?” The man’s tone now became so velvety, I swore I almost felt it brush over me. “If you assisted in his rescue, then you will be well rewarded. Once again, where is he?”

“You must be rich,” I said with all the annoyance I wasn’t allowed to articulate when I was at work. “Only the wealthy think people help others for a reward instead of the simple reason that someone needed help.”

Anger replaced that luxurious tenor. “If you don’t tell me where Brendan is right now—”

“Brendan!” A delighted expression lit the man’s face. “My name is Brendan! And that’s Remy. He takes care of me. Don’t worry, Remy. The beithíoch is helping me.”

Okay, that word wasn’t “behemoth.” It had too many vowels, but new words were the least of my concerns. Headlights shone along the road that ran between the recycling plant and the train tracks; a reminder that someone could stumble upon us.

“He’ll be at the Helping Hands Shelter in twenty minutes,” I said, and hung up. Then I smiled and held out my hand. “Brendan? Would you escort me down the street? It’s not safe for a lady to walk alone.”

His smile deepened his wrinkles. He’d seen the Beast inside me, so he knew I didn’t need “escorting.” Still, he held out his arm while his periwinkle-blue eyes brightened.

“I’d be delighted.”

CHAPTER TWO

I watched from across the street as Brendan walked the final block to the shelter alone. I’d been right to be cautious. Before Brendan reached the front door, a black Mercedes sped down the street and screeched to a stop beside him.

“Remy!” I heard Brendan say before a tall figure leapt out. I caught a glimpse of black hair, broad shoulders, and a shadowed jaw before the man hustled Brendan into the back seat.

The car sped away at once.

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#Review - The Killing Time by Elly Griffiths #Mystery #Suspense

2026-07-27T00:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Ali Dawson # 2
Format: 353 pages, Kindle Edition
Release Date: February 12, 2026
Publisher: Pamela Dorman Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery, Suspense

The second mystery following Ali Dawson, the brilliant time-traveling detective, on her newest foray into Victorian London

Detective Ali Dawson leads a unit that investigates cases so cold her team must travel back in time to solve them. But ever since their technical expert, Jones, got stuck in Victorian London, Ali and her team have been forbidden from time travel.

At a loss, Ali dives into a present-day case – an apparent suicide of a young man who fell to his death from a high building. Ali believes the death is linked to a bad-news psychic medium, Barry Power, who convinced the boy he could fly. Suspicious, Ali attends one of Power’s shows, where he claims to be in contact with none other than Jones.

Minor trouble closer to home inspires Ali to sneak back in time just long enough to prevent misfortune. Her plan backfires, and she finds herself once again in Victorian London, where she reencounters Jones, as well as the darkly mysterious Cain Templeton, with whom Ali has unfinished business from her previous visit to the nineteenth century . . .

When she spies Barry Power lurking in the past, Ali knows she's onto something. But with a potential murderer operating in multiple centuries, how on earth is she supposed to protect everyone at risk?

It's a different time. It's a dangerous time. It's the killing time. The story alternates between Contemporary and Victorian London.

The Killing Time is the second installment, following The Frozen People, in author Elly Griffiths' Ali Dawson series. The story alternates between 2024 and 1850 London. It centers on Detective Ali Dawson and her specialized London Met cold-case unit (nicknamed the Frozen People or Department of Logistics). The team’s secret tool is time travel, used for cases so old that visiting the past is the only way to gather evidence.

Since the events of The Frozen People left one member of the "Department of Logistics" dead and another stranded in 1850s Victorian London, Ali and her remaining colleagues (Dr Bud Sirisema, Dina Appiah, and John Cole) are somewhat hamstrung, forbidden by Home Office hierarchy from conducting any further forays into the past, and confined to investigating cold cases via more mundane methods. In the present (set around a 2024 heatwave and election period), Ali is restless and frustrated by routine work.

She digs into an apparent suicide: a young man who fell from a high building after being influenced by charismatic psychic medium Barry Power, who convinced him he could fly. Ali attends one of Power’s shows, where he makes an unsettling claim involving Jones. When her beloved cat Terry goes missing (via an open cat flap), Ali makes a reckless short-hop attempt to fix a minor domestic problem.

The plan backfires spectacularly, stranding her in 1851 London—where she reunites with Jones, crosses paths again with the enigmatic Cain Templeton (unfinished business from the prior visit), and discovers Barry Power has connections that span the centuries. Meanwhile, in Ali's absence, two men are murdered in 2025, both having received mysterious postcards related to classic films. Dana and D.I. John Cole become embroiled in the investigation, along with DS Luca Venturi and the evident links that both victims have to Ali, who remains stuck in Victorian London.

Griffiths handles the dual timelines with characteristic skill. Modern-day sections ground the story in Ali’s professional frustrations, family ties (including her son Finn), and the banter among her team. The Victorian sections shine brightest: 1851 London feels lived-in and textured, with the grime, social contrasts, the Great Exhibition in full swing, period details of domestic life (or lack of modern conveniences), and a sense of menace and opportunity. Griffiths’ research brings the era alive without slowing the pace into textbook mode.

Ali remains a highly engaging protagonist—sharp, stubborn, flawed, funny, and morally driven. Her domestic details (especially the cat Terry, who becomes an unexpectedly memorable supporting player) and interactions humanize the high-concept elements. Supporting characters, both returning and new (Victorian maids offering class insights, showmen and illusionists, the unsettling Cain), add color and emotional stakes.

The tone is a key strength: high stakes and genuine darkness sit comfortably alongside warmth, wit, and humanity. It never feels gimmicky; the time-travel paradoxes and rules are treated with enough internal consistency and playfulness to work for most readers who accept the premise. The mystery itself—linking modern “suicides” influenced by a medium to events in the past—has a contemporary edge involving manipulation, belief, and vulnerability.

It drives Ali effectively, but the killer’s identity can feel abrupt or underdeveloped, and certain time-travel mechanics (chairs, the Seeing Glass, and how animals or people shift eras) stretch suspension of disbelief more than in the first book. The dual timelines occasionally create a sense of loose ends or uneven pacing, with the Victorian sections sometimes dominating.

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#Review - Witch Season by Julia Blanco #Fantasy #Romance

2026-07-23T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: The Broken Coven # 1
Format: 320 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: June 30, 2026
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy, Romance

Katherine Barnes is an enforcer, charged with upholding the rules of the notorious Los Angeles-based Aestas coven. It’s her job to maintain order and bring unsettled witches–people who aren’t aware they have magic until it explodes out of them in a catastrophic burst–into the coven’s fold. As a former unsettled witch, Katherine owes her life to Sylvia Page, coven leader and silver-haired rebel who founded Aestas years ago.

When Silas Khatri, heir to Noctis, the most powerful coven in the world, arrives to take Aestas to task for some of their more unconventional practices, Katherine’s dislike for him reaches blistering levels. She hates his money, his good looks, his coven’s dangerous attitude towards unsettled witches. She can absolutely overlook that he sets her off in more ways than one.

But a powerful threat is about to rise. Stronger than any one coven. More insidious than the decades-long power struggle that exists in the hidden witch world. One that will pull Katherine and Silas together despite their differences. And one that will lead to an all-out war.

Julia Blanco's Witch Season is the first installment in a new series, as well as the author's debut novel. The book is an urban fantasy story in a world of fantasy/romance novels that blends high-stakes coven politics, visceral magic, and fierce loyalty into a fast-paced, cinematic read set in modern Los Angeles. Katherine Barnes serves as an enforcer (or executor) for the Aestas coven, a notorious Los Angeles group. Her role involves maintaining order and guiding “unsettled” witches—people whose latent magic erupts catastrophically if not controlled—into the coven.

As a former unsettled witch herself, Katherine owes everything to Sylvia Page, the coven’s silver-haired, rebellious leader. The magic system stands out as one of the book’s strongest elements. Magic demands a heavy price—not just blood, but real pain and sacrifice. It feels raw, dangerous, and grounded, avoiding the “sparkly effortless power” trope common in some fantasy. This cost shapes every character’s choices and adds tension to action scenes.

When Silas Khatri, heir to the powerful Noctis coven (the most influential in the witch world), arrives for an audit of Aestas’s unconventional practices, sparks fly immediately. Katherine resents his privilege, good looks, and his coven’s stricter attitudes toward unsettled witches. Their initial antagonism crackles with tension, but a larger, insidious threat—stronger than inter-coven rivalries—forces them to collaborate. Murders, betrayals, and a rising war pull the story toward an explosive climax.

Katherine Barnes is tough, loyal, and driven by her traumatic past. She pushes herself relentlessly to protect others, especially vulnerable, unsettled witches, because she sees herself in them. Her growth, moral compass, and vulnerability make her deeply relatable and root-worthy. Silas Khatri brings complexity as a privileged heir caught between family duty and personal desires. He’s charming and instantly smitten in a “she hates him, he’s hooked” dynamic.

Sylvia Page steals scenes as a layered mentor figure with secrets that drive major twists. Supporting characters, including Katherine’s best friend and other coven members, add depth to the found-family and political elements. The romance is fiercely romantic and steamy. It moves quickly from antagonism to intense attraction. Expect tension, banter, and passionate moments amid the danger.

The relationship evolves in ways that set up intriguing conflict for future books. If you are a fan of books like A Discovery of Witches, then you should read this book as well. If you enjoy witchy books that are political, bloody, unhinged in the best way, and packed with heart-pounding romance and betrayal, this one is for you.

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#Review - Unpredictable Magic by Faith Hunter #Urban #Fantasy

2026-07-20T00:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Everhart Investigations # 1
Format: 560 pages, Paperback

Release Date: July 14, 2026
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Urban Fantasy

Witches Angelina and Evan Everhart-Trueblood take a case that spirals out of control until the whole city is at risk in this exciting new novel from New York Times bestselling author Faith Hunter.

Angelina Everhart-Trueblood and her brother Evan run Everhart Investigations, a PI firm in Chattanooga that solves paranormal crimes committed by supernatural beings. When their new client wants help finding her friend, who supposedly disappeared during a reception at Angie’s aunt Jane’s winter residence, things get . . . complicated.

The client is not who she appears to be, and demons strike the city for the first time since the Witch War. On top of that, evidence is pointing toward the involvement of an overly ambitious vampire—who just happens to be Angie’s ex-husband.

As Angie and Evan team up with CPD, they will have to dig deep into their magical reserves—and rely on some friends in high places—to rid Chattanooga of the danger creeping into their city. Story Set in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Spin-off of the author's Jane Yellowrock series.

Unpredictable Magic is the first installment in author Faith Hunter's Everhart Investigation series. This is a direct spin-off of the author's Jane Yellowrock series, set 20 years in the future. The novel follows witch siblings Angelina (“Angie”) and Evan (“EJ”) Everhart-Trueblood as they run their own paranormal private investigation firm in Chattanooga, Tennessee, focusing on paranormal issues. Angie and Evan take on a seemingly straightforward missing-person case tied to a reception at their aunt Jane Yellowrock’s (the Dark Queen) winter residence.

The investigation quickly spirals: the client isn’t what she seems, demons attack the city for the first time since the Witch War/Demon War, and evidence implicates an ambitious vampire—Angie’s ex-husband, as well as other dangerous vampires who desire to eliminate Jane. The siblings team up with Angie's former love interest, Detective Villati, and are joined by Walter, their vampire bodyguard; Jane Yellowrock; Eli Younger; and Alex Younger, all while trying to maintain independence from Jane's court.

Angie (often in first-person POV) grapples with the aftermath of a difficult marriage to a vampire who took advantage of her, and begins unlocking her full magical potential. Evan (frequently in third-person POV) carries his own scars from the Witches' War, where he was the youngest officer to serve, and brings a protective, tech-savvy edge. (Here is where I wanted more information on the war, although the author does hint at Evan's specialty. In fact, the author could write a novella explaining more about Evan and Angie's role in the War itself.)

There is also the appearance of Cousin Wacko, aka Shiloh Everhart-Stone, a witch-vampire hybrid, whom I would love to see a full novel written from her POV. Her life hasn't been the same since she was turned at 15. The book is dense with lore, history, and explanations—especially in the opening sections as readers (and the protagonists) learn about their magic and the political landscape. Action sequences are fast, visceral, and satisfying, with magic battles and demon incursions keeping momentum high once things kick off.

If you have NOT read the Jane Yellowrock series, you will likely be lost by any mention of characters from it. The story retains the gritty, battle-heavy, politically intricate style of Jane Yellowrock but feels fresher with younger leads establishing their independence and running a PI firm. The investigative mystery element is stronger here, blended with supernatural thriller vibes. It delivers the signature Faith Hunter blend of intricate world-building, high-stakes magic battles, supernatural politics, and character-driven drama, while giving fans a fresh perspective through the lens of the next generation.

Chapter One
Angie

The music was so heavy the bass reverberated in my chest cavity. The lead singer of Kegs and Boots's house band, BloodSin-a vamp who considered himself a heartthrob-had hit an oddly off-key note three times now. It was weird enough to make it impossible to relax fully, to close my eyes and sink into the music and just freaking let go, which I really, really needed after the crazy week and the queen's reception.

People assumed being goddaughter to the Dark Queen of the fangheads was exciting, and sometimes, rarely, it was. But typically, being royalty was tedium: shaking hands, smiling until my cheeks ached, making small talk, and dancing ancient gavottes with five-hundred-year-old vamps. All that, while wearing a sparkly dress and five-inch heels for five hours straight.

Eardrum-busting rock music usually made all that better, but Labaka's fourth off-key note made my eyes pop open, which was why I saw the man approach our empty table, circle it, and walk away. I didn't reclose my eyes.

Our drink goblets and flutes were empty. I hadn't seen the man drop anything into a glass. My arms over my head, my body swaying to the beat, I turned my back to the band, keeping him in sight. Good looking, well-coiffed, he wandered the room by a circuitous route, stopping at a table full of men to clap one guy on the back, give a fist bump to another. Friendly guy. Knew some of the regulars. A moment later, he bent over a table full of women, attempting to flirt. The women waved him off, laughing. He left with a smirk that promised he'd be back. Idiot.

Or dangerous.

Deep inside, something whispered dangerous.

My precog gift or simple paranoia? Which one? Was the guy about to actually do something bad, or was he just a guy with the potential to do something bad? Maybe both. He moved on to chat up two women at a solo table. I didn't have to be a witch to know the two were together and he was wasting his time, but he didn't give up.

Precog or paranoia-my life litany since I was a kid. I'd once known which was which, back when I had an honest-to-God guardian angel, a vampire knight in shining armor, and unlimited witch power. Now, not so much. Being grown up, single again after a bad marriage, and a royal "princess by decree" wasn't all popcorn and lollipops.

In the crowd, I found Corry, KeeKee, and Lissa, the girls I'd gone clubbing with. Safe. Or they should have been. That not-quite-precog nudged me again.

I didn't close my eyes and kept Mr. Smarmy firmly in view. When the dance number ended, I dropped my arms and slipped a hand into a pocket, gripping a small labradorite duck.

The half-inch carved duck had been given to me at the start of my freshman year of college by my Aunt Liz, a stone witch. University was far behind me, but I never discarded an amulet that had been permanently imbued with a working, keeping them charged on one of the stone batteries Aunt Liz had made me, taking useful amulets with me when I was away from home. There was a hole drilled in the duck's head so it could be attached to a necklace or bracelet, but I no longer wore my amulets in public. I couldn't easily hide them under the glamour I wore while out clubbing, and keeping my identity as Angelina Everhart-Trueblood, the Dark Queen's goddaughter and a princess, secret, was the only way I got to go out and have a little fun.

It was different at work. Everhart Investigations Firm relied on the name recognition from both witches and the vamps to bring in new customers. The hypocrisy didn't elude me, though the double standards' sour taste in the back of my throat had decreased over the years.

Tonight, I was thoroughly glamoured in multi-green: eyes, spiky braided green wig, clothing that looked like leaves, even a green tint to my skin. My amulets were hidden in lead-lined pockets, a vamp-killer strapped to my thigh. The witch princess had been replaced by Baby, my club name.

As I made my way off the dance floor, a man's hand encircled my upper arm.

Instinct seized me. I took one step left, my left hand reaching across my body to his wrist. Ready to use his momentum and my body's torque to pull him over my outstretched right leg. Fast. Automatic.

"Hey. Baby. Whyn't you and me have a beer?" Smooth voice. Mesmerizing tones. Labaka, BloodSin's lead singer. Fangs, slick tone, gorgeous, and dumber than a box of rocks. I released his wrist and gripped his little finger, pulling it back just enough to hurt. Reversed my stance, pulled him around by the finger, and squared off with him, our position still keeping our table in view.

Labaka sometimes claimed Indian and Hindu heritage, other times Khmer Rouge, still others Egyptian. I had never been interested enough to check his dossier. He had long black hair, medium brown skin, dark eyes, and a unique vamp-smolder.

"Not interested, Labaka. Same as last week. Same as the week before."

"Come on. Gimme a chance, Baby. I can do things-" His other arm went around my waist.

I can do things. Sure you can. No one did things better than a vamp. Once bitten, twice shy. In this case, literally.

Twisting his pinkie with a rotating gesture, I continued my pivot, going to our table.

He grunted and fell behind, trying to keep up, tripping once over his own feet as I dragged him by the little finger. Idiot. I had never gotten physical with Labaka before. I had never felt this tepid warning of danger in Kegs and Boots either.

I spotted my gal pals together at the end of the bar, still safe in a crowd. I pushed Labaka toward a woman in our path and she grabbed him in a purely physical embrace, cupping his butt in both hands. Labaka forgot all about me.

Sitting, I tossed my wig's spiky green braid over my shoulder, studying our drink glasses. To the naked eye, they looked fine. But. Under the pretense of shoving the empties out of the way, I touched each rim, the duck in my fingers.

The amulet looked like a simple trinket until it detected certain drugs, like old-fashioned roofies, X, pong-a newer synthetic opiate-and even real oldies like LSD and Mollies. It also detected some common chemical poisons including arsenic, strychnine, cyanide, and a few dozen natural bio-poisons such as hemlock and belladonna. If it came into contact with the drugs, it flashed blue. If it found poisons, it gleamed a pinkish hue, the depth of the color indicating the drug. As amulets went, the working contained in it was sophisticated, very popular among the college set and bar hoppers. The working had made the Everhart-Trueblood family coven a lot of money when it went on the market.

The duck didn't change. No flash of color, no lights, no danger that it could detect.

Maybe the good-looking guy was just a random creep checking out the place. I was paranoid with good reason, but still, paranoid was paranoid.

I looked for Smarmy, but he was lost in the crowd. KeeKee's pink Afro was still at the bar and, near her, Lissa's brown hair glistened with fairy light. Labaka was suddenly in front of me, leaning backward against the bar, supported by his elbows, his shirt open to reveal a smooth chest and chains that looked like real gold, his gorgeous eyes on me. Vamps were turned only when a Blood Master had a need of, or a desire for, a human. Labaka had been chosen for his looks and his singing voice. I had to give him one thing: he was persistent in his attempts at seduction.

Lissa and KeeKee threw themselves into their chairs at the table, each with fresh drinks, Lissa gulping hers down. "Where's Corry?" I asked.

"Some cute dude bought us drinks. She's chatting him up," KeeKee said. She turned and pointed. But Corry was nowhere in sight.

I stood so fast, I knocked over my chair, ordering, "Don't drink." Darting toward the right side of the bar, around it, I headed to the entrance. From the corner of my eye I saw Lissa shove her drink away. Saw Labaka's gaze follow me as he instantly stood straight.

According to my internal clock, less than two minutes had passed from the moment I took my eyes off Smarmy. Long enough to drug Corry. Long enough to be halfway to a vehicle with a stumbling, compliant woman.

Corry had red hair, near enough like mine, when I was unglamoured, to pass for me in a dark bar.

And there was still a bounty on my head from that one blood duel that had gone sideways. Only an idiot would try to collect-Son of a witch.

I slammed open doors, scanning each room. No sign of her in the ladies' room. Nor in the lobby. I burst out the entry door, nearly ramming the bouncer. The cold hit me like a fist. "Berky. Have you seen Corry?"

Berky was six-four, a good three hundred, heavily tattooed over every inch of skin not scarred during the Witch War. "Walked off with Tony Montgomery, guy in the Scorpion MAGXL. Sweet ride."

"Where!"

"Chill, Baby. I checked her out. She was fine, chatty, happy as-"

I whirled on Berky. Looked at him with all the power I possessed. "Where. Is. His. Car."

Berky shut up and pointed.

The Scorpion's backup lights came on.

I gave Berky the look, the one I'd learned from Koun, the Dark Queen's war strategist. "You're with me," I ordered.

"Fuck."

Yeah. He'd let a guest get lured away.

Berky lumbering behind me, I dashed toward the Scorpion, a Mag-car. It had an Octi paint job, automatically blending into whatever the driver wanted. Right now, that meant the car had no color at all, opaque, dark as the night. Scorpions were silent and fast as sin.

Tony wanted stealth.

I yanked out a disrupter amulet and pulled my vamp-killer from my thigh as I ran. I initiated the amulet and tossed it at the Scorpion Mag. It attached itself to the back panel. Three seconds until it worked.

One second: The vehicle whipped for the driveway.

Two seconds: I grabbed the wheel well and spun myself onto the hood. Landed with a thump that dented the synth-metal. Caught my grip into the space between hood and windshield.

I had never hit an electromagnetic-powered engine with a disruptor. It might explode. It might fizzle. Anything in between.

Three seconds: Berky cursed. Grabbed the door handle as if he'd stop the car by sheer muscle power.

The disruptor activated. My magic sizzled over the vehicle, interfering with every circuit, every electrical thingamajig, every sensor, every freaking object, gadget, and security feature that used tech. The Scorpion died. Its wheels locked up. The car skidded to a stop.

I didn't have fangs, but I showed my teeth at my reflection in the black windshield. Vicious. Snarling. Green as a leprechaun.

Berky slammed a fist with brass knucks into the driver's window repeatedly. More as an annoyance than to any real effect. These cars were designed during the Witch War, with Witch War tech. The window glass could withstand most anything.

Knowing the car's cameras were down and the security cams for the bar out of sight, I dropped my glamour for a count of two and then reestablished it. I could almost feel the reaction from the guy inside.

Yeah. You drugged the wrong chick. Now you got me to deal with.

I released my hold on the car, kneeling on the hood. Green reflected back at me from the black glass. Like a green gnome with attitude. I removed a small earring from my left earlobe. Held it over the windshield. Still grinning. Giving the guy inside a chance.

"Baby. Stop, girl."

Smooth voice with a vampire push of mesmerism. Labaka. Damn. I risked a glance to both sides. Behind Labaka were six more guys, a mixture of vamp and human. Not the band, but the table full of men that Tony Montgomery, or whoever he really was, had spoken to. What had Labaka gotten me into?

I thumbed the amulet, dropping it into the space between the windshield and hood. Shoved off from my knees, leaping, and landed on the roof. Whirled my vamp-killer in my offhand and tossed two reverse hedge of thorns amulets at the men. In an instant two of my opponents were trapped in energy cages.

Four guys charged.

Berky had reacted to the presence of more men. He stopped smashing at reinforced windows and rushed from the car like a freight train. Rammed his fist down on top of a vamp's head. The guy dropped like a stone. Blood gushed from his mouth. Maybe bit off his tongue. Berky jammed a stake into the vamp's belly.

That left three humans and Labaka. Can't kill humans. Couldn't let them take me either.

Do the unexpected. A memory from my past.

I gripped two stasis amulets and leaped at the men. I was still in the air when a vehicle whirled into the parking area. Headlights lit us up, flickering shadows jittering like zombies.

Whirling, horizontal, I kicked out. Landed only a glancing blow on one as they both moved smoothly to the side. Training. I hit the pavement off balance. Between them. On one foot and hand. Skidded on the old-fashioned asphalt. Caught myself and pivoted on that hand. Left some skin from my palm on the parking lot.

In my peripheral vision I saw one guy holding a gun. He fired. I was already rolling.

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#Review - Somebody Worth Killing by Jessica Payne #Mystery #Thriller

2026-07-16T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Unknown
Format: 304 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: June 16, 2026
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery, Thriller

Meet Nadia Davis, a doting mom and loving wife who has a big secret: she’s actually an assassin. And she really needs a babysitter who shows up on time.

Nadia Davis is living the dream as a successful working mom with a career she loves, two adorable little girls, and a devoted husband who has no idea that she’s secretly a hired assassin and psychopath who kills certified bad guys. So when Nadia finds out she’s been “mommy tracked” by her assassin’s agency and is no longer getting the bigger, more exciting jobs, she demands an important mark…somebody worth killing.

But it turns out that big kill is the last person she expects—her husband. How is the sweet, kind, teller-of-dad jokes she’s promised her life to an evil villain who needs exterminating? Has their whole life together been a lie? Now Nadia must choose between the two things she loves most in life, the career that keeps her sane or the family she thought she knew.

Somebody Worth Killing by Jessica Payne is a fast-paced, darkly humorous psychological thriller that blends the high-stakes world of contract killing with the everyday chaos of suburban motherhood. Nadia Davis appears to have it all: two adorable young daughters, a devoted husband named Brian, a successful cover career as a wedding/event planner in San Antonio, and a picture-perfect suburban life complete with Costco runs, PTA meetings, and school pickups.

But Nadia has a secret—she’s a self-diagnosed psychopath and professional assassin who only targets “certified bad guys.” Killing keeps the “monster” inside her at bay and brings her a twisted sense of satisfaction and normalcy. When her agency “mommy-tracks” her—assigning low-profile, local jobs because she’s a wife and mother—she pushes back and demands a high-stakes assignment: somebody worth killing. The target? Her own husband.

Suddenly, Nadia must investigate whether the man she loves is truly evil, confront her own secrets, and choose between the career that keeps her sane and the family she never expected to care about so deeply. Nadia is a complex, memorable anti-heroine. She’s self-aware about her psychopathy (she feels emotions selectively, especially for her kids and husband) yet struggles with the same mom-guilt, multitasking, and gender biases as any working mother.

Her first-person narration is witty, snarky, introspective, and often hilarious, turning absurd situations (lacing a cocktail with sleeping pills to sneak out for a hit, or racing between a sniper rifle and carpool) into darkly comedic gold. Supporting characters add depth: Brian starts as the ideal husband but reveals layers; the young daughters ground the story with heart; a fellow assassin friend (Ian) and Nadia’s grandmother (with a possible similar history and dementia) provide both support and moments of hilarity.

The writing is fast-paced with short, propulsive chapters, clever twists, dark humor, and escalating tension. It evokes Dexter (female, mom edition), Finlay Donovan Is Killing It, and Big Little Lies vibes—domestic suspense meets assassin thriller with satirical edge. Payne researched female psychopaths (noting women often hide it better) and draws from real mom experiences for authenticity. I picked up this book because I thought it was a standalone. I just learned, as I am posting this review, that a sequel is planned for Spring 2027, and the threat to Nadia and her family has just begun.

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#Review - In the Blood by April Henry #YA #Thriller #Suspense

2026-07-14T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Standalone
Format: 293 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: May 12, 2026
Publisher: Christy Ottaviano Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult, Thriller, Suspense

In this heart-pounding YA thriller, when an adopted teen takes a DNA test to find her biological parents, she unwittingly puts herself in the crosshairs of a serial killer.

Adopted as a newborn, Tessa has always wondered who her biological parents are. After turning eighteen, she takes a DNA test in hopes of finding the answers. With best friend El and lab partner Victor, Tessa uses the results to start building her family tree. But they find more dead ends than answers. Her biological mother, who was raised in a religious cult, has cut all ties with her controlling family. And her biological father remains a complete mystery, at least until the police show up. For fifteen years, they’ve been trying to identify a serial killer known as the Portland Phantom. Tessa may be the link they’ve been waiting for.

April Henry delivers a twisty thriller about the families who choose us—and the ones we’re born into. Biology does not have to dictate one’s destiny.

In the Blood by April Henry is a YA thriller that blends DNA genealogy, adoption identity struggles, and serial-killer suspense into a fast-paced, thought-provoking read. There is 3 key characters: Tessa Lundgren, Officer Keisha Washington, and the serial killer known as the Portland Phantom. Tessa Lundgren, a high school senior in Portland, Oregon, has always felt out of place in her loving adoptive family—her brown hair and eyes stand out against their blonde, blue-eyed looks.

On her 18th birthday, her best friend El gifts her an AncestryDNA kit, sparking a quest to uncover her biological roots. With help from El and her biology lab partner Victor, Tessa begins piecing together her family tree. Her biological mother’s trail leads to a woman who escaped a controlling religious cult but has since vanished. Her father remains a total mystery—until police detectives show up. For over 15 years, authorities have hunted the “Portland Phantom,” a serial killer linked to multiple murders of young women.

Tessa’s DNA provides the long-sought connection. The story unfolds through three alternating perspectives: Tessa’s hopeful (and increasingly anxious) search, Detective Keisha’s determined investigation, and chilling chapters from the killer’s viewpoint. Interspersed documentary-style excerpts add context and realism. Henry keeps the tension high without excessive gore—murders happen “off-screen,” but the killer’s mindset is deeply unsettling.

Tessa is likable and relatable—plucky, smart, and torn between curiosity and loyalty to her adoptive parents. Her friends El and Victor form a supportive, diverse trio. Detective Keisha adds a strong professional counterpoint, while the killer’s sections provide creepy insight without glorifying him. The killer’s identity and connections become predictable early on due to the multiple viewpoints, slightly reducing the mystery for seasoned thriller fans. The ending was also very predictable.

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#Review - Deep Dark Truth by Debra Webb #Thriller #Suspense

2026-07-10T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Standalone
Format: 378 pages, Kindle Edition

Release Date: April 14, 2026
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Source: Kindle Unlimited
Genre: Suspense, Thriller

A reporter must keep her past hidden as she hunts a killer terrorizing a small town in Maine in a blood-freezing novel of suspense by USA Today bestselling author Debra Webb.

Investigative reporter Sarah Newton specializes in debunking myths and superstitions—especially when they’re used to cover up horrific crimes.

When a teenage girl is ritualistically murdered and another girl goes missing, Sarah heads to the coastal village of Youngstown, Maine, to find her next story. The locals are convinced these events are the work of a legendary curse. After all, no human in this close-knit community could do something so dreadful. But Sarah knows the truth—one of their own is a cold-blooded killer.

As Sarah starts to unravel the mysteries of Youngstown with the help of a sympathetic councilman, she finds herself at the center of a vicious game. Somebody in town knows too much about her own dark secrets…Can she connect all the dots before the killer strikes again?

Revised edition: Previously published as Find Me, this edition of Deep Dark Truth includes editorial revisions.

Deep Dark Truth by Debra Webb is a gripping, atmospheric suspense thriller (revised and reissued edition of her earlier novel Find Me, with editorial updates) that blends small-town secrets, supernatural folklore, and cold-blooded murder. Investigative reporter Sarah Newton specializes in debunking myths and superstitions that often mask horrific crimes. She travels to the isolated coastal village of Youngstown, Maine, after a teenage girl is found ritualistically murdered in a chapel and another girl goes missing.

The tight-knit community clings to an old legend of a curse—after all, how could one of their own commit such atrocities? Sarah knows better: a human killer is at work. As she digs in, Sarah partners (uneasily at first) with Kale Conner, a sympathetic local councilman and lobsterman tasked with managing the fallout and keeping her in check. The deeper she probes, the more she uncovers layers of secrets, betrayals, and long-buried town sins.

Meanwhile, someone in Youngstown knows far too much about Sarah’s dark past, turning the investigation into a dangerous cat-and-mouse game in which her personal vulnerabilities could cost lives. The story unfolds against a frozen, windswept Maine backdrop that amplifies the isolation and dread. Webb excels at evoking a place where everyone knows everyone—and no one trusts the outsider poking at old wounds. Webb’s research (she reportedly lived in Maine while writing the original) shines through in vivid, sensory details.

The novel builds steadily, layering red herrings, town gossip, and escalating threats. Twists feel earned rather than cheap, and the final revelations deliver a satisfying (and reportedly “off-the-charts creepy”) payoff. Sarah is a prickly, flawed protagonist—abrasive, haunted by her past, and unapologetically dedicated to truth over popularity. She’s not instantly likable, but her growth and vulnerability make her compelling. Kale provides a strong counterbalance: grounded, empathetic, and increasingly torn between loyalty to his town and the mounting evidence.

Their chemistry adds emotional depth without overshadowing the mystery. Webb explores how communities protect their own, the dangers of folklore as a shield for evil, and the personal cost of seeking justice. It’s darker and more gruesome in spots than some cozies, with ritualistic violence that heightens the horror. Deep Dark Truth is a solid, entertaining thriller that showcases Debra Webb’s strengths in romantic suspense and psychological tension. It’s ideal for fans of authors like Lisa Jackson, Karen Rose, or early Tami Hoag—think isolated towns, buried secrets, and strong-willed heroines facing personal and professional demons.

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#Review - Targeted by Kendra Elliot #Mystery #Suspense

2026-07-08T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Callahan and McLain # 4
Format: 352 pages, Kindle Edition

Release Date: June 7, 2016
Publisher: Montlake
Source: Kindle Unlimited
Genre: Mystery, Suspense

All Detective Mason Callahan wanted was a quiet fishing trip with the guys—a chance to get away and unwind before Halloween.

Until he finds the body of his boss, Denny Schefte, near their remote Oregon cabin. Now all he wants is to catch the sadist who slit Denny’s throat and covered his face with a mask. Mason was the last person to see him alive and will stop at nothing to find his friend’s murderer.

When the FBI learns of the mask left at the scene, they realize they have a serial killer on their hands—one who is targeting cops. They assign the case to Special Agent Ava McLane, despite her engagement to Mason. Barely recovered from her own nearly fatal injury and her sister’s attempted suicide, Ava hopes she is ready to chase another killer.

But as she delves into the increasingly disturbing case, the killer may be closer than expected—dangerously close.

Targeted is the 4th installment in author Kendra Elliot's Callahan and McLane series featuring Special Agent Ava McLane and Detective Mason Callahan. Targeted serves as the conclusion to the four-book series featuring FBI Special Agent Ava McLane and Oregon State Police Detective Mason Callahan, and no, I have not read the first 3 books yet. One day, perhaps! Mason Callahan heads out on a relaxing fishing trip with fellow law-enforcement buddies to a remote Oregon cabin just before Halloween.

His plans shatter when he discovers the body of his boss, Captain Denny Schefte—throat slit and face covered by a horror movie mask. What begins as a personal tragedy quickly escalates when the FBI recognizes the signature: a serial killer targeting cops and leaving victims adorned with iconic horror masks (think Pinhead, Freddy Krueger, and others). Ava McLane, Mason’s fiancée and an FBI agent still recovering from a near-fatal injury (and family trauma involving her twin sister), gets assigned to the case despite the obvious conflict of interest.

As more officers fall victim and the killer’s taunts grow bolder and more personal, Ava and Mason must navigate professional boundaries, personal fears, and a predator who seems dangerously close to their circle. The story blends high-stakes police procedural work with intimate emotional stakes in the Pacific Northwest setting Elliot knows so well. Elliot excels at creating relatable, resilient protagonists.

Mason is portrayed as strong yet vulnerable—protective without being overbearing, deeply loyal, and emotionally intelligent. Ava continues her arc of growth: she’s competent and independent but learns to lean on her partner while confronting lingering trauma and family dynamics (particularly her complicated relationship with her troubled twin, Jayne). Supporting characters (including Ava’s FBI partner Zander and various law enforcement colleagues) add depth and texture.

The ensemble feels authentic, with subplots like Ava’s family struggles providing emotional grounding without derailing the main investigation. Elliot builds tension masterfully from the chilling opening discovery, weaving in gruesome yet believable crime scenes and a killer whose motives and methods keep readers guessing. Horror movie mask references add a creepy, cinematic layer that heightens unease.

The procedural elements—task force dynamics, evidence chasing, and inter-agency collaboration—are slick and well-researched, making the investigation feel credible and urgent. Twists are surprising without feeling contrived, and the escalating personal danger creates genuine stakes. As the series finale, it delivers a strong resolution to the central mystery while wrapping up Ava and Mason’s journey (with a few threads left open, possibly hinting at future appearances in Elliot’s interconnected universe, like the Columbia River series).

Fans of police procedurals with heart, creepy killers, and resilient couples will find plenty to love here. Highly recommended for a thrilling, page-turning read that leaves you satisfied yet eager for more of Elliot’s Oregon-set stories.

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#Review - You Can Tell Me by Melinda Leigh #Mystery #Suspense

2026-07-06T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Olivia Cruz # 1
Format: Kindle, 297 pages
Release Date: May 12, 2026
Publisher: Montlake
Source: Kindle Unlimited
Genre: Mystery, Suspense

Crime writer Olivia Cruz is drawn into the dark secrets of a missing friend in a terrifying novel of suspense by #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author Melinda Leigh.

On the three-year anniversary of true crime writer Olivia Cruz’s horrific kidnapping, she’s scheduled to walk her podcaster friend Zoe March through the crime scene, but Zoe fails to show. Olivia knows Zoe would never stand her up—not today.

Zoe’s husband, who claims she never came home the night before, has reported her missing. But marital conflicts make the police suspect she has left him. Olivia thinks otherwise. The police aren’t looking for Zoe, so Olivia begins her own investigation. Retracing her friend’s last steps, she finds Zoe’s phone and a text with one chilling word: Run.

It soon becomes apparent that Zoe has been keeping secrets, and with her true crime podcast, there’s no telling what she has unearthed. To find her, Olivia must dig into her friend’s past. Did Zoe vanish to escape a killer, and is Olivia walking into a deadly trap?

You Can Tell Me is the first installment in author Melinda Leigh's Olivia Cruz series. Key characters: Olivia Cruz, Zoe March, Nicki, and Lincoln Sharp. True-crime writer Olivia Cruz is still recovering—physically and psychologically—from a horrific kidnapping three years earlier. On the anniversary of that trauma, she has agreed to revisit the crime scene with her friend Zoe March, a successful true-crime podcaster, for an interview that Olivia hopes will help her finally move forward.

When Zoe fails to appear, Olivia knows something is terribly wrong. Zoe would never stand her up on this of all days. Zoe’s husband reports her missing, but marital strife leads police to treat it as a possible voluntary disappearance. Olivia refuses to accept that and launches her own investigation. Retracing Zoe’s steps, she finds the podcaster’s phone and a chilling one-word text: “Run.” It quickly becomes clear that Zoe had been keeping major secrets, possibly tied to her podcast work.

As Olivia digs deeper—assisted by her boyfriend, PI Lincoln Sharp, and her niece Nicki—she uncovers connections to a thirty-year-old cold case, hidden family lies, and predators who have operated in plain sight. The story blends a missing-person mystery with Olivia’s personal trauma recovery, themes of friendship, trust, and the dangers of true-crime investigation. Side plots involving Nicki add emotional layers and tie into the central threat. The climax is particularly wild, involving a villain confrontation, a black bear, a flash flood, and a submerged car—exactly the over-the-top excitement many thriller readers crave.

Olivia is a compelling protagonist—resilient yet vulnerable, determined but haunted. Her relationship with Lincoln Sharp (a carryover from Leigh’s Morgan Dane series) feels authentic and supportive without overshadowing the main plot. Nicki brings fresh energy and a younger perspective. Fans of Leigh’s interconnected Scarlet Falls / Morgan Dane world will enjoy cameos without feeling lost if this is their entry point.

The novel smartly explores the ethics and risks of creating true-crime content, the long shadow of trauma, and how secrets fracture families and friendships. It balances edge-of-your-seat action with emotional depth. A few plot threads feel crowded, and Olivia’s character can occasionally swing between timid and overly bold in ways that feel slightly inconsistent. That said, these are common in the genre and don’t derail the overall enjoyment.

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#Review - The Last Contract of Isako by Fonda Lee #Dystopian #SYFY #Cyberpunk

2026-06-30T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Standalone
Format: 514 pages, Paperback
Release Date: May 5, 2026
Publisher: Orbit
Source: Publisher
Genre: Cyberpunk, Dystopian, SYFY

A battle-worn corporate samurai undertakes one last mission on a merciless planet where death is always a mere breath away, in this standalone science fiction epic from the author of the modern fantasy classic Jade City.

LIVE BY THE CODE. DIE BY THE KNIFE.

Isako is a legendary swordswoman, but every legend must come to an end. When her long-time client unexpectedly retires, she plans to follow—to walk out into the frozen wasteland of their planet with her head held high and her family enriched by her death. But when she's offered a final mission, she can't refuse, especially when she realizes who lies at the center of it all: Martim, her last—and worst—apprentice, who's somehow made his way to the top. As she's thrust into a world of corporate espionage and shadowy secrets, what she uncovers could forever change humanity's existence among the stars.

The Last Contract of Isako is epic science fiction like only Fonda Lee can write it—set in a world where money trumps loyalty, the elite have the power to extend life or end it, and one woman in the twilight of her calling must decide what's ultimately worth living—or dying—for.

The Last Contract of Isako by Fonda Lee is a standout standalone science fiction novel—cyberpunk samurai in space, corporate dystopia with blade-sharp honor, and a masterful character study of aging, legacy, and systemic rot. The story unfolds on the frozen planet Aquilo, where humanity clings to survival inside Tenacity City, an airshield-protected dome run by the all-powerful Company. Resources are brutally scarce. Those who can no longer contribute are expected to "resign" by walking into the lethal tundra beyond the shield—a practice that blends corporate efficiency with ritualistic finality.

This creates a society where loyalty is contractual, life is transactional, and death is often the most honorable exit. The airshield looms as both protector and prison. Corporate divisions wage shadow wars. "Second stagers" (consciousness transfers into synthetic bodies) extend the lives of the elite, raising questions of identity and immortality. Factions divide between terraformers (who want to reshape Aquilo) and reunionists (who seek reconnection with a long-silent Earth). The setting evokes classic cyberpunk grit—neon under a dome, inequality, body modification—but grounds it in samurai-inspired contractor culture and the bleak logic of late-stage capitalism in space.

Isthmus Isako, "Quickblade," is a legendary atier—elite contractors who serve as strategists, bodyguards, advisors, and swordsmen. At 50, she's past her physical prime but unmatched in skill and reputation after 12 years on an Exclusive contract with Director Forest Greves of Astrocommunications. When Greves's division loses a brutal corporate war, he chooses public resignation (deathwalk) alongside laid-off workers, devastating Isako. She plans to follow him, securing a fat bonus for her estranged daughter Maya. Instead, her contract transfers to the victorious Savannah Minto, and Isako receives one final mission: block Sandbar Uchi's ascension to the Board.

This draws her into espionage, the disappearance (or death) of a former apprentice (Dragonfly Martim), drug intrigue, survivor testimonies from a deadly industrial disaster, and layers of conspiracy involving synthbodies, hidden knowledge, and the Company's deepest secrets. The narrative is twisty and structurally bold. It builds through investigation and brutal action, then shifts perspectives and timelines mid-book for major revelations that recontextualize everything. Fight scenes are visceral—Isako's triggersheath quick-draw is iconic—and political maneuvering is tense.

The pace mixes moody character moments with explosive confrontations. Isako is the heart of the book: world-weary yet principled, a mother who prioritized duty over family, a ronin-in-waiting grappling with what her code means when the system is rotten. Her relationships—with old partner Rain Kob (ailing but loyal), apprentices like Martim, and rivals—add emotional depth. Secondary characters feel fully realized, from cunning directors to desperate freelancers. Lee avoids caricatures; everyone operates under the same crushing pressures.

Themes of honor, legacy, mortality, and identity shine through. What does a life of service mean in a machine that discards people? How do you define self when bodies and minds can be swapped? The book explores these without preachiness, through personal stakes. Bleak and tragic in places, yet hopeful in small human connections. The ending satisfies while delivering a gut-punch reality check. The story pays homages to samurai films (Kurosawa echoes), cyberpunk (corporate intrigue, tech inequality), and space opera (big secrets, colonial fallout) while subverting expectations. It strips some "punk" rebellion but amplifies systemic critique. If you enjoy character-driven dystopias, honorable warriors facing impossible systems, or Lee's prior work, this is essential. It cements Fonda Lee as a versatile powerhouse who can deliver epic scope in any genre.

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#Review - This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me by Ilona Andrews #Epic #Fantasy

2026-06-26T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Maggie the Undying # 1
Format: 470 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: March 31, 2026
Publisher: Tor Books
Source: Library
Genre: Epic Fantasy

The page-turning politics of Game of Thrones meets the worlds-spanning romance of Outlander in this blockbuster new epic fantasy series from the #1 New York Times bestselling author duo Ilona Andrews.

DELUXE EDITION—featuring gorgeous sky blue sprayed edges

When Maggie wakes up cold, filthy, and naked in a gutter, it doesn't take her long to recognize Kair Toren, a city she knows intimately from the pages of the famously unfinished dark fantasy series she's been obsessively reading and re-reading while waiting years for the final novel.

Her only tools for navigating this gritty world of rival warlords, magic, and mayhem? Her encyclopedic knowledge of the plot, the setting, and the characters' ambitions and fates. But while she quickly discovers she cannot be killed (though many will try!), the same cannot be said for the living, breathing characters she's coming to love—a motley band that includes a former lady’s maid, a deadly assassin, various outrageous magical creatures, and a dangerously appealing soldier. Soon, instead of trying to get home, she finds herself enmeshed in the schemes—and attentions—of dueling princes, dukes, and villains, all while trying to save them and the kingdom of Rellas from the way she knows their stories will end: in a cataclysmic war.

For fans of Samantha Shannon, Danielle L. Jensen, Sarah J. Maas, and isekai and portal fantasy, This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me is the beginning of the most epic adventure yet from genre powerhouse author duo Ilona Andrews.

This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me is the first installment in author Ilona Andrews' new series called Maggie the Undying. This novel marks their first foray into high/epic fantasy and delivers a fresh, meta take on the portal/isekai trope. Maggie Haley, an ordinary woman from our world obsessed with an unfinished dark fantasy series, wakes up cold, filthy, and naked in a gutter in Kair Toren—the capital of the kingdom of Rellas. The gritty, political world of rival warlords, eight great houses, knightly orders, mages, and looming catastrophe feels terrifyingly real.

She possesses two extraordinary advantages: encyclopedic knowledge of the books’ plot, characters, secrets, and doomed trajectory, and the ability to come back from the dead (though the limits and costs remain unclear). Instead of desperately seeking a way home, she dives into survival, alliances, and an attempt to avert the cataclysmic war she knows is coming. It blends the fish-out-of-water romance and adventure of portal fantasy with intricate political intrigue, brutal stakes, and found-family dynamics. Ilona Andrews crafts a rich, lived-in grimdark-leaning fantasy world that feels both familiar (in the best way) and freshly dangerous.

The politics among the Crown, noble houses, knight orders, and magic users are complex and high-stakes—think A Song of Ice and Fire levels of scheming without feeling derivative. Magic systems (with evocative names like Mirror Heart, Fatefire, and others) add layers of wonder and threat. The setting shines through vivid sensory details: the filth of the gutter, the grandeur and rot of the city, the tension in every alley and court. Magical creatures and outrageous elements keep things lively. The world feels expansive yet grounded, with real consequences for every choice.

Maggie is a relatable, competent, and refreshingly adult. She’s not a teenager discovering hidden powers or instantly becoming queen. She’s a woman who has lived a bit, relies on wit and book knowledge, makes mistakes, and grows through them. Her love of stories and determination to protect characters she’s come to care about make her deeply sympathetic. Her “undying” ability adds tension rather than making her overpowered; death still hurts, and the emotional/psychological toll is explored. The supporting cast is colorful and memorable.

Maggie quickly builds a ragtag found family—including a former lady’s maid, a deadly assassin, outrageous magical creatures, and a dangerously appealing soldier. These relationships feel earned and heartwarming amid the darkness. The broader cast (princes, dukes, villains, knights) is large and politically entangled; keeping track of everyone can be challenging at first, but the payoff in alliances, betrayals, and twists is worth it. Many readers highlight strong banter, loyalty, and character growth. The story starts with immediate survival stakes and steadily builds into intricate political maneuvering, action, mystery, and larger quests.

Early sections involve more exposition and setup (a common note in reviews), but once Maggie gains footing and allies, the pacing accelerates into addictive, page-turning territory with fights (magical and mundane), clever schemes, and shocking revelations. The tone balances grim stakes—violence, political brutality, and the ever-present threat of war—with Ilona Andrews’ signature humor, snappy dialogue, and moments of warmth. It’s plot-heavy, with strong elements of adventure and intrigue, while delivering emotional depth on trauma, resilience, found family, and changing fate. Romance is present but secondary to the plot and character arcs—a slow-burn with excellent chemistry and tension rather than instant swooning or heavy spice.

The central relationship develops naturally through shared danger, banter, and mutual respect. Fans of Ilona Andrews’ pairings will likely adore the dynamic; it promises to deepen across the trilogy. It’s more “romantasy lite” than full-on romantasy, which suits the epic scope. Comparisons to Outlander (portal elements + romance), Game of Thrones (politics + brutality), and isekai/portal fantasies (Samantha Shannon, Danielle L. Jensen, Sarah J. Maas vibes) are apt. It also echoes the “book lover trapped in their favorite story” trope, but grounds it with serious consequences. I will say this in closing. Do not be shocked if the book ends on a cliffhanger. These days, this is the only way authors can get readers to continue with the series. Unless you don't like the story!

CHAPTER 1

MONTH OF PLANTER, DAY 6

Rain drenched the city, cold and relentless. It leached all color from the medieval-looking buildings, turning the world gray and soaking through the filthy rag in which I had swaddled myself. The sour stench rising from the grimy folds was truly epic. I couldn’t feel my toes, and my fingers were going numb.

The three-story buildings towered over the alley like the walls of a stone canyon, boxing me in. Sometime between yesterday evening and this morning, my stomach had turned into a painful bottomless pit. I hadn’t eaten in three days. I wasn’t even shivering anymore. My body didn’t have the energy.

I checked on my rock again. It lay in a puddle by my feet, a cream-colored chunk of building stone about the size of a large grapefruit. Any bigger, and it would be too hard to grip with one hand. I had found it this morning and carried it through the rain for two hours until I found the right bridge.

The rock was still there. I touched it with my foot to make sure. It felt solid and real.

I peeled myself from the wall and leaned a little to glance out of the alley. In front of me a narrow stone bridge spanned the width of a rain-swollen river. Another wall of medieval buildings loomed on the other side. Behind them, a tower soared, a spire rising at least six hundred feet, silhouetted against the storm-choked sky and topped by a huge flower of translucent, milky glass. The flower’s petals were shut into a bud, guarding the observation deck in its center from the storm. Every few seconds, bright gold sparks dashed through the enchanted glass.

A dozen dark shapes circled the flower, surfing the wild air currents. My brain expected them to be birds, but birds had only one pair of wings, not two. The feeling of wrongness was overwhelming.

Yep, the Mage Tower and the strange bird-things were still there, too.

I huddled against the wall.

I couldn’t touch the Mage Tower, but I knew it was real. For one, I had pictured it differently. In my head it was a flawless pale needle, elegant and almost dainty. If this had been a hallucination, what I saw would’ve matched the vision in my head, but the reality was nothing like that. This tower jutted up, defiant, its walls worn but strong, as if it had grown from bedrock. And it felt old. Like it had stood there for thousands of years and would stand just like that for another millennium, timeless and indifferent, while the city around it crumbled into dust, rebuilt, and crumbled again.

No, it was real, like this endless rain, like the pain in my freezing bare feet, and like the gnawing ache in my stomach.

In the distance, a bell tolled four times. Four PM.

It wouldn’t be too long now.

To say that this was not the way I envisioned spending my Sunday would be a criminal understatement. Today would’ve been my one day off. I should’ve spent it watching Netflix, nibbling on a pizza, and reading while lounging on my couch in my tiny apartment, in my soft sweatpants, warm and dry. Not wrapped in a dirty rag, shivering in a grimy alley, while the sky dumped gallons of cold rain on my head.

I wasn’t a big reader through most of my childhood, but when I was sixteen, my first serious boyfriend broke up with me, and it was hell. My brain kept rehashing every moment of the relationship in excruciating detail. One afternoon, as I lay on my bed, wallowing in self-pity, my mom handed me a thick fantasy book, and when I turned my nose up at it, she told me, “Maggie, you need to live in someone else’s head for a bit.”

I’d thought I would read a few pages. When I came up for air, five hours later, my breakup was an afterthought. Some seriously messed-up stuff happened on the first page, and I had to find out how it turned out. Somehow by the end of those five hours, the book had wrung me dry. I could deal with life again.

I’d tried every genre under the sun since, but fantasy was my vice of choice. There was something about blades and magic that did it for me. Deadly swordmasters, thieves prowling through moonlit streets, dark magicians, warrior princesses, ruthless nobles, majestic dragons, hideous monsters, I loved it all. Put a hot dude in armor with a sword on the cover, and my eyes glazed over while my hand crept to the BUY button, budget be damned.

I had read enough fantasy books to fill a library, but that very first series was my special treasure. Set in the city of Kair Toren, capital of the kingdom of Rellas, the story revolved around the power struggles of eight noble families, and it was so full of fantasy tropes, it would be clichéd except that the superb writing moved it right past stereotypical into classic. The characters felt so real, they practically jumped off the page.

The series had two books, The Thieves of the North and The Lords of the East. The third one had never come out.

I had been rereading those two books for the last ten years. Whenever life got to be too harsh, I would grab them off my bookshelf, and they never failed to pull me out of whatever funk I had going on at the time. I could quote passages from memory. I had stalked the author’s abandoned website religiously for any hint of a release date. I haunted the fan groups looking for rumors and stewing in collective frustration. Adrian Latour, the author of the series, was always an enigma. He didn’t do social media or appearances, and his bio, with a blank square where the author photo should have been, consisted of a single sentence: Adrian Latour, man of dreams and chronicler of stories. After the second book came out, he seemed to vanish. He never wrote anything else, and nobody offered an explanation as to why he stopped working. The story just cut off. One of my favorite characters was left standing on a box with a noose around his neck for a decade.

Three nights ago, after a long day of delivering groceries, I went to sleep in my apartment south of Austin and woke up in Kair Toren.

A hint of movement on my left made me turn. Something small padded through the rain toward me. I brushed the water off my face.

A red furry creature padded out from the rain-soaked alley and stared at me with unblinking dark eyes. Its head was round, with curved marten ears that stood straight up, a button nose, and very long whiskers. It didn’t walk, it slunk, its longish body sitting low on four short legs that ended in webbed hand-paws armed with sharp retractable claws. It was as if an otter and a Ragdoll cat had a baby and dyed it red.

A stelka. A female one. Males had tufts on their ears.

Stelkas infested Kair Toren and its five rivers, catching fish and rats, eating garbage, raiding cellars, stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down, and generally being a nuisance. Like overly smart foxes, except that normal foxes at least hesitated before they scurried over to take a bite out of someone five times their size. Last night, exhausted and desperate, I’d fallen asleep under some busted crates, and this morning I woke up because one of these red assholes decided to chew on my leg.

The stelka opened her mouth and showed me sharp white teeth.

It couldn’t be.

I crouched and tilted my head, trying to get a better look.

There it was, a white patch on the stelka’s chest that looked like a lopsided half-moon. I had seen a dozen stelkas in my three days of stumbling around the city, and only one of them had a white patch like that. I must’ve been really delicious.

“You followed me.” My voice creaked like I had crawled out of the grave.

The stelka eyed me.

“Nope. Not happening.”

The little creature took a step forward.

I showed her my rock.

Another step.

I gripped the rock and hit the cobblestones with it.

The beast shied back and hissed.

A piercing screech tore through the air above us. I glanced up. One of the weird birds swooped at the tower in a suicidal dive and rammed the petals.

For a moment, the entire flower went dark, barely visible in the rain.

Oh crap.

The bud pulsed with pale light. Tongues of golden lightning erupted from the petals, snaking toward the birds. They tried to flee in a panic, but the lightning chased them, stabbing at their wings.

One of the bird-things cried out, plunged from the sky, and smashed onto the paver stones between me and the stelka with a wet thud. It was about the size of an eagle, with a long whip-like tail tipped with a fan of dark feathers. Its wings were wide, its long hind legs were sheathed in contour feathers, and all four of its appendages ended in paws armed with sharp talons.

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#Review - An Ordinary Sort of Evil by Kelley Armstrong #Mystery #Suspense

2026-06-22T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: A Rip Thru Time # 5
Format: 320 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: May 19, 2026
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Historical

New York Times bestselling author Kelley Armstrong returns to Victorian Scotland in the latest in the genre-blending Rip Through Time series.

Modern-day homicide detective Mallory Mitchell has grown accustomed to life in Victorian Scotland after travelling 150 years into the past into the body of a housemaid. She’s built a new life for herself. Even though she works as an assistant to forensic-science pioneer Dr. Duncan Gray and Detective Hugh McCreadie, she considers them true friends. And with Gray in particular, perhaps, someday, something more.

Late one night, Gray and Mallory are summoned urgently to the home of Lady Adler, a patron of Gray’s undertaking business, and they assume there's been a death in the household. But instead, they arrive in the midst of a seance with a ghost demanding Gray's presence. The ghost is Lady Adler's former maid, who had gone missing but now requests that Gray investigate her murder. Although Gray and Mallory are skeptical, they agree to look into the matter, whether she's dead or alive. But unsure if there's been a murder or not, unable to call out the medium as a fraud, and concerned for the fate of the young maid, Gray and Mallory are once again drawn into a mystery much more puzzling--and more dangerous--than it first seems

An Ordinary Sort of Evil is the Fifth installment in author Kelley Armstrong's A Rip Thru Time series. The story is set in 1870 Scotland, during the Victorian Era in England. Modern-day homicide detective Mallory Mitchell (now inhabiting the body of housemaid Catriona) has settled into her unlikely new life in Edinburgh in 1869–1870. She works as an assistant to Dr. Duncan Gray—a pioneering forensic scientist and undertaker—and teams up with Detective Hugh McCreadie on cases.

Late one night, Gray and Mallory are summoned to the home of Lady Adler, a wealthy patron. Instead of a routine death, they walk into a séance where the "ghost" of Lady Adler’s former maid demands that Gray investigate her murder. Skeptical of spiritualism but unable to dismiss the request outright (especially given their patron’s status and the era’s fascination with séances), the duo begins probing. The maid was thought to have simply left for a better position, but when her body turns up, the case turns deadly serious.

What follows is a layered mystery involving suspects from various social strata, questions about the medium’s legitimacy, hidden motives, and dangers that test Mallory and Gray’s partnership. The story stands alone as a self-contained mystery while advancing overarching series threads, including relationships and Mallory’s adaptation to Victorian constraints. Armstrong crafts an engaging, non-straightforward whodunit with red herrings, social commentary, and escalating stakes.

The blend of forensic science (primitive by modern standards but cutting-edge for the time), police procedure, and séance-era spiritualism adds freshness. Tension ramps up in the latter half with intense, suspenseful scenes. Mallory remains a standout—sharp, sarcastic, and relatable as she navigates class/gender restrictions while applying 21st-century detective skills. Her banter with the pragmatic, science-minded Duncan Gray sparkles, especially in moments highlighting cultural clashes and flirtation mishaps. Side characters like Hugh, Isla, and the irrepressible Jack add depth and humor.

Add in an actual historical person who appears to be a huge fan of the Detective Chronicles written by Jack, featuring Mallory and Grey, and it gives the story some brevity. After months of will they or won't they, Armstrong finally solves that question emphatically, and even Isla gets involved with trying to tell Mallory that everyone knows what is happening between her and Grey. The ending was really good, and I have to say, I am actually looking forward to seeing where this series goes from here.

ONE

The patient is not cooperating. The sutures keep coming out, because she absolutely refuses to take it easy, no matter how hard her nurse works to keep her confined to her bed. It doesn’t help that she’s so young. It also doesn’t help that she’s a cat. A Scottish wildcat to be specific.

A month ago, my boss had to amputate her right hind leg after an accident, and short of permanently sedating her, we can’t seem to keep her from ripping out the sutures. Now I’m holding her, along with her “nurse”—our parlormaid, Alice—and she’s already bitten Gray twice. The kitten, that is, not Alice, though the thirteen-year-old can’t keep from glowering at her employer each time her precious baby yowls.

The patient’s name is Freya, from Alice’s recent obsession with Norse mythology. I’d suggested Houdini, for the cat’s uncanny ability to escape from any bandages we put on her. Of course, no one else got the reference, probably because it’s 1870 and Houdini likely hasn’t been born yet.

My name is Mallory Mitchell. Or that’s my name in Victorian Edinburgh. I was born Mallory Atkinson, in Vancouver … in 1989. How I ended up in the body of a nineteen-year-old housemaid is a long story, but I’ve been here just over a year, in the household of Dr. Duncan Gray, physician turned undertaker and early forensic scientist. I’m no longer a housemaid, thankfully. I’m Gray’s assistant, which is a position much more befitting of a former police detective. Even if my current job is wrestling a very small and very pissed-off wildcat.

“Mallory…” Gray says through gritted teeth. “The patient needs to be restrained.”

“The patient is a five-pound fanged eel masquerading as a kitten. Are you sure you don’t want to sedate her?”

Gray only grunts. The problem is that Freya rips her stitches too often and anesthetic is still relatively new. Gray—rightfully—is concerned about overusing it on such a young patient, and I have to give him credit for that. As with so many “miracle” advancements, chloroform and ether are used a little too zealously in this world, right up to being given out at parties. Because nothing says “a good time” like passing out cold in your host’s living room.

“Can you hold her for a moment, Alice?” I say. “I have an idea.”

She restrains Freya, while cooing and petting her, and promising this will all be over soon. I grab a small strip of bandage. Then, after getting Gray to hold Freya’s head, I blindfold her. She instantly goes still.

I exhale. “Now, Alice, if you can keep her good back leg steady, I’ll look after the front end.”

With the mask on, Freya seems confused. Probably also freaked out, but not the hissing and biting kind of freaked out. I remember a friend who used a blindfold to brush her Persian cat, and the trick seems to work.

Gray swiftly restitches her tiny stump. Then he takes over holding Freya’s rear quarters as Alice bandages the area. Alice has plenty of experience doing that, and her small fingers fly.

When the front doorbell rings, we all glance in that direction. The grandfather clock recently struck nine in the evening, which means our housemaid, Jack, is gone. Gray’s sister Isla is out with McCreadie. Mrs. Wallace will have retired.

“Do you wish me to answer that, sir?” Alice asks Gray, her tone proper now that Freya is tended to, the evil kitten-hurting doctor replaced by her respect-deserving boss.

“I’ll get it,” I say. While it’ll still be light out, I don’t like the idea of Alice answering the door at night.

I leave Alice cuddling Freya and slipping her bits of fish from dinner. When I walk out of the laboratory, Gray is right behind me, because while I might not be willing to let Alice answer the door so late, he’s not willing to let me do it. Also, he’s curious, as always, but it would be unseemly for the man of the house to answer his own door, even if he runs his family business out of the building.

We live in a town house on Robert Street, in the New Town district of Edinburgh, which in this time means the area where people like Gray live. Educated professionals, yes, but also people with money. His father ran a successful undertaking business that put the family solidly in the upper end of the middle class.

After Irvine Gray’s death, the business should have gone to his eldest son. I’ve never even met Lachlan Gray—he’s off in … Asia? America? Who knows these days. Definitely not the stay-at-home type or the look-after-the-family-business type. The best person to run the company would have been Irvine’s oldest, Annis, who is a genius when it comes to business. But there was no way he’d bequeath it to a daughter. So when Lachlan refused, it went to his youngest—even though Gray is the illegitimate son Irvine brought home nearly thirty years ago.

Gray does not love undertaking. He does, however, love Isla and his stepmother, Frances, and so he took over the business to provide for them while he pursued his passion in forensics. His laboratory is here, on the ground floor, the rest of the level given over to the business of undertaking. So we don’t have far to go before reaching the front door.

I pull it open to see a middle-aged manservant on our steps.

“Good evening, miss,” the man says. His face is ruddy and he’s short of breath, sounding as if he ran instead the whole way, despite the coach parked right behind him. “Is Dr. Gray at home?”

“May I tell him who has come to call?” I ask, as if my damned boss isn’t right behind the door, listening and waiting to decide whether he wants to be at home or not.

“I come from Lady Adler,” he says. “She needs Dr. Gray, urgently.”

I hesitate. Gray is a trained doctor with degrees in both medicine and surgery. But he isn’t licensed to practice, so unless this Lady Adler is a very close friend, she’d never call him for that. I’ve never heard the name, which means she’s not a close friend.

Yet that isn’t the only reason she might know Gray well. When it comes to romantic entanglements, his tastes run to sophisticated widows, and while I haven’t known him to be “entangled” since I arrived, his former lovers do tend to find reasons to renew the acquaintance.

When I look at Gray, though, he seems genuinely puzzled. That should mean this “Lady Adler” isn’t a former lover, but he can be a wee bit oblivious in this regard, honestly confused as to why women might reach out after their affair has ended.

“I fear I have not been with Dr. Gray for long,” I say. “Will he know what this is in regards to?”

“Lady Adler is a longtime patron,” the man says, with some impatience. “If you take him the message, I am certain he will come.”

“Patron…”

“Of his business?” the man snaps. “As an undertaker? I do not know who you are, miss, but I would strongly suggest that if you wish to keep your position, you should not interfere with your employer’s occupation. Particularly when it comes to very influential patrons.”

“Of course. I am so sorry, sir. Dr. Gray has retired for the evening, and I was loath to wake him, but obviously I will do so immediately. Would you like to step inside? We have a waiting room.”

Gray’s look of alarm is very satisfying. Really, if the guy is just going to hide behind the door and make me run interference, he deserves a scare. Of course, the fellow refuses the invitation—he can’t leave the coach on the road—and I assure him I will fetch Dr. Gray immediately.

Then I shut the door and glare. “Please tell me you know who Lady Adler is.”

“Of course,” he says.

My glare deepens to a scowl. “Then why did you act as if you didn’t?”

“I am confused by the summons, not the name.”

“I presume someone has died.”

“Perhaps. But to show up at my door? At night? That is not done.”

He has a point. In this time period, undertakers have nothing to do with the bodies. His laboratory isn’t for embalming. When someone dies, the grieving relatives hire Gray to make all the necessary arrangements for the burial, the service, and so on.

“Does no one ever call you out in the middle of the night?” I ask. “When they’re in shock and all they can think to do is make the necessary arrangements?”

“It has happened, but it is exceptionally rare, and that is not like Lady Adler.”

He has a point. In my world, we might panic at having a dead body in the house and call the first person we can think of to help. If our family has an undertaker they’ve used before, it could be that person. But Victorians are much more accustomed to death.

Here, people die of disease and accident all the time, and you don’t shove the body out the door as quickly as you can. You keep it until the service, and people pay their respects in your home. To an unembalmed corpse. Well, no, not always. Because while bodies aren’t embalmed by undertakers, I actually found it mentioned in a book. A book of household hints with instructions so the women of the house could keep the body of their loved one fresh throughout the visitation period.

Say what you will about the Victorians, but while they may have a reputation for pretty manners, they were not squeamish. Well, not when it comes to death. Sex is a whole other matter, though from what I now understand, they’re only reticent about discussing it. They’re certainly doing it.

“This Lady Adler…” I say. “Could she be summoning you for … anything else?”

His expression is adorable bewilderment. Oh, I know I shouldn’t call it adorable. I doubt anyone else would. Gray doesn’t have that kind of face. It’s perpetually serious. Handsome, but in a severe way, cool and austere.

“Is she … a widow friend of yours?” I prod.

I say it as delicately as I can, but that doesn’t keep him from going red. Victorians.

“Lady Adler is at least sixty,” he sputters.

“Well, I know you don’t have a problem with older women. Is that too old?”

More sputtering. “She is married.”

“Ah, okay. Yes, you don’t do that.”

“I do not,” he says. “My relationship with Lady Adler is purely professional, and even then, I have only met her a handful of times. Her husband was friendly with my father. Isla knows her better, through their charitable work. Lady Adler is a renowned philanthropist.”

“Who is your … patron? What does that mean? That you’re her family undertaker? Like being the family lawyer? I know the death rate is high in this time, but it still doesn’t seem like a regular job.”

“Her father used our services and recommended them to others, and Lady Adler does the same. It’s the recommendations that make her a patron. Her support is immensely valuable, as her family is very well respected and connected.”

“Ah, so she’s responsible for a good chunk of your business—not directly, but by sending clients your way. And I presume those clients recommend you to others.”

“Yes.”

“Is it okay to convey your regrets, then? Tell the driver I cannot rouse you? Or you are not at home?”

Gray’s shoulders slump with a look that is as adorable as the bewilderment. He wants to refuse. He might not like undertaking, but he’s very good at it—the organizational parts, at least. He can make the arrangements efficiently and expediently at a reasonable cost, never cheating the client, which is a huge issue with Victorian undertakers. What he’s not so good at? Dealing with the mourners themselves.

Since I have experience with grieving relatives as a police detective, I’ve started handling that where I can, leaving him to support them in his way—taking all the arrangements off their shoulders. If Lady Adler is summoning him at this hour, though, she doesn’t want to arrange a funeral. She needs comfort.

“I could do it,” I say.

He shakes his head. “That would be an insult to someone of Lady Adler’s stature. I must go. But if you would come with me…”

I smile. “Of course.”

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#Review - Paranormal Payback by Jim Butcher, Kerrie L. Hughes and others

2026-06-15T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Novella
Format: 352 pages, Paperback

Release Date: April 14, 2026
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Urban Fantasy, Novella

A superstar lineup is included in this urban fantasy collection featuring short stories from New York Times bestselling authors Jim Butcher, Holly Black, Kim Harrison, Faith Hunter, and more …

In this short story collection, our heroes get what’s due to them—with a supernatural flair.

But the injustices that have been holding them back might cost them more than they realized. . . .

In “Mister Petty,” a brand-new Dresden Files story from #1 New York Times bestselling author Jim Butcher, a woman hires Goodman Grey to get back at her cheating husband. She’s about to find out that Grey isn’t your ordinary detective—he’s a professional monster. And he’s going to balance the scales.

From #1 New York Times bestselling author Holly Black, “Dying Isn’t Just for the Young” follows an elderly widow reckoning with family scheming to take away her independence in a world infected by a disease of vampirism.

New York Times bestselling author Faith Hunter’s “Razors and Revenge” finds the vampire bounty hunter Shiloh awaiting her judgement at the hands of the Dark Queen, fresh off a brutal werewolf attack and the loss of a dear friend. But Shiloh’s not just a vampire anymore—and the wolfish instincts growing inside her are howling for blood.

And Kim Harrison takes us to the #1 New York Times bestselling series of the Hollows in her story “Dog-eared.” The demon Algaliarept makes a bargain with the dangerously insane Newt, the last female demon, to punish an arrogant wizard for abusing his precious magical texts—but how ruthless is Al willing to be to get his petty vengeance?

Paranormal Payback is a 2026 urban fantasy anthology edited by Jim Butcher and Kerrie L. Hughes. It features twelve short stories centered on the theme of revenge with a supernatural twist—where witches, vampires, ghosts, demons, and other beings deliver (or seek) payback, often with messy, morally complex, or darkly humorous results. The collection includes a mix of brand-new tales and stories set in established series universes. It stands out for its strong lineup of authors and the way it explores the blurred line between justice and vengeance.

"Mister Petty" by Jim Butcher (Dresden Files universe, featuring Goodman Grey): Goodman Grey, a "professional monster" and shapeshifter PI in Chicago, takes a case from a woman seeking revenge on her cheating husband. It's noir-infused, fun, and lighter on the heavy guilt that often weighs down Harry Dresden himself. Overall Rating: A-

"Dog-Eared" by Kim Harrison (The Hollows): Involves the demon Algaliarept bargaining with Newt for revenge against a wizard who mistreated magical texts. Al is always trying to find a way to get Rachel Morgan (the witch/bounty hunter) from The Hollows series as his newest familiar. It delivers classic Hollows wit, demonic pettiness, and ruthless flair that fans love. Overall: A

"Razors and Revenge" by Faith Hunter (Jane Yellowrock world): Follows Shiloh, a witch turned vampire who has recently survived being bitten by a werewolf. vampire bounty hunter Shiloh post-werewolf attack, blending vampire lore with emerging wolf instincts in a high-stakes judgment scene. It's intense and action-packed. Overall: A0

Holly Black’s “Dying Isn’t Just for the Young” (Coldtown universe) — an elderly widow named Beryl navigating vampirism and family betrayal. It became an even better short story by being set in the same world as Holly Black’s ‘The Coldest Girl In Coldtown', giving the widow intriguing options for how to live the rest of her life. I still want a sequel to the original story!!!

Kevin Hearne’s “The Underground Goddess” (Iron Druid adjacent) — Ana is a witch with the Sisters of the Three Auroras, a coven based in Poland and featured in Hearne’s Iron Druid Chronicles. The Sisters take on an otherworldly phone scam operation and save Ana’s grandmother from losing her savings. The Warsaw location and the mix of Polish and Greek myths were refreshing. "There is no such life. That is not immortal. For at least a moment."

R.R. Virdi’s “Grave Payback” — paranormal investigator Vincent Graves (body-hopping ghost-like figure) delivering justice for the dead.

R.L. King’s “A Clean Break” (Alastair Stone Chronicles) — a mage and a ghost teaming up. Alastair Stone is a magic wielder. Due to a reservation mistake, he is in a cheap motel where he sees the ghost of a maid who was murdered by men using a room for drug deals.

A Midsummer Night's Scheming by Delilah S. Dawson/Isla Jewell - This is set in the world of Arcadia Falls. This was a weird tale about a magical woman coming into her powers, getting a donkey familiar named Gary, who was hilariously weird, and helping get some revenge on the awful people who hurt her sister.

Contained by Tanya Huff - This is set in the world of vampire Henry Fitzroy. Definitely made me interested in looking into this series. Henry was a cool character who has been around for 500 years.

Dirt by Jennifer Blackstream - This is set in the world of Shade Renard/Blood Trails. Shade is a witch PI that deals with “other-world” problems. Her client, Alex, balances the scales by granting vengeance to those who have been wronged, but now someone is after him. The story has a good twist.

Black Bond by Maurice Broaddus - Told with a mix of suspense, tension, and recollection, all heightened by the addition of supernatural elements, this story confronts not just the terrible history that it's based on but how things have changed a hundred years later.

The Broom by Kerrie L. Hughes - This is set in the world of Great Lakes Grimoire. Two siblings are looking to buy a property that is haunted by a woman who was killed by a serial killer. I would have loved to know more about the siblings before this story. Seems like something I would enjoy.

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#Review - The Somewhat Wicked Witch of Brigandale by C.M. Waggoner #Cozy #Fantasy

2026-06-12T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Standalone
Format: 212 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: March 17, 2026
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Cozy Fantasy

A practical witch must sabotage her beloved son's ascension to the throne in order to keep the kingdom from ruin, in this delightful cozy fantasy from the author of The Ruthless Lady’s Guide to Wizardry.

Once upon a time, a somewhat wicked witch named Gretsella lived in a cozy little cottage in the Dark Forest of Brigandale. She dispensed herbs and tinctures at reasonable prices, met with her slightly oddball coven on a regular basis, and had absolutely no need of any further company whatsoever, thank you very much. But then one afternoon, Gretsella came home to find a screaming infant on her doorstep.

Against all her better judgement, she took the baby in. She named him Bradley.

Eighteen years later, Bradley has grown into a bafflingly likable young man under Gretsella’s extremely tolerant—one might even say doting—eye. But the witch’s hopes for an unremarkable yet fulfilling life for her son are shattered when small woodland animals start prophesying that he is the lost prince and should ascend to the throne. Bradley ignores Gretsella’s advice that prophecies and talking chipmunks are to be avoided at all costs, and sets off for the capital. But soon confusion and chaos are reigning, and scheming courtiers are using Bradley for their own ends. Sometimes a witch has to roll up her sleeves and take matters into her own cauldron. So Gretsella sets off to bring about the downfall of her darling son…

The Somewhat Wicked Witch of Brigandale by C.M. Waggoner is a delightful, breezy cozy fantasy that subverts fairy-tale tropes. Once upon a time, in the Dark Forest of Brigandale, lived Gretsella—a practical witch who sells reasonably priced herbs and tinctures, meets with her oddball coven, and wants nothing more than solitude. Then a baby appears on her doorstep. Against her better judgment, she takes him in and names him Bradley. Eighteen years later, woodland creatures (talking chipmunks and the like) proclaim Bradley the lost prince of Evermore.

He heads off to claim the throne, leaving chaos in his wake as scheming courtiers exploit his good nature. Gretsella must roll up her sleeves (and perhaps deploy some "somewhat wicked" magic) to sabotage her beloved son's reign—for his own good and the kingdom's. Gretsella is an absolute triumph: blunt, pragmatic, curmudgeonly, and deeply loving in her own way. She's not "wicked" in the cartoonish sense—her "wickedness" stems from unapologetic self-interest and a barren field of fucks to give, but her actions are rooted in fierce maternal protectiveness.

Bradley is bafflingly likable—a kind, courteous "dope" gifted with beauty, manners, and a powerful right hook by Gretsella's coven, but notably lacking in brains or political acumen. His earnestness drives much of the comedy and conflict. The supporting cast shines too: the quirky coven members, scheming courtiers, loyal knights, and even prophetic animals add color without overwhelming the focused narrative. It's cozy without being toothless: there's political intrigue, mild subversion of tropes, and emotional depth beneath the fairy-tale frosting.

Mother-son dynamics feel authentic and touching, especially as Gretsella grapples with letting go while fiercely protecting her boy. The worldbuilding is light and fairy-tale-vague, which suits the tone but may leave readers craving more depth in the setting or the magic system. The plot meanders charmingly at times, and the political satire in the latter half won't appeal to everyone. If you enjoy practical magic, found family (or found royalty), and stories that poke gentle fun at destiny while celebrating it, pick this up. Gretsella would approve—especially if you buy her tinctures at reasonable prices.

Chapter 1

In Which Gretsella Receives
an Unusual Delivery

Once upon a time, on a somewhat muggy Wednesday afternoon in late August, the witch Gretsella arrived home to her cottage in the Dark Forest of Brigandale in the Kingdom of Evermore to find a bottle of milk on her steps. There was also a screaming baby.

The milk was there because the milkman always came on Wednesdays. Gretsella paid him to do so. She didn't know when or why a babyman had come as well, though it seemed clear that when the babyman cameth, he had cometh for her. Attached to the baby's ankle was a luggage tag that read "To be taken into the care of Gretsella, the Witch of Brigandale with the Reasonable Prices." This was, in fact, Gretsella's preferred epithet. When it came to making a career out of witchery in today's economy, whether you were a good witch or a bad witch was of less concern than whether you were a witch whose subtle arts were accessible to the middle-class homemaker.

The baby was still screaming.

"Stop that," Gretsella said.

The baby did.

"Well, at least you know your manners," Gretsella said, and carried the baby inside.

Gretsella's cottage was a nice, cozy little place, if Gretsella said so herself, which Gretsella often did. Gretsella was firmly convinced that her home could not be surpassed by the finest mansions in all of Evermore. On this point, she might not have been entirely incorrect. It was a cottage perfectly positioned and enchanted to catch only the coolest, most fragrant breezes in summer, and in winter it was always snug and warm and smelled of the rosemary tincture that Gretsella used for everything from washing her hair to mixing up a fortifying drink with a modest slug of gin. There were always fresh sweet rushes on the floor, and the hearth was swept as clean as the dinner plates. It was, in short, a very wholesome atmosphere for a baby to visit, if a baby saw fit to go visiting. Gretsella could think of no reason why the baby shouldn't be invited inside.

Though she had never had any children of her own, Gretsella had never found herself particularly intimidated by babies. As she saw it, they were a bit like wolves and termites and fast-growing asymmetrical moles: One only needed to be firm with them. That was, at least, her own experience. She'd noticed that people who had the misfortune not to be witches seemed to find things a bit more difficult. In any case, within half an hour or so, she had given the baby a thorough scrubbing down in a dishpan and diapered him with a clean tea towel, then set him down in a breadbasket, where he proceeded to placidly gnaw upon his own fist.

"I don't see why you're looking so satisfied with yourself," Gretsella said. "A helpless infant all alone in the world, with no way to make an honest living."

The baby had nothing to say for himself.

"And why give me a baby?" Gretsella asked him. "It isn't as if I took out an advertisement in the paper. Wanted: one able infant-of-all-work. Ridiculous! Of what possible use could you be?"

The baby made no reply.

"Ah, well, if you insist on being difficult, I suppose there isn't anything else for it," Gretsella said, and began to search the cottage for supplies to make the baby a more comfortable bed.

Over the next few days, Gretsella and the baby embarked upon their new life together, and she found herself growing fond of him. It was a bit like having a particularly useless familiar. Her last familiar had been a black cat who could smell demons. The baby mostly smelled terrible. He was lovable, though, in his own way. Gretsella had worked miracles for people who expressed less joy and enthusiasm for her efforts than the baby did whenever she pretended that a spoonful of mashed peas was an owl flying into the hollow of a tree.

She decided to name him Bradley.

Bradley was, on the whole, a very well-behaved young person. He only very rarely made a fuss in the evenings. On these occasions, Gretsella would sing him to sleep with songs of her own invention, which tended to run along broadly similar lines:

Go to sleep, little baby, and don't give me cause

To feed you to creatures with sharp shiny claws.

The forest is teeming with creatures who creep,

So quit with your crying and go straight to sleep!

This generally seemed to do the trick.

One day-after Bradley had been sleeping in one of her bureau drawers and dirtying her tea towels for almost a week-Gretsella was outside hanging some laundry on the line, with Bradley grubbing around in the grass by her feet, when she heard horses approaching.

She straightened up and glared in the direction of the sound as two armored men came riding into sight. "You there! Old woman!" one of them called out.

She glared harder. "Witch."

"You!" the soldier said.

"Yes, me," she said. "I'm a witch. Now try that again."

"Oh," the soldier said. "You there! Witch!"

"Yes?" Gretsella said politely.

The soldier took a moment to sit up taller in his saddle before he got to the point. "Have you seen any strange babies around here?"

Gretsella frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh," the soldier said, with a glance at his companion, "no reason."

This didn't strike Gretsella as particularly convincing. "No," she said after a moment. "There aren't any strange babies here."

"But what about that one?" the second soldier asked, and pointed at Bradley, who was stuffing a fistful of grass into his mouth.

"He's not strange; he's Bradley," Gretsella said. "He's my baby."

The soldier looked somewhat dubious. "He doesn't look much like you."

This was, in fairness, quite true. Gretsella was very tall and very thin and very pale, with green eyes and freckles and a long, crooked nose and an unmanageable head of graying red curls. Bradley, being a mere infant, was very short and very fat. He also had a tuft of straight black hair growing out of the center of his forehead, a complexion a shade or two darker than Gretsella's own, and merry dark eyes, which were nearly swallowed up by what persons more sentimental than Gretsella might deem irresistibly chubby little cheeks. Gretsella drew herself up a bit. "Bradley," she said, "has no obligation whatsoever to look like anyone but himself."

The soldiers seemed unable to mount any objections to this argument. The first soldier cleared his throat. "And aren't you a bit long in the tooth to have a child of that age?"

Gretsella's glare intensified. "I have no obligation whatsoever to be of any age other than my own," she said. "Now go away, both of you. Shoo."

The soldiers stayed where they were. Gretsella turned her attention to their horses and gave each of them a good long look straight in the eye. Then she said, very firmly, "Go away, and don't come back."

The horses left. The soldiers, being mounted on their backs, left with them. Gretsella finished hanging out her laundry, and then she and Bradley set up a nice old-fashioned soldier-, salesman-, taxman-, and missionary-repelling perimeter around the garden. "I don't know why it's been so long since I set one of these up," Gretsella said to Bradley. "What a negligent witch Mother is! Isn't that right, Bradley?"

Bradley cooed.

A Digression on the
Subject of Witches

Once upon a time, a long time ago, a lonely little girl wandered through a dark wood. The little girl had a real name, but everybody called her Carrots. She climbed up onto a low branch in a tree-she was the sort of little girl who would climb as high as there were convenient handholds, but no higher-made herself comfortable, and thought about the universe. She didn't stumble upon any remarkable insights. She was an ordinary little girl, not a philosopher-king.

Despite this, the universe said, Hmm.

If you're the sort of person who reads, you'll be aware that fairy tales ought to be taken seriously in their essence, if not in their particularity. Fairy tales, like fairies themselves, are not overly concerned with factual accuracy. They sometimes mislead. You should, therefore, take the following explanation of a peculiar phenomenon with a grain of salt: It's a little-known fact that, in the Kingdom of Evermore, just as caterpillars turn into butterflies, lonely little girls sometimes turn into witches.

The loneliness that creates a witch can't be the temporary loneliness of a child whose parents have left her alone to fend for herself for an afternoon. It's a deeper and more abiding loneliness than that. It's the sort of loneliness felt by a little girl who, for whatever reason, walks alone into the woods and climbs up into trees to think about the universe more often than she's invited to birthday parties. It's the sort of loneliness that, over time, curdles into something that isn't loneliness at all. This was the way in which Carrots was lonely.

Carrots was eleven years old. She wasn't an orphan and didn't have a cruel stepmother, and she wasn't bullied by the other children for some distinct physical attribute. She was simply a little girl who was slightly too plain, slightly too loud, and slightly too intense in her contemplation of peculiar subjects. She wasn't a round peg being forced into a square hole. She was, in a world of round holes, a peg that at some point in the manufacturing process had been made very slightly oblong, to the degree that the cosmic carpenter assumed that he was probably just hammering wrong and set her aside to try again later. This was always a particular source of pain for Carrots. If she were bullied for being the lone child with flashing green eyes and flame-colored hair in a village of dull, ordinary-looking children, that would be one thing. She'd be able to anticipate going on an exciting hero's journey and meeting lots of people who would recognize her remarkable qualities for what they were. Carrots, unfortunately, was shunned by the other children not because they were nasty provincial little bullies but because she was the sort of child who read a lot of books, thought she understood more about the world than she actually did, and didn't understand how to play with the other children without annoying them. This made her very lonely, but she told herself that she didn't care about those dull, silly children in the village anyway.

All of this was made worse by the fact that the pain felt by a lonely little girl is taken seriously by almost nobody, including the little girl herself. She is forced, therefore, to imagine herself into a world where she is a more important and interesting person experiencing a more important and interesting kind of pain. It is this specific combination of loneliness, pain, and inward-directed imaginative power that creates the ideal alluvium for germinating the seeds of witchcraft.

This condition of proto-witchery is not, strictly speaking, limited to little girls, though they experience it more frequently than any other type of person. Just as, under the right circumstances, towering trees can be found growing inside dark caves or clinging to the sides of sheer rock faces, this type of little-girl loneliness sometimes finds its expression in an embittered young widow, a forlorn and delicate elderly man, or, in one notable case, a desperately unhappy forty-five-year-old sergeant major struggling to reacclimate to civilian life after many years of fighting overseas. It is, however, an absolute fact that unhappy little girls are the ideal existential ceramic crock for fermenting the supernatural sauerkraut that is a fully developed adult witch.

Despite this rich, dark loam of little-girl loneliness being endemic in girls between the ages of seven and seventeen, it is not sufficient for a girl to become a witch. It's generally more likely to produce an adult with a slightly above-average level of interest in stories about notorious and gruesome murders. Even in the intensely magical forest of Brigandale, all that this sort of loneliness creates is a small divot in the fabric of reality. Most lonely little girls are too busy living in reality to notice a crack in it.

That day in the tree, Carrots looked at reality, noticed a handhold in it, and pulled herself up.

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#Review - The Library of Lost Girls by Kristen Pipps #YA #Fantasy

2026-06-08T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Standalone
Format: 336 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: October 28, 2025
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult, Dark Fantasy

When her sister returns from finishing school a total stranger, a teen seeks out the cause and discovers that the cost of becoming a perfect lady is much higher—and more sinister—than ever expected. A lush, gothic tale that will haunt readers long after they turn the last page.

Gwen Donovan adores her beautiful and rebellious older sister, Izzy. But the Izzy who returns from the Delphi School for Girls is not the sister who left. Now she is Isolde: dull and complacent and—most shocking—eager to marry.

Gwen is determined to discover what happened to Izzy at Delphi, and the only solution she can conceive of is to cheat her way into the mysterious school. If she can see for herself what they did, maybe she can get her Izzy back.

But Delphi is far from the finishing school Gwen expects. Sinister shadows lurk in the hallways of the remote estate, and she is told to never leave her room after dark. More curious, though, are the thousands of books, each with the name of a girl on its spine. They line the walls from floor to ceiling, and the students are forbidden to read them.

Delphi says they’re reforming the girls, but when Gwen discovers a note left for her by her sister, she realizes that what is happening at the school is more terrifying than she could ever have imagined. There’s something dark at the center of Delphi, and somehow it’s tied to those books—and to the girls who are sent there. And if Gwen doesn’t confront what hides in the shadows, it won’t be just Izzy who’s lost forever.

The Library of Lost Girls is the debut novel from author Kristen Pipps. The Library of Lost Girls is an atmospheric YA gothic dark fantasy/horror which blends dark academia, sisterhood, supernatural elements, and sharp feminist commentary in a haunting 1893 setting. The story is set off the coast of Canada in a place called Delphia School for Girls. Gwen Donovan idolizes her older sister Izzy, a vibrant, rebellious spirit who defies societal expectations. When Izzy returns from four years at the remote Delphi School for Girls, she has transformed into "Isolde"—docile, compliant, and disturbingly eager to marry a near-stranger.

Horrified by the change, Gwen schemes her way into Delphi to uncover the truth and reclaim her sister. What she finds is no ordinary finishing school. Perched on an icy, isolated island, Delphi features sinister moving shadows, strict rules against leaving rooms after dark, and walls lined floor-to-ceiling with thousands of forbidden books—each bearing a girl's name on its spine. Students undergo "reformation" in the mysterious Writing Room, emerging altered or amnesiac. As Gwen befriends other girls and deciphers clues (including a note from Izzy), she confronts a darkness tied to these books, the girls' lost identities, and patriarchal forces far more sinister than etiquette lessons.

The story builds from creeping unease to full-blown horror, with themes of agency, identity erasure, found family, and resistance. Pipps excels at gothic immersion. The remote estate, shadowy hallways, locked rooms, and eerie library create a claustrophobic, foreboding vibe that lingers. The 1893 historical backdrop—finishing-school lessons in hosting, budgeting for husbands, and propriety—amplifies the horror of "reforming" girls into perfect ladies. At its heart, this is a story that parallels real historical (and ongoing) pressures on women to conform, stripping away personality for societal "perfection."

The dialogue and details feel modern rather than strictly period-accurate (think Bridgerton vibes over rigid historical realism), which can jar in a 1893 setting. Pacing occasionally slows in the middle with repetitive exploration, and the fantasy/horror elements ramp up gradually—more creeping dread than constant action. My last concern was for the ending, which felt open-ended and rushed. If you are into sapphic romances, this book is for you.

Chapter One

New York City, 1893

I should mingle with my sister’s wedding guests. It’s what Mother sent me down here to do, and the foyer is bustling with New York’s finest. Long trains of silk and satin covered in delicate flowers trail along the rugs that Father had imported from overseas. White-gloved hands grasp fans that hide the snicker of laughter and the rolling of eyes. Wisps of smoke from cigars passed in the smoking room sneak tendrils out into the common space. I should find my fan, fashioned purposely to match my new blue gown. But I can only stand amidst it all, grim-faced and wishing for a ghost who lives only in my memories.

A ghost who somehow grew into a bride. The subject of the framed photo that sits atop a mahogany table covered with fine lace and delicate rose petals. There’s another photo beside hers in a matching gold filigree frame, but I don’t care as much to look at Astor Wallingford, my soon-to-be brother-in-law. Instead, I’m fixated the photo of Izzy—or Isolde, as she is known now.

It’s impossible to tell Izzy’s exact shade of blond hair in the black-and-white photo, or the fact that the dress she’s wearing is a flattering shade of pink that would make me look like an overripe tomato. But the slight upturn of her lips as she coyly looks over her shoulder shines through. Her eyes hint at a demureness befitting a young lady newly out to society.

They’re nothing like the wildfire eyes that used to dance around, alight as she regaled me with tales of her own making or goaded me into imaginative adventures around the house.

“Your sister is quite beautiful.”

I turn around to find myself face to face with the one person I was hoping to avoid. Lydia Heathersworth.

And, as to be expected, her gaggle of empty-headed cronies stand behind her, whispering thinly veiled snide remarks into their fans.

“It’s lovely to see you, Lydia,” I say, playing the role of hostess.

She quirks her perfectly shaped mouth into a half smile. We both know I’m lying. Despite our parents’ greatest attempts, Lydia and I have never been friends. I was always too odd for her, spoke at the wrong times, didn’t know the right things to say. When we were five, before I realized what it really meant, I called her pretty, said I would like to marry her someday. Our parents wrote it off as a silly thing a child might say, but Lydia never let me forget it. Never let me forget the fact that she knew that secret truth of mine. So I became the butt of the joke my mother had always hoped I’d be on the other side of.

And her cousin is marrying my sister today.

“That finishing school of Isolde’s truly worked wonders,” Lydia says. “Who knew such a terrible child could grow into a pillar of society? Gorgeous too.” She gestures to the photograph we stand in front of. “She was away for a long time, never even came back to visit, did she?”

“Izzy loved it there,” I explain, a lie I was coached to tell as soon as she left. “She adored England and wanted to stay close to my cousins.” But our only cousins live in New York. Mother never explained the reason behind the lie, and after a while I learned not to ask questions. Izzy was at the Delphi School for Girls and would return at graduation.

I don’t even know if the school was in England.

“Is that so?” Lydia—perfect society girl Lydia—asks with the arch of an eyebrow. Her eyes track deliberately down my face, her insinuation impossible to miss.

It’s common knowledge to anyone who knew me as a child that I didn’t have a scar, then suddenly I did. And it appeared right when my sister left for school.

No one has ever outright asked, but I know they’ve wondered. The older, prettier—albeit more rambunctious—Donovan girl was sent away just as the younger, more awkward one debuted a scar that ran bright pink from eyebrow to chin. The look of it doesn’t matter to me as much as the looks it brings me. That and the constant reminder of why my sister was sent away.

I can’t let her leave again, especially not while she’s still a shell of her former self. Lydia may see Isolde as a woman to aspire to, but all I’ve ever wanted was to be like the Izzy who was taken away from us when she was fourteen.

“Excuse me,” I say, and quickly push away from Lydia and the other girls.

The girls snicker and I hear one of them say, “What an odd duck.”

Another says, “A complete oddity.”

I weave around full-bodied skirts, canes, and tables prepped for serving after the ceremony. I’m swept away by an older woman wearing an old-fashioned hoop skirt that is both long and wide enough that I have to exit the parlor on the far side of the room near the entryway instead of through the servants’ exit, which would have made my escape faster. Hardwood turns soft beneath my feet; I catch a heel on the edge of the burgundy runner that Father brought back from his last trip to India and slam into a hard wall.

“Oof,” I grunt, looking up. The wall is actually a man, a full foot taller than me, dressed in perfectly tailored tails and a velvet top hat adorned uniquely with a single peacock feather.

“My apologies,” I mutter.

“Not at all, Miss Donovan,” the man says with a voice like syrup. His lips curl into a smile that feels like a secret. He knows who I am. And while he looks vaguely familiar, I cannot place him. Perhaps a friend of the groom? He appears to be young—likely right about Astor’s age. His face is more round than angular, his blond sideburns a bit patchy, as if he might struggle to grow a full beard. A friend from school, perhaps? I shake it off and scurry away. I know I should engage with him, force myself into a conversation after my horrifically rude display, but I need to leave this room. To find Izzy.

I manage to make it back to the foyer without falling into another guest just as Mother floats down the central staircase in a gown dripping in pearls like a queen, a tiara balanced atop her carefully crafted chignon. Her smile is placid, practiced. So like Izzy’s these days. She lands gently on the silk carpet and presses a delicate gloved hand on Mr. Wallingford’s elbow before approaching me. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my mother’s bare hands.

“Gwendolyn,” she says, speaking out of the corner of her mouth, all the while keeping her smile perfectly in place. To Mr. Wallingford, I’m sure her smile is the picture of the ideal hostess. I don’t miss the dart of her eyes, though, so pointedly directing me to turn myself around and be pleasant, entertain her guests. But I don’t have it in me to settle for complacency, so I push past her and ignore the forced laugh she expels.

I hurry to the stairs, lifting the front of my skirt just enough so I won’t fall face-first. I’m tempted to take the steps two at a time, to get away from the commotion as quickly as possible, but I can still feel Mother’s eyes on me, so I walk at an acceptable pace.

My shoulders slump the moment I’m out of view, no longer on display. No longer expected to perform. The brass handle on Izzy’s bedroom door at the end of the hall gleams bright and new. We moved into the Dakota less than three months after Izzy left, and the room designated to be hers was rarely entered.

She’s only just come back, and now she’s going to leave me again. I know that Mother and Father are thrilled by the transformation that their previously near-devilish child has made, but she isn’t herself. Marrying Astor, especially since she barely even knows him, is a choice Izzy never would have made before. I can’t imagine what will happen with her next. This is my last chance to get her to stay, to see reason. She’s the only person who has ever truly listened to me; that girl must be inside her still somewhere. I just need to find the right words, though I never do seem to find them when it matters most. I grip the handle as if the door is ready to swallow me whole, the brass cold beneath the pads of my fingers.

“Gwen, is that you?” Izzy’s voice is muffled by the thick brown oak between us. I haven’t yet turned the doorknob—my shadow must be visible through the crack at my feet. “Gwenie?” My ribs contract at the sound of the name my sister used to call me. She hasn’t used it since her return.

I twist and press forward.

Light streams in from the window that overlooks Central Park, draping my sister in a heavenly glow as she sits poised on her silk chaise. Even as she sits, I can see that Izzy’s waist has been pulled tight, in the style of Princess Maud. She must be uncomfortable beneath the folds of her crinoline skirt as she extends her delicate fingers toward me, finespun and exquisite lace tracing up her arms. I help her stand and press down a wrinkle at the base of her bustle, adjust the lace at her chest. Minor adjustments nobody would notice against her overall beauty.

“Your dress looks lovely on you. You look quite stunning,” she says, reminding me of what should have been my line. But the gentle smile that crosses her lips implies she’s being genuine.

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#Review - A Beautiful and Terrible Murder by Claire M. Andrews #Mystery #Suspense

2026-06-05T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Irene Adler # 1
Format: 432 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: August 5, 2025
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Source: Publisher
Genre: Historical, Mystery, Suspense

In Oxford’s All Souls College, Isaac Holland is pitted against the brightest of Britain’s young elite for a seat amongst the prestigious school’s faculty. The Victorian Era is reaching its apex, and the ancient hallways and corridors of Oxford teem with ghosts and secret societies. Isaac finds the competition increasingly cutthroat and diabolical, but there are more pressing concerns. One, that someone—or something—is murdering Isaac’s fellow students, one by one, in ways more gruesome than the next. And two, that Isaac’s real name is actually Irene Adler. A retelling of Sherlock Holmes from the perspective of the one woman to ever outwit him, A Beautiful and Terrible Murder follows Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes as they are forced to work together to hunt down a murderer at Oxford who is killing their classmates.

A Beautiful and Terrible Murder is the first installment in author Clair Andrews Irene Adler series. A retelling of Sherlock Holmes from the perspective of the one woman to ever outwit him, A Beautiful and Terrible Murder follows Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes as they are forced to work together to hunt down a murderer at Oxford who is killing their classmates. In 1872, Oxford, Irene Adler lives a daring double life. As "Isaac Holland," she disguises herself as a young man to attend the elite, all-male All Souls cohort—a competitive preparatory program for Oxford's brightest minds.

She also attends classes openly as herself at the women's college, Lady Margaret Hall. This setup lets her pursue the education denied to women in Victorian England. When fellow All Souls students begin turning up dead, Irene (as Isaac) gets pulled into the investigation. Her roommate, the brilliant but enigmatic Sherlock Holmes, becomes an unlikely partner. Tensions rise as someone frames Isaac for the murders, and Irene's own father—Dean Moriarty—threatens her place at the school.

Her half-brother, the notorious James Moriarty, adds further complications. The story blends murder mystery, academic intrigue, and subtle romance against the gothic backdrop of Victorian Oxford's spires, libraries, and shadowy halls. Fans of Stalking Jack the Ripper or Enola Holmes-style adventures will find familiar vibes here. Andrews gives Irene a compelling, proactive role that the original Conan Doyle canon only hints at. She's sharp, resourceful, and fiercely determined— a strong female lead who carries the narrative in first-person perspective.

Her disguise adds constant tension and highlights themes of gender, ambition, and societal constraints. The book moves quickly with twists, red herrings, and escalating danger. Many readers note they didn't guess the killer until late, and the investigation keeps pages turning. The dynamic between Irene and Sherlock delivers witty banter and intellectual sparring. Supporting characters (including a young Watson) add depth. Holmes fans will enjoy this younger, developing version of the detective.

Certain plot beats and revelations follow familiar patterns in mystery and retellings. A few historical details have drawn minor nitpicks from sharp-eyed readers, though these don't derail the fun for most. As book one, it sets up a larger arc. Some threads (family secrets, Moriarty connections) hint at more to come, which leaves a few elements feeling introductory. If you enjoy atmospheric academia, gender-bending disguises, and intellectual cat-and-mouse games with a side of budding romance, pick this up. I'm looking forward to the sequel (A Lovely and Deadly Dance) to see where Irene and Sherlock's partnership (and personal tensions) head next.

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#Review - The Drowning Season by Debra Webb #Mystery #Suspense

2026-06-01T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Standalone
Format: 315 pages, Paperback
Release Date: May 12, 2026
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery, Suspense

Revised edition: Previously published as Anywhere She Runs, this edition of The Drowning Season includes editorial revisions.

To find two missing women, a detective must dive into the secrets of her past in a blood-freezing novel of suspense by USA Today bestselling author Debra Webb.

Detective Adeline Cooper swore she’d never return to Mississippi, where her corrupt family rules through fear and her career was upended by betrayal. But then she receives a photograph of a local woman who has gone missing, along with a cryptic, chilling message: Pretty, pretty princess. See her smile…see her die.

Soon after Adeline arrives in her hometown, a second woman is kidnapped, and there are disturbing connections between the two victims and the detective. Both women bear an eerie resemblance to Adeline and share her fear of water. A new message makes the kidnapper’s game terrifyingly clear: You’re next.

When past and present collide at the river’s edge, Adeline will finally understand why she’s been dreaming of drowning her whole life.

The Drowning Season by Debra Webb is a gripping Southern Gothic-tinged psychological thriller. It’s a revised and re-edited edition of her earlier novel Anywhere She Runs. Detective Adeline “Addi” Cooper has built a life far from her Mississippi hometown, a place she swore she’d never return to. Her powerful, corrupt family rules through fear and intimidation, and a devastating betrayal years earlier shattered her career and heart.

But when she receives a chilling photo of a missing local woman—accompanied by the taunting message “Pretty, pretty princess. See her smile…see her die”—Addi is pulled back into the nightmare. Soon, a second woman vanishes. Both victims eerily resemble Addi (blond hair, blue eyes) and share her deep-seated fear of water. As the kidnapper’s messages escalate, Addi teams up with Wyatt Henderson, the local sheriff and her former love, to unravel the case.

The investigation forces her to confront long-buried family secrets, generational trauma, and the reason she’s been plagued by dreams of drowning her entire life. The river that runs through the town becomes both a literal and symbolic force—beautiful, dangerous, and unforgiving. Webb excels at making the Mississippi river town feel like a character itself. The humid, swampy vibe, the looming family estates, and the constant presence of water create a claustrophobic, moody backdrop that amplifies the dread.

The drowning motif is woven throughout masterfully—psychologically, thematically, and plot-wise. For the most part, Adeline is a flawed lead—tenacious, angry, guarded, and carrying heavy emotional baggage. Her personal stakes make the thriller intensely personal rather than just procedural. The book moves quickly with cryptic clues, escalating danger, and plenty of twists. The book explores betrayal (familial and romantic), the weight of the past, and the depravity hidden behind respectable facades.

The “pretty princess” taunts add an eerie, personal creep factor. The rekindled relationship with Wyatt adds emotional layers and tension, but can feel secondary or distracting for readers who prefer pure thrillers without romance. If you enjoy thrillers where the protagonist’s return home unearths more than just a case—where the past literally tries to drown the present—this one will keep you up at night.

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#Review - Ironwood by Michael Connelly #Mystery #Suspense

2026-05-29T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Catalina, # 2
Format: 336 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: May 19, 2026
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery, Suspense, Thriller

Sworn to protect a scenic island meant to be far from the evils of the mainland, Detective Sergeant Stilwell can feel danger closing in.

Detective Sergeant Stilwell knows that his posting on Catalina Island is no paradise, but to most residents, it seems blissfully separated—by twenty-two miles of ocean—from the troubles of Los Angeles County. But now a threat is coming to his safe haven.

Acting on a tip from a confidential informant, Stilwell and his deputies watch a plane land in the middle of the night at the Airport in the Sky, a remote airstrip in the mountains. A duffel bag of drugs is dropped, and the deputies move in, but things quickly go sideways. While Stilwell chases the fleeing pickup man into the mountainside brush, shots are fired on the runway, and the plane flies off.

An internal inquiry follows, putting Stilwell on the bench until he is cleared of responsibility for the disastrous operation. But he is determined to find out who brought deadly violence to his island, and he begins his own secret investigation into the drug deal gone wrong.

While under orders to remain at the sheriff’s substation, he finds a valuable backpack in the lost and found that was never claimed. He traces it to a woman who disappeared while hiking on the island four years ago. But then why was the pack only turned in two months back? Now thoroughly intrigued, he follows the mystery all the way to the LAPD’s Open-Unsolved Unit and Detective Renée Ballard.

Stilwell and Ballard work the case from both sides of the channel, and soon realize they are on the trail of a criminal who revels in taunting the authorities. Meanwhile, frustrated at being shut out of an investigation on his own island, Stilwell risks his already shaky standing in the department to pursue a case whose reach is wider than he ever imagined.

Ironwood is the second installment in author Michael Connelly's Catalina series featuring Detective Sergeant Stillwell, with a crossover appearance from Detective Renee Ballard. Detective Sergeant Stilwell (often called “Stil”) returns as the lead investigator on Catalina Island, a scenic but not-quite-paradise outpost 22 miles off the Los Angeles coast. Exiled there after past troubles on the mainland, Stilwell has embraced his role protecting the island’s residents and tourists.

The book opens with a high-stakes night operation at the remote Airport in the Sky: a tip about a small plane leads to a botched drug bust. Shots ring out, one deputy is killed, another critically wounded, and the plane escapes, leaving behind a duffel of narcotics. Stilwell, diverted from chasing a suspect on an ATV, finds himself sidelined by an internal inquiry. Benched and ordered to handle mundane substation duties (including cleaning the lost-and-found), Stilwell discovers an unclaimed backpack belonging to Angela Metier, a hiker who vanished four years earlier.

This cold case pulls him across the channel to LAPD’s Open-Unsolved Unit and the formidable Detective Renée Ballard. Their collaboration uncovers bones buried under an ironwood tree—symbolizing deep, unyielding roots that tie into the story’s themes of hidden corruption and steadfast justice. Stilwell is a compelling protagonist—principled, rule-bending when necessary, and deeply invested in his adopted community. His frustration at being sidelined feels authentic, and his interactions with Ballard (plus a brief Harry Bosch cameo) reward longtime Connelly fans without alienating newcomers.

As expected from Connelly, the investigations feel realistic and layered. He balances high-stakes plotting with everyday policing details, building suspense through careful clue-dropping and procedural hurdles rather than cheap thrills. Connelly masterfully weaves multiple threads: the active drug-related shooting, the cold-case murder, smaller island incidents (graffiti, missing golf carts, vandalism), and mounting pressure from superiors who seem oddly protective of certain suspects. Stilwell’s dogged pursuit risks his career and life, culminating in an intense, sniper-filled climax that leaves room for future installments.

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#Review - Finlay Donovan Crosses the Line by Elle Cosimano #Mystery #Cozy #Suspense

2026-05-27T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Finley Donovan # 6
Format: Hardcover, 368 pages
Release Date: March 17, 2026
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Source: Library
Genre: Mystery, Suspense

Life hasn’t been easy for Finlay Donovan lately, but it just got a whole lot harder. Her nanny and partner-in-crime, Vero, has been extradited from Virginia to Maryland, where she’s facing criminal charges for a theft she swears she didn’t commit. A prisoner to an ankle bracelet as she awaits her trial, Vero is forced to live with her overbearing mother and nosy aunt. Threatening messages keep arriving on her mother’s door, demanding Vero “turn over the money... or else.” And if she doesn’t figure out who really stole her former sorority’s treasury funds, her next home might be a prison cell.

But proving her innocence might be an impossible feat. Vero was the treasurer of her sorority when the money went missing—one of the only people who had access to the cash. And her alibi is a date who ghosted her. With her court date quickly approaching and her mysterious stalker on her tail, Vero needs to clear her name fast.

Finlay decides a trip to Maryland is in order. After all, Vero stood by her through her darkest moments, and Finlay will be damned if she lets her best friend and children’s nanny be convicted for something she didn’t do. She sets off on a mission to suss out the real thief and bring Vero home.

Finlay Donovan Crosses the Line is the 6th installment in author Elle Cosimano's Finlay Donovan series. The author continues the chaotic, laugh-out-loud adventures of struggling romance novelist and accidental trouble magnet Finlay Donovan, alongside her ride-or-die nanny/best friend, Vero Ruiz. Life keeps throwing curveballs at Finlay, but this time the stakes hit close to home for her partner-in-crime, Vero. After events in the previous book, Vero faces extradition to Maryland on old theft charges related to her college sorority’s missing treasury funds.

As the former treasurer with access to the cash, she looks guilty—especially with a ghosted alibi date and mounting threats demanding she “turn over the money… or else.” Stuck under house arrest with an ankle monitor, living with her overbearing mother, Norma, and nosy aunt, Vero’s future hangs in the balance. Loyal to a fault, Finlay drops everything (kids included, left with her hot cop boyfriend Nick) and heads to Maryland to prove Vero’s innocence. What follows is a whirlwind of breaking and entering, evading the law, sorority secrets, family drama, shady alibis, and the series’ signature hijinks, including the impossible love between Vero and Javier.

The core mystery revolves around tracking down the real thief while navigating Vero’s complicated past and present relationships. The Finlay-Vero Dynamic: This remains the heart of the series and shines brightest here. Their friendship—loyal, snarky, and unbreakable—is pure gold. Seeing Finlay go all in for Vero (who has done the same countless times) adds emotional depth amid the chaos. Readers consistently praise this bond as one of the series’ defining joys.

Cosimano excels at madcap scenarios. Expect laugh-out-loud moments involving the ankle monitor (which becomes a character in its own right), Vero’s family (Norma and Gloria are a hoot), quirky neighbors (the “Fantastic Four” seniors steal scenes), and escalating crimes—from B&Es to wilder escapades. Shifting focus to Maryland introduces fresh faces and deepens Vero’s backstory (family, sorority life, class/race elements).

Supporting characters like Javi, Ramón, Cam, and others like Zoe add layers. Finlay’s evolving personal life (parenting, romance with Nick) gets breathing room, even if Nick’s role is lighter here. If you’ve enjoyed the earlier books, Finlay Donovan Crosses the Line is a must-read. It’s chaotic comfort food with heart—ideal for a weekend binge. Just don’t expect Finlay or Vero to learn any lessons about staying out of trouble. In fact, I dare say that after that ending, there's more trouble and hijinks ahead for Finlay and Vero.

CHAPTER 1

I returned home later that afternoon with a minivan full of grocery bags, a twin-pack of pregnancy tests, two cranky, hungry kids, and a jumble of paranoid thoughts. I hadn’t been able to shake Dr. Wiley’s line of questioning, and by the time we’d arrived at the grocery store, I’d started wondering if she could be right.

I couldn’t have been more than a day or two late, but I’d been so frazzled in her office, maybe I’d miscalculated. I’d tossed the two-pack of home tests in my shopping cart just to be sure, assuring myself I’d count my pills the moment I got home.

Delia sat up in her booster to see out the window as I pulled into my driveway. “Javi’s here!” she said cheerfully when she spotted his white work van parked in front of our house.

I shoved the box of pregnancy tests deeper inside the grocery bag and checked the time. Vero had given her boyfriend her house key when she’d been arrested three weeks ago, along with firm instructions to help me and the children with whatever we needed while she was gone. But he’d been showing up more often since Vero’s extradition to Maryland, busying himself with minuscule repairs and minor home-improvement projects I hadn’t asked for and probably didn’t need. It had started to feel less like a favor to me and more like a grieving man doing everything in his power to keep the home fires burning, and I was beginning to worry about Javi’s state of mind.

The auto repair shop where he worked didn’t close for another few hours. The shop was owned by Vero’s cousin Ramón. Javi and Ramón had been best friends since grade school, and Ramón entrusted his business to Javi on the days when he made the long drive to Maryland to check on Vero and her mother. It wasn’t unusual on those days for Javi to come straight from work and busy himself with odd jobs, but the fact that he was here while the garage was supposed to be open didn’t sit right.

I looped all the grocery bags around one arm and followed the children into the house. I ordered Zach to go straight to the bathroom to wash the lollipop goo from his hands, while Delia made a beeline to the pantry.

“No cookies,” I said preemptively. “We’re having dinner in an hour.” I had no idea what that dinner would consist of yet, but almost every recipe I knew could be thrown together from five ingredients in sixty minutes or less.

I took the pregnancy tests out of the bag and hid them in the closest cupboard.

“Javi?” I called out. I listened for the sound of hammering or the clank of tools. A folding ladder was propped against the wall in the foyer along with a stack of air filters and a pack of nine-volt batteries. When he didn’t answer, I went upstairs to look for him.

A light was on in Vero’s bedroom. Javi was sitting at the foot of her bed, in front of her open closet, her photo album spread across his lap. I leaned against the doorframe, tipping my head to see the pictures. I recognized the childhood photos of Javi, Vero, and Ramón. The three of them had grown up together in the DC suburbs of Maryland. Vero’s and Ramón’s mothers were sisters, both divorced, and had moved in together when their children weren’t much older than my own. Javi had entered the picture not long after. He and Ramón had met in elementary school and became fast friends. Javi, who was as easy to love as he was neglected at home, had practically been adopted by Vero’s family.

He traced a photo of Vero lovingly with a grease-stained finger. Her smile was wide and rimmed in cake frosting. It had been taken after her high school commencement ceremony, and Javi’s and Ramón’s arms were draped over the shoulders of her graduation gown.

“You’re here awfully early. Everything okay at the shop?” I asked him.

Javi glanced up, startled, as if his mind had been someplace else and he was surprised to find himself in my house.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and returned the album to Vero’s closet. I had taken some of her clothes and toiletries to her mother’s house after her arrest, but her precious belongings had stayed behind in this room. Javi wasn’t the only one who selfishly wanted to hold on to them. “Ramón cut me loose early. Said I was too distracted to be any use. Thought I’d come over and check the air filters and change the battery in Vero’s smoke detector. Guess I got distracted doing that, too.”

I didn’t bother to point out that all his tools were downstairs. “Want to talk about it?” I sat on the edge of the bed beside him. He fidgeted with the purple plastic bat ring on his left fourth finger. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t taken it off since he and Vero had exchanged drunken vows during an impromptu wedding in an Atlantic City casino chapel two months earlier. The ceremony might not have been official, but I had little doubt he meant it when he said until death do us part.

“Not being able to see her is making me crazy,” he said, getting up to pace the room. “If I could just talk to her, I’d have a better grasp of how she’s handling all this. As it is, I have to rely on Ramón to tell me how he thinks she’s doing, like we’re in goddamn grade school.”

“You can’t just call her?” I knew Vero’s mother had refused to let him see her. Norma was still holding a grudge after he’d ghosted Vero the night before she’d left for college four years ago. Though Javi had had good reasons, and Vero understood them, Norma had never forgiven him for breaking her daughter’s heart. She had forbidden Javi from coming to visit, citing his own criminal record as her reason, convinced he was a bad influence on her daughter. But Vero and I were guilty of far worse things than Javi had ever done.

“She hasn’t picked up her phone or returned my calls all week. She’s not even reading her text messages. I don’t know what’s going on with her. I’m worried something’s wrong.”

I didn’t know what to tell him. The last time I’d spoken to Vero had been at least five days ago. If I confessed to Javi that I shared his concerns, it would only fuel his anxiety. I took the album from his hands to keep him from worrying a hole in it.

“Vero’s resilient, and she has Norma and her aunt Gloria watching over her. If something was wrong, I’m sure Ramón would know.”

He closed his fingers around his bat ring, looking defeated and tired when he nodded. “I should probably get Ramón’s van back to the shop. Thanks for the talk.”

When Javi left, I got up to return the album to the closet and found a handful of loose photos on the shelf. The fresh-faced girls in the images wore sweatshirts with Greek letters on the front. They stood arm in arm in front of a huge brick house, and there was Vero, grinning in the middle of them.

I understood why Vero kept these photos hidden under her album. I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to look at them, and it made me curious why she would bother saving them at all.

A little more than a year ago, she’d been preparing to graduate with honors. But when the university learned her sorority had been hosting organized gambling nights, Vero got stuck holding the bag—literally. When the police were called in to investigate, the sorority’s backpack of ill-gotten cash had gone missing from Vero’s room. The girls all believed Vero had stolen it, and charges were filed against her for larceny. Unable to prove her innocence, she’d dropped out of school and fled the state. That’s how she had come to live with me and the kids in Northern Virginia.

I thumbed through the photos. Could one of these girls have stolen the money? Was that the reason they’d been so quick to pin the crime on her?

I felt like I was looking at suspects in a lineup. Or characters in a story.

Delia burst into the room with Zach hot on her tail. “Mom! Zach stole my favorite Barbie, and he won’t tell me where he hid it!”

Zach collapsed in a tantrum, shouting that he was hungry and demanding cookies.

The photos pulled at me, a mystery begging to be solved. But there were two other dilemmas that required my immediate attention. I tucked the photos back on their shelf and closed the closet door. “Okay, kiddos. Let’s go find your Barbie and figure out what’s for dinner.”

CHAPTER 2

Just after nine o’clock that night, there was a soft knock on my front door. As much as I had been looking forward to seeing Nick, I wasn’t feeling ready for it. I had only just managed to get the kids to bed thirty minutes ago. My hands were still pruny from scrubbing burned cheese off the frying pan, the laundry I’d pulled from the dryer was in a pile on my sofa, the floor was a minefield of Barbie dolls and Matchbox cars, and the front of my holey sweatpants were drenched after Zach’s tantrum in the bathtub. I smelled like baby shampoo and kitchen smoke, and I probably looked like a house fire.

I threw my hair up in an elastic band on my way to answer the door. Nick came over most nights after work, and while he kept a toothbrush, a razor, and a stick of deodorant in my bathroom, he used the key hidden under my downspout only when I couldn’t manage to stay awake long enough to let him in.

I peeped through the window before unlocking the door. Nick smiled back at me, his brown eyes twinkling. A balmy breeze rippled his tie and ruffled the dark, thick waves of his hair.

“Hey,” he said over the chirping of crickets. The tiny frogs Zach loved to chase were singing, too, almost loud enough to drown out the low hum of the highway a few miles off and the planes flying over Dulles. Spring had sprung early in Virginia, bringing with it warmer temperatures and gentle thunderstorms, and my neighborhood in South Riding was ripe with the smells of daffodils, wet asphalt, and a hint of the trash bins left out for morning pickup.

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#Review - Cast in Blood: A Chronicles of Elantra Novel by Michelle Sagara

2026-05-21T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Chronicles of Elantra # 19
Format: 512 pages, Paperback

Release Date: April 28, 2026
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Source: Publisher
Genre: Epic Fantasy

The next breathtaking fantasy novel in Michelle Sagara's New York Times bestselling Chronicle of Elantra series, where Kaylin Neya must expose a growing magical threat that could tip the subtle balance of her world

DO NOT MEDDLE IN THE AFFAIRS OF BARRANI

Kaylin has been warned to steer clear of the lords of the Barrani High Court. She’d be more than happy to oblige, but it’s a bit difficult considering she lives with ten of them, all sent to the green to gain power or die. With Kaylin’s help, they finally escaped their imprisonment. But their attempts at freedom had devastating consequences—and a price that has yet to be paid.

The first warning sign is the Consort’s invitation to visit the High Halls—a Barrani invitation, which means an immediate visit.

The second sign is less subtle: Kaylin finds Nightshade’s unresponsive body. He hovers on the edge of death, beyond saving through Kaylin’s healing power. No one can explain his state, nor why she’s powerless to save him. And if she and her Barrani friends can’t figure out a way to bring him back, he’ll be lost forever.

Yet even as Kaylin struggles to keep Nightshade from death, there is deeper magic at play, a growing threat with the potential to affect the entire Barrani race. Factions are shifting, new lines are being drawn—and Nightshade’s near assassination is only the beginning. Can Kaylin uncover the nebulous forces that threaten the balance of Barrani—and their entire world—before it’s too late?

Cast in Blood is the 19th installment in author Michelle Sagara's Chronicles of Elantra series. The book opens with a classic Elantra warning: "DO NOT MEDDLE IN THE AFFAIRS OF BARRANI." Corporal Kaylin Neya, the mortal Chosen with unusual healing and True Word magic, would love to heed it. But she lives with ten Barrani from the cohort (the "lost children" who emerged from the Green), and her complicated ties to the Barrani High Court, the fiefs, and especially Lord Nightshade make avoidance impossible.

When the Barrani Consort summons Kaylin to the High Halls, and she discovers Nightshade—fief lord, ancient Barrani, and the one who long ago Marked her as his Erenne—unresponsive and poisoned by a mysterious magical force (possibly tied to Shadow), the stakes skyrocket. Kaylin’s healing powers fail him for the first time, forcing her and her allies to confront deeper threats that could destabilize the entire Barrani race and ripple across their world.

The story blends urgent personal stakes (saving Nightshade, exploring the Erenne mark’s true nature) with larger political and magical intrigue involving factions, the Lake, the Green, and ancient powers. It directly builds on threads from recent books (especially the last couple) while circling back to early-series elements like Nightshade’s relationship with Kaylin. The Barrani High Halls, the Green, True Names/Words, and Shadow elements expand meaningfully.

Sagara’s magic system—rooted in words, names, and chosen responsibilities—remains inventive and thematically deep. Political maneuvering among near-immortals contrasts beautifully with Kaylin’s mortal perspective, highlighting themes of power, trauma, belonging, and choice. The beginning hooks quickly with action and mystery. The middle features Sagara’s signature long dialogues and explanations but they reward patience by clarifying complex lore.

The ending delivers emotional payoffs and forward momentum as well as adding another character to an already deep cast of characters. The story delivers emotional resonance, Barrani intrigue, Kaylin’s signature chaos-healing style, and meaningful progression on beloved plotlines as well as some curious questions about Corporal Severn's past and possible future, as well as questions about Yvonne, the Consort, the Regala, the Green, etc.

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#Review - The Sea Spinner by Julie Johnson #Fantasy #Romance

2026-05-18T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Reign of Remnants # 2
Format: 544 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: April 28, 2026
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy, Romance

Bursting with reawakened magic, a young woman challenges the tides of fate in this highly anticipated installment of Julie Johnson’s romantasy series.

Rhya Fleetwood is tired of being a pawn in other people’s wargames.

The fledgling wind weaver wants—needs—to master her magic before anything else is taken from her. She’s already lost her friends, her newfound home… will she lose Penn, too? There’s no denying the scorching heat between them, but in the aftermath of battle, the Remnant of Fire burns more than anything to rebuild his kingdom and sate his inextinguishable need for revenge.

And he’s not the only one whispering to Rhya across the wind. From the distant island city of Hylios, another voice calls. Another bond pulls.

King Soren, Remnant of Water, is as different from Penn as sparks are from mist. The more insight he offers into the magic that binds them together, the more confused Rhya feels—about her future as a Remnant, about her deepest desires, and about her role in the coming war.

Torn between fire and sea, between the king who could break her heart and the king who understands her potential, Rhya will have to finally step into her power…or risk losing it altogether.

The Sea Spinner is the second installment in author Julie Johnson's Reign of Remnants series. The story is set in a place called Anwyvn and focuses on a young woman named Rhya Fleetwood, who recently learned that she is the Remnant of Wind, one of four reincarnations of elemental magic prophesied to restore balance to war-torn Anwyvn. The story moves from the realm of Fire lead by Pendefyre, to the realm of Water, led by Soren.

The story picks up in the devastating aftermath of the Battle of Fyremas. Caeldera, the Fire Court’s capital, lies in ruins. Rhya Fleetwood, the fledgling wind weaver and Air Remnant, grapples with heavy grief, volatile rage, and the loss of friends and stability. Pendefyre (Penn), the Remnant of Fire and newly crowned king, has shut her out. He channels his energy into rebuilding his kingdom and pursuing revenge, leaving their once-scorching connection strained and distant.

Rhya, tired of being a pawn, desperately needs to master her unpredictable powers. A twist of fate (or perhaps destiny) propels her to the Water Court in the island city of Hylios. There, she encounters King Soren of Llŷr, the enigmatic Remnant of Water. Their interactions force Rhya to confront the limits of her magic, her shifting desires, and her role in the escalating war. Enemies close in, ancient threats stir, and Rhya must decide where her true loyalties—and heart—lie amid fire, sea, and fate.

Rhya's journey from grief-stricken novice to a woman embracing her autonomy and power feels authentic and empowering. She evolves significantly, questioning relationships, her magic, and her place in the world. Penn starts strong but becomes more complex (and frustrating) in his repression and grief. Soren emerges as a standout—charismatic, supportive, cunning, and refreshingly communicative. The middle builds through character-focused moments and training, then accelerates with kidnappings, battles, and revelations.

The final act delivers gut punches and a devastating cliffhanger that sets up book three perfectly. Penn’s emotional unavailability can frustrate, especially early on. The love triangle (or evolution) may not appeal to everyone who shipped Rhya/Penn heavily in book one. The novel blends high-stakes fantasy action, court politics, magical training, and an evolving romantic triangle (or shift) while expanding the world with new locations, lore, and secondary characters.

Chapter
ONE

The metal handle sears my palm, a withering harbinger.

One I ignore.

I step into the throne room and nearly double over. It's hot as a furnace, the heat a shock to the system after the chill of the corridor. At my chest, my Remnant mark burns with contradictory cold, stirring awake in response to the maegic shimmering in the air. It is thick as syrup, a vermilion haze that suffuses the entire space.

The doors close behind me with a resolute click. The sound makes me want to bolt straight back the way I came. I don't want to be here. In truth, I would rather be almost anywhere else, given the fiery reception I am no doubt about to receive, but the memory of Mabon's deep voice rumbles in my head, imploring me to try.

Maybe this time you can get through to him.

If anyone can make the man see sense, it's you.

Please, Rhya. You know I would not put you in this position without good reason. You know I would not ask this of you unless . . .

I take a deep breath, struggling to fill my lungs, tasting the distinct tinge of elemental power on my tongue. Flame and ash, pressing in from all sides. My knees threaten to buckle as I make my way down a short flight of stone steps onto the gleaming floor.

Set deep in the earth, the cavernous chamber was spared the wrath of the ice giants that ravaged Caeldera two months ago. While the rest of the city is an unrecognizable ruin of glass and debris-roofs caved in from massive boulders that rained down, storefront windows shattered with axe hilts, facade columns crumbled into dust-the throne room looks just as I remember it. Dark stone of pure, petrified lava, veined with red. Massive columns with bases of caged fire holding up a distant ceiling. Trenches of flame lining the perimeter floors, extending up the back wall.

But no people.

On the night of Fyremas, spectators packed inside, shoulder to shoulder, angling for the best view of the ward-charging ceremony. Now it is even emptier than the once bustling shops on High Street. My boot falls echo loud as cannon fire as I make my way down the polished aisle that halves the room.

On the lofted dais, the steward's seat Queen Vanora occupied during her reign is vacant. For one who ruled so long, and with such spectacle, her departure from this world was decidedly commonplace. Crushed to pulp in her gilded ballroom like so many others, then reduced to cinders alongside her most common of subjects on the mass pyre erected outside the city walls a week after the battle.

Were she there to witness it, she would have seethed at the indignity of sharing her last rites with the masses. No mournful bugles or waxing eulogies on her behalf. No rare flowers laid or grand portraits commissioned. But these days no one is inclined toward fanfare.

Not even for a dead queen.

My eyes move to the king's heavy metal throne at the center of the dais. It, too, sits empty. Though I hardly expected to find him there. I doubt Dyved's new sovereign has spent more than a handful of minutes sitting down these past weeks-and certainly not in a stuffy ceremonial chair.

I skirt the platform and approach the back wall of the cavern. It is even hotter here, so near to the trenches of fire that leap high and hungry, so near to the source of the maegic that thrums unabated. One section of the wall juts slightly outward, concealing an old mine shaft that functions as a lift. I lay my palm against the warm stone where a peculiar pattern of gouges marks the surface-a glyph, carved there by some ancient ancestor. One short pulse of maegic is enough to activate it. A fiery glow filters between my fingers as the floor panel beneath me begins to rise swiftly upward.

I've grown somewhat more accustomed to using Caeldera's network of lifts over the past few months, but it is still never an entirely pleasant sensation. My innate predisposition toward claustrophobia are triggered anytime I find myself ensconced by earth. Even now, as I rise upward through the mine shaft, I'm itching for escape. The craving for fresh air, for sunlight and open sky, claws at my throat with razor-sharp talons.

The lift comes to a halt with a jolt that shakes my bones. I step out into a semi-enclosed chamber that overlooks the throne room far below and feel every hair on my body rise in response. This is a place of potent natural power, where the deep enchantment of Anwyvn's very core bubbles to the surface. Tears sting at my eyes, an irrepressible reaction to the thick cloud of maegic.

Around me, the curved walls and low-hanging ceiling are carved with countless glyphs. They are aglow, as though lit from within by pure power-the origin of which is crouched at the center of the chamber with his hands pressed flat to the floor of hardened lava, expelling pulse after pulse.

"Pendefyre," I call softly.

He does not look up.

"Pendefyre," I say again, louder. His head jerks, but he still does not look at me. In fact, he seems to redouble his focus, pressing even more firmly against the red-veined stone. Every knuckle of his strong, tanned hands is white from lack of circulation. Flames lick out between his fingers, burn twin paths up his arms, ignite a trail down his bare chest to where a dark design of whorls and spirals mars the flesh.

The Fire Remnant.

It is no less mesmerizing in this moment than it was the first time I saw it, furling outward across his right pectoral in a triangular pattern. But my awe is now laced with alarm as I watch Penn giving more and more of himself to the wards that shield his city from harm. For several long seconds I stand there, paralyzed, my vision consumed by the hungry flames that furl across his skin.

How much more can he give before he burns out completely? How much further can he push himself without causing permanent damage?

No wonder Mabon came for me. No wonder the Ember Guild is so concerned about their leader. The previous Fire Remnant, King Vorath, died here in this very room, doing this very thing. He reached for too much power, pushed himself too hard. And he lost his life because of it.

Angry as I may be at Penn for his attitude of late, I cannot stand idly by while he kills himself in his obsessive quest to make Caeldera safe.

Whether my efforts will be successful is another matter entirely. My teeth grit as recollections of the last time I found myself standing at this threshold-the result of Jac's relentless wheedling to accompany him a fortnight ago-sweep over me. Penn made his position clear that day. Incontrovertibly so, seeing as he bellowed loudly enough to bring what remains of this keep down around our ears about how we should both mind our godsdamned business and keep our noses out of his affairs.

All hail King Pendefyre, the Pigheaded.

Swallowing down the irritation that lingers bitterly on the back of my tongue, I take another faltering step. "Pendefyre. Look at me."

But Penn is unreachable. He is entirely engrossed by his task, pouring every bit of his power into the wards. My heart pangs as I watch him draining himself dry. His expression is savage-a mix of determination and agonized desperation. His face is white as parchment. An overgrown curl of burnished chestnut hair falls over his forehead, concealing his eyes from view, but I know without seeing that they are alive with maegic, the irises burning like hot coals.

The steadying breath I pull into my lungs has the opposite effect. It shimmies through me with intoxicating provocation. Penn's maegic is affecting me more than I want to admit. The Remnant at my chest prickles relentlessly, awake and alert, eager to come out and play. I steadfastly ignore it. Adding air maegic to this scenario will likely have the same effect as dashing a cup of spirits on an open flame while attempting to put it out.

Combustion.

A fresh pulse of power rolls through the chamber. I watch it ripple through his body, the muscles of his bare back flexing, the tendons of his arms going taut as raw maegic transfers from him into the stone. The wards around us throb bright as starlight. My legs buckle as it hits me, stealing the breath from my lungs and sending me to my knees. I land with a bruising thud.

Blinking away the pain, I bring Penn back into view. A sharp blade of panic sluices through me. The fire snaking up his arms and coiling around his chest has grown. It now surrounds his entire form in a thick cloak of flames. He crouches there, within a blazing ball of heat, immolating as I watch. Through the white-hot flickers, I see blood beginning to pour from his pointed ears, dripping down the broad column of his throat, pooling in the rigid indentation of his clavicles.

"Penn!" I cry, a ragged plea. "Pendefyre!"

This time, he does not react at all to the sound of my voice. He is lost in the throes of his power.

I have to put a stop to this. Now. Before it's too late.

Before I lose him.

Gritting my teeth, I force myself forward inch by inch, half crawling across the floor toward him. It is like crawling into the midday sun. Sweat pours down my spine, slicks down my neck. The heat on my face is an unrelenting scorch. Any trace of the tears glossing my eyes evaporates in an instant. They are dry as desert sand, each blink of my lids an unpleasant scrape. My lashes feel like tinder, ripe for catching.

I wonder at what temperature my tunic will ignite as I drag myself across the blistering floor. The petrified lava is so hot beneath my fingertips, I think it might turn molten as it was a millennium ago, the last time this volcano erupted. I push past the pain, forcing myself to continue forward. Closing the gap between us, one excruciating sliver at a time.

It is not only physical pain that thwarts my progress. My very soul seems to sear, fueled by the Remnant bond that links me irrevocably to Penn. Usually I find our connection calming. Comforting. An unconscious tether in the back of my mind, letting me know where he is and, in rarer times of great emotion, what he is feeling. Like the scent of burning leaves on an autumn wind, I can sense him from afar and find my way to him if necessary.

There is nothing calming about our bond in this moment. Nothing remotely comforting. It is a charred current of unadulterated energy that scorches a path from his heart to mine. Within my own reserves of maegic, deep within the wild storm that swirls inside, I feel the placid waters of my power beginning to simmer beneath Penn's heat. All that is cold and controlled at the core of my being seems suddenly in danger of sparking. By the time I reach him at the center of the chamber, I am struggling to keep my own destructive abilities in check.

"Penn, you have to stop this." I lift a hand toward him but jerk it back from the flame as pain bites at me, a stinging lash across my fingers. Blisters bloom on my skin. "Please, Penn. Please listen to me."

The fire is so bright, so hot, it is hard to see and even harder to breathe. I try three more times to reach him through the ball of flame that surrounds his body, telling myself it is only pain, that any burns I receive will heal quickly, but I never manage to touch him before snatching my hand back, my singed flesh smarting in agony.

More blood is pouring from his ears, dripping down his chest in rivulets. Within the ball of fire, his skin is stark white. Corpse white.

Please, a small voice cries out from somewhere deep within me. Please, Pendefyre. Hear me. Stop this.

But he does not.

I cannot use my power to help him any more than I can use my hands. In desperation, I reach within to the bond that burns between us. I grab hold of that invisible tether that connects my heart to his, connects fire to air, and begin to tug on it, a spool of yarn without end, unraveling his psyche into mine.

I am not certain it will work. Not until I see the flames consuming Penn starting to disperse, weakening as I absorb some of the damage he is inflicting upon himself. I nearly bite through my lip as my nerve endings bake, as the marrow in my bones crackles with heat.

Skies, how much pain he is in, if this is but a shade of his power.

I cannot handle much more without doing myself serious harm. But there is no choice. Blood pours from his eyes as well as his ears now, trickling down his cheeks, dripping off his sharp jawline. And so, I take more. I pull his fire toward me, into me, until I think the blood will boil in my veins, until I feel my limbs turn to kindling, until each breath burns like my lungs are full of embers.

I channel every bit of heat and flame into the deepest recesses of my own power, where the air currents within me blow hard enough to extinguish them. Candles in the wind, no match for my storm. The flames around Penn weaken further, growing faint and translucent as they lick across his flesh.

More.

The heat is unbearable. I think my body will crack apart, think my mind will cleave beneath the force of it. The world fades around me, blackness closing in at my peripherals. I am losing the battle against unconsciousness. Just before my final shred of strength falters, my inner voice cries out one last time-a pained and broken prayer to the man crouched beside me.

If you die here, you take me with you.

He hears me. Somehow, someway, he hears me. The flames splutter out with a whooshing sound that echoes off the walls. The relentless wave of heat subsides so fast, I am certain I must be hallucinating. In a blink, I can breathe again. Ragged, desperate gulps of superheated air-but at least I am breathing. I stare down at the veined lava floor of the chamber where my hands and knees are planted. My arms and legs tremble with the effort to keep from collapsing entirely. The sleeves of the plain uniform I wear to treat patients at the infirmary are scorched beyond repair, the skin beneath flushed the angry scarlet shade of a fresh burn. My fingers are a mess of char, the tips blackened. I stare at the damage for a moment before my arms and legs do finally give out and, in an exhausted heap, I fall.

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