Gizmo's Reviews

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Barnes & Noble

#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.

Amazon | Audible

#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.

Amazon | Audible

#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.

Amazon | Audible

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.”

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#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.

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#Review - Hope Rises by David Baldacci #Thriller #Suspense

2026-05-11T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Walter Nash # 2
Format: 432 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: April 14, 2026
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thriller, Suspense

Walter Nash began a journey down a dark path of seemingly no return, and now he finds himself questioning everything that got him there in this thrilling sequel to Nash Falls from #1 New York Times bestselling author David Baldacci.

Walter Nash, working under the alias of Dillon Hope, is on the road to revenge after becoming an informant for the FBI against a global criminal operation headed up by Victoria Steers. Steers has ripped everything Nash held dear away from him. He has nothing left to lose and with long, rigorous training under his belt the gentle and sensitive Nash has transformed into something he never thought he’d be: a physically imposing man with lethal skills. And now he has only goal left in life: taking down Victoria Steers.

In order to succeed, he’s going to need to cross enemy lines and work the job from the inside. But Steers is shrewd and only brings those she trusts completely into her inner circle. Nash must rely on every ounce of his hard-earned skills in order to prove himself an ally to Steers if he’s ever going to get close enough to decimate her criminal empire.

Yet, despite hating the woman for destroying his life, Nash finds himself oddly drawn to Steers in ways that he never could’ve imagined. And what he ultimately discovers will turn all he believed upside down, forcing Nash to do something truly unfathomable.

So, will the truth set Nash free?

Or end him?

Hope Rises is the second installment in author David Baldacci's Walter Nash series. Hope Rises is a gripping, high-stakes thriller that delivers on the promise of its predecessor, Nash Falls, while evolving into a more introspective and emotionally layered story of revenge, identity, and redemption. Walter Nash, now operating under the alias Dillon Hope, has transformed himself—physically and mentally—into a formidable operative after a devastating betrayal.

Having turned informant for the FBI against a vast global criminal network led by the ruthless Victoria Steers, Nash/Hope is driven by a singular goal: vengeance for the murder of his daughter and the destruction of his family. His wife is in witness protection, and he has little left to lose. The story thrusts him deep undercover, crossing enemy lines to infiltrate Steers’ operation. This involves high-risk missions, including a daring operation in Myanmar to free Steers’ mother from prison.

Along the way, Nash grapples with his new identity as a “muscled and tatted fighting machine,” questioning the path that led him here and confronting the human cost of his quest. Baldacci weaves in billionaire power players, chess-master-level schemers, and surprising alliances, building toward a climax that ties up the duology’s loose ends while delivering plenty of twists. What elevates Hope Rises above a standard revenge thriller is Baldacci’s focus on Nash’s internal struggle.

The gentle family man from the first book has been forged into something lethal, but the novel smartly explores the psychological toll and lingering humanity. Victoria Steers is a formidable, nuanced antagonist, but she's human. She makes mistakes. She also learns valuable lessons from her own mother's actions. Steers and Nash's relationship is an interesting twist, especially once facts are finally revealed. Apparently, this is the finale of the Walter Nash duology, and that makes sense, especially what happens to Walter and his family in the finale.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble

#Review - Daughter of the Wind by Nora Carmody #Fantasy #Romance

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

Series: Riders of Earth and Sky trilogy #1
Format: 432 pages, Paperback

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

Darkness lurks in the shadows as a betrothed princess wrestles with a dangerous new magic that threatens her bond with her beloved horse—and a forbidden love for the enemy sworn to protect her.

Zara has never felt worthy of her title as First Daughter. Though next in line to lead her people, she hasn’t inherited what matters most—her mother’s sacred earth magic. While her people are tied to the land and their soul-bound horses, Zara has always felt a pull toward the wind.

As war rages against the enemy empire’s deadly Eagle Riders, her people edge closer to defeat. When a rider attacks Zara herself, she unleashes a wind magic strong enough to tear giant eagles from the sky. This power could turn the tide of the war—but at a terrible price: the slow unraveling of her psychic bond with her horse.

So when a marriage treaty is offered in exchange for peace, Zara agrees, sacrificing herself to protect her people. But the emperor’s palace is more treacherous than any battlefield. Hidden behind its gilded walls is a monstrous being long buried—and her power-hungry betrothed is determined to set it free.

Sworn to protect the future empress, Commander Talon soon realizes Zara is more than a political pawn—she’s the key to stopping the emperor’s dark ambitions. As their forbidden desire grows, they must face an ancient evil stirring beneath the throne. Even if it costs them everything.

Daughter of the Wind is the first installment in author Nora Carmody's The Riders of Earth and Sky series. This book is a debut that blends elemental magic, soul-bonded animal companions, political intrigue, and a slow-burning enemies-to-lovers romance. The story focuses on Zara, First Daughter of the Children of Earth, and Commander Talon of the hated Eagle Riders.

Zara, the First Daughter and heir to the Children of the Earth, has never manifested the sacred earth magic expected of her lineage. Her people—nomadic warriors deeply connected to the land and soul-bonded to horses—face existential threat from the Zephyrian Empire's Eagle Riders, who dominate from mountain strongholds with giant eagles as their bonded partners.

When war intensifies, Zara unleashes a rare and dangerous wind magic in a desperate moment, capable of downing eagles but at the cost of unraveling her psychic bond with her beloved horse, Shazeera. To secure peace for her people, she agrees to a political marriage with the enemy emperor. At the opulent yet treacherous Golden Eagle Palace, she navigates court dangers, an ancient evil stirring beneath the throne, and her growing connection to Commander Talon, the eagle rider sworn to protect her—who was once her enemy.

The story explores themes of identity, sacrifice, cultural clash, the cost of power, and bonds (both human-animal and romantic). The soul bonds between riders and their horses/eagles form the emotional core. These telepathic connections feel heartfelt and central to the characters' motivations, especially to Zara and Shazeera's "heart sister" relationship.

The story starts strong with action but slows in the middle as it shifts to court life and world-building. The second half ramps up with palace conspiracies, a monstrous ancient evil (Ozul), family betrayals, and life-or-death choices. The finale delivers intense action, twists, and a compelling hook for Book 2. The slow-burning enemies-to-lovers dynamic between Zara and Talon builds gradually. Zara and Talon are likable and complex (Talon especially grows on readers), but side characters and some emotional beats can feel underdeveloped.

Animal and magical beast lovers alike won't be able to resist the bonded animal companions and elemental magic at the heart of this story, which, combined with the accessible world-building, thrilling battles, and political intrigue, is sure to capture romantasy readers at large. With a heroine in her early twenties who must come to terms with her magic and identity and an angsty, slow-burning romance, new adult readers will likely flock to this angst-filled romantasy. The author and publisher plan another 2 books in this series, so if you want to wait until all 3 books are released, I would not try to change your mind in any way.

1

Zara

There was something about living under the constant threat of violence that desensitized you. Maybe it was because there were only so many times I could wake up in a cold sweat in the night, sure that this night would be the one where the eagle warriors would descend and destroy everything I loved. Eventually, I had to shove all those fears to the very back of my mind for my own sanity.

After years of unending war, I had to trust that my mother's ability to keep our tribe hidden was everlasting. I never thought they would find us.

I should have known better.

As the morning dawned with a red-streaked sky, I traveled the short distance from our camp to a nearby stream. My blood bay mare Shazeera carried me at a leisurely gallop-we never walked when we could race across the plains, the long grasses parting for us like waves. The sky rapidly changed to blue as the sun rose. It was empty, for the moment, of clouds, making it easy to see that no enemy would swoop down on us.

Still, with a war that had raged for over a hundred and fifty years, we could never afford to let our guard down. Even within my mother's protective wards.

Wards that wouldn't last much longer if the queen's health was any indication. As her power waned, mine was meant to replace it. When it came to the powers that should be my birthright, though, I was completely useless.

Not useless. Shazeera interrupted my thoughts with a swish of her tail. It will come in time.

You may be the only one left who believes that, I thought.

She shook her head, her long black mane brushing the tops of my leather-clad knees. Considering I'm always right, isn't that all you need?

I laughed in spite of myself. I just wish there were some evidence of my supposed powers.

You come from a long line of First Daughters with powerful defensive earth magic. We wouldn't have bonded if you weren't meant for greatness.

I smiled inwardly at her proud thought. Shazeera was descended from not only the greatest endurance horses, but also the fastest.

She slowed to a springy trot as the stream came into view, and before I could even let out a yelp in surprise, she continued into the water with a powerful splash, carrying me with her. As the cold water droplets hit my bare arms, goose bumps immediately sprang up. The sun had just risen, and it was still unpleasantly cool outside.

Did you think I needed a bath, or what?

A little cold water might help clear your head, she replied, before shaking off and lowering her head to drink.

It's you who isn't seeing the situation clearly, I grumbled mentally as I jumped from her back onto the bank. I wanted to avoid getting my boots even wetter than they already were.

I crouched down and cupped water in my hands to drink, closing my eyes as the refreshing coolness slid down my throat. It always tasted better fresh from the source. Rising, I scanned the distant hills to the east, where a line of trees met the plains. Beyond that rose the mountains. I couldn't see them from here, but I imagined them soaring high above the foothills, just as they did on the map my mother-Ama to me, but Queen Rana, the Queen of All Queens, to everyone else-often brought out whenever General Isa came to talk strategy. In my mind, I could see the many clusters of triangles that represented the Angora Mountains to the east, where the Zephyrian Empire's capital city of Naharu and its palace clung to the highest peak of Crane Mountain.

As the sun rose higher, warming my dark hair, I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in the forest, constantly shaded. Out on the plains, the trees were few and far between. Generations ago my people's territory had expanded as far as the Black Forest to the north and the Ridgeline Foothills to the east. Now, the enemy's territory surrounded us on three sides. Shazeera and I had explored as far as the foothills, but that had been far more dangerous than I had anticipated.

Far, far away, a giant eagle screeched, and we both froze, as we'd been trained to do from a young age. A strange tension coiled in my chest, and I couldn't say it was entirely due to fear.

I reached out with my mind to feel for my mother's protective wards as she had taught me, but as usual, I could sense nothing at all. Even the weakest earth magic user could sense the protective shields that hid our people from our enemy. The fact that I couldn't was endlessly frustrating-especially to my mother. As First Daughter, how would I ever take over forming the wards if I couldn't even sense them?

The wards are still strong, Shazeera said gently. She knew how worthless I felt when I had to rely on her senses instead. The horses were born being able to sense earth magic-no training required. At least one of us could.

Her ears pricked toward the east as she listened for a moment, detecting another screech that I could barely make out. The eagle is flying away from us.

We both relaxed. It must have been a wild eagle, then. They were still dangerous, but not nearly as much as one carrying a Zephyrian rider. Our camp was currently only an hour away from the mountain foothills, where many wild eagles nested.

Just once, I would like to take a drink from this stream without worrying that a giant eagle was about to swoop down on my head, Shazeera said with an irritated swish of her tail.

Maybe none of them would be as hostile if it weren't for the Zephyrians.

The Zephyrians flew to our continent of Equnox on the backs of giant eagles a hundred and fifty years ago, from their much smaller continent of Darkhan-one of the four continents in our world. When they found our lands to be populated by mostly by peaceful tribes, they returned with battalions of highly trained infantry by ship. The Angorans of the eastern mountains were the first to fall under their rule, followed by the Nazcas of the northern forests, and then the Semalians of the western coastline. Only three tribes remain free.

Once, we had been known by our individual tribes, though we were all descended from the first six daughters who had been given magic by the Earth Mother. Out of necessity, we had banded together as the Children of Earth against our common enemy. And our numbers were dwindling.

Shazeera turned her head toward our camp, growing still as though concentrating.

What is it? I asked.

Nafalla has asked us to return.

I groaned. Nafalla was my mother's bonded mare. Ama wants to start training this early?

Considering I couldn't even detect the wards just now, I was sure it would go as well as it ever did.

Most considered it a useful ability that the horses could all communicate with each other mentally within a short distance, especially during battle. For me, though, it was just a way for Ama to track me down quickly.

I would say we could make a run for it, Shazeera said, stepping out of the stream, but Nafalla specifically said if we tried to skip training again, she would put me on foal duty for a month.

I thought you liked the babies, I said as I lightly grabbed hold of her withers and vaulted onto her back.

Only from afar, Shazeera replied. Up close, the little beasts bite and kick.

I smiled for a moment at that image. She wasn't wrong. The foals were like long-legged toddlers with boundless energy.

But Shazeera's amusing commentary could only briefly distract me before the dread pulled me down again. Nothing made me so aware of my inability as these training sessions with Ama. Especially since every one of them had ended in embarrassing failure.

Shazeera set the pace at a fast canter, and I tried to convince myself that maybe this time I would finally tap into the power that should be my birthright.

Before it was too late.

Shazeera slowed as we entered the camp, and many called out in greeting or simply stopped and bowed their heads as we passed. Our camp wasn't the largest of all the tribes, because of the frequency with which we had to pick up and move; the Queen of All Queens moved camp frequently to change the radius of the wards' protection. But of the ten tents here, all were large, with at least two rooms in each. The largest of all, though, was the pavilion, which had three distinct points to its top and golden thread woven amongst the bright colors. It was the queen's tent, and my home.

I stood before it now, breathing in the familiar scent of sage, which wafted from beyond the doorway of the pavilion.

Well met, daughter of my heart, Nafalla's greeting passed to me through Shazeera. She dipped her head to allow me to touch her velvety nose, the soft lamplight disappearing into the deep shadows of her onyx coat.

The pavilion soared above the tips of the horses' ears, supported by light wooden rods that were flexible and strong. It created a space large enough for everyone in the camp to fit inside the main room, which served as the throne room. There were bedrooms on either side, separated by vibrant blue silk drapery. The room to the left was mine, but I knew Ama would be waiting in the throne room.

Naomi, one of Ama's guards, quietly greeted Shazeera and me with a bow as we entered.

We found Ama sitting before a bowl of polished bone, filled with burning sage. Her dark eyes, heavily lined with kohl, lit up when she met my gaze. With a smile, she gestured for me to sit. Nafalla took her place beside Ama, while Shazeera stood by my side. I tucked my legs beneath me and joined Ama on the floor of the tent, where a plush rug of many colors had been spread.

"You were up early," Ama said to me as she handed me a cup of white flower tea. The bangles on her wrists jingled pleasantly, the sound as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

"I couldn't sleep," I admitted, taking a sip of the honey-sweetened tea.

Ama tilted her head sympathetically at me, her thick hair slipping off her shoulder. My own thick hair was tied back in a long braid. Everyone said we looked so much alike. That the blood passed down from First Daughter to First Daughter for generations was strong. We had the same golden-brown skin, deepened by the hot plains sun; high cheekbones; full lips. The same large eyes framed by dark lashes, though my eye color was a much lighter amber, where hers was a rich chocolate.

I may have looked like her on the outside, but I had none of the power given to her by the Earth Mother. At her full strength, she had been able to heal someone on the brink of death, from the inside out. She could even use her abilities offensively, by causing a wave of agony over a small battalion of soldiers, enough to cripple them.

But I couldn't even heal a scratch.

"I will admit that your power is taking longer to manifest than is common in our family," Ama said, reaching over to touch my hand, "but earth magic has always been strong in the Sorayan line. It will come. We just need to tap into it."

I glanced down at my cup with a frown. Ama believed that anything was possible if you just tried hard enough. And maybe she was right. Maybe I didn't put enough effort into it.

Nonsense, Shazeera said sharply. You tried so hard to connect to your abilities last time that your nose bled with the effort.

Yes, but I didn't pass out, so clearly I wasn't trying hard enough, I thought back with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Shazeera snorted beside me.

"Let's begin," Ama said, and with an inward sigh, I angled my body to face her. The horsehair mantle she wore brushed against my arms as she placed her hands on mine. It was as black as Nafalla's mane and tail, as it had been taken from them over the years, and dark as Ama's own hair where it wasn't streaked with silver. My own mantle, formed from the black hairs of Shazeera's mane and tail, was much smaller, as I hadn't had as many years to add to it. "Instead of trying again to sense the protective wards, let's try to access the healing side of your magic."

I shot her a confused glance. "Aren't the wards the most important?"

"Yes, but sometimes trying a different approach can help refresh your senses."

I nodded and tried not to argue, even though we had tried this months ago and it hadn't helped. Nothing did.

"The pulse points are where you can connect with the rivers and streams of blood within someone, following it to its source. The blood will always reveal what needs to be mended, whether it is sickness or injury. Now find my pulse with your fingertips."

I did as she asked. This part was easy. Anyone could feel a heartbeat in a pulse. Her wrists were warm, her heartbeat steady, as I pressed down gently with both hands.

"Close your eyes and go into the part of you that's connected to Shazeera."

In my mind, I reached for our bond, that gleaming chain of light that was unbreakable. I could sense Shazeera's emotions-hopeful and anxious that I would finally succeed. If I went deeper, I could even sense what she physically felt. Right now, the scent of the sage filled her nostrils, the smell so much more complex than I detected. Beneath the typically herbal scent were notes of rich loam and spicy peppercorn.

"Are you there?"

"Yes," I murmured, keeping my eyes closed tightly in concentration.

"I want you to reach into yourself where that same power comes from and reach for my pulse point instead."

But when I reached for my mother's life force, the one I should have been able to sense if I had healing abilities like her, there was only darkness.

"There's nothing there," I told her, barely able to keep the frustration from my voice.

"All you can do is try again," she said gently. "Our life force shines as brightly as the sun. With your inner eye, you should be able to detect the light radiating from my bloodstream. You must reach out with the part of you that's connected to the Earth Mother."

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#Review - Revenge Prey by John Sandford #Suspense #Crime #Thriller

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

Series: Lucas Davenport # 36
Format: 400 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: April 7, 2026
Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thrillers, Suspense

Lucas Davenport must track down a ruthless Russian hit team, in this latest thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author John Sandford.

Leonard Summers—not his real name—is on the run. A former high-ranking Russian intelligence officer who defected to the U.S. after providing critical information about Russian spies in U.S. government service, Leonard, his wife Martha, and son Bernard have spent the past year holed up in a CIA facility near Washington. After the CIA makes a deal with the U.S. Marshal Service’s Witness Protection Program (WPP), Leonard’s family is transported to Minneapolis. The plan is to hide them in a wooded Minneapolis suburb that resembles their former home and dacha near Moscow.

The Summers are received at their destination by Lucas Davenport and fellow marshal Shelly White. Unbeknownst to them, the WPP group has been tracked by a Russian hit team. And while nobody in the WPP has ever been attacked…Leonard might be the first victim. As shots are fired and enemies dodged, Lucas must move quickly to uncover where the leak is coming from, before the hit team can strike again.

Revenge Prey is the 36th installment in author John Sandford's Lucas Davenport series. Lucas Davenport is a true maverick; whether he's working for the law or skirting procedure, he utilizes his exceptional ability to get inside the mind of a killer, along with his select contacts in the government, the media, and the criminal underworld to get the job done. He's worn many hats during his career in Minnesota—police officer, detective, BCA investigator, state troubleshooter—but his newest job takes him into the biggest arena of all.

Leonard Summers (real name: Leonid Sokolov), a high-ranking former Russian intelligence officer, has defected to the U.S. after exposing Russian spies embedded in American government circles. He, his wife, Martha, and their son, Bernard, enter the Witness Protection Program and are relocated to a wooded Minneapolis suburb designed to resemble their old dacha near Moscow. U.S. Marshal Lucas Davenport and partner Shelly White are on hand for the handoff, alongside CIA involvement.

Almost immediately, a Russian hit team—acting on orders from the highest levels—strikes. What follows is a relentless cat-and-mouse game as Lucas teams up with a sharp, sarcastic CIA agent named John Sherwood to hunt the assassins, plug a suspected leak in the protection apparatus, and keep the family alive. The story balances Lucas’s perspective with glimpses into the hit team’s operations, adding depth to the antagonists.

The novel starts with a bang (literally) and maintains high tension through multiple assassination attempts and chases. Brief appearances by Weather, Letty, and Virgil Flowers provide welcome continuity without overshadowing the main plot. John Sherwood stands out as a memorable new ally—snarky, competent, and a good banter partner for Lucas. The Russian hit team members are surprisingly well drawn: professional, under pressure, and humanized by their own motivations and moral gray areas (they’re targeting a man with a dark past). This avoids cartoonish villains. If you like gritty cop thrillers with spy-novel elements, moral complexity, and top-tier banter, Revenge Prey delivers. Just don’t expect revolutionary changes to the formula—Sandford knows what his audience loves and serves it up reliably.

1

She had long blond hair and was almost pretty, in the manner of tennis jocks and female gymnasts; too much muscle in the face and arms and butt for the smooth baby-fat look of fashion models or movie stars.

Because she wasn't one.

Despite the cold, she was lying on her parka, instead of wearing it, the better to anchor the rifle against her shoulder. She put the crosshairs on the target, took up the trigger slack, and squeezed. The recoil was sharp, but manageable.

The man lying in the dirt next to her, looking through a spotting scope, said, "Two centimeters high, a centimeter right. Once more."

She took her time and squeezed again. The spotter said, "Same hole."

She said, "I'm so fucking cold, I feel like a goddamned фруктовый лёд." In English, literally, a "fruit ice," or not so literally, a "Popsicle."

"Forget the cold," the man said. He had a hard, narrow face and black hair over black eyes. "Three rounds, fast."

The three rounds went out in less than three seconds, and he said, "All over the place, left right and high, all within six centimeters of the ten-ring."

"So it's good."

"Better than good. I've seen what it does to gelatin. If you hit the target anywhere above the waist, he's dead," the man said, rolling on his side to look at her. "These copper bullets won't defeat Level 4, but armor-piercing will. Shoots so flat . . . I want to take one home with me."

"If I could shoot as well as you do, I would find a way to do that," the woman said, handing him the rifle. "Maybe a custom barrel with handloads. The perfect weapon."

They were lying in a ditch ten miles west of the small town of Owatonna, Minnesota, an informal shooting range, located by their concierge, who was waiting nervously by the car.

"I wish it was suppressed," the woman added.

"You know the English proverb, 'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride'?"

Some wrinkles appeared in her forehead: "I'm not sure what that means . . ."

The proverb didn't quite translate, because they were speaking in Russian.

Because they were Russian.

A snaky blacktopped driveway led up a gentle slope to the hideout. Two other houses were fed from the same cul-de-sac, all three out of sight of one another, a carefully contrived privacy set in a suburban forest. Natural shingle siding, a gray-stone chimney, and high peaked roof gave the hideout the vibe of a Minnesota lake chalet, although the nearest big water was a mile away.

The marshals arrived in separate vehicles, Lucas Davenport pushing his Porsche Cayenne up the driveway, while Shelly White left her 4Runner in the street and walked up to meet Lucas.

"The guy gets this place for free? They just gave it to him?" White asked, peering squint-eyed at the house of her dreams, which were unlikely to be realized.

The afternoon light was draining away, a sullen, tangible gathering of gloom, as happens in Minnesota on overcast February days. "The way of the world, sweetheart. You get big enough, you get bad enough, they hand you the fat stacks."

The hideout was one of twelve houses nestled on four back-to-back cul-de-sacs. Seen from a satellite, the cul-de-sacs resembled a four-leaf clover, set down in a winter landscape of barren broad-leafed trees and evergreens that appeared black in the murky afternoon light.

Shelly White looked like a semi-starved Depression-era farm wife, maybe caught on black-and-white film rattling out of Oklahoma, six snot-nosed kids in a broke-down Model T Ford. She had the knife-edge cheekbones, the pale gray eyes fixed in a thousand-yard stare, the parched lips held in a tight straight line.

White had never been in Oklahoma, wasn't starving, and she drove a Toyota SUV much too fast for the crappy suspension. She was a deputy U.S. Marshal who'd grown up in East Grand Forks, Minnesota, looking across the Red River at North Dakota. Four years as an Air Force cop and a degree in criminology got her a job with the U.S. Marshals Service.

She and Lucas, another deputy marshal, hadn't particularly liked each other when they first met, but they got along, and after a couple of years, had warmed up. Lucas had three natural children with two different women, plus an adoptive daughter; White had three children with two different men, so they had blended families to talk about. Along with guns, fugitives, and mandatory overtime.

White was on the short side, thin and tough as a razor strop. A Glock 9mm hung on her right hip. Below that hip, out of sight beneath her winter cover-ups, she had a massive scar on her thigh where she'd been shot with a fast-expanding jacketed hollow-point bullet from a deer rifle.

Just . . . life in the Marshals Service.

As they stood side-by-side, Lucas loomed over her, a substantial opposite, with expensively cut dark hair threaded with gray and crystalline blue eyes. He was tall, wide across the shoulders. A hairline scar tracked across his left eye from his forehead to his cheek, a relic of a fishing trip. Another puckered scar sat on his throat, where a teenaged girl had shot him with a piece-of-crap .22 that he hadn't seen coming. He had a nonstandard Walther 40 S&W on his left hip, in a cross-draw holster, for easier access under a suit coat.

Lucas had a tendency toward depression, exacerbated by the gloom of winter, and by the sporadic violence of the job. White shared the depressive gene, and they sometimes compared notes. When Lucas was younger, he hadn't worried about it. Now, in his later fifties, he had a tendency to think he'd been shot too often and to brood about the near-death experiences. About what he'd miss, if he were dead; about not seeing his younger children grow into adults.

White had thoughts that ran down in the same trench.

Still, they both were hunters, trackers. They liked the intensity of the work, if not always the consequences, because the intensity went some way toward offsetting the blues.

“I don’t know why they put us out here,” White said, looking around like a curious cat, her nose twitching in the wind. Although she was wearing a down parka, ski gloves, and a cashmere watch cap over her streaky brown hair, she shivered. They were standing at the top of the driveway, in a grove of paper birches, the kind the Ojibwe once turned into canoes.

The ground, hard as pig iron, was covered with half an inch of crunchy snow. There'd been almost no snow over the winter months, but they'd gotten all the usual cold weather. The temperature, according to Lucas's weather app, was six degrees and falling, and a persistent breeze whipped the steam away from their mouths. "I'm not a babysitter," she added.

"This guy is no baby," Lucas said. He coughed once, covering his mouth with a gloved fist. He wasn't sick; the bitter cold set him off. He could feel his lips cracking, and he'd left his ChapStick sitting on his dresser. "He was in some kind of enforcement branch of the Russian spy agency. He's probably killed more people than the Marshals Service."

"Yeah, but why us in particular?" White asked. "Why not Remy, or that asshole Clark? They'd jump at it, hanging out with headquarters guys."

"Because I'm the smartest guy in the office, and you're a close second? They thought the job might take some brains."

"You're almost smart enough to get that almost right," White said, shivering again. She'd been a National Merit Scholar in high school and Lucas hadn't been; but then, he'd been a hockey jock, and what could you expect from somebody who'd been hit in the head with a puck, and more than once? "But really?"

"Because Witness Protection doesn't babysit, either," Lucas said. "They plug a guy into a hideout and that's it. This guy . . . The Russians would like to get at him. They need somebody with guns close by, or think they do. That's not usually Witness Protection."

“All right,” White said. She’d done time with fugitive task forces and considered her Glock to be a species of musical instrument. Lucas had a reputation as a shooter, which he didn’t entirely appreciate, because it suggested he was too fast on the trigger. He felt he was barely fast enough, and he had the scars to prove it.

At the moment, White was in the Minnesota winter stance, shoulders squeezed tight, elbows to rib cage, fingers pulled out of the fingers of her gloves, hands clenched in fists. "Why aren't you cold? You're standing there in your plutonium suit and tie . . . and that coat. What's that coat made of? Pubic hair from virgins? What?"

"Wool, from goats, but highly refined, college-educated, Italian goats," Lucas said. He was a hopeless fashion plate. He leaned toward White: "Don't tell anyone, but I'm also wearing long underwear. Smartwool. Of course, if I have to pee, I'm in trouble."

"Well, that's it: you are smarter than me. I'm wearing cotton bikini briefs." White looked at her watch: "They're late. Jerks left us standing out here freezing our balls off."

"Not mine. They're like two chestnuts roasting on an open fire."

White: "Hey: you don't have to top me every time, okay?"

Lucas’s cell phone buzzed. He dug it out of the pocket of his coat, looked at the screen: “Now they’re going to tell us why they’re late.”

He answered, listened for a moment, and when the person on the other side stopped talking, he said, "Okay. We'll take a look around here," and rang off.

White: "What?"

Lucas said, "They're still half an hour out. They had to find a suitcase. Knowing the Marshals Service, they probably flew last-class on Trans-New Jersey Airways."

"If we had a key . . ." White looked wistfully up at the locked and alarmed house, furnace steam puffing from a rooftop chimney. The place had what were once called "grounds." Nothing rural about it, a four-acre fenced lot heavy with white-trunked birches and brooding blue conifers and maples, a few red leaves still attached to the maples. A line of bare-naked bridal wreath bushes were strung along the driveway, while leafless lilacs waited in the dooryard for spring.

"We could sit in the truck, but I'd like to take a look around," Lucas said. "You know, in case we ever had to come back out here."

"Not a bad idea. We can at least see through the woods right now," White said. "Gotta be pretty dense in the summer."

"Let me change my shoes . . ."

Lucas popped the back of his truck and took out a pair of Sorel Caribous, pulled them on, tucked in the bottom of his suit pants, and carefully placed his John Lobbs on the truck's floor.

Together, they marched around the lot, past a frozen picnic table that sat next to a frozen firepit made with frozen stones with frozen logs next to it, through the maples and pines and birches and around the withered shrubs. They found a hard-frozen coiled hose that somebody had forgotten under a dwarf mugo pine, two wickets from a croquet set that somebody had forgotten to pull, and, at the back of the yard, a shovel with a rusted blade and a broken handle. Having crisscrossed the yard, they went out a gate at the back.

They discovered that the hideout was on one of four circles, which they hadn't known, with a narrow, frozen creek winding through the common area between the circles. They stumbled across whitetail deer beds tucked under balsams and racoon and coyote tracks along the iced-over creek.

There were three houses on each of the four circles. All of the houses were showing furnace exhaust, and two had older cars in the driveways, which White thought must belong to housekeepers. Nobody with common sense would park outside in this cold, if they had a heated garage.

"If the guy's a bowhunter, he could put up some venison," White said, checking out a line of deer tracks. She scuffed at one of the bigger prints and said, "Nice buck."

They were puffing out clouds of steam, and tiny icicles were forming on the tips of White's hair.

"Given his reputation, I'm pretty sure he ain't a vegetarian," Lucas said.

They’d just gotten back to the house when two SUVs pulled into the driveway, both Ford Explorers, both with the tired look of rental cars. A bulky marshal, head like a half-gallon milk jug, climbed out of the first vehicle, saw them: “Davenport and White?”

"Davenport and White," Lucas answered. "Are you Derrick?"

"Yeah. You look like your pictures. You guys check out the site?"

"We did," White said. "There are four cul-de-sacs back-to-back, three houses on each circle, a common area in between them. Looks like all the lots are about the same size, three or four acres each, all fenced. Nothing but animal tracks in the snow."

"Excellent." Derrick Beard turned back toward the SUVs and waved. Seven more doors popped open, and seven more people got out. Three were marshals, all in tactical winter wear, all from Washington, as was Beard.

Another of the arrivals, an American, but not a marshal, was thinner, taller, quicker, wearing a wool knee-length camel coat with matching wool-and-leather gloves. He sported black rectangular sunglasses and a brown Borsalino hat. The clothes were well cut and subtly aristocratic. Looking at them, Lucas, the fashion plate, was stroked by the feather of jealousy. He liked browns, admired them, but given his coloring, couldn't wear them.

The final three to get out of the trucks were a short sixty-year-old gray-haired man with broad shoulders, a stub nose, and ruddy face, in a blue L.L.Bean parka. He was followed by a scowling fortysomething woman with tight-cut blond hair, small gold earrings, and narrow shoulders; she was several inches taller than the man Lucas presumed was her husband. She was also wearing a blue Bean parka.

The third was a tall youngish man, midtwenties, whose face resembled the woman's. His dishwater-blond hair fell to his shoulders and his face was covered with dishwater blond fuzz, like a holy card Jesus. Despite the cold, the son was wearing tight fashion jeans and a hip-length black leather jacket worn open.

"Hope to God somebody has a key," Lucas said.

"We're good," Beard said. "Let's get inside. I'm already numb."

The older man said to the woman, "Look at the birches, Martha, like home. I told you." His face looked carved, rather than grown, with snarl lines starting beside his nose and extending to the corners of his mouth. The quarried look of his face was matched by that of his wife.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#Review - Don't Say a Word by Allison Brennan #Thriller #Suspense

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

Series: Angelheart Investigations # 2
Format: 401 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: September 16, 2025
Publisher: MIRA
Source: Library
Genre: Thriller, Suspense

In the second Angelhart Investigations thriller from New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan, when a teenager is killed and his mother doesn't believe it was an accidental overdose, the Angelharts have to solve the case before someone else ends up hurt.

The police ruled Elijah Martinez’s death an accidental drug overdose, but the teen’s grieving mother isn’t convinced. With the case officially closed, Angelhart Investigations is the only one who can help her find the truth. Margo Angelhart’s sure this will be an easy solve—she’ll talk to Elijah’s friends and employer, retrace his steps, and figure out what happened in his final hours.

Except none of his friends believe he did drugs, and the teacher who’s been vocal about the police mishandling the case turns up dead. Every thread Margo pulls leads back to a dangerous drug ring that once ran through the school.

When Margo’s brother Jack, a former cop, can’t get straight answers out of the police, they don’t know if it’s because of an active case…or a cover-up. Margo’s only sure of one thing—she has to find out what really happened to Elijah before more teens become pawns in a twisted scheme.

Don't Say a Word is the second installment in author Allison Brennan's Angelheart Investigations series. The story opens with the death of Elijah Martinez, a promising high school honor student found dead from what police quickly rule an accidental fentanyl overdose. His grieving mother refuses to accept the official conclusion—Elijah had no history of drug use, excelled academically, and had a bright future ahead. With the case closed, she turns to Angelhart Investigations in Phoenix, Arizona, for answers.

Margo Angelhart, now fully committed to the family PI firm after a 3-year absence due to her own father's curious choice, takes the lead. She expects a straightforward investigation: interview friends, talk to his employer, retrace his final hours. But Elijah’s friends and acquaintances insist he never touched drugs. As Margo digs deeper, she uncovers links to a prior drug ring that operated through the school. A vocal teacher who questioned the police handling of the case turns up dead, raising the stakes dramatically.

Margo’s brother Jack (a former cop) hits a wall when seeking information from his old department, sparking questions about whether it’s an active investigation or a cover-up. The Angelhart family—including sister Tess (a research whiz), their mother (a former prosecutor), and extended law-enforcement connections—pools their skills. The case touches on timely issues like the opioid/fentanyl crisis, teen vulnerability, institutional failures, and buried community secrets.

Personal stakes rise as the investigation endangers witnesses and forces Margo to confront family dynamics and her own past. Margo is a tenacious, relatable protagonist—sharp, driven, but still working through family rifts (especially with her mother) and the shadow of her father’s imprisonment for a murder many doubt he committed. Supporting characters, including Elijah’s best friend Angie and potential romantic interests, add layers. The Angelharts feel like a real, messy family with history, banter, and loyalty.

Brennan excels at blending detailed investigative work with emotional depth. The procedural aspects feel authentic—interviews, dead ends, evidence gathering, inter-agency tensions—without getting bogged down. Family collaboration shines: each member’s expertise contributes meaningfully, making the team dynamic a highlight. If you enjoy smart, family-oriented crime procedurals with emotional undercurrents (think authors like Kendra Elliot, Melinda Leigh, or Brennan’s own backlist), this is a must-read. It works well as a standalone but rewards readers familiar with the Angelharts. The overarching family mystery (around the father) adds intrigue for future books.

Angelhart Investigations

Novella 0.5: Into the Fire
Book 1: You'll Never Find Me
Novella 1.5: Out of the Shadows
Book 2: Don't Say a Word

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#Review - The King's Ransom by Janet Evanovich #Mystery #Suspense

2026-04-24T12:00:00.000-04:00

Series: Recover Agent # 2
Format: 346 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: November 11, 2025
Publisher: Atria Books
Source: Library Book
Genre: Mystery, Suspense

Gabriela Rose, recovery agent extraordinaire, can find just about anything. Too bad she can’t seem to lose her gorgeous-but-infuriating ex-husband Rafer Jones. And now he needs her help. His cousin, Harley, is in trouble…big trouble.

As the president of a too-big-to-fail bank, he invested an astronomical amount of money in insuring some of the world’s most priceless artifacts at the urging of his board. It seemed like a low-risk, high-reward business move, so he jumped in with both feet. But recently, these insured pieces started going missing and worse, there’s no paper trail of Harley being directed to make these risky investments. Unless the artwork can be recovered soon, it looks like Harley is going to be heading to jail as the fall guy for an ingenious crime.

Gabriela knows what she must do: travel around the world with Rafer to find the missing works of art, keep Harley out of jail, and save both his skin and his bank. Along the way, she’ll encounter corruption, threats, murder, mysterious dark forces behind a global conspiracy to destroy the world’s wealth, and a nefarious villain who will stop at nothing to bring the world to the brink of ruin.

The King's Ransom is the second installment in author Janet Evanovich's Recovery Agent series. Gabriela Rose, a highly skilled recovery agent who excels at tracking down lost or stolen treasures, is pulled into a personal and professional crisis when her exasperating but gorgeous ex-husband, Rafer Jones, shows up with his cousin Harley Patch.

Harley, president of a major bank, has been set up as the fall guy in a massive insurance fraud involving billions in priceless artifacts (think items like the Rosetta Stone and a golden coffin). These treasures have mysteriously vanished, leaving Harley facing jail time unless Gabriela can recover them. What starts as a rescue mission spirals into a worldwide hunt across London, Cairo, Italy, Florida, and more.

Along the way, Gabriela and Rafer tangle with corruption, murder, shadowy henchmen, and a nefarious conspiracy involving elite villains (referred to as “The Kings”) who aim to create broader chaos. Expect locked-room theft puzzles, daring escapes, cultural detours, and plenty of tension between the exes. The book moves at a breakneck speed, with short, to-the-point chapters. Gabriela is a standout protagonist—resourceful, confident, martial-arts-trained, stylish, and driven.

Unlike the more chaotic Stephanie Plum, Gabriela feels competent and proactive, making her an empowering lead in action scenes. Her skills shine in research, improvisation, and handling danger. The plot occasionally sags when trails go cold, relying on escalating villains and misdirection that some find over-the-top or formulaic. Brand-name dropping (clothes, cars, food) and junk-food consumption get noticeable mentions. Character development is light—typical for Evanovich’s plot-heavy approach—but secondary figures can blur together.

A few plot threads (side characters’ fates) feel unresolved. It’s escapist entertainment rather than deep literary fiction; if you want gritty realism or profound themes, look elsewhere. For true fans of this author, it appears the author and publisher will alternate between Stephanie Plum and Gabby for the foreseeable future.

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE
Gabriela Rose sipped her champagne and looked around the room at the 156 people who had each paid $5,000 to participate in a political fundraiser hosted by Eldridge Parker Rollings. Their contributions had gotten them through the elaborate gated entrance, up the short driveway to valet parking, and through the oversized mahogany front door of Rollings’s Montecito mansion. Once inside they were treated to bargain basement champagne and vegan appetizers. If they wanted their picture snapped with Barry Burlew, a Ringo Starr look-alike and candidate for the California State Assembly, it would cost them another $2,000.

Gabriela was here for reasons other than warm champagne. She’d bought her way onto the guest list because it gave her a unique opportunity to get her hands on a sack of shiny baubles that were worth $13 million, give or take a few cents. This was the first time Gabriela had been in the sprawling Spanish Colonial Revival mansion, but she’d studied photos from a realtor website, and floor plans from blueprints her assistant had provided. She had Google Earth photos and drone videos of the grounds. As it turned out, the videos of the grounds would be the most useful.

In ten minutes, the candidate was going to speak to the crowd and thank them for their support. When everyone was focused on the candidate, Gabriela would leave through an open patio door and slip out into the dark yard. Her only obstacle was Rollings. He was currently standing by the double door, exchanging pleasantries with an elderly couple. Rollings’s girlfriend du jour was plastered against him, reveling in her girlfriend status, basking in Rollings’s wonderfulness.

Rollings and his Russian-born wife, Olga, had bought the house seven years ago, during happier times. Now they were in the final stages of a contentious divorce. Rollings was going to keep the Montecito property, and Olga would get the slope-side Aspen house plus the Bentley and the Malibu beach house. Somehow $13 million in jewelry had disappeared during all the shouting and finger-pointing that had preceded Olga’s final departure in the Bentley. Theft was suggested but never proved.

Rollings submitted an insurance claim and as a result, Gabriela Rose was on the scene, drinking warm champagne, on the clock for the insurer. Insurance Fraud Investigator was printed on her business card, and she had an international reputation for excellence in the field. Most of her jobs had one thing in common. Something needed to be found. And it was a fact that where others had failed, Gabriela was known to succeed.

Gabriela left her secluded corner and pushed through the crowd to join Luis Salazar. He looked bored, standing next to a potted palm in the back of the room. He was retired LAPD. Forty-three years old. Slim and fit. Handsome enough to get bit roles when a film needed a Latino extra. He was also available for freelance security jobs. He knew how to keep a secret, and his morals were flexible. Gabriela had used him on previous jobs when she needed a little extra muscle.

Luis nodded at Gabriela when she approached. “You aren’t actually drinking that piss water, are you?” he asked, looking at the glass of champagne.

“No. Do you want it?”

“Sure. What the hell.” Luis polished off the champagne and set the empty glass in the palm tree’s massive midnight-blue ceramic pot. “When’s showtime?”

“In five minutes, when everyone’s attention turns to the candidate. He’s supposed to address the audience from the platform they’ve placed on the other side of the room. We’ll make our move when he starts to talk.”

“What about Rollings? He’s standing in front of our door.”

“He’s going to introduce the guest of honor,” Gabriela said. “Here we go. He’s checking his watch.”

“And he’s on the move,” Luis said, “along with the woman who’s surgically attached to his hip.”

Rollings stepped onto the stage, the crowd gravitated toward him, and Gabriela and Luis stepped outside, onto the broad, tiled lanai that was lit with vintage gas lanterns. Beyond the lanai was a sloping lawn that quickly disappeared into the dark night. Gabriela knew that a small cottage was sitting in that darkness. It had been the original structure on the property and was now simply a picturesque relic. And beyond the relic was a kitchen well that had also been passed over by time.

Gabriela knew that all of Rollings’s security was concentrated on the front of the house tonight. They were policing the gated entrance and checking IDs at the front door. No one was watching the cameras in the back of the house. And if they were watching, they would see two lovers stealing away, into the dark, to do whatever. And one of them would be carrying her Louboutin slingbacks and walking barefoot.

“I can’t see anything,” Luis said. “I can’t see you next to me. You’re next to me, right?”

“Right,” Gabriela said, reaching out and grabbing him by his jacket sleeve.

It was a moonless night. Gabriela was navigating by periodically looking over her shoulder at the brightly lit mansion. She knew if she continued to walk straight ahead, she would come to a hedgerow and then the cottage. Luis also knew about the cottage because this morning he’d talked his way in as part of the gardening crew. He’d left a pair of rubber boots, a length of rope, a pry bar, and two PVC pipes behind the cottage.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” Luis said, “but what the hell are we doing? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were bringing me back here to tie me up and have your way with me. Or maybe to kill me.”

“Neither of those,” Gabriela said. “I need you to help me get the two-hundred-pound capstone off the well and to secure the rope when I rappel down.”

“I assume you have good reason to go into an abandoned well at night?”

“I have a reliable source who, after too many shots of Don Julio, told me that Rollings dumped his wife’s jewelry into the well. Rollings told him that Olga got the Bentley and two houses, and he’d go to his grave before she got her hands on her jewelry.”

“He didn’t trust a safe-deposit box?”

“Not for a second.”

“I like it. I’m guessing you aren’t going to keep the jewelry,” Luis said.

“Tempting, but no.”

Gabriela suddenly stopped short but Luis crashed into the shrubbery.

“Shit,” he whispered. “What the fuck?”

“Good work, you found the hedgerow,” Gabriela said.

They carefully walked past the hedge and around the cottage. The well was in the shadow of the cottage and wasn’t visible from the main house, so Gabriela took a penlight out of her Birkin bag and clicked it on. She dropped her shoes and her bag onto the ground and stripped her little black dress off over her head and handed it to Luis. She had black techno tights and a rash guard on under her dress. She unrolled the legs of the tights to just above her knee and stepped into the boots Luis had brought earlier.

“I feel overdressed,” Luis said.

“You don’t have to go into the well. And you aren’t wearing a two-thousand-dollar dress.”

“All good things,” Luis said.

They pried the capstone off the well and moved it to the side.

Gabriela flashed the penlight down the shaft. The walls of the well were stone, covered in slime. She judged the width to be three feet and the depth to be thirty to forty feet. It looked like there was water at the bottom. She hoped it wasn’t too deep. Her boots only went to midcalf. Luis gripped the rope and Gabriela rappelled down. She splashed into about two inches of water at the bottom and then it was soft muck. No visible snakes. No frogs. Just disgusting muck. She kicked around and felt something solid underfoot. Her heart skipped a beat. She put her hand into the muck and pulled out a plastic ziplock gallon freezer bag filled with jewelry. She continued to slosh around and push through the muck with her hand to make sure there were no more bags.

“What’s going on?” Luis called down. “Everything okay?”

“I found it. I’m coming up. Hold tight.”

In less than a minute she was out of the well with the bag tucked into her tights.

“What were you in a previous life?” Luis asked. “Marine commando? Where’d you learn to climb like that?”

“I’ve had some tactical training. Comes in handy.”

“No shit.”

Gabriela kicked her boots off and took stock of the tights and rash guard. “These are going to have to go,” she said. “They’re muddy and slimy.”

She peeled them off and was left in her La Perla bra and panties.

“I love this job,” Luis said, handing her the dress.

She slipped into the dress and took a plastic bag out of her purse. She emptied the jewelry into the clean bag, dropped it into her Birkin, and stepped into the boots.

“What about your muddy clothes and the equipment?” Luis asked.

“Leave everything here. And we’ll leave the capstone off. The police will be here in the morning. They can re-cap the well. I’ll shuck the boots when we get closer to the house.”

“Going back will be easier,” Luis said. “We just head for the lights and the noise.”

Gabriela agreed. Nothing in front of them but lawn and party house. She forged ahead in total darkness, carrying her shoes and Birkin bag. The lawn close to the house was perfectly manicured. The lawn further out, closer to the hedgerow, was thick and unruly, going to seed. Luis was walking slightly ahead of Gabriela. She heard his foot connect with something, there was an ungodly shriek, and a creature jumped out of the high grass and attacked Luis.

He was close enough to the house for some ambient light to show him in outline, all flailing arms and a large winged creature hopping on him, beating him with its wings. Gabriela ran to help, and in an instant, the creature turned on her, screaming and attacking, slashing her dress with its talons, pecking at her Birkin.

“Stand back and I’ll shoot it,” Luis said.

“It’s a peacock,” Gabriela said, swatting at the bird, trying to keep it away from the Birkin. “You can’t shoot a peacock.”

“The hell I can’t,” Luis said.

The peacock left Gabriela and returned to Luis, gaining some altitude before it dive-bombed him. Gabriela threw her shoe at it. The bird caught it midair and awkwardly flapped away.

“What the hell?” Luis said.

“I didn’t see that coming,” Gabriela said, plucking a large feather from her hair. She got the penlight out and looked at the feather. “Definitely peacock.”

“No way. You’re kidding, right?”

“You must have stumbled onto her nest.”

“This is embarrassing,” Luis said. “I just came out on the losing end with a peacock.”

“It took my shoe!”

“Sorry about the shoe. I hope it was one you didn’t like.”

“It was a Louboutin slingback.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I appreciate the effort you made to save me from death by peacock,” Luis said. “Am I going to get combat pay?”

“No, but I’ll buy you a new suit.”

They skirted the back of the house, entered through the kitchen door, and went straight to the front foyer and valet parking.

“Whoa,” the valet said when Gabriela and Luis stepped forward. “That must be some party in there.”

Their clothes were shredded. Hair was scarecrow. Gabriela was in rubber boots, carrying a single slingback.

“We stepped outside for air, and we were attacked by a peacock,” Gabriela said.

The valet nodded. “Yeah, they’re vicious at this time of the year. They lay their eggs all over the backyard. They’ll peck your eye out. I guess you didn’t get the peacock memo.”

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#Review - Witches of Dubious Origin by Jenn McKinlay #Cozy #Fantasy

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

Series: Books of Dubious Origin # 1
Format: 358 pages, Paperback

Release Date: October 28, 2025
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Cozy, Fantasy

When a librarian discovers she’s descended from a long line of powerful witches, she’ll need all of her bookish knowledge to harness her family’s magic, in this enchanting cozy fantasy from New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay.

Zoe Ziakas enjoys a quiet life, working as a librarian in her quaint New England town. When a mysterious black book with an unbreakable latch is delivered to the library, Zoe has a strange feeling that the tome is somehow calling to her. She decides to consult the Museum of Literature, home to volumes of indecipherable secrets, some of which possess dark magic that must be guarded.

Here, among their most dangerous collection, the Books of Dubious Origin, Zoe discovers that she is the last descendant of a family of witches and this little black book is their grimoire. Zoe knows she must decode the family’s spell book and solve the mystery of what happened to her mother and her grandmother. However, the book’s potential power draws all things magical to it, and Zoe finds herself under the constant watch of a pesky raven, while being chased by undead Vikings, ghost pirates, and assorted ghouls.

With assistance from the eccentric staff of the Books of Dubious Origin department—including their annoyingly smart and handsome containment specialist, Jasper Griffin—Zoe must confront her past and the legacy of her family. But as their adventure unfolds, she’ll have to decide whether or not she’s ready to embrace her destiny.

Witches of Dubious Origin is the first book in author Jenn McKinlay's Books of Dubious Origin series. Zoe Ziakas leads a quiet, orderly life as a reference librarian in a small New England town in Wessex, Connecticut. She's pragmatic, fact-driven, and has deliberately distanced herself from any hints of the supernatural—especially after the personal loss of her own mother a month ago. Her routine shatters when a mysterious black book with an unbreakable latch arrives at the library.

The tome seems to call to her in an inexplicable way. Curious (and a bit unnerved), Zoe, with help from Agatha Lively, seeks answers at the prestigious Museum of Literature in New York City, home to the special collection known as the Books of Dubious Origin—volumes filled with secrets, some laced with dark magic that require careful guarding. After meeting with key characters who will be her guides along the way (Jasper, Olive, Tariq, and Miles), she learns a stunning truth: she is the last descendant of a powerful line of witches, and the insistent black book is none other than her family's sentient grimoire.

What follows is Zoe's reluctant journey into a hidden world of magic, where she must harness her inherited powers (with a strong necromantic bent), decode dangerous spells, and navigate threats from both the living and the undead. Along the way, she encounters undead figures (think Vikings and other surprises), a pesky raven, ghost pirates, and a found family of witch-librarians at the museum. A shadowy, dark witch lurks as the primary antagonist, tied to Zoe's family history in tragic ways.

The story mixes cozy vibes with higher-stakes adventure, including elements of mystery and a light romantic thread with a sexy mage. The Museum of Literature and its "Books of Dubious Origin" collection feel like a dream destination for any book lover—enchanted grimoires, indecipherable tomes, and the idea that certain books need literal guarding add a delightful layer of whimsy. At 36, Zoe is a refreshingly adult heroine—practical, a bit repressed about her magic, and initially resistant to the chaos.

Her growth from denying her heritage to embracing (and cleverly using) her powers, often through bookish knowledge rather than raw talent, is satisfying. The magical elements stand out for their variety and fun integration. Sentient books, necromancy with a twist, undead characters, and creative spellwork tied to literature make the world feel fresh rather than generic. The book isn't without minor flaws.

The first half can feel repetitive as Zoe processes her revelations, and the central conflict follows a somewhat predictable cozy trajectory (with the big showdown arriving late). The higher-stakes elements (murder in the family history, a vengeful dark witch) occasionally push against the "cozy" label, though they don't tip into grim territory. World-building is strong but might feel info-dumpy in spots as Zoe learns the ropes.

McKinlay’s first foray into the fantasy genre delivers a satisfying romance wrapped in a warm, magical story with a sharp-witted, bighearted witch at its core. Will likely continue as it appears that the author has plans for writing more books featuring Zoe and crew.

1

Package for you, Zoe." Bill Reed, my coworker at the Wessex Public Library, dropped a thick padded envelope, clearly holding a book, onto my desk. I glanced up at him. I was the reference librarian. He was acquisitions. Generally, book purchases went right to him.

Bill shrugged at the confusion on my face. "I know, but it's addressed to you and stamped Personal."

I glanced at the brown envelope. Sure enough, there was the stamp in an imperative shade of red right above the handwritten name Zoanne Ziakas-my name-and the library's address. Weirdly, there was no postmark or stamps or anything to indicate it had been delivered the usual way through the post office.

"Be careful opening it." Bill's eyes narrowed behind his wire-framed glasses. "It could be-"

He paused. Clearly his imagination had run out or he was hesitant to say bomb or poison or whatever nefarious thing could possibly be stuffed into a nine-by-twelve-inch padded envelope. Bill had the pasty complexion of a man who'd spent his adult life under fluorescent lighting. He was in his fifties, happily married to his wife, Meredith, of thirty years. They had two kids in college and spent most of their time dreaming about retirement. There wasn't much that disturbed Bill, so I was surprised by his unusual caution.

"Could be what?" I prodded.

"I don't know." He ran a hand over his thinning hair in a self-soothing gesture. "I just have a bad feeling about it."

"It's probably a catalog from a publisher or a library supply company that got misdirected to me," I said. Although, when I studied the loopy script of my name written in felt-tip pen, I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle, and a flutter of alarm tickled my insides. I knew this handwriting. It was my mother's.

No, it couldn't be. My mother had passed away a month ago. There was no way she could have addressed this envelope from beyond the grave. It was just an unfortunate coincidence. Shaking off the unsettling feeling, I grabbed my scissors and sliced the envelope open. It didn't explode. No plume of poisonous smoke was emitted. Instead, out fell a thick black book encircled with a half-inch metal band that was engraved with a series of interlocking lines similar to a Celtic knot. The band latched into a decorative hexagon on the front cover. Fancy.

"Well, that underwhelms," Bill said. He appeared visibly relieved. "Looks like a journal of some sort. You were right. It's probably a promo item from a publisher."

I set the book down and glanced into the envelope. There was no note explaining what the book was, no flyer, nothing. I put the envelope aside and picked up the book. I pressed on the hexagon, thinking that might open the band. It didn't work. I tried turning the hexagon. It didn't budge.

"It's a pretty pricey item for a promo," I said. "Especially since I can't open it."

"Do you want me to try?" he offered.

"Go for it." I handed him the book.

Bill did the same pressing and twisting that I had. He tried to tug on the band but it was secured too tightly to give him any leverage. He handed it back and I returned it to its envelope for safekeeping.

"What we have here is a very decorative paperweight," he concluded.

I laughed. I opened my desk's bottom drawer and dropped the book inside. "I'll look at it later."

Bill headed back to his office, and I returned to my weekly report, forgetting all about the strange black book.

October was my favorite month, when the sticky humidity of summer departed and jeans-and-sweater weather returned. As I walked the half mile from the library to my cottage, I reveled in the chilly temperatures, the scent of wood fires on the air, and the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet.

The village of Wessex, where I lived and worked, was nestled between the Appalachian Trail and the Housatonic River, in the northwestern corner of Connecticut. It was a small community known for the private boarding school that resided on the west side of the river. I had attended that school before leaving to go to university in New Haven and then doubling back here to the only place that had ever felt like home.

As soon as I stepped inside my cottage, I slipped into my pajamas while I microwaved a big bowl of mac and cheese. I flicked on the television and scrolled through the streaming channels until I found a mystery series I had yet to watch. I preferred the British ones because I loved that the actors and actresses in them looked like real people, as opposed to American television shows, where everyone looks like a supermodel pretending to be a real person.

I was halfway through my bowl of cheesy goodness and a third of the way through the first episode when I heard a thump on my front porch. I paused the show and stopped chewing, listening intently. Living in Wessex, where everyone knew everyone, I wasn't as worried about crime as I was about a neighbor dropping by to chat. It wasn't that bad things didn't happen here-of course they did-it was just that it was very rare, and usually the person who did the crime was known for having a dented moral compass, so it wasn't a big surprise.

Thump!

The noise sounded again, only more forcefully. Putting my bowl down on the coffee table, I shoved my chenille throw aside and crossed the room to the front door, switching on the outside light. I peered out the side window that looked onto the porch before opening the door. If it was a rabid raccoon looking for food, I didn't want to get into it with him. The porch was empty.

Just to be certain everything was all right, I opened the door and poked my head out. I glanced from side to side, seeing only my large potted geranium on one side and my small wicker table and two chairs on the other. Satisfied, I went to close the door and glanced down at the doormat. I gasped. Placed on the center of the mat was the same envelope that Bill had delivered to me at work. But I knew I had left it in my desk drawer. What the hell was it doing here?

I glanced around the porch to see if someone was lurking in the shadows, playing a prank on me. It wasn't really Bill's style-he was more of a dad-joke type of guy-but he was the only person who knew about the book, so logic dictated it had to be him.

"Not funny, Bill!" I called into the darkening evening. There was no answer. No one was there.

I picked up the envelope and pulled the book out, experiencing the same twinge of unease I'd felt before. A flash of green lit the porch as the envelope was immediately engulfed in emerald flames. I yelped and dropped it. In seconds the envelope was gone, leaving no ash or smoke behind. I examined my hand and noted that the weird neon fire hadn't even felt hot.

I glanced out at the street, making certain no one had seen what had just happened. Ever since my childhood, unexpected magic had always made me anxious.

I took another look around the porch and yard before I went back inside, then locked the dead bolt. I studied the aged volume more closely. It was a shade of black so matte it seemed to soak up light. The edges of the pages were jagged and uneven. And the book's hexagonal metal latch was rusted from humidity or lack of use, I couldn't tell which. I brought it to the kitchen, thinking I could open it with a knife.

Not wanting to lose a finger, I chose a butter knife. I slid it under the decorative metal band and tried to pry it loose. The metal didn't budge. I tried to pop the hexagon with the blade as well, but it held fast. I set down the utensil and glanced at the door. If it wasn't Bill who had dropped the book off and made the envelope go poof . . . nope. I refused to go there.

The pin pricked my finger and blood beaded up out of the wound. I yelped and dropped the pin. Drops of blood dripped from my middle finger and I pressed my thumb to the tip to stop the flow. Had I just stabbed myself with a pin . . . on purpose? I blinked. I glanced down, noting that I was wearing my pajamas.

Relief whooshed inside me. It was okay. It was just a dream. An awful, stupid, painful dream. I shook my head, trying to wake myself up. It didn't work. It couldn't . . . because I was already awake.

I glanced down at my kitchen counter, where small splats of blood marred the smooth surface. The battered old book that I had tucked into my shoulder bag earlier sat on the granite beneath my pricked finger.

Shit! I had almost bled on the book. I spun away from the counter and rinsed my finger in the sink. What the hell had just happened? Sleepwalking? Night terrors? Had I actually pricked myself with a pin? Why?

Grabbing a paper towel, I wiped the blood off the granite. I rinsed off the pin and returned it to the container I kept in the utility drawer at the end of the counter. I threw the towel in the trash and stood, staring at the book in confusion. What was the book doing on the counter when I was certain I had put it in my bag?

Insistent whispers sounded at the edge of my mind. Like shadows that faded as the sun rose, the words weren't quite loud enough for me to make out, but I knew. I knew without a doubt that those whispers had been in my dreams and that they had instructed me to stab myself with the straight pin. I glanced down. Goose bumps raised on my forearms as I gazed at the black book. I ran an uninjured finger over the cover, half expecting it to be absorbed into the black leather, as if it could pull me in just as it seemed to soak in the light. It didn't and I lifted my hand and noted my fingers were trembling.

I'd had a strange feeling about this mysterious volume from the moment I'd first touched it, and I knew of only one person who might be able to help me.

2

You think grief is making me lose it," I said.

During the month since my mother had passed away, Agatha Lively-my friend, mentor, and auntie all rolled into one loving yet bossy package-had repeatedly encouraged me to go to grief counseling, even though my mother and I had been estranged for years. I'd refused, feeling that I couldn't grieve a woman I didn't know. In my heart I understood that the only thing I mourned was that any chance at a relationship with my mother was now gone forever. Okay, so maybe some counseling wouldn't have been completely out of order.

"I didn't say that, Zoe." Agatha lifted the crocheted cozy that resembled a fat white goose off the delicate Haviland teapot and poured me a cup of rose hip tea. She was a big believer in its antioxidant properties. "I merely pointed out that you haven't slept properly since your mother's funeral, and this might be because you're sleep-deprived." She gestured at my finger with the Mickey Mouse bandage on it with a pointed look.

"No judgment, please. I am a meagerly paid public servant and these were on sale."

"I don't remember you being a sleepwalker. Is this a new development?" She ignored the explanation of my choice of bandage, which I wouldn't have needed except that the pinprick had been pretty deep. I was relieved to be up on my tetanus vaccination.

"No, as far as I know I've never done anything like this before." I took the teacup she offered. We were seated in the cluttered front parlor of Agatha's house. It was an old Victorian that sat prominently on the Wessex town green and had been in the Lively family for generations. Agatha was the last surviving Lively, and the house was packed to the rafters with her family's odd heirlooms, treasures, and tchotchkes. None of which she would consider parting with despite the collective mess. Having lived with her during my school vacations, I had tried to declutter it to no avail.

Sometimes I worried that Agatha would be done in by a falling stack of books or she'd trip on the variety of small cauldrons that lined the outer edge of the steps on the central staircase or, even more horrifically, she'd be eaten by one of the many sundew plants in the greenhouse. Yes, they were carnivorous and they gave me the heebie-jeebies. Although, to give credit where credit was due, she never seemed to have a problem with insects of any kind.

Agatha was short and curvy, with a deep brown complexion, white hair that fell in orderly ringlets to her shoulders, and professorial dark-rimmed glasses, which she lowered so she could peer at me with her direct deep brown eyes when she asked, "Have you tried taking valerian root?"

"Is it candy?" I met her gaze and she sighed.

"Of course you haven't. How you have survived to almost forty years of age from the nutrition found in a vending machine is beyond me."

I smiled, mostly because it was true. Not only had Agatha been my legal guardian since I was fourteen, she had also been my first boss. Like her, I was a librarian and Agatha had hired me fresh out of library school fifteen years ago when she was the director of the Wessex Public Library.

She had witnessed firsthand how I'd cobbled together my meals of Rice Krispies Treats (breakfast), Cheez-Its (lunch), and Snickers (dinner), preferably with a cola, not diet, on the side. Of course, I ate other stuff, but those were my mainstays.

"Ignoring my poor nutrition for the moment, what do you think of the book?" I asked.

Agatha sipped from her cup as if bracing herself. She set it down on its saucer atop an impressive stack of magazines. I'd sat in this room thousands of times over the years and I still had no idea what the coffee table beneath all the magazines and books looked like.

"You absolutely can't open it?" she asked.

"No. Whatever sort of lock is on it, it's impossible to crack. Believe me, I tried everything." I took the book out of the canvas bag at my feet and handed it to her.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

#Review - A Murder of Crows by Steve McHugh #Urban #Fantasy

2026-04-20T12:00:00.001-04:00

Series: Riftborn # 5
Format: Kindle, 295 pages
Release Date: January 20, 2026
Publisher: Podium Publishing
Source: Kindle Unlimited
Genre: Urban Fantasy

A dangerous game of ancient power will push the last raven to the edge of his limits in the fifth installment of this hardboiled fantasy noir series.

Lucas Rurik is used to being on the bad end of a terrible deal. He’s survived wars, seen his entire Guild murdered, and saved reality from certain doom more times than he’d care to count. But none of that has prepared him for the mess he’s currently in.

It seems his nemesis, Dr. Callie Mitchell, has tapped into the deepest magic in the Rift and destroyed one of the oldest rift-fused beings, tasked with ensuring the balance of power in the universe. No one knows what she’ll do next, and the surviving Ancients seem too distracted by their petty squabbles to take matters into their own all-powerful hands. So it’s once again up to Lucas to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong and attempt to negotiate with beings that most definitely don’t want to be reasoned with.

The clock is ticking, and Lucas will have to tap alliances and use every trick he has up his sleeve to stop a cosmically mighty madwoman on a mission. And time isn’t the only thing working against him. The secrets he uncovers could spell the undoing of everything, both on Earth and in the Rift . . .

A Murder of Crows is the Fifth and final installment in author Steve McHugh's Riftborn series. The Riftborn series follows Lucas Rurik, the last surviving member of the Raven Guild—a riftborn operative with unique abilities tied to a parallel magical realm called the Rift. The books blend hardboiled detective vibes, supernatural action, and escalating threats involving ancient powers, rift-fused beings, and dangerous human (or near-human) antagonists.

Lucas has endured wars, the murder of his entire Guild, and multiple reality-saving crises. In A Murder of Crows, his longtime nemesis, Dr. Callie Mitchell—a brilliant but unhinged scientist obsessed with rift magic—crosses a catastrophic line. She taps into the deepest forces of the Rift and eliminates one of the Ancients: ancient, rift-fused entities meant to maintain universal balance. With the surviving Ancients distracted by their own petty conflicts, the burden falls on Lucas and his allies once again.

He must negotiate with beings who have little interest in cooperation, forge uneasy alliances, and deploy every trick, skill, and favor at his disposal to stop a threat that could unravel both Earth and the Rift. Secrets uncovered along the way carry devastating personal and existential weight, pushing Lucas to his absolute limits. Lucas's allies aren't just convenient sidekicks; they're competent professionals who evolve into a genuine found family.

They communicate openly, offer and accept help, show vulnerability without turning it into endless angst, and balance ruthlessness (when permanently neutralizing threats) with real care and loyalty. Compared to McHugh's Hellequin work, Riftborn starts a bit more grounded in noir/detective mode before expanding, which some may love for its growth, and others might find slower to hook them initially.

Amazon | Audible

#Review - White Wolf by Eric Van Lustbader #Thriller #Suspense #Espionage

2026-04-15T00:00:00.002-04:00

Series: Evan Ryder # 5
Format: 352 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: December 2, 2025
Publisher: Forge Books
Source: Library
Genre: Thriller, Suspense, Espionage

New York Times bestselling author Eric Van Lustbader pits Evan Ryder against a new and unfathomable threat in this heart-stopping new installment of this blockbuster thriller series!

In this cutting-edge installment of the acclaimed thriller series, New York Times bestselling author Eric Van Lustbader thrusts readers into a world where power is being redefined by a revolutionary communication program that renders modern encryption obsolete, one that will topple global power structures and give rise to technology-driven totalitarian states.

Evan Ryder races against time in a landscape where secrets can no longer hide behind digital walls. Ilona Shokova, the elusive, deadly assassin White Wolf, holds the key to mastering this unhackable method.

Two powerful, deadly women, one quest. Will either one of them survive?

In this pulse-pounding thriller, the future isn't just written in code - it's locked behind it.

White Wolf by Eric Van Lustbader is the Fifth installment in the author's Evan Ryder series. This book has way too many narratives for me to list, so I will get right to the story. Evan Ryder, a survivor of profound personal tragedy who has dedicated her life to covert operations, finds herself in a desperate race against time. A revolutionary new communication program threatens to render all modern encryption obsolete, potentially upending global power structures and paving the way for technology-driven totalitarian regimes.

Secrets can no longer hide behind digital walls, and control of this unhackable technology is the ultimate prize. At the center of the chaos is Ilona Shokova, codenamed the White Wolf—an elusive, deadly Russian assassin and operative who holds the key to mastering this groundbreaking method. Described as an almost inhuman killing machine, Ilona carries on a legendary (and originally male-associated) legacy with ruthless efficiency. Evan’s mission becomes deeply personal when a young Russian boy named Timur—whom she regards as a son—is taken hostage and used as leverage.

Blackmailed after a violent attack, Evan must track down the White Wolf, navigate treacherous alliances (including with tech figures and her sometime lover), and retrieve a bizarre item tied to the conspiracy, all while racing to save Timur and prevent catastrophic global fallout. The story pits two formidable, deadly women against each other in a high-stakes quest where survival is far from guaranteed. The story has numerous locations, including Japan and Malaysia.

The premise feels timely and relevant—exploring how unbreakable communication tech could destabilize nations and empower authoritarian control—without getting bogged down in excessive technobabble. The cat-and-mouse dynamic between Evan Ryder and the White Wolf generates strong tension, amplified by the personal stakes involving Timur. Evan remains a compelling protagonist: resilient, skilled, and driven by both duty and deep emotional wounds, while the supporting cast (including recurring figures from prior books, such as her own sister) adds layers of alliances and betrayals.

Ilona Shokova is a formidable antagonist, but her near-mythic portrayal sometimes borders on larger-than-life, which works in the thriller genre yet might feel less nuanced to readers seeking deeper psychological depth. The story serves well as a series capper or a late entry, though starting with The Nemesis Manifesto provides fuller context for character relationships and ongoing arcs.

1

SUMATRA, NORTHEAST COAST

MARCH

They had spent themselves physically. Their entwining—sometimes violent, sometimes sensual, always desperate—had taken over four hours. Now they lay, still entwined, two lizards stunned into immobility, drenched in sweat, the sour-sweet odor of sex wafting off them like incense.

Wrapped in Marsden Tribe’s strong arms, Evan Ryder allowed his warmth to sink into her. It was an altogether different heat from what she felt beneath the Sumatran sun or from any other sun, for that matter. The warmth exuded privacy and, she supposed, privilege, something in which she had no interest. But she did have interest in Tribe. He was a tech genius, a multibillionaire, the founder and owner of Parachute, the world’s most advanced, privately owned quantum tech company.

He had fascinated Evan so deeply since she had met him nearly two years before, that she not only continued to work for him but now made love to him every month, his private jet always arriving when expected at the airstrip on the landside periphery of the enormous estate he owned. Here in the main villa, built atop a small headland with steps down to the beach, she had lived for a year. And over the course of that year, Tribe had signed long-term deals with the word-salad branches of the DOD, the Pentagon, NSA, a strategic portion of the Fortune 500 companies, as well as every tech company not named Google, Meta, Amazon, or Apple, all of which depended on Parachute’s hyper-speed quantum computer clusters for everything from enhanced AI workflow to end-to-end cybersecurity. Publicly, Evan was just another member of Parachute’s security division. In reality, she was its prime field agent, continuing the clandestine work she had done for Ben Butler’s team under the DOD umbrella.

She began to roll over but Tribe’s arms caught her. He stirred, rose out of sleep, and within moments their naked bodies entwined once more. He was an insatiable lover, perhaps because they were together only the one night each month. Inventive, too. She’d never been with a man who knew his way around the art of sex like Marsden Tribe.

Afterward, sweat-slicked, sated, he closed his eyes, asleep in seconds. She waited for her heart rate to return to normal, then unwound herself from him. Slipping out of bed, she shivered. Tribe insisted on keeping the air-conditioning on while he was in residence, whereas Evan preferred to be lulled to sleep by the night concerto of tree frogs, crickets, cicadas, moths. She crossed to the sliders, unlocked them, stepped out onto the expansive terrace. There were any number of exotic species of birds indigenous to the island but her favorite by far was the regal black-crowned night heron. Lucky for her the stream just yards away from where she stood was home to one. The water, reflecting the moon, wound from the interior, spilling into the sea. She saw the night heron by the light of the moon and the thick river of stars, tall, majestic, moving slowly or not at all, its head directed at the water through which it high-stepped. It saw her as she saw it—she was sure of it; sure, too, that it ducked its head in acknowledgment of being in the same place at the same time.

She leaned against the railing, watching the bird hunt in its singular fashion. She breathed the hot, humid air, heavily laden with night-blooming jasmine, frangipani, Melati. She still felt Tribe’s sweat on her, his musk, and she grew wet between her thighs. As if her body became aware of him an instant before her mind, she felt his arm snake around her waist. She took his hand, ran a finger over the wide silver band circling his right wrist. He never took it off, at least not in her presence.

“Do you want to know how Timur is progressing?” she asked huskily.

For just a moment a cauldron of bats defaced the moon, then were swallowed up by the blackness.

“Are you happy here, Evan?”

“Why should I be happy here?”

“You’ve been here in my villa for over a year.”

“And yet it feels like Lyudmila died yesterday.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t condescend, Marsden. You never cared a fig about her.”

“But I care about you.”

She took a breath, let it out slowly. She was not about to pull on that string. She tilted her head forward. “You see that bird in the stream?”

“The night heron, you mean.”

She nodded, trying not to be surprised that he knew; but then he knew most everything. That was the scariest thing about him; it was also why she was drawn to him.

“The black-crowned night heron, yes. It took months, but we’ve developed a relationship, he and I.”

“Should I be jealous?” He was half mocking.

“Seriously, we have a connection. Time and again, we’re out here together, we recognize each other in the shadows and we communicate.”

“And how do you communicate with a bird?”

“It’s a secret,” she whispered.

She could feel him moving beside her, a restlessness she had come to recognize as one of his trademarks. It was also a tell, if you knew him well enough. Very few did. To them it seemed like he was drifting, when really he was flowing, like mercury.

“Tonight this island, this sea, this night,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, “was made for love.”

She gave no response, stayed quite still as he stepped behind her, spread her legs. Soon enough all thoughts flew away like the night heron, having sated itself. Before dawn they too, were, at last, sated.

* * *

A week after Tribe’s departure, the afternoon idled, glazed with a heavy light, heat and humidity combining to turn skin sweat-slicked, nut-brown. The intense blue, the white sand, green trees at their backs, here and there shadow-shot beneath the clattering canopies of palm trees.

Evan Ryder and Timur Shokov had just finished their daily ten-mile run. They had started months ago, running in the morning, just before sunrise, when the air was still cool, the humidity tolerable. But as Timur’s stamina grew, multiplying swiftly, she had amped up their workout under the blazing tropical sun. Wordlessly, plunging into the surf, they cooled their bodies, then ran back up onto the beach.

Rehydrating with bottles of ice-cold water fetched from an insulated case, they stared at each other, their shared past scrolling through their minds, tremorous chords connecting them.

“Today,” Timur said, “is my mother’s birthday.”

Evan dipped her head. “I’ve been feeling her.”

“I know.”

She looked up. “Really.”

“I do.” He drank more water. “I can always tell.”

Evan frowned. She had thought she kept her sorrow separate from him, just as she kept Tribe’s nighttime visits separate. “How?”

“You get this expression.” He broke off, shook his head. “No, that’s not right. Your eyes … they get, I don’t know, dark, I guess you could say.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” he said. “Apologize, I mean.”

“Timur, I—”

“There’s no need.” He put the empty bottle neck down back in the ice. “I mean it. Really.”

She smiled, knew it was a sad smile. “She’s so close, sometimes, I swear I can hear her voice.” Her voice telling me to take care of you while she bled out in my arms. Now she looked away so he wouldn’t see the tears glittering, making her eyes huge, glossy.

Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble