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If you’ve ever been to a baby shower, you probably know there are five or so books that EVERY parent will receive, and often in multiples. And they’re classics for a reason!! But if you want to make sure your gift stands out as unique and thoughtful, try picking up one of these titles for expecting parents. They explore and celebrate the incomparable love between parent and child, the journey to find your voice, and the power of chasing your dreams. You’ll be the belle of the baby shower!

Officially kicking off summer reading with the release of NSFW! Join Nisha on the road and if you can’t (we’ll miss you), there are opportunities to get exclusive fan art and a spicy bonus scene. (Are we the luckiest or what?!)

Enjoy some extra goodies if you preorder Not Safe for Work by Nisha J. Tuli! Preorder from Tropes & Trifles for exclusive fan art and signed and/or personalized copies. As a special thank you, Nisha has written a bonus scene (ahem, it’s spicy) for anyone who preorders from any retailer, in any format and submits their receipt.

Lissette Decos is a Cuban American executive television producer with over fifteen years’ experience in reality TV formats of the love-wedding-relationship-disaster variety. Shows such as TLC’s Say Yes to the Dress, 90 Day Fiancé, and Bravo’s Summer House have helped mold her skills in telling an engaging and oftentimes unconventional love story. In addition to her stint in the “unreal” world of reality TV, Lissette also spent a decade in New York as a staff producer for MTV, which helped hone her expertise in all things pop culture, while searching for love in the big city. You might say she’s got the story and the soundtrack for romantic angst down.

Producing reality TV has definitely shaped my writing. A lot of the same things are important; antagonists, story arcs, cliffhangs. TV also helped prepare me for the amount of editing that has to happen in a book, and to not be so precious about things. My first job out of college was as a Production Assistant at MTV Latin America. I remember hearing a story about a musician falling for the producer who was interviewing them. Or maybe it was wishful thinking as we were about to interview Dave Grohl? Either way, the idea stayed with me and it was the starting off point for Takes One to Know One.

The band Interactivo. Songs like “Si No Llego a Mañana” quench my soul. Each song is a Cuban funk situation that gets your shoulders shaking.

I love @rudyjude. She’s a talented clothing designer who’s also gifted at gardening, baking, interior design, hosting, maple-tree tapping, and looming. All the things I mean to get around to trying one day.

Discover the Book

CIRCLE OF DAYS goes on sale 9.23.25 – request your galley today.

Circle of Days

by Ken Follett

From Ken Follett, the master of epic fiction, comes a rich novel of historical research and imagination, telling the deeply human story of one of the world’s greatest mysteries: the building of Stonehenge.
 
A FLINT MINER WITH A GIFT
Seft, a talented flint miner, walks the Great Plain in the high summer heat, to witness the rituals that signal the start of a new year. He is there to trade his stone at the Midsummer Rite, and to find Neen, the girl he loves. Her family live in prosperity and offer Seft an escape from his brutish father and brothers, within their herder community.

A PRIESTESS WHO BELIEVES THE IMPOSSIBLE
Joia, Neen’s sister, is a priestess with a vision and an unmatched ability to lead. As a child, she watches the Midsummer ceremony, enthralled, and dreams of a miraculous new monument, raised from the biggest stones in the world. But trouble is brewing among the hills and woodlands of the Great Plain.

A MONUMENT THAT WILL DEFINE A CIVILIZATION
Joia’s vision of a great stone circle, assembled by the divided tribes of the Plain, will inspire Seft and become their life’s work. But as drought ravages the earth, mistrust grows between the herders, farmers and woodlanders – and an act of savage violence leads to open warfare…

Price

$40.00

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$51.00 CAD

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Hardcover

1. ebook
2. Audiobook Download (Unabridged)
3. Trade Paperback (Large Print)

This item is a preorder. Your payment method will be charged immediately, and the product is expected to ship on or around September 23, 2025. This date is subject to change due to shipping delays beyond our control.

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April 3, 2025

Dear Members of Congress,

We write to you with deep concern regarding the recent Executive Order 14238, “Continuing the Reduction of the Federal Bureaucracy,” dated March 14, 2025, calling for the closure of the U.S. Institute of Museum and Library Services (IMLS) and the abrupt halt of its essential funding, which was approved by Congress, signed by the President, and earlier this week resulted in all IMLS staff being placed on administrative leave. As publishers, we are unwavering in our support for libraries, which play a critical role in our communities and shared commitment to a literate, informed society and democracy.

Every American has the right to access information and books that showcase a diversity of perspectives and experiences. Books build empathy, offer knowledge, and explore complex topics in long form. Libraries are essential community hubs that provide free access to these valuable tools and resources. Defunding libraries would result in mass closures and the destruction of a system that today benefits millions of Americans.

While IMLS funding is just 0.003% of the federal budget, it has tremendous impact, supporting more than 125,000 libraries in communities across the country, from major urban centers to rural areas and small towns. Public libraries in the United States receive more than 1.3 billion in-person patron visits every year, and even more people access libraries’ resources virtually. Rural libraries are critical to their communities, serving as an essential center for information, education, and connection.

30+ million Americans rely on their public libraries for internet access—a fundamental necessity in today’s world. In rural areas, 83% of libraries are the only source of free internet access in their communities. IMLS helps libraries bridge the digital divide by providing digital resources that assist community members with finding employment, applying for government services, and completing schoolwork.

Libraries are welcoming, safe spaces for Americans of all ages and backgrounds to gather, learn, and grow. Through IMLS grants, libraries have expanded their essential educational programs, including summer reading initiatives for children, career development training, family story hours, and community health workshops. These offerings foster well-being, combat isolation, and empower citizens to take control of their health.

We call on you to reject the executive order to close IMLS and to restore its funding. Allowing the IMLS to be defunded, and thus to disappear, would leave millions of Americans without access to the books, tools, and other resources required to participate in the modern world. Shuttering IMLS would be an act of monumental neglect, violating the very foundation of America and what it stands for as a country. It would undermine the tenets of our democracy and our citizens’ right to read, think, and learn freely. As President William McKinley once said, “The free man cannot be long an
ignorant man.”

Join us in standing with libraries and the communities they serve. The future of our nation depends on it.

Signed:
Penguin Random House
Hachette Book Group
Macmillan Publishers
Simon & Schuster
Sourcebooks

Take your first look at the cover for The Midnight Pack (US), the start to the werewolf romantic urban fantasy series by Jasmine Kuliasha coming May 2025! Read on for a first chapter excerpt below.

Beauty and the Beast meets Supernatural in the first book of this new urban fantasy detective series!

Jericho James is in over her head.

She’s a Private Investigator famed for debunking mythical creature sightings, and she expects her latest case in Stillbridge, Maine to be just another instance of “town who cried wolf.” But instead of finding a poorly judged animal in the Northeastern woods, Jericho discovers a family of reclusive scientists. Handsome scientists, no less, working on a cure for a mystery virus.

Intrigued by the virus and utterly captivated by Benjamin–a man with cheekbones that must have been chiseled by God himself–Jericho finds she’s dying to learn more about the family and their work.

And when she accidentally discovers the family’s secret, she might just get her wish.

Follow Jericho James as she solves cryptid crimes, stops mythical misdeeds, and blocks otherworldly outrages. And maybe, if she has time, find love along the way.

PART I
JERICHO

CHAPTER 1

Jericho is known as the oldest city in the world, and according to the Bible, it was cursed by God.

My mom wasn’t thinking of the Bible when she named me. She just wanted me to have a boy’s name to put on my résumé and thought Jericho sounded cool. She’d say, “Jericho James, an extraordinary name for an extraordinary girl!” I don’t know about extraordinary, though. A better way to describe my special brand of charmed life would probably be unusual.

Have you ever known someone whom things just sort of happen to? Like a friend who goes to the mall and ends up thwarting a jewelry store heist? Or maybe she sets out for a short hike but meets a park ranger on the trail and winds up tranquilizing and tagging black bears with him? Or she gets her private investigator license as a last resort to avoid working retail but, instead of tailing cheating husbands or suspected parole violators, becomes somewhat famous for solving the crazy animal cases nobody else wants to take?

Yeah, that’s me.

Chupacabra sightings? Call Jericho James. (They were shaved goats. All of them.)

Swamp-​monster in the Everglades? I’m your girl. (For the record, it was a giant anaconda.)

Cthulhu sightings off the coast of California? My phone was ringing nonstop with that one. (It was an injured giant Pacific octopus who’s now convalescing nicely at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.)

Cthulhu again, this time in southern Florida? An even crazier, but still normal, set of animal circumstances. Hint: It involved pythons. Lots and lots of pythons. And it was my first time on the news. I got to describe the ins and outs (pun intended) of a mating ball on live TV.

Then something truly bizarre happened: People started looking past my bubbly blonde-​ness and seeing my inherent talent for cracking cryptid cases. I’d gained a reputation, and now whenever there was some unusual animal activity, most police stations across the country had me at the top of their call list. Which was how I found myself heading to Stillbridge, Maine, at the frenzied request of a frustrated police captain.

The last time I was in the Pine Tree State was to investigate a Cassie sighting. But Maine’s own Loch Ness–style monster turned out to be a record-​breaking fifteen-​foot-​long Atlantic sturgeon weighing in at over eight hundred pounds. The sheer size of the fish was incredibly strange. But in this job, I’ve found that truth is always stranger than fiction.

This new assignment, however, brought me away from the water and into a small town nestled on the edge of the woods—which is ostensibly every small town in Maine, since the state is almost 90 percent forest. Stillbridge sounded woodsier than most, though, as the self-​proclaimed “Gateway to Mount Katahdin and the 100-​Mile Wilderness.” The largest mountain in Maine loomed just north of the accurately named wilderness, and Stillbridge was tucked right between them.

A seemingly endless wall of trees blurred past my red VW Beetle as I drove to my destination. Fall had arrived in full force, and the forest was a vivid tapestry of scarlets, oranges, and golds, peppered with deep evergreen. I allowed myself to get lost in the colors for a brief minute—a practically magical sight to my Florida girl eyes—before turning my thoughts back to the police file and news article I’d read earlier.

A woman’s savaged remains were found in these woods, bitten and clawed apart. Katherine Waller, age twenty-​two, on vacation to hike the Appalachian Trail in the 100-​Mile Wilderness after graduating from college earlier this year. She was only a handful of years younger than me. I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully. It wasn’t the first death I’d investigated, but that didn’t make it any easier. The wampus cat murders of East Tennessee had made the news, too. A six-​legged cougartype beast was a shoo‑in for a headline, especially since the attacks mirrored the Knoxville incident in 1918, right down to the slew of stray animals killed... their livers ripped out, but the rest of the carcasses intact. A college freshman was also a victim in the new attacks—a gaping hole on the right side of his body is a vivid image that still haunts me. I arrived to find the mayor organizing a wampus cat hunt, which I was able to talk him out of after a rabid cougar with a bloodstained muzzle was caught and put down. Poor thing must have been insanely iron-​deficient, and instinct took over. The killings stopped after that.

This time, the local authorities had determined that the trauma was indicative of a single animal, and the bite radius was in line with either a small bear or a large wolf, though neither was a perfect match. So this poor woman had been hiking alone and was attacked by some sort of creature. No foul play suspected. As far as the police were concerned, the death itself was case closed. Except for the matter of this mystery animal that was bold enough to attack a human, big enough to inflict fatal damage, and still at large.

Since local animal control couldn’t find an animal to control, they called me. Both the policeman leading the case and Katherine’s distraught parents wanted the creature found, identified, and ultimately subdued, which I took to mean dead meat. Large mammals weren’t exactly my specialty, but I had plenty of faith in my abilities—and in the semi-​automatic gun I kept on me for emergencies. I hadn’t had to use it yet, and I hoped I never would, but better to be prepared in these situations.

What if it was a new, apparently violent and toothy species, though? It sounded far-​fetched, but looking out the car window at the passing forest, I could almost believe that there was some hitherto-​unknown creature living there. People were still discovering new species around the world, and no way all of Maine’s woods had been explored.

If I’d learned anything through these cases, though, it was that the simplest explanation was usually the correct one. With Occam’s razor in mind, I pulled into Stillbridge.

As far as towns go, it was unremarkable in its normalcy, but definitely very cute. Main Street, with all its brick buildings and hand-​painted signage: cute. The coffee shop on the corner, whose window said ESPRESSO YOURSELF in big, cheery, hand-​painted letters: cute. The bed-​and-​breakfast where I was staying, with its crisp, white wood siding and wraparound porch: cute. Christopher at the front desk, who winked at me when he took my bags: double cute. I glanced at his hand: no ring. I hoped I’d have time to maybe invite him for a drink later, life being short and him being adorable, but... first things first. As soon as my suitcases were settled, I rushed out into the crisp Maine day for some info gathering.

The ground was still wet from recent rainfall, but the fall sun had come out and was shining brightly, making the puddles on the sidewalks glisten. I shivered. Even with the sun, the air was spiked with a brisk coolness that hinted at the winter to come, and this warm-​weather girl hadn’t brought anything heavier than a flannel shirt. At least the day was serene—in juxtaposition with my life of chasing wild stories. It might be nice to live somewhere like this someday.

Yeah right, Jericho, like you could ever live someplace this quiet.

I paused in front of the police station, which luckily was not too far from where I was staying. The small, whitewashed building was weather-​worn but well kept, and the big black lettering of the station’s sign was clearly (and tidily) handwritten. I had an appointment to talk to the sheriff later that afternoon. Sheriff Jackson—whose father and grandfather were also Sheriff Jacksons, and whose daughter was shaping up to be the first female Sheriff Jackson—was the one who’d contacted me about the case. We’d spoken on the phone several times, but I had a fresh slew of case-​related questions for him after reading and re‑reading the police file. My arms prickled with goose bumps as I recalled the grisly photos that were included—Katherine’s body twisted at an unnatural angle, her left arm torn off at the shoulder and flung several feet away. Three deep claw marks marred her face, completely mangling her jaw on one side. I blinked, shaking the image from my mind.

The station’s white wooden sides made the building stand out from its vintage, brick-​walled cousins that sandwiched it. The entire Main Street had an old-​timey look to it, which I enjoyed. I leaned against a weathered telephone pole that had been peppered with posters, absentmindedly fingering some of the tacked‑up papers. There was a sale at the local pizza place. A lost dog. An advertisement for babysitting services. But sticking out from behind the general notes, I noticed another, mostly hidden paper. I lifted the babysitting page and revealed Katherine’s faded image, front and center on a MISSING poster. Her once auburn hair had become a caramel-blonde on the rain-​washed flyer. She was smiling and wearing a graduation cap. She looked a little bit like me.

And now she’s dead.

I shuddered in the sunlight as a chill passed through my shoulders. Then I yanked the poster down.

“It was a monster, ya know.”

The voice came from behind me, pulling me out of my reverie. “What?” I turned and shaded my eyes against the afternoon sun with my hand.

A young boy with a mop of black hair and round glasses a little bit too big for his face pointed at the paper in my hand. “What killed her. It was a monster. Maybe a dogman. Maybe the Tote-​Road Shagamaw.” He pointed to his shirt, which had an image of a muscle-​bound bear-​moose bursting out of the words STILLBRDIGE ACADEMY SHAGAMAWS.

I couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Uhh,” I said intelligently. I did not want to talk about this with a kid.

The boy suddenly looked unsure of himself and jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He turned to face the sidewalk, nudging at some pebbles with a ratty red tennis shoe.

Now I felt bad. “What do you mean?” I asked.

The boy contemplated the pebble a moment longer, as if he was deciding how to respond. He nodded to himself, then looked up, pushed his too-​big glasses higher on his nose, and sighed. “My mom doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m crazy. But I hear them at night.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened a recording app, showing the screen to the boy as I pressed record. He nodded his consent. “Tell me more,” I said into the phone.

He stepped closer but avoided my eyes as he focused on the sidewalk behind me. “My house is the last one on the street, at the edge of the woods. I can see all the trees right from my window. That’s where I hear the sounds. It sometimes starts with a snapping, like, like when you step on a stick and it breaks. Then snarling, scratching...” He raised his hands, fingers curled into little claws, slashing them through the air while trying to roar in a low voice. He turned his attention back toward me, the sounds trailing off as he looked into my eyes. “You don’t believe me, either.”

Hurt was written all over his face. Poor kid. I knew what it felt like to not be believed. I bent down so my eyes were level with his. “I definitely believe you heard something. What’s your name, buddy?”

“Mikey.” Mikey eyed me dubiously.

“How old are you, Mikey?”

He scowled. “I just turned ten, and I’m old enough to know what I’m talking about. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’m not stupid. I know what sounds all the animals around here make. These are different.”

“Actually, I was going to ask if you should be in school right now.” I smiled at him gently.

“Oh. We get out early on Wednesdays. All of us used to walk home together, but since that lady was killed, most of the other kids get picked up by their parents. I don’t have a dad, though, and my mom works all day, so I still walk.”

“Does it bother you to walk alone?”

Mikey shrugged. “I’m safe out here. The monsters are in the woods.” A cloud passed overhead, as if punctuating his sentence. He continued, adjusting his glasses again. “You’re that detective lady, right?”

I nodded and raised an eyebrow. “What made you think that?”

I didn’t dress in any way that screamed detective. The closest thing I have to a uniform is yoga pants and a tank top, but only because that’s what I wear most often, like every other warm-​blooded female into the athleisure lifestyle. My nail polish isn’t what you would consider “professional,” either. My color choices are exclusively based on witty names. Keep your pastel pinks and ruby reds—give me Ice Cream and Shout, Indi‑Go‑Round, and Not Red‑y for Bed. Today’s was One in a Melon—a particularly warm and intense pink.

The boy responded with a small smirk. “All the grown-​ups have been talking about it, how a special detective was coming here. I saw you coming out of the hotel, so I just figured that’s who you were.”

“Hey, that’s some decent detective work yourself.”

He grinned, and his attention quickly shifted back to his red tennis shoes. “Anyway, I thought you should know about the monster. I tried to tell my mom that I know what I’m talking about, but she still thinks I’m crazy.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yeah?” His eyes met my face again.

I leaned closer and whispered like we were a couple of conspirators on the street. “People call me crazy, too. But you know what? I’m glad. I’d be offended if someone ever called me normal.”

Mikey smiled up at me. “In that case, catch you later, crazy!”

I laughed. “Right back atcha, buddy. Have a good walk!”

He turned to leave but suddenly whipped his face back around. His smile was gone, his expression hardened and serious.

“Don’t go into the woods.”

“Katherine was missing for about a week before her remains were found,” Sheriff Jackson said, offering me a paper cup full of steaming black coffee. I gratefully accepted, wrapping my hands around the cup for warmth. It was surprisingly colder inside the station than it was outside, maybe to keep delinquents spending the night in the lone jail cell on edge.

“The body was a shock to us all, real nasty injuries as you know. I wouldn’t wish that kind of death on anyone. Anyway, we tried to keep the official investigation going, but the chief was eager to chalk this one up to an unlucky encounter and call it done. Luckily, the animal being on the loose means we could bring you in.” The sheriff smiled at me with a mouthful of slightly yellow teeth.

“Yeah... lucky,” I said, taking a small sip of the coffee and trying to hide my grimace at the lack of sugar. “So I’ve talked to the other officers on the phone, and I’m meeting the hunters that found Katherine’s body next. I also plan to chat with the guy at the B and B where Katherine stayed, but I’m not quite sure where to turn to after that, besides just marching on into the woods. Is there anyone else it might be worthwhile to check with?”

The sheriff reached up and scratched the back of his neck, frowning as he thought. “Well... he might not be the best person for conversation, but there is an old fella who actually lives out in the woods. A hermit, of sorts. Keeps to himself most of the time. If he didn’t come into town for feedstock every once in a while, I’d say he was a figment. I can give you a general direction to where he stays, though I haven’t been out that way in years. He doesn’t take kindly to visitors. His name’s Kermit.”

I choked a little on the coffee.

“Kermit... the hermit?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose you could call him that.”

I couldn’t help laughing at the ridiculous name, though Sheriff Jackson just eyed me strangely, like a rhyming moniker shouldn’t surprise anyone. Oh well. I thanked him for his offer on directions to Kermit the hermit’s place in the woods, and his generous container of case files and recorded interviews, and made my way back to the bed-​and-​breakfast.

Finally cuddled up in the cozy four-​poster bed with a hoard of pillows, I played the interviews given to me by the sheriff, as well as the few I’d recorded on my phone. It had started to rain on my way back, and the gentle sound of droplets pattering on the window combined with the comfort of my pillownest threatened to put me to sleep, but I blinked my eyes stubbornly. I ran my fingers through my shoulder-​length hair, fanning it around my head like a golden crown on the pillowcase. The full moon, already shining brightly despite the early-​evening hour and the rain, illuminated the small room with a pleasant, almost pearlescent glow. I listened to an animal expert, Joseph, speaking about the bite wounds.

“...No, nothing like this. It’s similar to a couple o’ things. Similar to a lone wolf, maybe similar to a bear. But if you forced me to pick between ’em, I couldn’t. It was something big, though, that’s for certain.”

It just didn’t make sense. Large animals don’t generally disappear without a single trace, and everyone I’d spoken to had universally agreed that it was undoubtedly an animal attack, though no tracks were ever found. That contributed to the differing opinions when it came to what type of animal, with three schools of thought:

1. Bear with a unique bite structure
2. Wolf (a really big one)
3. Unidentified species (Mikey’s “monster”)

There were plenty of black bears in Maine, and I supposed it wasn’t out of the question for one to be different from the norm. I’d also done some research on wolves. While there weren’t any known wolf packs in the area, occasionally wolves did meander down from the Canadian woods to the north. Case in point, the local legend about the “dogmen” Mikey mentioned. The creatures who’d attacked a family home in Palmyra years ago were clearly either Canadian wolves or coyotes. General size was an issue now, though. Both the coroner and this animal expert pronounced that whatever had attacked Katherine was definitely larger than a wolf.

Something tugged at my memory, causing me to sit up and open my laptop. Weren’t there actual giant wolves once? I sat cross-​legged on the bed with the computer on my lap, tucked my hair behind my ears, then typed “giant wolf ” (the technical term) into the search bar. An entry on dire wolves was one of the first hits. Yes, yes, that’s right! I had watched a show that featured these guys once when I first started my journey into being a cryptid critical. Dire wolves were prehistoric cousins of today’s wolves, and about twice as big and strong. They were thought to be extinct, but then again, so was the coelacanth until some unwitting fisherman hauled one up on his boat.

I tapped the laptop absentmindedly, studying drawings of the latest addition to my list. Dire wolves were huge, probably larger than a linebacker in most cases. In fact, if you ran into one of those at night, in the dark shadows, it might be entirely possible to mistake it for...

I laughed out loud and ran my fingers through my hair. I’d long ago learned that anything was possible. But these attacks, these sightings? They always turned out to be normal animals.

Always.

This promotion is not currently available.

Inspired by Start With The Art: The Smart Way to Decorate Any Room on a Budget by interior designer Natalie Papier, we’re sharing tips on how to infuse your home with joy and creativity without breaking the bank. The secret? Start with the art.

1. Sometimes less is more. If something in your space feels off, consider letting it go. “Occasionally you’ll find that something just isn’t working in a space or years after hanging onto a piece, you have yet to find use for it. In these cases, that may mean it’s time to let it go. So if you’re working on a space, feeling like something isn’t quite right, or just itching for a change, subtract.” Decluttering can bring clarity and allow space for pieces that truly represent you. 

2. Garnish with Greenery. “You’ve painted, you’ve hung artwork, you’ve laid out the furniture. Now what? That’s easy: add life! Real or faux, plants offer shape, movement, and fresh color. Heck, even fruity shapes bring a sense of vitality to a space.” Bringing in natural elements like potted plants, fresh flowers, or even nature-inspired artwork can make your home feel lively and inviting.  

3. Style storage into your décor. Who says storage can’t be stylish? “Elaborate wallpaper makes shower essentials in the cabinet look orderly by comparison. As long as your paint or wallpaper plays well with the colors of your ‘mess,’ it feels intentional and unified. That’s easy in the bathroom: just choose towels, bins, and jars that pull from the palette of the walls, tile, or cabinet.” A little coordination goes a long way in making storage feel like part of the design rather than an afterthought.

4. Revamp to Reuse. “Take something antiquated and make it modern.” Repurpose old heirloom pieces into something more your style. 

5. Take An Unusual Object to the Next Level. “I encourage you to get swept up by the occasional unusual object—a sculpture, a vintage design, an epic light fixture, a mammoth planter—and see what happens when you try it out in different spots around your house.” Sometimes, a single statement piece can transform a room. If you find something that speaks to you, don’t be afraid to experiment with placement and let it shine. 

Take your first look at the cover for The Sovereign (US | UK) by C. L. Clark, the final installment in the Magic of the Lost trilogy coming September 2025!

The Sovereign brings princess Luca and soldier Touraine together one last time in the thrilling conclusion to C. L. Clark’s beloved queer political fantasy trilogy. 

Luca is the new queen of Balladaire. Her empire is already splintering in her hands. Her uncle wasn’t the only traitor in the court, and the Withering plague will decimate her people if she can’t unearth Balladaire’s magic. The only person who can help her wants the only thing Luca won’t give—the end of the monarchy. 

Touraine is Luca’s general. She has everything she ever wanted. While Luca looks within Balladaire’s borders, Touraine looks outward—the alliance with Qazal is brittle and Balladaire’s neighbors are ready to pounce on its new weakness. When the army comes, led by none other than Touraine’s old lover, Touraine must face the truth about herself—and the empire she once called home. 

A storm is coming. Touraine and Luca will stand against it together, or it will tear them apart once and for all.

Also by C. L. Clark

Take your first look at the cover for Shroud (US), the new standalone science fiction novel by Adrian Tchaikovsky coming June 2025!

On a planet shrouded in darkness, a stranded crew must fight for survival. But, the darkness may have plans of its own in this wildly original story from Adrian Tchaikovsky, Hugo and Arthur C. Clarke Award–winning author of Children of Time.

They looked into the darkness and the darkness looked back...

New planets are fair game to asset strippers and interplanetary opportunists—and a commercial mission to a distant star system discovers a moon that is pitch black, but alive with radio activity. Its high-gravity, high-pressure, zero-oxygen environment is anathema to human life, but ripe for exploitation. They named it Shroud.

Under no circumstances should a human end up on Shroud’s inhospitable surface. Except a catastrophic accident sees Juna Ceelander and Mai Ste Etienne doing just that. Forced to stage an emergency landing, in a small, barely adequate vehicle, they are unable to contact their ship and are running out of time. What follows is a gruelling journey across land, sea and air. During this time, Juna and Mai begin to understand Shroud’s dominant species. It also begins to understand them...

Also by Adrian Tchaikovsky

Do you need a refresher on the events of The Stardust Thief (US | UK) by Chelsea Abdullah? Look no further! Read the recap in "The Tale of the Merchant and the Prince" below.

Then read an excerpt from The Ashfire King (US | UK), on sale April 15!

The Tale of the Merchant and the Prince

Neither here nor there, but not so long ago…

There lived a merchant named Loulie al-Nazari who was as legendary as she was elusive. Garbed in midnight-blue robes, she was known as the Midnight Merchant, a magic-peddler who sold enchanted jinn relics in hidden souks. For years, she remained an enigma, evading the notice of the sultan, who would have hanged her for her illegal sales. But even the most slippery thieves are sure to be found should they overtempt fate, and so it was with Loulie as well.

One day, as she was wandering the souk, she came upon a man possessed by a shadow jinn and saved his life. Unbeknownst to her, this man was none other than Prince Mazen bin Malik, the youngest of the sultan’s sons. The disguised prince thanked her profusely: “A thousand blessings upon you!” he cried. “Had you not come to investigate, I would have lost my soul to the Sandsea.”

But though a fortuitous encounter for the prince, this rescue marked the beginning of a series of unfortunate events for Loulie, who upon saving Mazen’s life was repaid by his father with blackmail. For years, the sultan had been searching for a lamp that contained a jinn so powerful it was said to have the ability to grant any wish. None had ever located this lamp, but Loulie was renowned for her ability to track magic.

The formidable man had Loulie captured and brought to him in his palace, where he offered her an impossible choice: “Will you find the relic and become a hero? Or will you flee like a criminal and perish in the desert, with no one there to mourn you?”

It was no true choice at all, but Loulie was forced to accept. She would go on the sultan’s quest with his son Omar, high prince and King of the Forty Thieves, as her escort. But little did she know that Prince Mazen had also been blackmailed. Not by his father, but by Omar, who threatened to tell the sultan of Mazen’s forbidden excursions if he did not take his place.

“I have kept your secrets, akhi,” the high prince warned. “You owe me this.”

Terrified he would be trapped in the palace if his secrets came to light, Mazen agreed to his brother’s scheme, using a jinn-enchanted bangle to switch appearances with him.

And so it was that Loulie al-Nazari embarked on her journey with the wrong prince; one of Omar’s infamous forty thieves, Aisha; and Loulie’s bodyguard, Qadir, a jinn hiding in plain sight. The group traveled far, through hidden ruins where they unearthed a collar belonging to a powerful jinn queen, and across sunlit dunes haunted by ghouls. They passed through thriving cities made vibrant by jinn blood and rested in oases lit by starlight.

It was not an easy journey. On the way, they weathered nightmares both real and immaterial, surviving a sandstorm, a horde of ghouls, and the nefarious queen trapped in the collar. They fought the wali of Dhyme, whom she had possessed, and in doing so, they learned the true nature of relics as objects that housed a jinn’s departed soul.

The revelation was an omen of things to come, for when they returned to the desert, they rode headfirst into another peril: a trap set by a reclusive villain known as the Hunter in Black. This man was one of the sultan’s original forty thieves, Imad. Years ago, on Omar’s orders, he had massacred a Bedouin tribe to steal a jinn king’s relic, but the thieves had met their demise at the hands of the jinn they were seeking. The only survivors had been Imad, the jinn king… and the young tribesgirl the king had saved, none other than Loulie al-Nazari.

At first, it appeared Imad had succeeded in capturing the group. His iron trap had killed Qadir, and he locked the three humans in a prison at the heart of the Eastern Sandsea. But Imad had not stolen all their magics. The prince had his shadow, enchanted by the jinn who had possessed him in Madinne, and when he saw it on the wall, he said to himself, If no one is coming to help me, I have no choice but to save myself.

And, so saying, he peeled the shadow from the wall and used it to escape his prison. With it, he freed Aisha, and together the two of them tracked Loulie to the hunter’s treasure chamber, where she lay debilitated by a severe injury. With the help of their relics, the three of them broke free, using the chaos caused by Imad’s rampaging ghouls to cover their escape.

Mazen rushed through the corridors with Loulie in his arms, but their flight was short lived. Turns later, Imad cornered them and killed Aisha, leaving the merchant and the prince to face him alone, helpless and terrified.

But then: a miracle! The ruins around them began to shake and crumble, and Loulie and Mazen realized they were sinking into the Sandsea. The two fell through a chasm until they reached the bottom, where whom did they meet but Qadir, miraculously revived. Injured and unable to hold his physical form, the jinn guided them through the sinking ruins as a smoky apparition. When Imad appeared again to thwart them, Loulie finally took her revenge, plunging her dagger through his heart until nothing remained of him but ash.

Loulie and Mazen barely had time to mourn before another twisted miracle appeared before them: Aisha, alive but transformed by the death magic of the jinn queen in the collar. Beyond all doubts, the group had survived, but they were irrevocably changed. A shroud of distrust hung above them as it became apparent they were all keeping secrets.

It was Qadir who broke the silence first. “Fine,” he said. “Let us speak of lies and truths, and of the story hidden between them.” And he sat before the fire and began to tell them a story.

He revealed that he was not just a jinn, but one of the seven mighty kings who had sunk the jinn cities beneath the Sandsea. Ifrit, they were called in his country. Years ago, he had lost a compass in the desert, and while tracking it, he had unintentionally led Omar’s thieves to Loulie’s tribe. This truth was an unexpected and awful epiphany, and it cleaved a divide between the merchant and her bodyguard. They traveled to the final city, Ghiban, in somber silence.

But the greatest healer of wounds is time, and the group’s stay in Ghiban mended the rift between them. Mazen told stories in the souk to gather coin for their travels, Loulie searched the cliffs with Qadir for a relic to sell, and Aisha opened the door to a lucrative opportunity: the den of one of the forty thieves, which contained enough relics to sell for a small fortune.

Before they left the city, the group enjoyed a night of merrymaking on a ship, where they danced beneath smoke and glowing lanterns. The next, they returned to the desert with hope in their hearts. It was not long, however, before fate tested their bonds again. At the final oasis, Mazen stumbled into his greatest horror yet—a wanted poster of his face, proclaiming him the sultan’s murderer. This had been Omar’s plan all along: to wear Mazen’s face and to blame his father’s murder on Mazen in his absence.

Aisha, who had known his scheme, had already fled, leaving Mazen to escape the pursuing mercenaries with Loulie and Qadir. Later, as the broken group sat upon a plateau in the cold desert, the merchant turned to the prince and made him a promise: “We’ll make your brother regret this,” she said. “I swear it.”

With vengeance burning in their hearts, Loulie and Mazen followed the compass and Qadir’s magic beneath the sand, where they found the lamp and the King of the Forty Thieves. Omar stole the lamp from Mazen and, using the invocation of his ancestor, commanded the ifrit in the lamp: “Jinn king! You are bound to me and you will serve me.”

The mighty jinn might have destroyed them then had one last secret not been revealed. Aisha, who had followed her king beneath the Sandsea, had discovered some of her fellow thieves were jinn. Enraged that she had been forced to work with the creatures she despised, she turned on her king, and Loulie and Mazen used the distraction to steal the lamp and free the jinn king, Rijah, from Omar’s command. After Rijah had regained their freedom, there was an epic battle between Omar’s force and their small group.

But though the merchant and her companions fought valiantly, they were unprepared for the King of the Forty Thieves’ illusions. Besides that, they were fighting against a cause they did not understand, for none of them knew what Omar hoped to accomplish in working with jinn and collecting ifrit relics. Still, they managed to steal the relic that gave him his greatest advantage: the crescent earring that had once belonged to his mother, a jinn king named Aliyah.

The prince and the merchant escaped the Sandsea on the back of Rijah, who had transformed into a legendary rukh. Qadir remained on the surface to buy them time, and Aisha—the thief who had betrayed, then saved them—stayed behind to carry out her revenge against the king who had lied to her.

Loulie, Mazen, and Rijah plummeted down a hole so deep it seemed to lead to the center of the world. And then, eventually, they arrived at an end.

Or, perhaps, a beginning.

For now they found themselves in the sunken jinn realm, a legendary place no human had ever set foot in. It was a place of stories and mysteries and danger. An escape. A sanctuary.

Or so they hope.

Did you know that 2025 is the 100th Anniversary of National Fire Prevention Week? While observed in October, fire prevention and fire safety are important every day of the year! There are many ways to prevent fires and keep yourself safe, including: regularly checking smoke detectors, identifying fire exits in every setting, understanding the different types of fire extinguishers, and knowing what to do if you suspect or even encounter a fire. There are also many ways to help prevent large-scale wildfires and safety measures you can take in the event of such a disaster.

Learning about fires can be scary, even for adults! But there is power in knowledge, and these books help make fire safety approachable, tell inspiring stories about battling and surviving wildfires, and inspire each of us to make a difference in the face of fires.  

Take your first look at the cover for The Bookshop Below (US), the new standalone fantasy novel by Georgia Summers coming November 2025!

Below the streets of London, a secret network of magical bookshops has existed for millennia. But they’re slowly disappearing, and no one knows why. Only one dishonored bookseller can uncover the truth and rewrite her story—in this spellbinding standalone fantasy novel from the author of The City of Stardust.

If you want a story that will change your life, Chiron’s bookshop is where you go. For those lucky enough to grace its doors, it’s a glimpse into a world of powerful bargains and deadly ink magic.

For Cassandra Fairfax, it’s a reminder of everything she lost, when Chiron kicked her out and all but shuttered the shop. Since then, she’s used her skills in less ethical ways, trading stolen books and magical readings to wealthy playboys and unscrupulous collectors.

Then Chiron dies under mysterious circumstances. And if Cassandra knows anything, it’s this: the bookshop must always have an owner.

But she’s not the only one interested. There’s Lowell Sharpe, a dark-eyed, regrettably handsome bookseller she can’t seem to stop bumping into; rival owners who threaten Cassandra from the shadows; and, of course, Chiron’s murderer, who is still on the loose.

As Cassandra tries to uncover the secrets her mentor left behind, a sinister force threatens to unravel the world of the magical bookshops entirely…

Ten-Year Deal Significantly Expands Reach of Mo Willems’ Character IP with New Book Formats

Los Angeles, CA (March 26, 2025) — Hidden Pigeon Company (HPC), the company co-founded by #1 New York Times bestselling author and illustrator Mo Willems, is extending its partnership with Union Square & Co.—an imprint of Grand Central Publishing, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.—to develop a range of licensed books featuring Willems’ most popular and endearing characters, including The Pigeon, Elephant & Piggie, and Knuffle Bunny, for the children’s book imprint Union Square Kids. Under the new 10-year agreement, Union Square Kids will introduce a wide range of color and activity books, storybooks, readers, board books, workbooks, novelty formats, and more.    

The newly expanded partnership between Hidden Pigeon Company and Union Square & Co. also encompasses a range of innovative gift and stationery products from Knock Knock Kids, which offers child-friendly formats from gift and stationery brand Knock Knock, an imprint of Union Square & Co. Among the upcoming offerings are Pigeon- and Elephant & Piggie-themed versions of Knock Knock’s top-selling Fill-in-the-Love journals in addition to notebooks, activity pads, paper placemats, and other gift items featuring Willems’ characters.

“Union Square Kids is dedicated to engaging and entertaining young readers, which is also at the heart of what we do at Hidden Pigeon Company,” said Karen K. Miller, President & CEO, HPC. “We are so excited to continue working closely with the talented team at Union Square to expand the reach and impact of Mo Willems’ characters while delivering many more opportunities for children to stretch their imaginations and express their creativity.”

“Mo Willems’ characters and books have captivated and inspired millions of children around the world,” said Emily Thomas Meehan, Senior Vice President and Publisher, Union Square & Co. “We are delighted to further our successful collaboration with Mo and Hidden Pigeon Company and introduce new ways for kids to experience his beloved characters through a broad range of bestselling formats.”   

The new licensing program will include up to 15–20 new titles a year featuring dozens of Mo Willems’ popular characters. The first book produced under the agreement, Don’t Let The Pigeon Color This Book!, launched in October 2024. Additional titles are launching fall 2025, including the early-learning concept board book The Pigeon WON’T Count to 10!

The new titles will be available wherever books are sold, online and at retail nationwide in the U.S., Canada, UK, Australia, and New Zealand. The gift and stationery products will be available in the U.S. and Canada.

In other Mo Willems-related publishing news, on March 4, Union Square Kids released Will the Pigeon Graduate?, the tenth picture book featuring Willems’ best-loved bus-loving character and an instant New York Times bestseller.

About Mo Willems

Mo Willems is all about letting imaginations run wild. He is the beloved artist and author behind #1 New York Times bestselling and Caldecott Honors–awarded picture books like Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! and the Knuffle Bunny series. Willems received an Eisner award for The Pigeon Will Ride the Roller Coaster!, and his celebrated Elephant & Piggie early reader series has received two Theodor Seuss Geisel Awards and five Geisel Honors. Willems’ debut title Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! was inducted into the Picture Book Hall of Fame. He has published more than 70 children’s books—more than 50 of them New York Times bestselling titles—with 26+ foreign language translations. In addition to his Caldecott Honors, Willems garnered six Emmy Awards for his writing on “Sesame Street,” where he began his remarkable career. Willems has also created three television specials, six animated series, seven musical adaptations, five licensed theater productions, and three touring exhibits.

Willems loves playing in new sandboxes. He regularly collaborates with other globally renowned artists and organizations to create bright and innovative new works in the worlds of classical music, opera, comedy concerts, dance, painting, and digital content. Willems’ art has been exhibited around the world, including in major solo retrospectives at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta and The New York Historical in NYC. Over the last decade, he has become the most produced playwright of Theatre for Young Audiences in the US, having written or co-written four musicals based on his books. In 2023, Willems co-founded Hidden Pigeon Company to extend the reach of his beloved characters and stories across multiple platforms. Mo Willems is a former child.

About Union Square & Co.

Union Square & Co. is a talent-driven publisher whose mission is to promote excellence in contemporary publishing and to honor the vision of our creators by providing best-in-class production, editorial, and design choices. Headquartered in New York City, Union Square & Co., LLC, is a subsidiary of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc., and includes the adult imprints Union Square & Co., Puzzlewright Press and Sterling Ethos; the children’s imprints Union Square Kids and Boxer Books; and the gift and stationery imprints Knock Knock, Em & Friends, Knock Knock Kids, and Union Square Gift. In November 2024, Union Square & Co. was acquired by Hachette Book Group, Inc. as part of Grand Central Publishing.

About Hidden Pigeon Company

Hidden Pigeon Company (HPC) is an exciting new multiplatform kids and family content company founded in early 2023 by celebrated children’s book author Mo Willems along with Stampede Ventures and RedBird Capital Partners. It was formed with the goal of expanding the already-impressive reach and impact of Willems’s bestselling catalog of children’s books and intellectual property across all entertainment platforms—from television, film, and digital to live events, location-based experiences, licensing & merchandising, publishing, and more. Hidden Pigeon Company takes its name from Willems’ immensely popular character, The Pigeon, from Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! and Don’t Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late!, as kids and “former kids” (as Mo likes to say)—delight in finding The Pigeon hidden somewhere in all his books. HPC’s Mo Willems Workshop YouTube Channel features fresh content based on Willems’ characters and brands, including The Pigeon, Elephant & Piggie, and Knuffle Bunny, to inspire creativity and spark serious silliness.

#  #  #

Media Contacts:

Grand Communications, Inc. (for Hidden Pigeon Company)
Alison Grand, alison@grandcommunications.com
Laura Liebeck, laura@grandcommunications.com

Union Square & Co. (for Union Square Kids)
Blanca Oliviery, blanca.oliviery@hbgusa.com
Nathan Siegel, nathan.siegel@hbgusa.com

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To celebrate the release of her spellbinding new novel, The Knight and the Moth, Rachel Gillig—the queen of gothic romantasy—is hitting the road for the very first time!

“I’m so excited to venture forth and meet you all! We’ll talk about THE KNIGHT AND THE MOTH, magic, knights, gargoyles, and all things FANTASY—see you there!”

— Rachel Gillig

Tour Dates & Events

Tuesday, May 20 at 7:30 PM
Greater Pittsburgh Masonic Center
Presented by Riverstone Bookstore | Pittsburgh, PA
🎟️ Reserve Tickets

Wednesday, May 21 at 6:00 PM
Barnes & Noble Union Square | New York, NY
In conversation with Ava Reid
🎟️ Reserve Tickets

Thursday, May 22 at 7:00 PM
Joseph-Beth Booksellers | Cincinnati, OH
🎟️ Reserve Tickets

Friday, May 23 at 6:00 PM
Central Presbyterian Church
Presented by BookPeople | Austin, TX
In conversation with Abigail Owen
🎟️ Reserve Tickets

Saturday, May 24 at 5:00 PM
The Sun Theatre
Presented by Novel Neighbor | St. Louis, MO
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Sunday, May 25 at 3:00 PM
Trinity United Methodist Church
Presented by Tattered Cover Colfax Ave | Denver, CO
In conversation with Nicole from The Fantasy Fangirls
🎟️ Reserve Tickets

Monday, May 26 at 7:00 PM
Mysterious Galaxy | San Diego, CA
In conversation with Kaylie Smith
🎟️ Reserve Tickets

Tuesday, May 27 at 6:30 PM
Barnes & Noble | Huntington Beach, CA
In conversation with Sara Hashem
🎟️ Reserve Tickets

Well, it's happened, you and/or your young reader have finished Impossible Creatures. Perhaps you even read it together for an extra special experience. The big question on your minds: What new magical literary worlds can you and your kid explore? Fortunately, there is no shortage of fantastical worlds to venture into inside the pages of these fantasy books for kids.

Take your first look at the cover for The Two Lies of Faven Sythe (US | UK) by Megan E. O'Keefe, the standalone science fiction novel coming June 2025!

A search for a missing person uncovers a galaxy-spanning conspiracy in this thrilling standalone space opera from award-winning author Megan E. O’Keefe.

The Black Celeste is a ghost story. A once-legendary spaceship collecting dust in a cosmic graveyard known as the Clutch. Only famed pirate Bitter Amandine knows better, and she’ll do anything to never go near it again. No matter the cost.

Faven Sythe is crystborn, a member of the near-human species tasked with charting starpaths from station to station. She’s trained to be a navigator her entire life. But when her mentor disappears, leaving behind a mysterious starpath terminating in the Clutch, she is determined to find the truth. And only Amandine has the answers.

What they will find is a conspiracy bigger than either of them. Their quest for the truth will uncover secrets Amandine has long fought to keep buried—secrets about how she survived her last encounter in the Clutch, and what’s really hidden out there amongst the stars…

Also by Megan E. O'Keefe

Claustrophobia

For as long as I can remember, I’ve disliked small, enclosed spaces. When playing hide-and-seek, I hid behind things rather than in them, or better yet, in places with a vantage point—high up in tree branches, on top of the swing set. I’ve never willingly crawled into a snug spot, especially if it offered only one way out. Ever since I lost consciousness under water when I was six, I’ve had a fear of drowning—of some hostile element closing in on me from all sides. Growing up, I lived in a small, one-story house. I shared a room with my sister, Deanna. But I didn’t spend all that much time inside. Mostly, I was out in our backyard or biking around the neighborhood. We lived close to a greenbelt, and every day Mom would take us and the dogs for walks into the patch of woods where Deanna and I would run and leap, sticks for swords, playing at being Xena the warrior princess.

I was an outdoor kid, rain or shine. I took to camping like I was born in the woods. I even did some pretty vigorous backpacking during middle school: a five-day trip out on the Olympic peninsula, packing everything in and everything out, hiking at least five miles a day and pitching my own tent. At twelve, I was helping to build trails in state parks. All that felt normal in the Pacific Northwest. I knew that my home was bigger than my backyard. It didn’t occur to me not to roam, to fully immerse myself in the most compelling natural resources we had—the mountains and the forests.

In high school, I was out on the soccer pitch every single day. I especially loved those early mornings, frost on the grass, sun cresting the horizon, the adults cold, bundled, and grumbling, drinking coffee in the stands while I stretched and sprinted around the big, open field wearing just shorts and a t- shirt. It was as invigorating as a Russian ice bath. That wide-open space was synonymous with movement for me.

In college, I got into rock climbing and went on weekend trips to go bouldering. My then- boyfriend, DJ, and I did a lot of camping, even in the middle of winter. There is something magical about how quiet the world gets when it’s blanketed in snow. Deep in the woods, I loved listening to the dripping of water, the rustling of small animals, the crunch of snow under my feet as we walked through dense forest to emerge onto a precipice with a view stretching to distant peaks. Camping was so essential to me that I couldn’t imagine going to Italy without bringing my camping gear. And it took up a lot of space! I had visions of camping on the banks of Lago Trasimeno, just outside of Perugia.

By the time I arrived in Italy, I knew all this about myself. Expansiveness was a deep part of me, and it informed every aspect of my personality. I choose to face the anxiety of the unknown over the despair of the known every time. I am not the kind of person who will stay in an unhappy relationship or an unsatisfying job because I’m afraid of change. I’ll chop off twenty inches of hair that took me three years to grow just to see what I look like with a pixie cut.

So you can imagine how I reacted to being trapped in a small concrete box for four years. Or, for that matter, for hours overnight in an interrogation room.

The thing is, I didn’t know it was an interrogation room. I didn’t know I was being interrogated. It wasn’t like what you see on TV: an empty room but for a table and two chairs, a one-sided mirror across the wall, a cop slamming down a folder full of crime scene photos, You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you . . . It was just a small, cramped office; there were two desks, file cabinets, framed certificates and photos on the walls. It was a room I, and Meredith’s other roommates and friends, had already spent countless hours in over the last few days, answering questions as collaborators with the investigation.

“The pubblico ministero is here to see you,” Officer Rita Ficarra said matter-of-factly, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was curled up in the fetal position. My head was still ringing from the buzzing of my cell phone—my mom’s attempts to contact me that Ficarra did not allow me to respond to—and the feel of Ficarra’s hand slapping me as she shouted, “Remember! Remember!” The interrogation had gone on and on into the early hours of the morning, as a rotating cast of officers twice my age had badgered me with the same questions in a language I barely understood, refusing my answers again and again, until I started doubting my own sanity, and I began to believe them when they said that I was so traumatized by something I’d witnessed that I’d blacked it out. Threatened with thirty years in prison, I leapt out the only window they offered me, unsure how high up I was or where I might land. It didn’t feel like a choice. I had to escape that cage of circular questioning. I signed the statements they typed up implicating myself and others—my boyfriend, Raffaele Sollecito, and my boss, Patrick Lumumba. “You need to talk to the pubblico ministero about what you remember,” Ficarra said.

“Pubblico ministero” . . . it was a deceptively easy term to translate—“public minister”— but what did that mean? I thought back to a call I’d received from a representative at the UW, my hometown university, a day or so after the news of Meredith’s murder broke. She’d expressed her condolences and said something about local government officials being there to assist me—with what, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps this was what she had meant. I guessed the pubblico ministero was someone like the mayor, come to my rescue. Would he let me out of this tiny room?

Ficarra started clearing her seat and desk. While she shuffled papers around, I tried again: “I’m really confused right now. I don’t feel like this is remembering . . .”

She didn’t even look up. “Pazienza. Your memories will come back.”

Then the pubblico ministero, my rescuer, appeared in the doorway. He struck me as an old-man version of my stepdad, on the heavier side, with a round face that sat like a scoop of ice cream on his suit collar. He had a brusque, businesslike demeanor; he didn’t so much greet me as acknowledge my presence as he sat down behind Ficarra’s desk. But he was calm, and after being screamed at all night, I actually felt hopeful that, together, we’d be able to straighten everything out.

His name, he reminded me, was Dr. Giuliano Mignini. Apparently, we had already met outside my house on one of the days previous. But I didn’t remember him, had no recollection of ever seeing his face, which only made me doubt myself further. He wanted to hear what I had to say, he said.

Relieved, I launched into desperate rambling. My mom was on her way to Perugia and trying to contact me. I was trying to help, really, but I was scared and confused after a nightmare of a night. He glanced at the statement I’d signed earlier. “You’re scared of this . . . Mr. Lumumba?”

“I don’t know? I’m just . . . scared . . . and confused.”

His brow furrowed, and he began walking me through the vague and confused scenario represented in the document and asked for further details. Every time I tried to explain that I didn’t know if those fuzzy and disconnected images were memories or things I’d imagined, he pushed back. “What do you mean you don’t know? You must have heard something. Why are you hitting your head? Why are you crying?” I could muster only meek, self- deprecating complaints about being hit and yelled at. I felt his impatience, his incredulity, and my heart sank. Even he, the mayor, or whoever he was, couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe me. Talking to him was like knocking on a stone wall, hoping it would open. Defeated, I gave up a second time. I agreed to his suggestions. I signed his paperwork. I would do what they said until I could see my mom again. It would only be a few hours until she arrived in Perugia. We would get a hotel room, and we would get some rest, and then she would help me straighten everything out.

I dissociated. It was like playing hide-and-seek with myself; I was safe drifting above and at a distance, merely observing as they took me into another room and told me to strip naked. A male doctor minutely examined my neck, my hands, my genitals and pointed out details for a photographer, reassuring me that they were only looking for signs of sexual violence. They snapped metal cuffs around my wrists, reassuring me that it was merely a formality, and ushered me down the stairs and out into the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” I asked finally.

“You are being taken to a holding place for your own protection,” a male police officer said. “It will only be for a few days.”

It was early morning in Casa Circondariale Capanne. I was escorted by a man and a woman wearing military uniforms. The man was like a half-melted candle; his back was hunched, the skin on his face drooped, and he flickered warm to cold, eager to indifferent. The woman reminded me of a vampire—pale, with perfectly styled hair dyed blood red. Downstairs, after my handcuffs had been removed, the man introduced himself as Vice Commandante Argirò, and as if to affirm his own importance, he insisted that I was to ask for the vice commandante, and only the vice commandante, should I need to talk. (“Vice Commandante”— Vice Commander— but what did that mean?) The woman simply introduced herself as Agente.

Our footsteps echoed over the cement floors of a long hallway lined on either side with doors unlike any I had ever seen: they were solid sheets of metal with no handles, just a hole where the handle should be, and a small viewing window closed with a shutter. It was quiet; I assumed that the rooms behind these doors were empty. When we reached the last door at the end of the hallway, Agente turned a large metal key in the lock, and used the key as a handle to open it, revealing another door, this one made of steel bars—again, no handle. Agente used the same key to open this door as well.

Inside, there was a steel bed frame painted pumpkin orange, a green foam mattress, and a coarse wool blanket. Vice Commandante Argirò led me inside and pointed to a boxy object mounted six feet up on the wall wrapped in a black garbage bag and duct tape. “Don’t touch!” he barked, “and don’t speak to anyone.” This last part confused me; there was no one else here. And it was like he was admonishing me, like he, too, was mad at me.

As I searched his and Agente’s faces for some indication of my status—was I a guest, under their protection, or a pest, under their boot?—Vice Commandante Argirò marched out of the room, and Agente closed and locked both doors behind them.

The quiet and the cold closed in on me. I thought about my mom, how she probably thought I was dead. I started to panic, hyperventilating. This was all a big mistake. This was all my fault. And what was this room? Why were there bars? But then I reminded myself what they had promised: They were keeping me here for my own protection. It would only be for a few days. I cried myself to sleep.

It was not “a few days.” It was 1,428 days, and if it were up to the police and prosecution, including one Dr. Giuliano Mignini, I never would have left.

The next morning, still cold, still numb, lying on my bunk, my gaze averted from the locked door, I heard knocking. It was soft but firm, unobtrusive and unmistakable, as if to say, “I’m here! I hope that’s all right . . .” From the very beginning he was different. He knocked.

I turned and rose from the bed obediently. The outer metal door opened on a man with a squarish, stubbly face, his brown eyes almost hidden behind self-transitioning rectangular glasses. He wore a fleece pullover with a zippered collar, a casual blazer, slacks, and sneakers. Compared to the crisp lines and perfectly plucked eyebrows of so many of the cops and prison officials, his relaxed style felt almost . . . Pacific Northwest.

Even so, I approached warily. I think he interpreted this as shyness, but I wasn’t shy, and I never have been. It wasn’t shyness that kept my head bowed and my body recoiled, that had me communicating in muted gestures and muttered words.

I realized who—or what—he was by the small silver cross pinned to the collar of his blazer.

“Hello,” he said, his voice like honey mixed with sand. “Do you understand Italian?”

I understood that sentence at least. I nodded.

“I’m Don Saulo,” he said. “I’m a priest. I’m here to help. Would you like to talk?”

I shook my head apologetically. “I’m not religious.”

This is what I’d told the nun who had come by earlier that morning in her starched gray habit. She’d told me that I was no better than an animal without God.

But the priest merely chuckled, which surprised me. “How about I ask the agente to bring you down to my office in a little bit? We can talk about whatever you want.”

I thought about the invitations to talk I’d been offered by the police, by the pubblico ministero, by Vice Commandante Argirò, and how none of them ever felt like a choice. “Okay,” I said.

He nodded goodbye and gently pushed the outer door partially closed, not to shut me in, but out of politeness.

A while later, Agente opened the barred door and gestured for me to step outside. She followed close behind as I walked down the deserted hallway, now bright from light streaming through the window at the far end. I could feel the eyes of invisible women peering out from their own partially closed doors.

Through a barred gate, down the stairs, through another barred gate, into another hallway. Don Saulo’s office was narrow, with a low couch on the left and a tall cabinet on the right. Past these, the old priest sat at his desk facing the door, the sunlight haloing him from the window at the far end of the room. He looked up as I entered, thanked Agente, who closed the door behind me, and gestured for me to sit in the chair across from him. I obeyed.

I don’t remember how he broke the ice. By asking me how I was doing? All I know is that I found myself gushing desperation. “There’s been a mistake. I didn’t do it. I shouldn’t be here. No one believes me. No one believes me!”

He reached across the table and patted my hand, saying something along the lines of “You’re here for a reason.” He meant it in the “God is looking out for you” kind of way, but I couldn’t help hearing it as “Well, you must have done something,” and I silently castigated myself for my stupidity.

I tried to explain: “I’m innocent, but they yelled at me, and I got confused. Now the police are mad at me. They won’t listen. They don’t believe me. . . . Do you believe me?” I was rambling, unraveling. It’s not that I needed him of all people to believe me; I just needed someone to believe me.

He covered my hand with his own, protectively, and chose his next words carefully. “I believe you are . . . sincere,” he said. Again, he meant to be kind. He didn’t know me, he didn’t know what happened; what else could he say? But still, I couldn’t help hearing it as “I believe you want to be innocent.” I was crushed. Slowly, dejectedly, I withdrew my hand and held it in my lap.

I had nothing to say; no—there was nothing I could say. His kindness rolled off me like rain off a stone statue in a deserted piazza.

It took me a while to realize that the room I was kept in was in fact a cell, my cell, that the outer metal door was called a “blindo,” and to learn that “Agente” meant “guard.” Eventually, I would come to consider the red-haired woman who locked me in that first night and all the other guards as one many-faced Agente. Even their interchangeability was a kind of box that no message or plea could penetrate. Even the priest was separated from me by the infinite distance of divinity. It seemed there was no one in this place I could reach. I was trapped not only by the walls of my cell and by the barrier of language, but by the indifference of those who kept me here.

Someone—the police? the warden?—ordered that I be kept in isolation for the duration of the investigation, so for my first eight months of prison I had no access to common areas. I was not, however, in solitary confinement. For the first several weeks, I shared a cell with one other woman. Scabs covered her body from her incessant and compulsive scratching. I don’t know how long she’d been locked up. When Agente moved me in with her, she reassured me that she was a veteran of sorts I could only imagine what traumas she’d endured. Whatever they were, they left her irritable and erratic. Navigating her mood swings meant staying small and quiet—yet another way I felt trapped.

In my life before prison, I’d had the invisible luxury of spending time in places that radiated freedom—the woods, the wide-open soccer pitch, the family trips each summer to Lake Roosevelt in Eastern Washington. I gravitated to those places. It didn’t feel like a choice. Now, walled off from that open world, freedom felt like an impossibility.

I took every chance I could to leave my cell, pacing circles in the small courtyard adjacent to the chapel reserved for me alone. I did jumping jacks, I jogged, I skipped. Even when it was pouring rain, I circled that courtyard like a dog at a fence line, feeling the blood pump through my body, calming me.

And I sang. I sang the Beatles, Dido, the Eagles. I sang Christmas songs, “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I sang every song I knew by heart. It was enough to feel the vibrations in my body and to hear my voice echo down the hallways and out beyond the prison walls, a small sliver of me riding the wind.

As the days passed, I learned that how free I felt in any given moment was as much about my physical reality as my point of view—literally. If my view was the locked door, I started hyperventilating. If my view was the old stone tower on the hillside a few kilometers from the prison, or the tiny bunnies frolicking in the grass below, that changed everything. That choice was always available to me. And when I chose not to stare at the many things boxing me in, I became free to discover possibilities within that concrete box that I never could have anticipated. I began to sketch the contours of a small circumscribed life, a life I never would have chosen for myself, but a life worth living.

Excerpt from FREE by Amanda Knox. Available wherever books are sold.

Take your first look at the cover for An Unlikely Coven (US | UK) by debut author AM Kvita, the first installment in the Green Witch Cycle coming October 2025!

The outcast daughter of a powerful family of witches returns home to New York City and is immediately embroiled in a supernatural power struggle in this wickedly funny fantasy debut from AM Kvita.

After seven long years Joan Greenwood is finally returning home. Unfortunately, her family totally forgot about it.

Joan’s homecoming is lukewarm at best, but soon turns disastrous when news hits that someone has created a spell that can turn an ordinary human into a powerful witch, threatening the balance of the magical world and the Greenwood’s place at the top of it.

When her best friend confesses that he has secretly, accidentally, saved this human-turned-witch from an uncertain fate, Joan is thrust headfirst into a desperate race to undo the spell before it does permanent damage to its unwilling host.

Soon, Joan finds herself drawn deeper into the heart of the city’s magic, into an uncertain alliance with a (very attractive) family rival, and far beyond the limits of everything she thought her own magic capable of.

Welcome home Joan Greenwood.

Take your first look at the cover for This Brutal Moon (US | UK) by Bethany Jacobs, the finale in The Kindom Trilogy coming November 2025!

Bethany Jacobs returns with the thrilling conclusion to The Kindom Trilogy that began with the Philip K. Dick Award–winning These Burning Stars, the debut epic space opera trilogy about revenge, power, and the price of legacy.
 
Violence has erupted across the Treble. The colony that Jun Ironway and Masar Hawks have fought to protect is now woefully compromised, and its people, unwilling to submit to tyranny once more, face a brutal fight for their lives and freedom.

In the midst of upheaval and rebellion, new enemies arise at every corner, including a familiar player who won’t let power slip through his fingers again. Not when he has every Kindom Hand under his heel. And whether he will be as bloody-minded as his predecessors remains to be seen.

As the quiet ones launch their attack and all hope seems lost, Cleric Chono looks to unlikely allies to fight a final battle for peace. But one crucial question remains: where is Six?

Also by Bethany Jacobs

We aren’t fooling you with these April ebook deals, starting at just $1.99! Rain or shine, spring for a new read and get them while they last!

New to gardening? Take a look at this list of the best practical gardening guides for beginners, with easy to follow instructions to help you grow a healthy, flourishing garden confidently.

As spring approaches, the flowers start blooming and trees start regaining their lushness. With nature waking up all around us, we can create our own little piece of this at home. You can start out with a small but mighty herb garden that can last throughout the whole year and be used for meals, tonics, and more. Or maybe you’ll want to go big and embrace the maximalism in Garden to the Max. However you would like to create your garden, these books will inspire you in the various ways to start building and celebrating the world’s beauty right inside your home.

Emily Hoang is a writer and editor, who is obsessed with haunted houses, ghosts, and dreams. More info can be found on her website.

Holler

by Denali Sai Nalamalapu

An “important piece of activist art”, this beautiful graphic memoir tells the story of six hopeful activists in Appalachia who had the courage to resist against a threat to their community (Margaret Killjoy).

Drawing from original interviews with the author, Holler is an illustrated look at six inspiring changemakers. Denali Nalamalapu, a climate organizer in their own right, introduces readers to the ordinary people who became resisters of the Mountain Valley Pipeline, a project that spans approximately 300 miles from northwestern West Virginia to southern Virginia—a teacher, a single mother, a nurse, an organizer, a photographer, and a seed keeper. 

In West Virginia, Becky Crabtree, grandmother of five, chains herself to her 1970s Ford Pinto to stop construction from destroying her farm. Farther south, in Virginia, young organizer Michael James-Deramo organizes mutual aid to support community members showing up to protest the pipeline expansion. These (and more) are the stories of everyday resistance that show what difference we can make when we stand up for what we love, and stand together in community. When the world tells these resisters to sit down and back off, they refuse to give up. 

More than anything, Holler is an invitation to readers everywhere searching for their own path to activism: sending the message that no matter how small your action is, it’s impactful. The story of the Mountain Valley Pipeline is one we can all relate to, as each and every one of our communities faces the increasing threats of the climate crisis, and the corporations that benefit from the destruction of our natural resources. Holler is a moving and deeply accessible—and beautifully visual—story about change, hope, and humanity.  

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$21.99

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$28.99 CAD

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Trade Paperback

1. ebook

This item is a preorder. Your payment method will be charged immediately, and the product is expected to ship on or around May 13, 2025. This date is subject to change due to shipping delays beyond our control.

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Denali Sai Nalamalapu

About the Author

Denali Sai Nalamalapu is a climate organizer from Southern Maine and Southern India. Denali lives in Southwest Virginia. They have written for Truthout, Prism, and Mergoat Magazine, and their climate activism has been covered in Shondaland, Vogue India, Self, The Independent, and elsewhere. They studied English Literature at Bates College and completed a Fulbright grant in Malaysia. You can find them at @DenaliSai on Instagram.

Learn more about this author

Named to EBONY Magazine’s “Power 100” list of influential African Americans and PRWeek’s “40 Under 40” list, Alencia Johnson sits at the intersection of social justice and culture change. She is a leading social impact strategist with corporate, political and non-profit experience and is a highly sought after cultural commentator and advisor. She is the Chief Impact Officer and Founder of 1063 West Broad—a social impact agency specializing in the intersection of culture, impact and purpose—and has been an advisor for Joe Biden’s presidential campaign and served as National Director of Public Engagement for Senator Elizabeth Warren’s presidential campaign. She is regularly seen on MSNBC, CNN, NewsOne, BET, Huffington Post Live, and has been featured in NPR, Washington Post, ESSENCE, Glamour and more.

Most of Flip the Tables was written on the road – particularly Mexico City! Here are some views of the fabulous food and writing spaces I created.

No One is Self-Made by Dr. Lakeysha Hallmon, The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz (a re-read that I revisit often), and Wisdom of the Path by Yasmine Cheyenne.

The beach!

I’ve always been struck by the story of Jesus flipping over tables in the temple. In early 2020—while the world was grappling with a global pandemic, the murder of George Floyd, and a tense U.S. election, and I was navigating my own personal challenges—that story kept coming to mind. I found myself asking: What made Jesus so angry that he flipped those tables? And, more importantly: What are the proverbial tables we need to flip in our own lives and in the world to create real change?

Before I could answer that for others, I had to first disrupt myself—step out of my own way, out of my comfort zone, and into my purpose. That healing journey became the foundation for having a bold vision and building truly connected communities. Ultimately, I realized that the change we are waiting for starts within us. When we tap into courage, we unlock the power to transform everything we touch.

Disruptive. Courageous. Freedom.

I’m a Virgo. In four houses. With a Leo rising. And goodness, do I fit the bill! I’m detail-oriented, laser-focused on my goals, and work relentlessly to make things happen. My perfectionism can be a superpower, but as I share in Flip The Tables, it’s taken a lot of work to also release the need for everything to be perfect. But hey, I’m in good company—Beyoncé is a Virgo too!

Discover the Book

Take your first look at the cover for The Hexologists: A Tangle of Time (US | UK) by Josiah Bancroft, coming September 2025!

From one of the most exciting and original voices in fantasy comes the second book following the adventures of the Hexologists, Iz and Warren Wilby, as they tackle a case that could redefine the nature of magic itself.

As the nation’s foremost investigators of the paranormal, Isolde and Warren Wilby are accustomed to bumping up against things that go bump in the night. They have made quite a name for themselves as the Hexologists: detectives of the uncanny, the monstrous, the strange. After a decade of wedded bliss and dozens of fantastical adventures, there is little in the world that can still surprise them.

But when a famous artist dies under suspicious circumstances, Isolde finds herself investigating a murder that may not have happened, and a crime scene that seems to shift beneath her feet. Not one to be easily thwarted, Isolde is compelled to take greater and greater risks in pursuit of her elusive answers. Meanwhile, the laws that govern magic appear to be breaking, and those cracks are spreading to the everyday world.

The mystery will carry the devoted duo to seedy underworlds, enchanted gardens, and subterranean military zoos. Old friends will come to the Wilbies’ aid as they infiltrate secret societies, battle vicious imps, and flee from a pack of venomous wolves. Equipped with Isolde’s hexes, Warren’s muscle, and an enchanted bag full of magical relics, the Hexologists will have to risk life and limb to unravel the riddle at the heart of A Tangle of Time. 

Also by Josiah Bancroft

The fourth installment of Luke Arnold’s Fetch Phillips series, Whisper in the Wind, takes readers to a very different Sunder City. One where government corruption is rampant and tensions are rising.

Read an excerpt from Whisper in the Wind (US | UK), on sale April 29, below!

1

The cafe was quiet, the city was burning, and I was happy.

Unbothered by the sirens and black smoke wafting in from the west, the last of the lunchtime customers took off with their meals and bestowed me with compliments and coins on their exit. I cleared the tables, scraped the hotplates clean, and took the garbage out onto the street.

Fire. Down near the Rose Quarter. An orange haze to the low clouds that made my skin crackle in anticipation of some incoming excitement.

Lives were being changed or ended. The start of someone’s adventure.

Not mine.

I still needed to deal with the dirty dishes and check the stock and prep the patties for the dinner rush... though a quick look from a higher vantage wouldn’t hurt. I didn’t need to get involved—my meddling days were in the past—but this was still my city and I’d feel left out if there was a mess being made without me.

I climbed the steel stairs of the fire escape, resenting every step. Those hideous eyesores were bolted to every building on Main Street like someone had wandered through a gallery and welded hunks of metal onto all the art. When I got to the top—and saw nothing of interest besides more black smoke—I decided that it was finally time to bust this damn thing up.

Though the steps were useful, the railing offended me. It obstructed the view out the Angel door with a stamped strip of metal that read “NILES COMPANY CONSTRUCTION”. The Angel door was a remnant of better days, before the Coda, when flying creatures could leave from the fifth floor and launch straight into the air. It was a reminder of what we once took for granted and—during periods of unchecked optimism—what we hoped could be reclaimed. The railing was installed by men who wanted those days gone for good. It was a safeguard that made me feel like I’d been separated from the city. I didn’t like that. I might have spent most of my life as the eternal outsider—an intruder in every room, and the odd one out of step and out of time at every turn—but not any more. I’d found my place. Worked out a way to do some good in this world gone sour. I’d become a proper, useful part of Sunder City, and I’d be damned if anyone was going to put a barrier between me and the streets that finally felt like home.

It wasn’t the first time I’d made an unauthorized attempt at city deconstruction; the steel barrier was warped with dents and blowtorch burns from my previous efforts. Say what you want about the Niles Company (and I’ll say more than most), but they sure know how to bolt a bunch of metal together.

The structure had stood strong against my side kicks and mallet attacks, so I’d made a few enquiries and procured something special.

Seven years ago, when the Coda froze the sacred river and turned down the lights on this once-majestic world, we’d believed that the magic had vanished from existence. That was technically true—no denying the fact that we were living in a faded, bloodstained copy of the life we once knew—but the memory of that power still echoes down these streets, sticking to the shadows, hoping to be heard one last time. That’s what I found, again and again, in my fruitless attempts to turn back the clock. Not magic. Not a way back to that better world. Just the curdled residue of what once was. A sacred power gone to seed, sprouting warped versions of its old self: often surprising, always dangerous, but occasionally useful.

I took the vial of acid from my pocket. The out-of-town Dwarven dealer claimed that it came from a Basilisk. I was pretty sure that—like all the old beasts that survived the Coda—it would no longer be some wild titan but a poor invalid animal, perhaps the last of its kind, held in captivity and milked for this strange greenish liquid. Once upon a time, a few drops of this bile would have been a weapon to win wars with. Now it was just a useful tool for breaking down unwanted metal barriers.

I unscrewed the lid—sure to keep the open vial away from my nose—and poured a couple of drops onto the bolts that were holding up the steel beam. It worked slowly, but a faint hissing sound and a thin stream of silver smoke let me know I might be making progress.

For the record, I wasn’t taking down the balustrade because I desired a clear path out the Angel door if I ever felt like nosediving into nothingness. I’d moved on from those dreary days when the thrill of a five-story drop onto Main Street was my daily fantasy, and I now had too many customers that relied on me for a cheap, calorie-filled meal every morning. I just didn’t like the idea of anyone, especially Thurston Niles, telling me what to do.

I had my routine, a hard-earned sense of satisfaction, and no desire to get involved with anything outside the greasy little cafe that Georgio had left in my care. I filled my days with bacon, eggs and coffee, and other than a preference for milk or sugar, anyone else’s business was no business of mine.

I tried to tell myself that when I saw a couple of ash-covered kids running up Main Street from the south.

Even without the soot and sweat, you would have guessed they were guilty of something: a duo of nervous teenagers who kept changing their pace, unsure whether they should be running for their lives or attempting to play it cool. When the sirens got louder, they panicked and turned into Tackle Place, unaware that it was nothing but an L-shaped, dead-end crack between the backsides of buildings without any fences to hop over or doors to kick in. If someone was on their tail, then the kids had just cornered themselves and given their pursuer plenty of time to catch up.

Goddammit.

I stepped through the Angel door and into my office. My plan wouldn’t work if I was seen sprinting down the fire escape, so I dumped the vial of acid in my desk, went through the waiting room into the hall, then down the inside stairwell taking it five steps at a time.

I came out the revolving door—no sign of any pursuer yet—and back into the cafe. The kids re-emerged from their fruitless adventure in the alley, and before they could scamper, I rapped against the window loud enough for them to hear.

They were flushed-faced, youthful, and as skittish as rabbits after a whipcrack. The one who heard me first was a Half-Elf girl with curly black hair, wide eyes, and the mottled two-tone skin that many of her kind had developed after the Coda. She was expecting danger more than assistance so I needed to beckon her repeatedly before she got the message. She turned to her companion for hasty deliberation about the risks of accepting my offer, but when the distant sirens became noticeably less distant, they decided to take their chances with the stranger in the window.

As soon as I saw that they were playing along, I grabbed a pile of greasy plates from the kitchen and brought them back out into the dining area.

“Are you Georgio?” asked the girl, holding open the door while looking up at the sign that dangled above it. It was a question I’d learned to endure on a daily basis. No, I was not the ancient Shaman who’d guided lost souls through the old world and filled empty stomachs in the new one. I was just one of the lucky people who benefitted from his wisdom before he wandered out of Sunder in search of a dream.

“We’re under new management. I’m Fetch Phillips: amateur fry cook. Now, come in, sit down, wipe your hands, and try to look innocent.”

I set a table of dirty dishes for two then threw them each a damp dishcloth. The Half-Elf’s friend was a stocky, blond Human whose hands bore the telltale marks of recent pyromania.

“Anyone get killed?” I asked.

The girl looked up, defensive.

“What?”

“Whatever stunt you just pulled. Anyone killed? Badly hurt?”

The sirens were getting louder. Cops would soon be coming up Main Street and the kids were visibly nervous.

“It wasn’t even us,” said the girl, wiping her hands. “We were sneaking around the Rose when this whole house went up in flames.”

“It was bullshit anyway,” said the boy, wiping soot from his face. “The firefighters were already there. Must have done it themselves.”

“One of them pointed at us, trying to pin the blame. We got out of there, but—”

She was cut off b y a police car blowing past the cafe in a blur of blue light and black exhaust. I didn’t know if I believed her, but I didn’t really care. The Sunder City Police Department weren’t the lazy paper-pushers they used to be, and their treatment of ex-magical creatures who didn’t fall into line was getting worse every week. I was happy to accept the kids’ story without regard for its relationship to the truth.

“I think we lost them,” said the Human boy. “Let’s go.”

Before they could get up, Constable Bath jogged up the sidewalk and stopped right outside the front window of the cafe. His uniform was soaked with sweat and his hair was slick and sticking out at all angles. It looked like he’d paused to catch his breath, but as he leaned against the cafe to settle himself, his focus shifted to the customers inside.

There was a clatter of metal against porcelain as the suspects picked up their cutlery and shoveled the last of their imaginary meals into their mouths. I snatched the sooty dishcloths from the table and shoved them into my pockets as Bath made his way around to the entrance.

“Ophelia,” hissed the Human boy, “your hair!” He pointed to a paper petal caught in her curls: a calling card of the Rose Quarter, thrown by sex workers on balconies to attract the attention of those walking below. These accidental souvenirs had revealed the lies of many a Rose Quarter patron in the past, so I plucked it out and crushed it in my fist as the bell above the door went “ding”.

Bath stood at the threshold of the cafe, his expression a badly mixed cocktail of suspicion, trepidation and bewilderment. Our ruse was as thin as a Vampire on a hunger strike, but Bath was considerate to a fault and a lapsed believer in his own instincts, so he couldn’t help but give us the benefit of the doubt.

“Fetch,” he panted. “We’re... we’re looking for some vandals. Set fire to a cottage in the Rose Quarter.” Out the window, more cops jogged into view. One was knocking on the door of the teahouse across the way while two others charged down Tackle Place.

“Is that what all the hubbub was about?” I remarked, pouring cold coffee into a dirty cup as if it were a refill. “We all thought we could smell something, didn’t we?”

The double act played their part, nodding silently. The girl took an overly enthusiastic swig of coffee, almost spat it out when she registered the temperature, but managed to swallow it with an audible gulp.

Bath looked from the kids back to me, then back to the kids.

“Two suspects, apparently,” he said, his high-pitched voice avoiding accusation. “Young. They’ll probably be... sooty.”

He had the unblinking stare of a dog at the kitchen table, waiting for somebody to slip up and drop a piece of their meal, as if any minute now, one of the kids was going to clumsily let fall a confession.

“I haven’t seen anyone come past recently.”

“And what about...?” He pointed at my two guests.

“Oh, this lot wouldn’t have seen anything either. They’ve been back in the kitchen for the last hour learning the ropes. I’ve been teaching them how to use the fryer and we’ve just been tasting the results. You haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary, have you, kids?”

The boy just shook his head but the Half-Elf with the big eyes found her voice.

“Nothing like that. Sorry. We’ll keep a lookout though.”

Bath’s habitual civility caused him to thank her without meaning to. He looked back to me with a pleading expression on his face, hoping that I’d show him some sympathy by ending the charade.

“Golly, Fetch. It’s a lot of damage. If we don’t find the folks who did this, Company Men will be the next ones that come knocking.”

At first, I thought it was a threat. But no. Not from Bath. It was a warning, sure, but one meant as a mercy. A chance to come clean with him before Thurston Niles sent out butcher boys in charcoal suits to ask the same questions without the strained civility.

I gave him a smile—to let him know I appreciated his care and his candor—but I wasn’t worried about Niles Company goons or more city cops or the wrath of Thurston or Detective Simms or anyone. I was just a humble cafe owner taking care of his customers on an early-summer afternoon.

“Thanks, Bath. If I hear of any leads, you’ll be the first person I call.” I made my way to the kitchen, calling to the kids over my shoulder. “All right, team, lunch break’s over. Next up, it’s bacon butties—a cop favorite, as it happens—and we’ll need three dozen for afternoon tea.”

There was the scraping of chairs as they jumped to attention, leaving Bath to contemplate his options. It didn’t take him long. He wasn’t made for this kind of work. Backing up a superior officer was one thing—he had no problem following orders, no matter how inane, insane or immoral they were—but send him out on his own and he acted like a timid farm boy attempting to court a date.

In the kitchen, the fugitives gathered around me, holding their breath. We waited, and waited, until the bell jangled once more and the door slammed shut. The Half-Elf broke out in wild laughter, slapping both her friend and me on the back.

“Yes! Thanks, fella. We’ll give the copper a couple of minutes to clear off then get out of your hair.”

“Not a good plan,” I said. “Bath may be too nervous to arrest you on his own, but that doesn’t mean he won’t bring his buddies back for another look.”

Their smiles faded.

“So, we should go?” asked the boy.

“Cops will be all over the streets. Let’s hope Bath is too embarrassed to confess that he walked away from the culprits, but if he does come back, we need to solidify your story.” I took two aprons from the hook (perfectly clean, as I’d never used them myself) and held them out. “Come on. Three dozen bacon butties by four o’clock.”

They made a show of thinking it over, but they were still buzzing from the thrill of getting away with arson and I think the novelty of the whole thing tickled them too much. They tied the aprons around their waists and stepped up to the stations.

“There’s the rolls, fresh from the bakery this morning.” The boy made a right mess of his first attempt, hacking at it with a butter knife. “Kid, serrated knives are in the block on the bench. I sell these for two bronze coins a piece so make them look worth it.” He was about to argue back, but a look from his lady friend made him fall into line.

I turned my attention to the Half-Elf.

“Bacon’s in the icebox. Bottom drawer, wrapped in butcher’s paper. What are your names, anyway?”

“I’m Ophelia, that’s Ashton.”

She skipped across the room as I turned the knobs on the grill. A crackling whoosh brought a stream of heat from the pits below the city. They hit the underside of the hotplate, and I closed my eyes and breathed deep.

There was fire in the air, but unlike the black smoke outside, this was obedient, tame and contained. It was a good day. Coffee in the pot, meat on the grill, and a couple of kids safe off the street. I was finally doing something useful.

Bath didn’t come back that day. Or ever. A few nights later, he was shot eight times in his own home. I can’t say I cared all that much. He’d picked his side, hadn’t he? One less cop to worry about. Why would I make that any of my business?

If only I had.

Maybe then the good days would have lasted a little longer.

2

The box was dropped at the corner of Thirteenth and Main sometime around midnight. It was left open so the summer wind would blow the contents free. It was full of sheets of paper, and the wind carried them south, beneath the light of the lamps, where they were caught in doorways and phone booths, along with the other detritus of the night. Around dawn, the first curious readers gave them a cursory glance, and soon every piece of paper had been picked up and its message shared around the city.

Before long, everyone was talking about Whisper.

Turn the bacon, crack the eggs, switch the pot, flip the bread. Get more... goddammit.

“Ophelia! Where did the cinnamon buns go?”

She popped into my periphery, wiping icing from her cheeks.

“Payment for taking orders. Put them on my tab.”

“You don’t have a... Forget it. What’s the order?”

“Three breakfast specials, two black coffees, five biscuits, a butty and a big bowl of milk.”

I made some modifications to the cafe after Georgio left on his quest, and Ophelia took great joy in reaching through the new window that linked the dining room to the kitchen and sticking each order to the cork board as it came in. It had only been a week since I’d met them, and though the wide-eyed Half-Elf and her Human companion had proved to be useless kitchenhands, that hadn’t stopped them from making themselves at home. They deigned to take an order or two when things got busy. Which was nice, because ever since word got out that Georgio’s cafe was a haven for maligned and misbegotten youth with a taste for trouble, the place had become as busy as a Succubus’s bed.

The tables were so full that new arrivals were forced to take a lean, but that was no longer indicative of the place doing good business; the teenage rabble who’d decided to make the cafe their unofficial clubhouse hadn’t got it through their heads that I might appreciate them paying for something once in a while. The rowdy mass of feral hormones had pushed all the tables on the north wall together, and there was barely an hour without at least a couple of kids hunched over it, scrawling in notepads or flicking bottle caps. These pint-sized rebels made up most of my visitors but only a small percentage of my income, spending plenty of time but little else. Most days, it didn’t bother me, but they were louder than usual that morning. There were a number of new kids in attendance and the place was so packed that my other regulars couldn’t reach the counter.

“Where’s Richie?” I shouted to Ophelia (we’d gone past the pleasantries of please-and-thank-yous days ago). “His delivery’s getting cold.”

“Oi! Hand ’em over!” Richie’s huge, olive face appeared above the pack. He may have once been a Shepherd of the Opus—and was still plenty of pounds of Half-Ogre muscle—but even he was having trouble moving through the crowd. “I’ve been trying to get inside for ten minutes.”

I passed the basket of egg sandwiches over the heads of a few tea-drinking Dwarves, and Rich took it with both hands.

“Outta my way or I’m coming straight through ya!” he yelled, before parting the sea with his sizable belly. I was already back at the grill, plating up breakfast burgers and starting on the next set of specials. I poured coffees without thinking—two pots always on the go—and passed them through the window, trusting that the sound of jangling metal meant that someone was dropping the correct amount of coin into the till.

Check the mushrooms, slice more tomato, taste the sauce.

“Hey, Pheels,” I called to my Half-Elven helper, “what’s with the crowd today, huh?”

As a response, Ophelia pinned another piece of paper to the cork board. There were similar pamphlets in the hands of all the younger patrons, crumpled and dog-eared from being snatched back and forth. I’d noticed them being passed around but was too absorbed in the rotation of eggs and sausage to give them further thought.

“They’ve been blowing all over town,” said Ophelia, handing out coffees while I perused the pamphlet. “Nobody knows where they came from.”

It looked like a news article that had broken free of the paper and headed out on its own. The typeface was simple—blue/black with the occasional smear—and only ran for a couple of paragraphs.

YOUR LEADERS ARE LYING TO YOU

Friends, Rebels and Youngsters,
Brave Actors, True Hearts,

I see an afflicted city.

Doesn’t everyone remember reading information not gossip?

Eloquently related, rational, even-handed, dispassionate, objective news?

Not a dictator editor’s measly offering of regurgitated horseshit, every night reciting yesterday’s propaganda?

I seek truth.

Old news and Niles-designed tales have unprecedented reach, soiling their once-nuanced newspaper in lies.

Enter Sunder’s herald: a voice every leader endeavored to shut up, not Derringer’s erroneous rag, spreading unsafe falsities, fouling every reader.

Beware, your cops help only insidious criminal entities take hold.

Early tomorrow, read an investigation telling of real secret meetings using Sunder treasuries.

Delivered in earnest,
Mister Whisper.

I turned back to the fire. Pour the coffee, refill the beans, pile the bacon, take the back row of eggs off the heat. I could understand why the kids were excited—this was just the kind of big talk they liked to fill the place with instead of filling my pockets—but I was already putting it out of my head. So, the city was corrupt? What a surprise. The Sunder Star was selling goose shit as gospel? Whoop-de-do. It was nice to know that somebody was out there kicking up a stink, but the state of Sunder’s four estates was less of a concern to me than working out how to get my hash browns crispy without giving the customer an instant heart attack. No Man for Hire here any more. No wannabe hero. You want anything other than a hot breakfast? Go bother someone else. Plate the next row of eggs, crack another dozen, send out the coffee, get the next batch on the stove.

Once the coffee was on, I added tomato and beans to the plates and lifted them up to the window.

“Order up!”

I’d been anticipating Ophelia’s smiling face, but the one staring back was as far from a smile as a papercut to a pistol shot.

Detective Simms stared through the service window, golden eyes visible over her tightly wrapped black scarf. Summer had hit the city, and while everyone else was down to essential layers—even I had my top buttons undone and my sleeves rolled up to my elbows—Simms was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a scarf around her mouth, and the collar of her trench coat popped up over her ears (or where her ears would be, if Reptilia were a species who sported them).

I sensed something off about Simms but put it down to her fluctuating appreciation of my friendship, her aversion to crowds, her dislike of young people, or her dislike of people in general.

“Here you go, Lena.” I reached under the counter and pulled out a glass jar of bone-white cream.

“Fetch, I don’t want that. I—”

“It’s the last I have in stock,” I said, turning my back on her. Flip the eggs. Butter the toast. Pour the coffee. “I’m still waiting on the ingredients to boil another vat.”

It was a reduction of collagen, marrow and fat, a few easily obtained plants and herbs, and a generous dollop of something Portemus (Sunder’s most enthusiastic mortician) called Reanicol. Portemus used the serum on his “clients” to preserve them for as long as possible, and together we’d created this cream: a milder version of his invention that worked as a topical lotion for ex-magical creatures whose skin had problems with this non-magical atmosphere. I didn’t exactly know what Reanicol was—like a lot of things to do with Portemus, it’s wise to stay oblivious to the details—but there was surely some magical element in it. Not active magic, of course (that had been dead for seven years), but a twisted remnant of the power that was kicked around the world in those glorious days before the Coda.

Knowing Portemus, the substance would have been something extracted from the unfortunate creatures who made their way through his mortuary, and if there was some magical power in it—no matter how dulled and disappointing it had become—that meant that it was now an outlawed substance in Sunder City. For that reason, the jar had no ingredients list and the label just read “skin cream”.

The response from customers had been positive—nobody had reported any miraculous response to the ointment, but it apparently eased some of their discomfort—so Simms and others would sometimes drop by the cafe to refill their supply.

I assumed that’s why Simms was paying me a visit, but she left the jar on the counter and cleared her throat.

“Fetch, I’m on my way to a crime scene. I want you to come with me.” Her sibilant speech wasn’t much above a whisper, but I noticed one of the kids clock what she said. It was Ashton, the Human arsonist who’d hidden out here with Ophelia after fleeing from the Rose Quarter fire. He’d just been stepping up to the window to return a pile of plates, and looked us over with unmasked suspicion. Ashton was still cynical about the Man for Hire turned cafe owner who’d opened his place up to Sunder’s growing counterculture, and his sneering expression set me on edge.

“Sorry, Simms,” I said, placing a black coffee beside her skin cream, “I’m a little busy.” I dropped a Clayfield into her cup as a peace offering. They were harder to come by these days. The strips of bark worked as painkillers because the tree they were derived from was magical in origin, so a lot of stores had stopped stocking them for fear of repercussions.

There were now two pieces of contraband in front of Sunder’s most scaly police detective and, though I hadn’t accepted her proposition, she wasn’t about to leave them behind. She pocketed the jar, pulled down her scarf and sipped the coffee, taking a long, strained breath.

More tomatoes in the oven. Drain the oil. Cut a string of sausages.

“It’s Bath,” she said, as I salted the potatoes. “He’s dead.”

I paused for as long as I could—maybe a second or two—then picked up the spatula and rotated the eggs.

“I’m sorry, Simms. What happened?”

“I’d rather not talk about it here.”

“And I’d rather have a few extra hands who know how to fry an egg, but here we are.” Flip, slide, season, serve. “If you need someone to talk to, Richie was just—”

“It happened in Bath’s apartment. His home. There was someone waiting for him. A lot of someones, by the look of it. It’s... well, you should see it for yourself.”

I could only afford to glance up occasionally but, when I did, I saw Ashton standing over the large table, holding court. Kids leaned in to listen to him, all looking in my direction.

“Sorry,” I told Simms. Bacon, egg, brown sauce. Eight rolls ready to go. “I can’t leave. Why do you want me along anyway? You know I don’t do that work any more.”

“I want—”

“Hey! Copper! Read the paper this morning?” Ashton was standing at the head of the table with a smug look on his face. It was a match for the smug looks on the others sitting around him.

The grief and exhaustion that had been weighing Simms down took a back seat, and her narrow eyes became cold, golden slits. She attempted to ignore the provocation.

“Phillips, I can’t make this an official request, but—”

“Didn’t you see it, Detective?” It was Ophelia’s turn to pipe up. The group didn’t have a leader but, if they did, she would have been first in line. She was holding up one of the newsletters as if she was casually sharing a piece of amusing gossip. “Today’s big story alleges that you and all your friends are on the Niles Company payroll. Not much of a scoop, right? You’ve been enforcing his rules since the day he arrived.”

Ophelia wasn’t wrong. It had been a year and a half since Thurston Niles turned up in Sunder, and ever since he’d started signing checks, Mayor Piston and the local police had become increasingly concerned with the dangers of unsanctioned magical practices.

Simms refused to take the bait, keeping her attention on me.

“He didn’t deserve this, Fetch. He was a good kid.”

“You excited about Mister Whisper sharing all your dirty laundry?” said a third kid—this one with blue hair and a piercing through his nose—and I wondered if each of them was going to try to have their moment.

Simms bit her lip to stop herself from snapping back.

“Bath was on to something. I need your help to find who did this to him.”

A tear in her eye caught the warm light of the kitchen. At a different time in a different place, it might have persuaded me, but she wasn’t the only one applying pressure.

“Fetch?” prompted Ophelia, as if I were an actor on opening night who’d forgotten his line.

Maybe all I did was serve up greasy eggs and better-than-average coffee, but in the months since Georgio had left and I’d taken over, the place had developed a certain reputation. It was a safe place, in a city where that was becoming hard to find. We had flexible hours, no cover charge, and furniture that was already so stained you couldn’t add to it if you tried. The kids were only the latest lost souls who’d made it their second home. They were mostly full of hot air—spending their days celebrating petty vandalism and dreaming of a violent revolution—but I had more affection for their unruly brand of anarchy than I did for the shiny badge pinned to Simms’s coat. I’d never had much luck aligning myself with other people’s agendas, but if I was going to throw my lot in with anyone, these youngsters seemed a safer bet than any of the other groups who’d asked for my allegiance.

I’d helped Simms out before—I’d even sided with the cops over the people they’d vowed to protect—and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do it again. She wasn’t here as a friend. She was here because she wanted justice for her fallen comrade, and it was time I made it clear that the police and I weren’t on the same side.

“Sorry, Lena,” I said. “You and your officers can sort this out on your own. My orders are piling up.”

I turned my back before she could argue. One row of eggs was already overdone and as I dropped them into the scrap bucket, the crowd of kids erupted in jeers and cheers, applauding Simms’s exit and my lackluster show of defiance.

“That’s enough!” I called th rough the window, playing the role of beleaguered schoolteacher. “This is a cafe, not your clubhouse, so treat my customers with respect or get out.”

Ashton led a round of “ooohs” but Ophelia cut them off.

“He’s right,” she told them. “Don’t act like children.”

An obedient silence followed. Ashton looked embarrassed and I hid a knowing smile. The kid was smitten. I tucked that ace up my sleeve so I’d have it ready the next time he tried to undercut me in front of his crew.

I put four specials on the counter—they weren’t perfect, but they’d pass—and as some Elves rose from their seats to collect them, a paperboy stepped into the cafe, dinging the bell for the thousandth time that morning.

“Delivery of the Sunder Star.”

He dumped a pile of tabloid papers by the door.

“HEY!” I yelled. “You get that filthy rag out of here. I never ordered it.”

The “paperboy” was a few decades old for the job. He wore a tailored tweed three-piece despite the heat and sported a white beard that had been waxed and brushed to unnatural perfection. He raised his notepad to his squinting eyes and furrowed his brow.

“Ah, no, no, no. It says here I have a special delivery for Mr Fetch Phillips.”

Great. I thought. Some kind of prank. Thurston Niles must have been missing my visits so much he’d decided to mess with me until I paid him some attention.

“Well, I don’t want them. Take ’em with you.”

The paperboy shrugged and looked down at the pile, then he leaned forward, as if something peculiar had caught his eye. He picked up the top paper and brought it to his nose. He blinked, then looked at me, then back to the paper, and back to me again. When he spoke, his voice was laced with warning.

“I dunno, mate; I reckon you might want to see this.”

Despite the heat of the kitchen, my blood went cold. I beckoned him over and he put the paper on the counter.

There I was.

My own stupid face, eight years and an eternity younger, standing side by side with the leaders of the Human Army. General Taryn—the man who’d recruited me—had a fatherly hand on my shoulder, with more senior officers on either side. We were the men who’d put an end to the magical age and doomed the world to death and decay. Our actions had shared the burden of mortality with those who had never known it and dragged even the greatest of this world’s wonders down to our level.

I was so stunned by what I saw that by the time I looked up, some customers had already retrieved other papers from the pile. Choking back panic, I dragged my eyes to the headline.

WAR CRIMINAL IN OUR MIDST
Local agitator, Fetch Phillips, catalyst for the Coda.

My old, wounded heart clenched like a streetfighter’s fist. What the hell was going on? The Coda was the worst thing that had ever happened to the world. The attack on the sacred river severed its connection to magical creatures, making the Elves mortal, the Wizards powerless and the Fae extinct. My involvement wasn’t common knowledge—only a few people knew the facts, and a few more knew a scrap or two—but I never thought it would warrant front-page news. I looked out to the large table, ready to watch in real time as more people who’d been dumb enough to put their faith in me tasted the inevitable disappointment.

But there were no shocked faces. No disbelieving stares. They were all just flipping through the various sections, remarking on the bullshit and bluster that was typical of every edition of the Star. Ophelia looked at me and shrugged, so I looked back to the paperboy.

He dropped the role of “confused delivery person” and stared back with the blank, uncaring eyes of a hired goon. The kind of look that had me mentally calculating the distance to the nearest sharp object.

“They’re not reading what you are,” he said, voice low and monotonous. “But they will tomorrow if you don’t come with me. The editor wants to see you.”

I had all kinds of insults lined up, but a look back at my personally designed newspaper smothered them. Things were finally going well. Every day, I went down to the cafe and did something that actually mattered. Sure, my life wasn’t as exciting or as wild as it had been a few months before when I was actively trying to turn back time, but there was a lot less blood and broken bones (unless you counted what went into the mincer). I’d found my place and my purpose and fuck me if some prick at a typewriter was going to take that away.

I shoved the paper into the oven and watched it burn. Once the offending article had been turned to ash, I picked up a ladle and saucepan and banged them together until everyone shut up.

“Finish your meals and settle your bills. Kitchen’s closing early!”

3

I was led outside to an illegally parked car. It would be illegally parked almost anywhere, because it was longer and wider than any parking space in the city. I tried not to look too impressed. On principle, I hated any modern contraption made by Niles or Mortales—especially the higher-priced pieces that would never be available to the common man—but the craftsmanship of this piece couldn’t be denied.

“Where do you get something like this?” I blurted.

“You don’t,” said the paperboy/henchman/driver as he opened the back door for me. He’d changed his persona yet again, becoming a brash yet attentive steward. “Bespoke order, straight from Mira. A Mortales-made, one-of-a-kind motorcar. Ain’t she a beauty?” I wanted to disagree, but there was something about the smooth angles of the paneling, the dark sheen to the windows and the curve of the hood that made you want to run your hands all over it. “Careful! Your greasy fingerprints will fuck up the chrome.”

The interior was tan leather set within dark wooden framing, like I was stepping into an exclusive whiskey bar on wheels. The gearstick and handbrake were the same shiny chrome as the details on the exterior, and embedded in the center of the steering wheel was a glimmering, translucent gem that glistened with a silverish shade of purple.

Surely not.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice already shaking. The driver turned the key and pointed out the details like a proud parent.

“That’s Buffalo leather from beyond The Su, very hard to come by. Grovan Mahogany. Dwarven silver mechanisms. Mr Derringer had to import that from—”

“The crystal. On the wheel.”

If he registered my disgust, it didn’t change his tone.

“Ooh, that. You won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

He plucked the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and gave the crystal in question a little love.

“That’s pure, bona fide Unicorn horn. You probably heard that the horn was more a kind of magical mist, right? Well, when the Coda crystalized the magical river, it also crystalized the horns in every Unicorn’s head and...”

I let him ramble, but I needed no schooling on the subject. I’d encountered one of the rabid creatures in the wild. Killed it, I’m sad to say. It was self-defense, though I still felt shitty about it. I felt shittier still that I’d proceeded to break off the beast’s horn to use as medicine, hoping to save the life of a friend. That hadn’t worked. Instead, we’d ended up using its power to put down a rampaging Warlock.

I still wasn’t sure if it was worth it. Who was I to take something so sacred and use it for my own means? Especially when those means might have squashed Sunder’s last attempt at pushing back against Niles’s occupation.

But whatever I’d done with that piece of pure magic, at least I hadn’t stuck it into a fucking steering wheel.

I felt the indignant rage rise in my throat. I wanted to spit venom at the driver for marveling at the fact that a miracle had been shaped into a meaningless bauble. But I had no high ground. No greater insight. Not a leg to stand on. Besides, if I opened my mouth, nothing would change. So, I just stretched myself out on the luxuriously long back seat and closed my eyes. As a recent subscriber to the early-riser club, I’d also signed up to the fraternity of noontime nappers and liked to steal some slumber whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“SHIT!” The driver slammed on the brakes, and I bounced off the back of the passenger seat before landing on the floor. “This is a bloody road!”

It looked like someone had been drying out their sheets and the linen had made a run for it. A congregation of white robes was passing in front of us, each carrying a lit candle.

“What’s that all about?” I asked, pulling myself back up.

“New church, apparently. It’s been in the paper. Some priestess came to town a couple of months ago. I guess this is their way of drumming up constituents. Fine by me, as long as they STICK TO THE BLOODY SIDEWALK!”

The billowing sheets floated by, unperturbed by the driver’s outburst. A smaller car could have gone around them, but this beast of a machine filled a whole lane of Main Street without an inch to spare.

“Is it true?” asked the driver when he got going again.

“Is what true?”

“What it said in the paper. That you caused the Coda.” I kept my eyes closed and grumbled in the universal language of “let me sleep” but he’d wet his lips on a scandal and wanted a proper drink. “How’s that even possible?” I felt the car come to a stop—not our final destination, just an intersection—and heard the creaking of leather as he turned around in his seat. “I mean, look at ya.”

“I can’t. My eyes are closed.”

The leather squeaked again, the car rumbled on, and the man kept blabbering.

“You’re a bum, right? I mean, no offense, but I’ve scraped more impressive specimens from between my toes. How the hell could you be so important?”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the paper, pal.”

He gave a snort of reluctant laughter.

“I’d get those jokes outta your system now, if I was you. The editor don’t like wise guys.”

“Yeah, I can tell from his articles. Does the Star even hire journalists these days, or do you dictate the stories straight from Niles himself?”

There was a meaner, deeper laugh from the driver this time.

“Oooh, the boss is gonna hate you.”

There were many sides to the gray-bearded man. Long gone was the pleasant and polite paperboy, and as much as the grumbling manservant annoyed me, I preferred him to the unblinking henchman that occasionally took over his body.

He gave up questioning me about my past, but that didn’t mean he was ready to drive in silence. Even with my eyes closed, I was fed enough commentary on the world outside that there was no need to see it for myself. Apparently, there was nothing out there but terrible drivers, and women so stunning a buttock and bosom could scarce go by without enthusiastic report.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” said the driver, slowing us down. “We’re—Oi, you!” He slammed the brakes again, but this time I managed to catch myself. “GET OUTTA HERE, YOU FUCKING PEEPER!”

I looked out the window at the gates of a huge estate. Beside the fence, a short Cyclops in a brown suit and pork-pie hat was stumbling out of the shrubs, fiddling with a long-lens camera.

“Just doing my job, Carnegie. You know the deal.”

The driver—Carnegie—jumped out. I thought he was going to rough up the photographer, but he went for one of the gateposts, inserted a key into a mechanism, and the gate began to open. Only then, did he turn on the Cyclops.

“Listen, Ward, you fuck.”

He was back to playing the standover man, the intimidator. The exchange became too low to hear, but throughout it all, the brown-suited Cyclops kept smiling while Carnegie’s face grew red. I heard them say something about sunbathing, then the driver came back towards the car, his voice returning to the attitude and accent of a long-suffering servant. “If you’re still here when I come back, I’ll give you a story worth telling!”

The Cyclops laughed and pointed his camera in our direction.

“Ooh, that was a good snarl, Carnegie. Give us another one, just like that.” He snapped the camera, and I hoped the tinted windows were dark enough to keep me hidden. Seeing myself in the Star was more than enough fame for one day. “Who you got in there? Another secret visitor for the missus? Careful, mate; Mr Derringer’s still at home.”

“Fuck off, Owen.”

We went through the gates, up the drive, and I could see Carnegie’s eyes burn in the mirror the whole way to the top of the hill.

“All right,” he said when we came to a stop. “Out.”

We were in the driveway of a colossal brownstone building with wrought-iron bars over huge arched windows. The path was pebbled with white stones that reflected the morning sun as if each of them had been individually polished. The gardens that surrounded the house would have dwarfed any other dwelling, made up of plants that weren’t usually seen in Sunder: bamboo, palms and tropical trees with leaves the size of a Wyvern’s wings.

“This way.” Carnegie led me through a front door that was more than twice my height. I was deposited on a wooden bench and told to stay still, but as soon as the helper’s head was turned, I got up and looked around.

The hall was sparsely decorated—no rugs, no art—but I opened the closest door and stepped into some kind of gallery. The high ceiling was broken up by skylights, illuminating the monumental pieces that filled the high walls. The paintings were of a scale and mastery I’d only seen in the Lopari throne room or the walls of the Sunder Museum (before Niles turned it into his personal house of propaganda).

I went in uninvited and turned to face the first piece on my left. I’d always been jealous of people who could identify the period, style or artist on sight. My old friend and mentor Hendricks could have. He knew his painting masters even better than his fencing masters, but he’d had a few hundred years head start.

The painting depicted a Gorgon—snake-headed and scaled, with piercing silver eyes—writhing in ecstasy. Or perhaps in pain. The subject’s body, partly concealed in murky shadow, was naked. A woman—both fearsome and enticing—with a feverous expression and blood pooling at her feet. The blood was dripping from the fangs of the serpents who grew out of her head, knotted and twisting with the same straining tension as their host. The woman’s shoulders and arms were marked with bites—pairs of pinprick holes, some weeping—that punctured her pale skin. The longer I looked at it, the less fearsome and more tragic she became.

“It’s fucking awful, isn’t it?”

I spun, unable to hide my surprise. On the other side of the room, reclining on a red leather chaise, was a woman wearing a silk dressing gown, no shoes, long black gloves, platinum-blonde bed hair and dark sunglasses. Her pose was so perfectly sculptured—an artwork in itself—that I chose to believe she’d intentionally positioned herself that way before getting my attention.

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t see you there. I assume you’re the lady of the house?”

“Trixie Derringer,” she said, with a drawl that could have come from breeding, a bottle, or both. “I’m sorry, darling, this is usually the safest place for peace and quiet. Isaac’s friends are more interested in courting his checkbook than appreciating his art. Especially those that smell like burnt toast and beef fat.”

I cringed.

“Sorry about that.”

I was wearing the same thing I’d been sporting in the sweatbox of a kitchen: gray slacks marked with oil and egg yolk, a white shirt painted with the same pattern, and my sleeves rolled up to expose the four tattooed rings that wrapped around my forearm. I felt the urge to cover them up, but resisted; she’d already got a good look at them and, as her husband had been the one to mock up that story, I assumed it would be too late to hide my history from anyone in this house.

I stepped forward and extended a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ms Derringer.”

There was an awkward pause as my hand just hovered there, the Gorgon making no move to touch it.

“Are you waiting for me to do something?” she asked. “If so, I can’t see you.”

The dark glasses suddenly made sense.

“Sorry. No, that’s fine. Was just going to shake your hand, but—”

“Oh, how formal. Yes, let’s.” She held out a gloved hand, and I moved mine to find hers. Her shake was surprisingly strong. “There you go. What lovely manners, young man. Sorry I’m not getting up. I struggle in this interminable heat.”

She ran her hand through her hair, and as the white strands flowed between her silk-covered fingers, I saw that they didn’t move like hair at all. They were large, translucent locks that, once disturbed, floated around as if they weighed next to nothing.

Snakeskin.

Not the kind they make boots out of, but the kind that’s left behind when a reptile shakes loose an old layer. Her head was covered in a pit of serpents, though their bodies were gone, leaving just the outlines of empty, bone-colored ghosts. The heads were still intact, so each strand ended in a hollow-eyed, open-mouthed scream. The skin was so light that they wafted around, creating the illusion that the snakes were still alive, reaching out from her scalp in search of something to sink their teeth into.

I looked back to the painting, then back to Trixie.

“It’s not me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “That’s my great-aunt. Painted by a jilted lover who took her rejections as proof that she was filled with some inner, unchecked turmoil, rather than the fact he was a joyless turd with a drinking problem. Though, if I remember correctly, he did capture her eyes.”

Playfully, she put a finger on top of her sunglasses and, at a painfully slow speed, began to push them down. My jaw clenched. Sure, the magic was gone, but there are certain rules that get drilled into you when you’re being trained to fight magical creatures: only engage Werewolves when the moon is new, plug your ears before greeting a Banshee, and never look a Gorgon in the eye.

The sunglasses slid smoothly down her nose, revealing a set of polished peepers. There was no white, no discernible iris or pupil, just the dull, mottled gray of solid stone.

I knew there was no magic. I knew nothing would happen. But I couldn’t help but look away.

“Phillips, where the hell are you?”

The bellowing voice bounced off every wall of the enormous house like the building itself was shouting at me. Ms Derringer pushed her glasses back up her nose and smiled, flashing a modest set of fangs.

“You’d better be running along. Isaac doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

I was happy to take her advice, until I stepped back through the doorway and saw the monster I was here to meet.

Take your first look at the cover for I'll Make a Spectacle of You (US) by Beatrice Winifred Iker coming November 2025!

This heart-pounding Southern gothic horror debut from Beatrice Winifred Iker, takes readers to Bricksbury University, the oldest and most storied HBCU in the nation. But as one student is about to find out, a long history comes with a legacy of secrets. 
 
Zora Robinson is an ambitious grad student at her dream program, the Appalachian Studies at Bricksbury University. When her thesis advisor hands her a strange diary and suggests she research the local folklore about a beast roaming the woods surrounding campus, Zora finds a community uneager to talk to an outsider.
 
As she delves into the history of the beast, she uncovers a rumored secret society called the Keepers that has tenuous ties to the beast…and Bricksbury itself. Zora soon finds herself plagued by visions of the past, and her grip on reality starts to slip as she struggles to uncover what is real and what is folklore. But when a student goes missing, Zora starts to wonder if the Keepers ever really disbanded.
 
There’s something in the woods and it has its eyes on Zora.

Sometimes when we’re feeling down, anxious, or uncomfortable, all we need is a little reminder that things get better. That the world will turn itself right-side up. That the thing we're anxious about will be okay. This reminder doesn’t have to be anything big, just something we go to when we need to reignite our courage and confidence. Like a book!

I’ve gathered a collection of picture books that young readers can turn to when they need to kindle their excitement, alleviate anxiety, and simply put the pep back into their steps. Read and discover those peppy steps!

A merchant and a prince trapped in the crumbling realm of jinn must figure out how to save one world to return to their own in The Ashfire King, the second book in the Sandsea Trilogy, perfect for fans of The City of Brass and The Bone Shard Daughter.

Read an excerpt from The Ashfire King (US | UK), on sale April 15, below!

1

LOULIE

There were two reasons Loulie al‑Nazari was in a foul mood.

The first was that she was trapped in a foreign land with a temperamental being made of fire and a starry-eyed storyteller who was recounting their journey in painstaking detail. The second was that they were physically stuck between a large rock and an ever-shifting, ever-sinking ocean of sand.

In the distance, on an island in the middle of the Sandsea, lay their destination: the legendary jinn city of Dhahab. Even from here, Loulie could see the domes and towers glowing gold beneath the sunlight. Beacons of hope, the temperamental being of fire—Rijah—had called them. But standing at the edge of the sea, Loulie was not hopeful at all.

“I hate this place already,” she said.

Rijah, shapeshifter and self-proclaimed mightiest of jinn, glowered at her from beneath the shade of the date tree they were reclining under. “It hates you too.”

Mazen, who looked significantly less starry-eyed as he concluded his story, cut an irritated glance at Rijah. “Were you listening to anything I just said?”

Rijah lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Why would I when I do not care?”

Loulie sighed as the two of them bickered. She turned her gaze to the sky. Or at least, it was a sky in theory. But it was hard to think of it as such when the clouds had been replaced with swarms of fish and the sun wavered, faint and fractured like light on water. Since their arrival, the expanse had shifted multiple times, one hour filled with marine life, the next speckled with strange birds. According to Rijah, it was a jinn-made illusion, an unreliable fabrication of reality.

Looking at the strange sky, Loulie had the odd impression she was sinking. That feeling only intensified when she looked at the shifting sand around them. On the surface, the Sandsea was rumored to be all that was left of the fallen land where the jinn cities had once stood. But if that was the case, why did the Sandsea also exist here, in this realm under the sand?

Earlier, when she had asked Rijah, they had not had an answer for her. The ifrit had been just as unsettled by the sight of the Sandsea and the islands scattered across it.

A pointed cough pulled Loulie from her musings. She looked up to see Mazen standing on the shoreline, gazing out at Dhahab. “We could fly there,” he said.

The prince-turned-criminal looked as if he’d trudged through a particularly vicious sandstorm. His wavy hair was wild and unkempt, his tunic and trousers rumpled and torn. But the injury he had sustained during their last battle was healed, and despite the ordeal they had faced, his golden eyes were bright. Though Mazen’s title had been stolen from him, he was still the softhearted prince Loulie had been conned into traveling with. He was still Mazen bin Malik, the youngest son of a now-dead sultan.

Rijah scowled. “You mean I could fly, and you could ride on my back.”

Mazen looked at them uncertainly. “Yes?”

“No,” Rijah said flatly.

Loulie bit her tongue. Rijah had been tasked with watching over them, but so far all the ifrit had done was begrudgingly stomp after them and complain about it.

Though it was impossible to measure time in this world, with its odd sky, Loulie suspected they had been traveling a long time, meandering through terrain both rough and tortuous. And now here they were, marooned on a beach with a small cliff behind them and the Sandsea before them. To begin with, the land they’d traversed had been splintered with cracks and scars but whole. It was only here at the edge of the Sandsea that Loulie realized they were on an isle.

Rijah, who had surveyed the area from on high as a bird, claimed the Sandsea had eroded not just the immediate area but the entire landscape. Cities that had once been on the same plain had now become displaced and distant, accessible only over stretches of the Sandsea. According to them, there was no way around it, but Loulie did not believe that.

She planted herself in front of the ifrit. “Don’t you want to go back to your home?”

Rijah crossed their arms. A dent appeared briefly between their brows but smoothed away just as quickly. Loulie recognized a tell, fleeting as it was.

Mazen seemed to pick up on it as well. “You’re nervous to return?”

Loulie balked. She had been so busy worrying about her own safety in this realm that she had not stopped to ponder Rijah’s history within it. She had forgotten they’d been named an ifrit because it was a title for the powerful jinn kings who had sunk these cities.

Rijah scowled. “Would you be eager to return to the city that has a price on your head?”

“But you’re ancient,” Mazen said. “Surely no one will remember—”

A sharp, mocking laugh burst from Rijah’s lips. “Jinn hold their grudges for centuries. Human resentment is evanescent by comparison.”

Looking at the fierce glower on their face, Loulie could not help but wonder if they were referring to their own grudge. Before she and Mazen had met them, Rijah had been trapped for hundreds of years beneath the Sandsea in what was rumored to be the most powerful relic in the desert—a small, unremarkable oil lamp. And now Mazen, a descendant of the man who had trapped Rijah and forced them to do his bidding, was carrying that lamp in a satchel at his belt.

Though Mazen had promised never to abuse the lamp’s power, Rijah was clearly cynical. Loulie did not imagine the ifrit’s demeanor toward them would warm anytime soon.

She returned to searching for a land crossing they could use to traverse the small stretch of Sandsea between them and the city and was surprised when she spotted a silhouette on the shifting sand that had most certainly not been there before. She squinted until the shadow resolved into a shape. Until she realized she was looking at…

“A ship?”

Mazen came to stand beside her. He shielded his eyes with a hand. “It’s… a boum?”

It was indeed a boum, moderately sized, with three sails. It was very likely there were jinn on the vessel. The realization made Loulie’s stomach knot. How did one conduct themselves in a world where humans were an anomaly?

Mazen made a “hmm” sound under his breath. “You think they’re explorers? Travelers?”

Loulie shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever their purpose, they’re headed to the city. The better question is how to grab their attention.”

There was a thoughtful pause. And then, in unison, they looked at Rijah.

Unsurprisingly, the ifrit was displeased. “Imagine, for a moment, that I draw this ship here. What will you do when the sailors find out you are humans? Will you spin your long-winded tales and pray their curiosity outweighs their animosity?” Rijah scoffed. “And what if they capture you? Will you wave your pathetic dagger at them?”

Impulsively, Loulie pulled her pathetic dagger from a hidden pocket in her robe and pointed it at Rijah. “I know how to lie.” She angled the knife at Mazen, who cringed. “He knows how to lie. What was it you told us when we first came here? That you would not baby us?”

Rijah opened their mouth to level a retort at her but then paused, suddenly captivated by her blade. Loulie knew immediately what they were looking at: the golden qaf on the obsidian hilt, the first letter of Qadir’s name.

Qadir. Bodyguard to her, King of Jinn to Rijah.

She tamped down the surge of emotion that swept through her when she thought of her partner in crime. Qadir, who had told them to flee. Qadir, who had stayed behind to cover their escape. Qadir, who had still not caught up with them, despite his promise. Had Rijah been able to take them back through the Sandsea, Loulie would have already returned for him.

The ire vanished from Rijah’s expression when they beheld the engraving. “Fine. I will bring the ship here, but you must deal with the consequences.” With that cryptic declaration, they faced the vessel, cracked their knuckles—and sighed loudly. The sharp exhalation strengthened into a gust of wind, rippling through the air with enough force to tear at their clothing.

Loulie watched in amazement as the squall arced over the Sandsea. Between one breath and the next, it had overwhelmed the boum and was steering it toward their little island.

Mazen was visibly gaping. “Incredible,” he whispered.

Rijah smirked. “This is nothing.” They turned toward him, and midmotion their body quivered and blurred. When Loulie blinked, Rijah was no longer standing before them in a human shape but flying above their heads as a bird, a hawk with startling turquoise-blue eyes.

Mazen made a sound of distress as Rijah alighted on his shoulder.

“Let me guess.” Loulie crossed her arms. “You don’t want to reveal yourself to other jinn?”

When Rijah did not deign to respond, Loulie returned her attention to the ship with a grumble. With the tempest clearing, they had mere moments to catch the sailors’ attention before they resumed their course. She straightened, donning her false bravado like a cloak as she wound her scarves around her face. Mazen mimicked the motion, concealing everything but his eyes. She was surprised when he took the initiative to call out to the ship, waving his arms for added effect. He stopped only when it turned toward them.

“I hope this does not end badly,” he mumbled as he lowered his hands.

Loulie forced herself to shrug. “Don’t think too hard on it. What will be will be.”

Mazen glanced at her over his shoulder. There was a spark of recognition in his eyes—a memory, hovering between them, of Qadir sharing that advice before they’d all plunged into the Sandsea to find the lamp. But Loulie had heard it from him countless times before and had parroted it without thinking.

She turned away from Mazen’s pitying look. She did not want to remember Qadir. Not now, when thinking of him and the people she had left behind made her feel helpless. Loulie did not know Dahlia’s fate, but Ahmed’s…

Unbidden, her thoughts returned to the ever-smiling wali of Dhyme: Ahmed bin Walid, the jinn hunter who had always welcomed her to the city with cheer. The man who had asked for her heart and then died in Omar’s raid before she could give him an answer.

Loulie swallowed a knot in her throat as she focused again on the ship, which was near enough she could make out a figure standing on the edge. The figure gestured toward a rope ladder hanging off the hull.

“After you,” Mazen said softly beside her.

Loulie hesitated for one heartbeat. Two. And then she ran at the ship, leaping over the small gap between the sea and the hull. She began to ascend the ladder, Mazen following less gracefully behind her, with Rijah still perched on his shoulder.

It was a short climb. The first thing Loulie noted when she regained her footing was that the wood beneath her was surprisingly stable. And then she realized—this ship did not bob on the sea so much as slide across it.

Magic?

Her curiosity was quickly snuffed out, replaced with alarm as she took in the man before her. No, not a man. A jinn. For though he was human shaped, his eyes were a solid, edge‑to‑edge ink black, and his skin glittered oddly with what looked like swaths of scales. The hems of his clothing wavered like smoke, blurring even the golden trinkets pinned to his flowing velvet coat.

Loulie’s stomach dropped. Covering her features wouldn’t fool anyone; she clearly did not belong here. But the jinn was looking at them expectantly, and she had to say something—

Abruptly, Rijah let out an earsplitting cry that made them all cringe. It was a strangely judgmental sound, made worse by the ifrit’s bird-eyed glare.

The sailor looked at the hawk, perplexed. “You have… a very vocal bird.”

Relief crashed through Loulie at the sound of his voice. His accent was more clipped, the syllables more pronounced, but—he spoke her language. She laughed, soft and breathless. “Yes, I apologize for the creature.” She ducked into a bow. “You have our deepest gratitude for saving us. Me and my”—she hesitated as she glanced at Mazen—“companion.”

Mazen immediately swept in to offer his own gratitude and to enlighten the sailor about their fictional history. It was a simple story, one that painted them as explorers who had lost their way. They’d apparently been searching for a mysterious treasure and consequently found themselves in rigorous territory. This, Mazen claimed, was a most serendipitous rescue.

There was a thoughtful pause after the story. The sailor considered them quietly, his dark eyes unreadable. And then, remarkably, he thanked them for their explanation. Loulie was nonplussed when he asked them only one question: “The area you came from—is it still afloat?”

She scrutinized the sailor’s expression, taking in the skepticism of his furrowed brow and the downturn of his lips. She had spent years studying customers—the way their eyes wandered over merchandise, the way they fidgeted when indecisive. Though she never knew what brought them to her stall, the success of her business depended on her being able to read their tells.

She did not know what the sailor was referring to, but she knew the answer he was expecting. So she let sorrow seep into her voice when she said, “I’m afraid not.”

The jinn sighed as he gazed past them to the broken land they’d minutes ago been marooned on. “Yet another isle lost to the bindings,” he mumbled. “I expected as much, but that does not make it any less a tragedy. Perhaps it is the gods’ mercy that brought us together.”

Or an ifrit’s magic. Loulie cut a glance at Rijah, but the ifrit was staring at the beach they had come from. Loulie wondered if that word—binding—had any meaning to them.

“Normally I would ask for payment,” the sailor continued. “But I am not so heartless as to demand coin from those in need.” He began to lead them across the deck.

It was then, as they were walking, that Loulie noticed the other jinn on the ship. Though they moved with the same ease and grace as human sailors, they, unlike humans, did not sway with the movements of the boum. Rather, they were shifting the sand upon which it traveled, manipulating it with hand motions that parted the sediment in waves.

Too late, Loulie realized she was staring, her expression mirroring Mazen’s own wide-eyed wonder. She forced herself to turn away, only to notice the sailor in the coat looking at her. “Your story is a mysterious one, ya sayyida. It is unfortunate we have no time for the rest of it.” He inclined his chin toward the city wall, lips curled into an amused smile.

The moment Loulie paused to observe the city, all thoughts of their threadbare story vanished from her mind. She was rendered speechless by the sight of the architecture. From a distance, the buildings had been a haze of gold. This close, she could discern the details that had been invisible to her from the shoreline.

She beheld the diaphanous enclosure rising before them: a barrier surrounding the city that at once seemed immaterial as smoke and solid as ice. Though everything behind it was distorted, the architecture looming above the massive walls inside was radiant. Loulie saw alabaster towers sparkling with shards of gold and domes made up of effervescent stained glass. She saw jade-green terraces dripping with ivy and enormous ebony doorways lined with jewels.

The city was stacked as high as it was stretched wide, the layered tiers so cluttered with buildings it seemed a miracle they had not yet collapsed on each other. Rising above the decadent chaos was a palace, a vision so impressive it warped Loulie’s senses. The towers were so tall their tops were lost to the clouds, and the golden domes were simultaneously vivid and faded, like a relief that lost its depth when viewed in shadow.

She recognized this place. When they had been searching for the lamp in the Sandsea, they had navigated this city’s labyrinthine pathways. It had been a mirage then, an illusion crafted by an ifrit, meant to ensnare them. But this was no illusion.

She glanced at Mazen, who had gone to stand at the bow. He was staring with unabashed marvel at the buildings as they circled the perimeter of the strange wall. Eventually, they came to a gateway made of gold that stood between two deity statues. As far as Loulie could tell, it was the only usable entrance into the city.

No sooner had they arrived than the gate began to open. Loulie swallowed her nerves as the ship pressed forward into the city.

“A word of advice, ya sayyida.”

She looked up at the sound of the jinn’s voice. Her heart crawled into her throat when she saw the disarmingly mischievous smile on his face.

“Yes?” Panic pulsed in her veins as the city walls closed in around them.

“You may want to prepare a better lie before we dock.” He tapped his knuckle and gave her a meaningful look.

Frowning, Loulie glanced down at the back of her hand. She stared as lines, red and dark as her own blood, materialized on her skin and connected to form an oval. And then the shape opened to reveal a slit at its center.

Not an oval. Terror dug claws into her mind. An eye.

The city gate slammed shut behind them.

2

MAZEN

His whole life, Mazen had assumed he knew his fate. All he’d ever yearned for was a break from that destiny, an escape from the mundanity of court life. He had thought himself unimportant. He was, after all, a third son with no political sway or physical prowess.

How wrong he had been.

In his mind he saw his father lying atop bloody sheets, a black blade jutting from his chest. And he saw Omar standing above him, smirking with Mazen’s face. The thought made his heart shudder, his lungs tighten.

With an effort, he pulled himself back into the present, forcing his attention to the city of Dhahab as it unfolded around them. The Sandsea disappeared, replaced with a canal of bright crystal blue water that buoyed a floating deck. Sailors balanced on gangplanks between ships while passengers in elegant clothing strolled across the deck. Mazen saw cloaks embroidered with shifting patterns, shawls that floated without a breeze, and sandals that glittered with gemstones. It was not just the clothing the passengers wore that was extravagant, but the luggage they carried with them—cages containing vibrant-colored birds, carts stacked with living paintings, bags filled with impossibly enormous piles of jewelry…

Mazen did not realize he had drawn close to the edge of the ship until Rijah squawked a warning in his ear. He staggered back and, in doing so, became aware of a smear on his hand.

A bruise?

His breath caught when he held up his hand and saw that it was very much not a bruise. At some point, red lines had carved themselves into his skin, forming an oval. Nothing happened when Mazen scratched at the strange shape. There was no injury, no torn skin. Just the mark, which looked as if it had been inked onto his flesh.

And then the oval blinked at him.

Mazen swallowed a gasp as he whirled, only to find Loulie already marching toward him. “It seems this city has eyes,” she murmured.

She glanced at Rijah, but the ifrit just clicked their beak at her disdainfully. “Do not look at me. I know nothing about this vile magic.”

Loulie sighed. “We have another problem on our hands. Our rescuer knows we’re lying.” She glanced at the sailor who had saved them. Though he was helping one of his fellows steer the ship toward the dock, Mazen had the distinct impression he was watching them.

He frowned. “If he cared, wouldn’t he have…” Tied us up? Taken us prisoner? He did not want to tempt fate by putting a voice to his confusion.

Loulie merely shook her head in response, eyes flicking between the ship and the port. It was clear she was already focused on their next goal: escape. Mazen followed her gaze to the port filled with passengers and seafarers alike. Those headed into the city had to pass through a gate built into a wall surrounding the area. As far as Mazen could tell, it was unguarded.

Loulie glanced at Rijah. “Can you guide us somewhere safe once we’re inside?”

Somewhere safe. They had come here seeking shelter, perhaps answers, if there were any to be found about Omar’s plans. But now that they were here, they lacked a destination.

Rijah absently picked at one of their wings. “Perhaps. It has been… a long time since I was here. The city has likely changed in my absence.”

Centuries was a longer absence than Mazen could comprehend. Still, while Rijah’s words were hardly a reassurance, escaping the ship was better than waiting around to be interrogated.

Mazen steadied himself as the boum came to an abrupt stop, the deck swaying as an anchor was dropped overboard. Sailors began to skirt around them as they secured the vessel. One of them passed Mazen with a grumble, yelling something over his shoulder at their rescuer, who was now securing the gangplank.

Rijah dug their talons into Mazen’s shoulder. “What are you waiting for, foolish human? Move. Or do you plan on loitering until someone takes you away in chains?”

Mazen swallowed his nerves. Rijah was right. Confidence was key.

It was unfortunate he had so little of it.

He straightened as he strode down the gangplank. Loulie kept pace with him, her steps sure and steady. Relief swept through him when she decisively pushed ahead, leading them off the ship and into the port with enviable poise. Mazen trailed her, hesitating only when he spotted their rescuer speaking with what appeared to be a dockworker. The sailor had saved them. The least Mazen could do was thank him—

Loulie grabbed his sleeve and tugged him after her. “Safety takes priority over gratitude.”

Rijah grumbled their agreement from Mazen’s shoulder. “Yes, and I can assure you that a marid does not deserve your appreciation.”

Mazen startled at the word. “Marid?”

He recognized the name of the fabled wish-granting tribe that had once inhabited Ghiban, the city of waterfalls. Was the sailor truly one of those beings? Before he could ask, Loulie hissed under her breath, “Stop talking to the bird. You’ll draw attention.”

She was right, of course. Mazen distracted himself by turning his attention to the crowds. Though some of the passengers could have passed as human, most had features that would have given a human a heart attack. Some had what appeared to be scales running down their arms and necks. Others had eyes that flickered and burned like lit braziers, or skin that glowed and blurred, mirage-like. Instinctively, Mazen drew his scarf closer around his face.

At first, he was overwhelmed by the push and pull of the crowds. His nerves built up to a suffocating pressure, tightening in his chest as the crowd bottlenecked through the gateway. But then he remembered how, back when he’d escaped the palace in Madinne, he’d yearned to lose himself in such chaos, and a familiar calm washed over him. It became easier to follow Loulie after that; all he had to do was keep his eyes on the midnight color of her robes, easily distinguishable in the vibrant crowds.

He followed her through the gate and into an alley, where she stopped to assess their surroundings. It was only then, as Mazen paused to catch his breath, that he noticed the depth of the shadows between the buildings. He looked up and, sure enough, saw that the sky had dimmed since they’d entered the city, the blue expanse darkening to a deep violet. Where the stars would have normally been, there was a strange darkness that felt portentously empty.

“What now?” Loulie said. She too was frowning up at the ominous sky.

Rijah flitted from Mazen’s shoulder, shifting in midair to stand before them in their jinn shape: wiry body, sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, black hair pulled into a tail, the familiar turquoise eyes... and now, the strange tattoo on their hand. Mazen grimaced as he beheld the mark. What did it mean that the ifrit was susceptible to this strange magic as well?

Rijah saw him looking and curled their fingers into a fist. “Now, you let me lead. I have a location in mind.” They turned sharply on their heel, promptly guiding Mazen and Loulie from one thoroughfare into another. This area was cramped, an obstacle course with crates and debris littering the ground. The view of the sky was obscured, barely visible above a tangle of crisscrossing clotheslines. A myna bird watched them intently from one of the wires.

A few turns later, they reemerged in a more spacious plaza. Or at least, that was Mazen’s initial perception. But if this was a square, it was unlike any he’d ever seen, more closely resembling lived‑in ruins than a thriving city. He was surprised to see jinn ducking through half-crumpled archways and wandering between dilapidated buildings. In the center of the square, a circle of children stood clapping and laughing around a run-down well. He startled when one of them surged out from the water with a grin, revealing a mouth of razor-sharp teeth.

“Focus,” Loulie said.

When he looked up, he saw that she had already gone on ahead, quickening her pace to catch up with Rijah’s increasingly frantic strides. Mazen hurried after her, his unease growing as they chased the ifrit past cramped buildings with splintered doors and smashed roofs. Rijah’s gaze had become unfocused, their attention flicking rapidly across the landscape. Out of the corner of his eye, Mazen saw shadows stretch across the alleys, but every time he looked up, the streets were empty. His disquiet only grew as the buildings collapsed into structures so gutted and hollow it became impossible to make out their original shape.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Loulie mumbled.

Unable to offer reassurances, all Mazen could do was nod in nervous agreement.

The two of them followed Rijah up a sloping dirt path into a clearing. When the ifrit abruptly stopped, Mazen nearly fell right into them. Hesitantly, he stepped back to survey the sight that had given them pause, and inhaled sharply when he beheld the destruction before them.

Like the plaza they’d passed through, this area was filled with ruins. But unlike the plaza, it was devoid of life. The ground here wasn’t just barren but scorched, the wreckage spotted with odd tar-black smudges. This was not a place that had fallen into decay; it had been decimated.

“No.” Rijah’s voice caught. They staggered forward, each of their steps slow and weighted. And then, like a puppet with its strings cut, they fell to their knees with a pained keening sound.

A shudder traveled up Mazen’s spine. “What is this place?”

“A place burned so deeply it’s been scarred.” It was Loulie who responded, her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. Her hand hovered over her neck, where a shackle had once encircled her throat—a relic put on her by Imad, one of the villains who had burned her home to ashes.

Mazen brushed the memory of the hunter and his fiery death aside as he glanced at Rijah. The ifrit was staring up at the ruins with raw anguish on their face. “There was a settlement here before. It should have been safe. It should have...” The words broke into a choked exhale.

Mazen hesitated. He knew how it felt to have the world shatter beneath his feet. Reluctant to intrude on a misery he was clearly not meant to witness, he let his attention stray back to Loulie, who was inspecting the surrounding wreckage. He followed her to a broken pillar, where she stood frowning at an object cupped in her palms.

Mazen recognized her compass. He did not know how its magic worked, only that it could lead her to specific locations and objects. On multiple occasions, it had also guided them out of danger. He glanced at it over her shoulder. “What did you ask it to locate?”

“Sanctuary.” She watched the arrow for a few moments before wandering deeper into the ruins. Mazen spared a brief glance at Rijah, then followed her through an archway into a broken enclosure where granite walls jutted from the ground and towered like crooked gravestones. It was in the shadow of those looming ruins that Loulie abruptly paused to pat at her robes. Without explanation, she turned and shoved the compass at him.

Before Mazen could question her, she pulled Qadir’s dagger from one of the inner pockets of her robe and raised it to her eyes. “Qadir?” Her voice quavered—with hope? Or was it fear? Mazen did not know what she was looking for, but there was clearly something about the blade that was making her anxious.

He moved toward her cautiously. “Is something wrong with the dagger?”

Loulie was staring into the steel with a concentration that unnerved him. “I don’t know. It’s… humming?” A dent appeared between her brows. “I think it’s reacting to something.”

Mazen’s fingers curled over the compass. He remembered the last time its magic had hummed through his blood, the way the wood had warmed beneath his touch and the magic had poured through him with such intensity it had fogged his mind. He could see that same cloudiness descending on Loulie now as she searched their surroundings.

Mazen reached out a hand—to gently shake her, anchor her—when he saw movement above them and froze. He craned his neck to see a creature descending on them.

He pulled Loulie back so quickly she yelped in surprise and stomped on his foot. Mazen flinched, but the pain was forgotten when he saw the creature they had avoided by mere inches. It was a snake. Or at least, it looked like one. But it was the most bizarre reptile Mazen had ever seen, its body a line of misshapen knots. It reminded him of…

A rope?

He and Loulie watched the creature slither away, up one of the ruined walls, to a figure sitting cross-legged at the top. The reptile latched on to the stranger’s outstretched arm and hissed at them with an invisible mouth.

They stared at the jinn. The jinn stared back. And then she smiled.

It was a disarmingly innocent smile, very much at odds with the mischief in her slit-pupil, catlike eyes and the knife she twirled in her fingers. Mazen spotted more knives strapped to her arms and a curved scabbard at her hip. The weapons glittered eerily beneath the black cloak she wore—a garment that roiled around her like smoke.

“Salaam.” Her tone was light, conversational. “You forgot to declare your goods at the port.” The dagger stilled between her fingers. “Also, yourselves.”

Mazen had just realized she must have been following them, before she threw the rope-snake at them again. This time, he was too slow to avoid it. Desperate, he stomped on it, but the snake didn’t just look like a rope. It was a rope, and it did not seem to feel pain beneath his boot. It wrapped itself around his foot, then his ankles, binding them together. The world blurred as Mazen pitched forward. He hit the ground with a wheeze.

In the periphery of his vision, he saw Loulie back away, still clutching Qadir’s knife. The cloaked assailant jumped down from the wall and landed with unnatural grace before her. She straightened to her full height—a remarkably intimidating five feet—and lunged at Loulie.

The merchant reacted sluggishly, her knife sailing over their assailant’s head without precision. The jinn easily caught her wrist. Loulie retaliated by trying to knee her in the stomach, but her opponent easily circled her and pulled her arm above her head.

Panic beat a frenzied crescendo in Mazen’s head, but every time he tried to move, the rope grew tighter around his ankles, cutting off his circulation. As his body quaked with pain, he shaped his whimper into a plea for help.

“Rijah!”

The Shapeshifter must have heard the skirmish, because they were already approaching, the murky anguish in their eyes cut through with blue lightning. “Unhand my companions.”

The stranger tilted her head as Loulie struggled. As the jinn’s grip tightened, her nails sharpened into claws that punctured the merchant’s skin. Loulie threw herself backward with a yell. She managed to catch the jinn off guard, but by the time Loulie staggered away, the damage was already done. A thin stream of red blood trickled down her wrist.

The jinn stared from the crimson tipping her strange claws to Rijah. “Care to explain why your companion’s blood is red?”

Rijah looked imperiously down their nose at her. “No.”

At first, the jinn looked taken aback. But then, as she stared at Rijah, her surprise mellowed into something like awe. “Your eyes…”

“Captivating, I know. Captivating even on your face, I suspect.”

Rijah’s form wavered as they stepped forward. The effect was not unlike watching ripples distort a reflection on the surface of a lake. Only, after the reflection had settled, Rijah stood before them in a completely different shape. Five feet tall, rotund figure, a sharp face with jagged, stonelike features, and a mane of riotous black curls. Except for their eyes, which remained the telltale turquoise, they were a mirror image of the jinn standing before them.

As the stranger stepped back in surprise, Mazen saw his opening. He reached out, grabbed her ankle, and pulled. It was enough to unbalance her, and Rijah used the opportunity to lean down and burn the rope off his legs. The Shapeshifter hauled him roughly to his feet. “What are you waiting for? Both of you, go.”

Mazen did not have to be told twice. He tucked the compass into his satchel and spun to grab Loulie. But the merchant was no longer beside him. She had withdrawn to the edge of the fight, putting a broken wall between her and the jinn. When Mazen called to her, she didn’t react, just stood there with her knife raised. It was only then he noticed her unnatural stillness.

And then he saw a flicker of light. Blue fire, dancing across the edge of her dagger.

The ground lurched. Mazen’s breath snagged when he saw thin lines of flame spiral into existence beneath his feet. The lines flared and spread, shooting inward like the threads of a spiderweb. A spiderweb with Loulie at its center.

The force of the mysterious magic threw Mazen off his feet. By the time he’d regained his balance, the fire had risen into walls, forming a maze of smoke and heat.

And Loulie, much to his horror, had vanished into the heart of it.

3

AISHA

Aisha bint Louas was dying.

Or she would have been, had she not already been undead.

I did not know undead things had still-beating hearts, said a soft voice in the recesses of her mind. Though Aisha was loath to admit it, she was grateful for its flippant reassurances. The ifrit sharing her mind was not good company, but she was company all the same, and Aisha preferred her voice to the haunting lament of the dead souls buried beneath the desert sand.

Making a deal with death is not the same as cheating it, Aisha thought as she pressed a hand to her eyelids. The afternoon sun filled her vision with red shadows as she dragged her exhausted body past yet another godsdamned sand dune.

She could feel the smile in the Resurrectionist’s words as she responded, Indeed. But our deal did not bring you back from the dead; it saved you from it. There is a difference.

Aisha scoffed. Dying might have been easier than this aimless, torturous misadventure.

It had been three days since she’d crawled her way out of a sinking hellhole. Three days since she’d fled from the man she’d sworn revenge against. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see him: Omar bin Malik, smirking at her. She could remember the exact moment the King of the Forty Thieves—now the sultan of this country—had defeated her beneath the Sandsea.

She had not been the only one overwhelmed. The last time she’d seen Qadir, who had remained in the ruins with her, he’d been reduced to a faint, smoky figure with Omar’s blade pressed to his neck. While Aisha had been able to use the Resurrectionist’s magic to escape, Qadir had not been so lucky. And as for the other people she’d been traveling with…

Aisha shook off her concern for the missing prince and merchant to refocus on her current predicament. She had made it out of the underground ruins and onto solid ground, but now she was lost in an unfamiliar part of the desert and her exhaustion was catching up to her, blurring the strange white-colored dunes into pale smudges.

She ignored her thirst and pressed on, concentrating on the weight of her boots in the sand, the whistle of the wind in her ears—and then, horrifyingly, the burn in her legs as her knees buckled. She would have collapsed if not for her blade, which she thrust into the sand to keep herself balanced. When she stumbled, it was the desert, not the ifrit, that mocked her. The whispers of the dead were nonsense, and yet she could discern their tone.

Cold, laughing, mocking.

Aisha was too tired to block them out. She deeply regretted her decision to fight Omar’s thieves with magic borrowed from the Resurrectionist. That cursed power had kept her alive, but it had also drained her. Now she felt bereft, reduced to a mere shell of herself.

She did not know how long she stood there, eyes shut against the glaring sun, before she recognized the crunch of hooves in the sand and looked up to see a cloaked stranger riding toward her on a stallion.

The man paused feet away, sliding off his saddle and venturing forward to peer at her through his scarves. “Are you a human?” His eyes narrowed. “Or jinn?”

“Human,” she snapped in a voice raspy with disuse. She straightened—or tried to.

When she staggered, the stranger reached for her. Unthinkingly, Aisha grabbed for his hand. It was only after he’d steadied her that she realized her body had gone numb. No, that her limbs had suddenly tightened, like they’d been wound through with string.

Aisha’s body moved, but she was not the one moving it.

Such a simple thing, the ifrit mused, to push a human past their breaking point.

Aisha’s stomach sank as she tried and failed to dig her heels into the sand. When they’d made their deal to share a body, Aisha had made the Resurrectionist promise never to make her do anything against her will. She ought to have known better than to trust her.

This is your will, the Resurrectionist insisted. I am merely helping you realize it.

The stranger, unaware of Aisha’s internal struggle, released his hold on her and stepped away. He unwound his scarves to reveal a youthful, bearded face, then assessed her disheveled condition with a flinty expression. “You are traveling alone?”

If only. Moments ago, she’d been grateful for the ifrit’s presence. What a fleeting sentiment that had been.

Something softened in the stranger’s face at her sullen silence. Perhaps she was so pathetic a sight he felt sorry for her. “The gods must have led me to you, then.” He gestured skyward with a gloved hand. “Perhaps they were acting through Samira.”

Aisha glanced up. A blur of motion caught her eye: a falcon drifting above their heads.

“Samira and I were out hunting,” the stranger continued. “When she saw you from a distance, I thought you were a jinn.” His bushy brows scrunched. “And yet you—”

The falcon released a shrill cry that made them both freeze. Aisha immediately spotted the movement on the horizon that had disturbed the bird. At first, she did not know what she was looking at. Then she heard the distant whinnying of horses.

Omar? Her heart gave an involuntary lurch at the thought of facing his army again.

She relaxed only when she realized the approaching riders were not the jinn she’d fled from—not Omar’s mysterious soldiers. They were simply men, bearing crude weapons.

The hunter turned and, with a muttered prayer, reached across his saddle for a bow and quiver. “Stay here,” he said. “Whatever the dispute, I will resolve it.” He strapped on his quiver and trudged ahead, calling Samira to his leather glove with a whistle.

A palpable tension hung in the air as the hunter paused before the four riders. One of the strangers—a tall, muscled man whose features were hidden beneath his hood—spurred his horse forward. “You are of the Asfour tribe, no? We have come seeking recompense. Last night, one of your tribesmen hunted on our land without permission and shot two of our livestock. He fled before we could pursue him.” He lifted his chin. “Your tribe owes us compensation for the loss.”

The Asfour hunter stood with his back to her, but Aisha could hear the disbelief in his voice when he replied, “We know better than to disturb the peace for such a thing. Besides that, I oversaw last night’s hunt. We did not travel beyond our lands.” He inhaled slowly, calmly. “I will excuse your lies if you leave us in peace, ya sayyid. We do not want any trouble.”

Silence.

Aisha shuddered as the rider glanced toward her. A slow smile curved his lips. “Fine. Give us the woman and we will be on our way.”

Hmm, the Resurrectionist said as Aisha bristled. So, they think us a prize?

The Asfour hunter sputtered as the horseman rode past. When the villain paid no heed to his pleas, he nocked an arrow. A painfully slow moment passed as the hunter hesitated. Aisha was not foolish enough to think he would risk his life to protect her, a stranger.

She tensed as the leering rider approached. As he drew closer, something in his face changed. “You look…” Familiar was the unspoken word. Aisha saw the spark of recognition in his narrowed eyes. It dawned on her that she had a reputation—Omar’s reputation—hanging over her head and that it was possible this man had caught word of her betrayal.

But before the rider could condemn her, an arrow stopped his words. Aisha stared at the shaft protruding from his throat, at the red bubbling from his lips. The man toppled from his horse with a bloody cough. His comrades gaped in shock. The Asfour hunter looked on in horror, as if stunned by his own actions.

And then: chaos.

The second rider charged forward with a scream, blade drawn. The hunter barely managed to dive out of the way in time to avoid being skewered. His falcon took to the sky in the same moment, diving toward the third rider, who was rushing toward his dying companion.

Come. The ifrit’s voice was a hum in Aisha’s bones. Let us show them our worth.

The creature’s cursed magic overwhelmed Aisha before she could steel herself against it. It rushed through her body in a heady wave, seeping into her weakened senses until all she could hear—all she could feel—was the fading soul of the downed rider. The Resurrectionist’s magic shot out like a tether, connecting Aisha’s mind to the body. When her resolve wavered, the ifrit was there to fan the flames of her determination against Aisha’s will.

Obey me, she—they—commanded.

The third rider was too busy warding off the falcon to see the corpse shift. By the time he’d noticed, it was too late. His gasp pitched into a scream as the dead man lunged.

Bleary-eyed, Aisha searched for the fourth rider. She was too numb to feel anything but relief when she saw him fleeing back toward the dunes. Coward, she and the ifrit thought.

And then she did not have the energy to think at all. Aisha felt distinctly as if every second of the corpse’s unnatural life shaved off one of her own.

This was how it had been in the ruins when she’d fallen to Omar. She would never forget the sight of him looming above her, eyes twinkling with triumph as she struggled to breathe. At that point all the corpses she’d raised had fallen back into death, and the well of magic inside of her had run dry, leaving behind nothing but a bone-deep fatigue.

I never thought you would fight me with the magic you so despised, Aisha, Omar had said. And here I thought you were too proud to rely on a jinn’s power.

Back in the present, Aisha’s world dissolved into a blur of colors and sound. The battle blinked in and out. She saw the corpse stab his companion. The remaining rider, in his shock, left himself open to attack. By the next blink, the hunter had felled him with a barrage of arrows.

The cursed jinn magic faded to a dull throb in Aisha’s limbs. Her eyelids drooped as she sank to her knees. She was vaguely aware of the smell of iron. Blood. Her blood, on her lips.

“Ya sayyida?”

She looked up to see the nameless hunter standing above her. When their gazes locked, the concern on his face morphed into open-mouthed horror. Aisha did not have the strength to wonder why before exhaustion dimmed her senses to oblivion.

When Aisha woke, she had control of her body.

The first thing she realized was that she was lying on a bedroll. She surmised, based on the dark cloth walls surrounding her, that she was in a tent. Beside her, sitting on a low table, were a ewer and a small, chipped cup. A platter of dates rested beside it.

“You’re finally awake.”

Aisha sat up so quickly black spots burst before her eyes. She had to squint through them to make out the middle-aged woman sitting cross-legged on a cushion beside her. The stranger had a stern face and graying hair dyed brown red with henna.

“At ease,” she said. “You saved my son, and for that I owe you a debt. You are safe here.” Her gaze drifted languidly to the collar at Aisha’s throat.

Unthinkingly, Aisha set a hand to it. The band of grimacing skulls was a relic—a vessel containing a jinn’s soul and their magic. This one contained the soul of the Resurrectionist. The general populace did not realize relics were living heirlooms; they simply thought them jinn-enchanted tools. Most would not have been able to discern she possessed such an object, but her fight in the desert would have been evidence enough.

Which was why she was unsurprised when the stranger said, “You possess jinn magic.” Her voice was soft, though with caution or wonder Aisha could not tell. “There is a story we tell in these dunes. A tale about a jinn queen who can raise the dead. They say she has eyes as black as midnight and that you can see stars in them if you look closely.”

She frowned at Aisha. “My son says your eyes looked like that after the slaughter.”

Aisha flinched but said nothing. She and the stranger stared at each other for a long moment, neither of them blinking.

In the end, it was the woman who turned away first. She filled a cup and proffered it to Aisha with a sigh. “As I said before, you have nothing to fear from me.”

Aisha was too desperate to be cautious. She gulped down one cupful of water and then another and another until the ewer was empty. Before her caretaker could rise to collect more, the tent flap opened, and a man entered. Aisha recognized the hunter who had found her.

“You’re awake.” He stepped forward, and Aisha saw that he’d brought a bucket of water with him. He spoke softly as he set it down in front of her. “I’ve been wanting to thank you. Your, ah, magic saved my life.”

The collar warmed against her throat. How does it feel to be someone’s savior rather than their executioner?

Aisha ignored the twinge in her chest. “A life for a life. You saved mine first.” She frowned. “You haven’t told me who you are. Or where I am.”

The woman sighed. “You ought to introduce yourself first, Aisha bint Louas.”

Aisha’s mind went blank. Instinctively, she reached for her blade, but there was nothing for her to wield, because, of course, they had confiscated her weapons. How did they know who she was? Was it the collar? Or were there already rumors? If Omar found out she was here—

“Please, uma. The least we can do is offer names.” The hunter smiled. “My name is Jaber Asfour al‑Fakhoury. I—”

“Enough, Jaber,” his mother snapped. “We are obliged to be hospitable, but the least we deserve from our guest is the truth.” She settled her pointed gaze on Aisha. “My son says you helped defeat fiends that twisted the tribal honor code. He says you used magic from afar, magic that brought dead men back to life. When he came to your aid, your eyes were black.

“He brought you back, thinking you were possessed by a jinn. But someone from our tribe recognized you as Aisha bint Louas, one of the forty thieves.”

Aisha’s heart hammered in her chest. “Who? Who recognized me?”

Jaber and his mother exchanged a look. But before either of them could speak, the tent entrance opened again, revealing another figure. Aisha blinked, but the phantom did not disappear.

The last time she’d seen this man, it had been as she and Mazen departed Madinne on the sultan’s orders. She remembered how somber he had looked, his hazel eyes downcast. Like the softhearted prince Aisha had betrayed, he’d been an obstacle standing in Omar’s path to the throne.

And yet here he now stood, alive. Hakim, the bastard prince of Madinne.

His splendid robes were gone, replaced with a beige tunic and trousers, but he looked more regal than he ever had before, with his head held high and shoulders squared. The only royal ornaments he still wore were the possession-resisting iron rings the sultan had given him.

“Salaam, bint Louas,” he said.

Aisha could not stop herself from staring. “You’re alive.”

“And so are you.” Hakim glanced between Jaber and his mother, a faint smile crinkling his eyes. “Would you mind if I spoke with her alone?”

Umm Jaber’s knees cracked as she stood. She slapped Hakim on the back, hard enough to make him stagger, and said, “Jaber will be outside if you need him.” With a brisk nod, she grabbed her wide-eyed son by the arm and pulled him out of the tent.

In their absence, Aisha eyed Hakim warily. She had never formally spoken to the second prince before. She knew only that he was a talented mapmaker who drew impossibly accurate maps of a desert he had not traveled for years.

She cleared her still-parched throat. “So, you escaped from the palace.”

Hakim settled himself on Umm Jaber’s cushion. “Indeed. Thanks to the wali of Dhyme.”

Aisha said nothing. She knew Loulie al‑Nazari had possessed some affection for Ahmed bin Walid and that Mazen had been jealous of him. But to her, the wali had been just another jinn hunter. An obstacle for Omar and, ultimately, one of the fatalities of his takeover.

“You escaped too.” Hakim’s brow furrowed. “But Mazen is not with you.”

Aisha thought of the smiling, naive prince she’d been journeying with. Omar had tasked her with leading him away from Madinne and then to his demise. She had not cared for Mazen. At least, not at first. But she would never forget the way he’d reached out to her beneath the Sandsea. He was the first person who had ever tried to understand her.

She took solace in the knowledge that he was safer than she was, hidden away in some sunken realm Omar would hopefully not be able to chase him into. When she told Hakim this, his gaze became contemplative. He frowned down at his lap and said nothing.

Aisha narrowed her eyes. “What happened in Madinne? Why did you come here?” She needed to know what her once king had done to take the city. The city he was dragging Qadir to. The city she would need to chase him to if she wanted her vengeance.

Hakim regarded her coolly. “Here is home. The Asfour tribe is my mother’s family.”

Aisha paused to consider this information. It was well known that Hakim had been taken from his mother’s tribe at a young age by the sultan. It made sense, she supposed, that his first instinct upon escaping Madinne had been to seek out the people least likely to betray him.

The mapmaker continued: “I propose a story for a story. I will tell you what transpired in Madinne if you tell me what happened to my brother.”

“Deal. On one condition.” Hakim’s eyes flashed with suspicion, but Aisha just waved a hand at him and said, “I am famished and need refreshment. Am I not a guest?”

A shadow passed over Hakim’s face, but he conceded, rising to fulfill her request. Aisha leaned back against her bedroll as he left the tent. For the first time in days, she was clearheaded enough to discern a way forward. But before she could craft a plan, she would need to tell Hakim about their journey.

She would start at the beginning, with the merchant and her bodyguard.

Take your first look at the cover for Heart of the Wyrdwood (US | UK) by RJ Barker, the finale in The Forsaken Trilogy coming June 2025!

From British Fantasy Award-winning author RJ Barker comes the epic conclusion to the Forsaken trilogy, set in a forest straight out of darkest folklore with outlaws fighting an evil empire and warring deities.  

“That thing in Tiltspire, it keeps Cahan like a trophy. It says to us, here is your strongest and I have killed him.”

Cahan Du Nahare is lost, taken by a dark god whose tendrils reach throughout the world, intent on its destruction. Those who followed Cahan are spread across the land, desperate and lost now fate has turned against them. The Reborn warriors are toys for the enemy, the warrior Dassit, forestal Ania and monk Ont are drawn to the dangerous north but do not know why. Udinny is forced into the company of a woman who desires nothing more than her death and the Rai, Sorha, leads a dwindling band on a mission even she believes is doomed to failure. Only the trion Venn remains hopeful, slowly growing in power and trusting in the path of their god. 

But maybe all is not lost. The great Wyrdwoods of Crua may be ancient and slow to act, but something in them is waking.

Wyrdwood is coming.

Also by RJ Barker

Deal includes Takeover of INNER EXCELLENCE, Additional Self-Published Title, and New Inner Excellence Companion Workbook

New York, NY (March 6, 2025) — Ben Sevier, President & Publisher of Grand Central Publishing Group, announced today the acquisition and takeover of INNER EXCELLENCE, the bestselling self-published phenomenon by acclaimed performance coach Jim Murphy. Sevier and Grand Central’s Editorial Director, Non-Fiction, Brant Rumble acquired the North American rights to the book – plus a new companion workbook – at auction from Pilar Queen and Peter Steinberg at UTA. Grand Central will publish in ebook and audio editions on March 11, 2025 and a trade paperback edition on April 29, 2025; the companion workbook will be published in early 2026.

The deal also includes the acquisition and takeover by Sevier and Hachette Nashville’s VP, Publisher Daisy Hutton of Murphy’s self-published THE BEST POSSIBLE LIFE. Hachette Nashville will publish in trade paperback, audio and ebook editions on September 30, 2025.

Hachette UK’s Orion Ignite and Hodder Faith acquired the UK rights at auction to all 3 titles.

When TV cameras caught Philadelphia Eagles wide receiver A.J. Brown reading Jim Murphy’s INNER EXCELLENCE on the sidelines during a playoff game on January 12, it sparked a phenomenon that propelled the book to the # 1 spot on the New York Times bestseller list, where it remains in the top 4 bestselling titles. Interview and speaking engagement requests flooded into Murphy’s inbox, and his social media following quadrupled. And over 200,000 copies (and counting) of his self-published edition – as well as tens of thousands more in ebook and audio editions – were sold in the following three weeks. Grand Central will print 450,000 copies of their April 2025 trade paperback edition of INNER EXCELLENCE for distribution across all major retailers to meet the incredible demand from readers for the book.

“I’m incredibly grateful for the overwhelming response to INNER EXCELLENCE and for the impact it’s had on so many lives around the world,” says Jim Murphy. “I’m thrilled to be partnering with Grand Central Publishing to bring INNER EXCELLENCE and THE BEST POSSIBLE LIFE to even more readers. My mission has always been to help people unlock their full potential- not just in performance, but in life – and I’m excited to continue that journey.”

Sevier said, “All of us at Grand Central Publishing are so inspired by Jim Murphy’s message and his life mission. It’s an incredible privilege to work with Jim, and we are energized and excited to expand access to Jim’s revolutionary philosophy and help the widest possible audience pursue their own inner excellence.”

Based on the powerful principles of love, wisdom, and courage, INNER EXCELLENCE is the life guide that will train you – whether you are an athlete or not – to lead with the heart and live a life devoid of fear, one where you feel truly alive, unlocking peak performance as a byproduct of transforming your mindset.

As a professional baseball player in the Chicago Cubs organization, Jim Murphy’s sense of worth revolved around results. He was focused on achievement but also afraid of failure. When he started coaching professional and Olympic athletes, he often encountered the same mindset. He became obsessed with learning how the best in the world performed with poise under pressure. After years of research, Murphy had a revelatory insight: the pursuit of extraordinary performance and the pursuit of the best possible life are the same path. Filled with exercises, techniques, and tools that will improve every area of your life, INNER EXCELLENCE trains your heart and mind for extraordinary performance and the best possible life.

INNER EXCELLENCE: WORKBOOK – the companion to INNER EXCELLENCE – offers a practical path for readers to track and sustain their own success.

THE BEST POSSIBLE LIFE was self-published in November 2024. Written as a deeply personal follow-up to INNER EXCELLENCE, the book shares Murphy’s own story of transformation and invites readers to participate in the journey to living the life they were created for – a life grounded in connectedness, purpose, and meaning.

#1 New York Times bestselling author Jim Murphy is a Performance Coach to some of the best athletes and leaders in the world. In addition to coaching, Murphy leads Inner Excellence offsite retreats around the globe, and he is the president of the Inner Excellence Freedom Project whose mission is to build communities to alleviate spiritual and physical poverty around the world.

Jim Murphy is represented by UTA.

About Grand Central Publishing Group

Grand Central Publishing Group reaches a diverse audience through books that cater to every kind of reader. Our divisions include Grand Central Publishing, Hachette Nashville, and Union Square & Co.

About Hachette Book Group

Hachette Book Group (HBG) is a leading US general-interest book publisher made up of dozens of esteemed imprints within the publishing groups Basic Books Group; Grand Central Publishing Group; Hachette Audio; Little, Brown and Company; Little, Brown Books for Young Readers; Orbit; and Workman Running Press Group. We also provide custom distribution, fulfillment, and sales services to other publishing companies. Our books and authors have received the Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award, Caldecott Medal, Newbery Medal, Booker Prize, Nobel Peace Prize and other major honors. We are committed to diversity in our company and our publishing programs, and to fostering a culture of inclusion for all our employees and authors. We are proud to be part of Hachette Livre, the world’s third-largest trade and educational publisher. Visit hachettebookgroup.com to learn more about HBG imprints. For updated news follow HBG on Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, TikTok, Threads, X.com, and YouTube. 

###

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Contacts:

Matthew Ballast, VP, Executive Director of Publicity 212-364-1237, matthew.ballast@hbgusa.com

Megan Perritt-Jacobson, Director of Publicity, Non-Fiction, 212-364-1259, megan.perritt-jacobson@hbgusa.com

Take your first look at the cover for The Bone Raiders (US | UK) by Jackson Ford, the first in a new epic fantasy trilogy coming August 2025!

The start of a no‑holds‑barred, action‑packed fantasy series from the always irreverent Jackson Ford where a group of charmingly-named Bone Raiders harness the power of gigantic, fire-breathing lizards to defend their homeland from an invading enemy.

You don't mess with the Rakada. The people living in the Great Grass call them the Bone Raiders, from their charming habit of displaying the bones of those they kill on their horses and armor.

But being a raider is tough these days. There's a new High Chieftain ruling the Grass. He's had it with the raider clans, and plans to use his sizeable military to do something about it. And then there are the araatan: fire-breathing lizards the size of elephants - one of which happens to turn up in a cute little settlement the Rakada are in the middle of raiding.

Sayana is a Rakada scout, and in the chaos of the raid-gone-wrong, she finds herself on the back of a rampaging araatan. Whoops. In a panic, she discovers she can steer it, like you would a horse. It's frankly amazing she survives any of this. Once Sayana gets an idea into her head, it's awful hard to dislodge. And now she has a doozy: what if the Rakada could swap their horses for araatan? Train the lizards to act as mounts? That would even the odds against the High Chieftain, no?

Also by Jackson Ford

From an electrifying new voice in epic fantasy comes a masterfully woven tale of imperial intrigue, cutthroat competition, and one scholar’s quest to uncover the truth.

“The Raven Scholar is a labyrinth of a book—vast and intricate, full of fiendish twists and clever traps—with a deeply human heart at its center. It’s thrilling, romantic, often tragic, and always funny; I’m obsessed.” —Alix E. Harrow, New York Times bestselling author of Starling House

Read the first three chapters of  The Raven Scholar, on sale April 15th below!

PART ONE : AN INVITATION

CHAPTER ONE

Once they made sacrifices here, to appease the Eight. There was a modest temple on the hill, with views across the island, and worn stone steps leading up to a plain stone slab. Now there is a palace with golden halls and floors of white marble. Lustrous silk tapestries hang from the walls, telling intricate stories of love and war, and the death of tyrants. The air is lacquered with incense, rich and heady.

This is where my father died.

Yana Valit walked beside her twin brother Ruko, willing herself to stay calm. The emperor had no reason to hurt her; she had done nothing wrong.

Nothing he could know about.

Yasila followed close behind them, her footsteps muffled by the fine antique rugs that lined the way. Without turning, Yana could picture her mother’s expression precisely—composed, dignified. Yasila wore her fabled beauty like a mask, her light brown skin unmarked by years of loss and misfortune. A flick of kohl, a dab of perfume. Three paces away, and as distant as the moon.

Had she known the emperor would summon them here, this morning? No point in asking. Yasila had grown up a hostage on the Dragon island of Helia, where secrets were hoarded like precious jewels. She had learned young how to hold her tongue, and bind her heart.

They headed down another hushed corridor, deep within the inner sanctum. A solitary guard watched them approach, hand upon the hilt of his sword. He was dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Bodyguard—black trousers and a red tunic slashed with five black claw marks. The Bear sigil, worn to honour the emperor. The man carried himself more like a Hound warrior, Yana thought, his weight balanced slightly towards his toes, giving him a poised, dynamic stance. Yasila had trained her children to notice these things. As they passed beneath the guard’s piercing gaze, Yana spotted the square silver ring on his middle finger. The sigil of the Hound. She smothered a smile, imagining her mother’s admonishment. This is not a game, Yanara. This is how we survive.

Another turn, another incense-laden corridor, almost identical to the last. Th ere were no windows, no way for Yana to orientate herself. This, she knew, was a trick of the sanctum. Even experienced courtiers arrived at the throne room with a queasy sensation that they had both reached their destination, and lost their way.

Th ere is a world, Yana reminded herself, beyond these walls. Out there, out across the imperial island and its lesser palaces, courtiers strolled through pleasure gardens and woodland trails, trading scandals or starting new ones behind the deafening roar of frothing fountains. Servants sweated in the laundries, burned their fingers in the kitchens, talked of leaving as they shared a roll-up behind the service huts.

Yana felt a familiar tension in her chest—a desire to run out into the bright morning sunshine and disappear. Dodge the guards and take a boat back to the mainland, melt away into the busy streets of central Armas. Hitch a ride out of the capital and head north to Scartown, or some other rundown place on the borders. Start a new life, with a new name . . .

A dream, a fantasy. There was no escape for the daughter of Andren Valit, the Great Traitor. Th ere was no disappearing into the crowd. For the last eight years—half her life—Yana and her family had been watched, ceaselessly. When neighbours in their grid complained about the rubbish piling up, the rising cost of food, the street crime, the Valits kept their mouths clamped shut. They could not afford the luxury of speaking their minds. Th ey must assume—always—that someone was listening, eager to report them to the Hounds. Th eirs was a tightrope of a life, sharks circling below.

Ruko was gnawing his lip. Yana wanted to tell him not to worry, everything would be fine. But when she tried to speak, there was a knot in her throat. She never could lie to her brother.

∞∞∞

The Palace Hounds had arrived in the middle of the night. Boots on the stairs, a sharp rap at the door. Instantly awake, Yana threw back her bedsheet and swung her legs over her bunk. She’d trained herself to shift like this, from deep sleep to high alert. Her family might live under the emperor’s written protection, but that only extended so far. Th ere were plenty who still believed the Valits had been dealt with too kindly, after the rebellion. A piece of paper would not deflect an assassin’s blade.

“Open up, please,” a voice called through the door. Dropping down to the fl oor, Yana reached into the bottom bunk and punched Ruko in the arm. He groaned and burrowed deeper under the blanket. “Ruko,” she hissed, irritated. She loved her brother, but for Eight’s sake. “Move.”

In the living room, her mother stood in front of a mirror, clipping back her long black hair. “Open the door to our guests, Yanara.”

The Valits lived in a cramped, three-roomed apartment above a tailor’s workshop. To reach it, visitors must take a rotting wooden staircase, flimsily attached to the external wall. Yasila had dismissed the tailor’s offer to have it replaced. Let the way to her door be treacherous. Th e young Hound sergeant, having assessed the risk, had come up alone. His squad waited for him below, yawning in the velvet dark, batons fixed to their belts.

He introduced himself in neutral tones, giving nothing away. “Madam Valit? Sergeant Shal Worthy. His Majesty summons you to the island. No, not your youngest, just you and the twins. One of my officers will watch over . . .” He groped for a name. Eight, what was she called again, the little one?

“Nisthala,” Ruko offered, earning a sharp look from his mother. The sergeant gave Ruko a nod. “Nisthala. Thank you, sir.” Sir. The title sounded strange to Yana, but it was formally correct. She and her brother had turned sixteen yesterday. According to the law, Ruko was a man now.

And how old was the sergeant? Yana wondered, studying him in the candlelight. Only a few years ahead of them. He looked like a hero from a dance-tragedy, all soulful and athletic, with striking hazel eyes and smooth, warm-brown skin. He’d done his best to rough up his edges, in a bid to blend in with his more experienced squad. His full moustache merged with a thick stubble and his dark brown curls were chopped short. But his hands were a young man’s hands, his frame and his jawline still boyish. Twenty-one, Yana decided. Fresh out of Houndspoint and straight to squad sergeant, which meant he was being groomed for a high imperial position—

Shit.

She was studying him, he was studying her, his eyes blazing with internal fi re. Houndsight. A rare, innate ability to read a per-son’s thoughts and feelings with uncanny accuracy. Yana’s heart flared a warning. What had he seen? What had she given away?

The sergeant’s eyes dimmed back to normal. “Twenty-two, as a matter of fact.” He rubbed his jaw, rueful. “Maybe a beard would help, what do you reckon?”

Yana liked the way he’d made a joke, to counter the eff ect of his unsettling gift. But it didn’t alter the fact that the emperor—who could have sent anyone to escort them to the island—had chosen a man who could read them right down to the bone. Well—not her mother, perhaps. Not a child raised by Dragons.

A brief hug for Nisthala, sleepy and fretful and annoyed at being left behind—why was she always left behind, it wasn’t fair—and it was time to go. As they followed Sergeant Worthy down the stairs, Yana murmured a warning in Ruko’s ear, about the Houndsight. He nodded. He’d seen.

Armas City was built on a grid system, once revolutionary, now familiar. Yana’s grid—G4 NW—was comprised of the usual eight connecting squares, each one arranged around a shared courtyard. In more glamorous parts of the capital, these common spaces were transformed into whatever stood for paradise among the fashionable that year. (Lush scent gardens, in 1531—everyone had gone wild for lush scent gardens.) Yana’s square was not glamorous by any definition, but it was well looked after, with a communal vegetable plot and mature fruit trees, and a tiled prayer octagon for the faithful. Rundown but respectable. When the residents of Square 3 had first learned that the Valits were moving in, they had organised a petition in protest. We are loyal citizens of Orrun, it said. We do not want our home tainted by these people. Some of them had softened their opinion over the years. Some had not.

The squad’s arrival had woken them all. Neighbours leaned from windows, fascinated. They’d seen the mother taken away for interrogation plenty of times, but always on her own. This was new. What now, for the Valits? Some fresh disgrace?

“What’s happening?” someone shouted down. “Where are you taking them?”

“My apologies for the disturbance, citizens,” Sergeant Worthy replied. Houndspeak for none of your business. He tapped one of his officers on the shoulder—an older woman. “Stay and watch the little one.” As she set off he pulled her back, added in a quieter voice, “She’s frightened, trying to hide it. Be patient with her.”

People were still calling down, demanding answers. “What have they done?” “Are they under arrest?” “We’ve been saying for years, you can’t trust them—”

“Good night, citizens.” The sergeant’s tone had shifted. They heard the warning laced through it, and fell silent. After a tense moment, he added, friendly again, “May the Eight protect you ..."

“. . . and remain Hidden,” people called back, with varying degrees of conviction.

The nearest docks were a couple of miles to the east. As they walked, they moved from the residential sector through squares dedicated to millwork and forges, and cavernous storehouses where people worked through the night, loading and unloading by lantern light. Some of the workers nodded at the sergeant as he passed. One woman dropped her load and put her fist to her chest in a Hound salute. This was something more than respect for his position. Ruko nudged Yana, and mouthed: Worthy. A not uncommon family name, but given the sergeant’s Houndsight, and his swift elevation ...

“I’m his nephew,” he said, eventually.

Yana’s skin prickled. High Commander Gatt Worthy had died in her father’s attempted coup eight years ago. When Andren rushed the throne steps, it was Gatt Worthy who saw the threat, and placed himself between the emperor and Andren’s blade. It had been the pivotal moment of the rebellion. Gatt Worthy’s sacrifice. Andren Valit’s treachery.

“I’m sorry,” Ruko said.

“I can see that,” Worthy replied. Of course he could. Those eyes.

After a short pause, he added, “Thanks.”

The north-east docks were quiet, the sea lapping gently against the quay. In this bridging hour before dawn, the world was cloaked a sullen grey—the colour of loss, the colour of mourning. A couple of fishing boats were preparing to set sail, their crews moving in a silent harmony born of daily repetition. On rooftops, seagulls stretched out their throats, calling sharply to one another across the water. We are here, we are here. Another day begins.

Sergeant Worthy set off alone down the quay to inspect their boat, leaving his squad to conduct the mandatory strip and search. As if, perhaps, he wanted no part of it. Yana fumbled to remove her clothes under the withering gaze of her guard. The search was not gentle. The woman wrenched apart Yana’s short plait, poked and prodded her body with mean fingers. “What do you expect?” she hissed, when Yana protested. “Traitor’s daughter.”

Fighting back the tears, Yana tidied herself up as best she could without a comb. Her hair—like her mother’s, and her brother’s—was straight and black, with subtle strands of iridescent purple and blue that only showed in certain lights. An inheritance from their ancestor Yasthala the Great, the last Raven empress.

To her left, Ruko was joking with the men searching him. That’s how he’d learned to survive with the cursed Valit name hanging round his neck. Yana used her wits, Ruko his good humour.

And their mother?

Dignity.

As the Hounds approached, Yasila stretched out her arms and As the Hounds approached, Yasila stretched out her arms and inclined her head—a goddess, bestowing upon her handmaidens the privilege of disrobing her. There was a brief debate over the jewelled hairclip—might it be used as a weapon? “It might,” Yasila decided for them, and handed it over. “Keep it, for your trouble,” she murmured. A gift that robbed them of their power to take. As the women made their respectful bows, Yasila angled her gaze towards her daughter. This is how it is done, Yanara. And Yana thought, not for the first time—if I live to be a hundred, I will never perfect my mother’s exquisite cunning, her regal defiance.

Yasila had been summoned to the imperial island dozens of times since the rebellion. There was no discernible pattern to her visits. Emperor Bersun might request her presence three nights in a row. He might let a season pass without mentioning her name. Either way, Yasila was fixed to him by an invisible chain. It was his majesty’s right to pull upon it as and when he pleased.

As to why he summoned her—one obvious, sordid possibility. Yasila—a clever, bewitchingly beautiful woman of thirty-five— met with the emperor alone in his private chambers: no servants, no bodyguards. How the court loved the idea, how they laughed behind their sleeves. The craggy old soldier, the enigmatic widow.

Yana would not think of that. Her mother and the emperor.

A guard handed her a pair of brown cotton trousers and a matching long-sleeved tunic. If they were asked, the Hounds would say they were keeping the emperor safe. The outfits had no pockets, the material was too thin to conceal a weapon. But this was also a deliberate slight: the once rich and powerful Valits presented at court in outfits more suited to farm work.

Yana didn’t care—she hated dressing up—but the clothes were too big for her short, narrow frame. She wondered if they had given her Ruko’s outfit by mistake. No, she realised, as she turned to study her brother. He was already dressed, and looked as he always did these days: like a golden god. Bastard.

He threw a pose to amuse them both. Yana laughed, their mother frowned. Yasila could never understand this about her twins, the secret messages and in-jokes passing between them. Yana laughed because she knew that beneath the clowning her brother was worried. She laughed to reassure him, just as he had posed to distract her. And it worked, on the surface.

But underneath, the thrumming fear.

Why had the emperor called for them today, of all days? What did he want?

∞∞∞ 

Seven and a half years had passed since they last stood before the great Bear warrior. Bersun the Brusque, the reluctant emperor, who wore the crown out of duty, not desire.

After the rebellion, after the riots, the purges and the public executions, Bersun had sailed in procession down Dragon’s Mouth Bay to Samra City—ancestral home of the Valit dynasty. No one missed the significance. Entire neighbourhoods streamed from their homes to welcome him, packing the streets, waving and cheering with hectic fervour. The weather was bad. The weather was terrible. No matter. This was a day for the city that raised the Great Traitor to affirm its loyalty to the crown.

On the cracked marble steps of the Assembly Hall, Bersun stood beneath a golden canopy, shielded from the pounding rain—a hulking giant with a long, battered face. The sort of man you prayed to the Eight was on your side on a battlefield.

The canopy was not for him. Bear warriors preferred to stand as they were trained—out in the open, exposed to the elements. This was how you stayed tough, and strong, and focused. The canopy was for his ceremonial clothes, which he hated. Golden robes, densely woven with eight-sided patterns. A heavy, sumptuous red velvet cloak, trimmed with fur. Worst of all, a pair of soft, embroidered satin shoes, which could only look ridiculous on his enormous feet. He had roared when they were first presented to him—literally roared, like an actual bear. A man who had patrolled the Scarred Lands for twenty years, defeated by a slipper.

The emperor did not like his clothes, but duty said he must wear them, and they must not be spoiled. The dignity of the office. So he stood beneath the canopy, glowering as he always did on these occasions.

As for the crowds crammed into White Tiger Square, they were drenched, hair plastered to their skulls. Their one consolation in such miserable, inauspicious weather—Emperor Bersun hated speech-making even more than he hated his elaborate robes. This would not take long.

Raising his arms, the emperor displayed his ruined right hand for all to see. He had lost three fingers in his desperate, bloody fight with Andren Valit. Almost lost his life too, by all accounts. This was his first public appearance since that day. His giant frame and bulky robes could not disguise the truth: the Bear warrior was diminished, both in body and spirit.

“There’s been enough blood spilled,” he declared, shouting over the rain. His voice was gruff, with the short vowels and hard con- sonants of a far Norwesterner. “My body’s broken: it will mend. The empire’s broken, it will mend. We shall heal together. We shall grow stronger, together. This I swear, on the Eight.”

Cheers and applause washed through the square, as those at the front passed the message back. Had his rebellion succeeded, Andren would have restored his beloved city to its former glory. The ancient capital would have become the seat of power once more. The fear was, the emperor had come to destroy Samra in revenge. It wouldn’t take much. The once invincible Marble City had been in decline for fifteen centuries. Rubble City, people called it now, part mocking, part wistful.

Bersun waited for his people to settle. Then, on his signal, the Hounds brought Yana and Ruko up to join him. Eight years old they were then, clutching each other’s hand for courage. As Yana stepped under the golden canopy, she saw tears of sympathy in the Old Bear’s eyes. He beckoned to them, encouraging, and she hated him for it. How dare he be kind? This man who had killed her father.

The twins had been told to give the emperor a Bear salute. They did so in unison, right hand raised smartly to right temple, palm out.

Bersun looked touched. He wrapped an arm around Yana’s shoulder, gathering her in to him. The same to Ruko, on his left side. A great Bear hug from the great Bear emperor. Yana felt sick. He turned them to face the crowds. “You’ve stood here before,” he said, softly. “You know these people.”

It was true. As Governor of Samra, their father was always proclaiming something or other on the Assembly steps. People had loved to see the twins beside him. And Yasila in her flowing silks, long black hair netted with gold latticework.

“What do you see?” the emperor asked them.

Yana had gazed down at the crowds, still cheering and clapping wildly. “Fear,” she answered, at the same moment Ruko said, “Relief.”

“Fear and relief,” the emperor repeated, to himself.“Yes.That’s it. Very good.” He gave them both a final squeeze and let them go.

A few weeks later Gatt Worthy’s successor, High Commander Hol Vabras, had issued an edict stating that Yasila Valit was guilty of “indirect support” of the rebellion. In other words—her husband had used her money to fund it. For this crime she was stripped of all titles and estates, and given a six-month sentence. As she had already languished in the imperial dungeons for almost eight months, she was released the same day, cradling her baby daughter in her arms. Nisthala Valit—born in darkness, brought into the light. The edict continued:

Citizen Yasila Valit and her children shall be permitted to live freely in the Armas grids, with the following caveats:

On pain of death: they shall not leave the capital.

On pain of death: they shall not consort with sympathisers of the Traitor Andren Valit, nor seek to restore his reputation.

Also: the Valits must surrender themselves and their property to any inspections deemed necessary by His Majesty’s servant, High Commander Hol Vabras.

Under these terms, it pleases His Majesty that the Valit children should grow to maturity without harm or prejudice.

May the Eight protect His Majesty and remain Hidden.

Signed by

High Commander Hol Vabras

this fourth day of the month of Am, 1523

∞∞∞

Bersun had kept his promise. Nothing stronger in this world, my friend, than the word of a Bear warrior. But yesterday, the twins had turned sixteen. No longer children. No longer protected by the edict.

“Yana,” Ruko said quietly, as they boarded the boat to the imperial island. “The emperor spared us all these years. He won’t destroy us now.”

Her brother, the optimist.

CHAPTER TWO

The journey would take well over an hour, the sun rising ahead of them as they sailed east. Th ey were travelling with the day servants on a leaking heap that m  ned and shuddered as it rode the waves. When visitors arrived in the capital they would rush to take in this celebrated view: the sea stretching off to the horizon, the imperial island a tantalising glimmer in the distance. Last stop before the end of the world.

All citizens of Armas felt a tug of connection to the island. Their city had been designed with the sole purpose of serving the court. Yana’s relationship was more complicated. Her father may have died on the island, but she and Ruko were born there. Yasila had given birth to the twins in the imperial palace, in the middle of the Festival Trials. Auspicious, people said, at the time. Then later: Cursed. This was the first time Yana had returned to her birthplace. As the boat drew slowly nearer, she felt a lift of anticipation, laced with dread.

The island had no name, and it never would. Yana’s ancestor, Empress Yasthala, had moved her court there after the War of the Raven’s Dream. A new beginning, with a new capital and a new calendar. In the autumn of 11 N.C., Yasthala’s ministers had gathered before the white marble throne, where she sat beneath the great octagonal window. On bended knee, they’d begged leave to name the island in her honour. And in her memory, they thought, but did not say. For the empress was fading, everyone saw it.

Yasthala, dressed in her indigo robes and amethyst crown, had lowered her head. In the garden beyond the window, burnt orange leaves fluttered from the branches, and the sky was grey. “What poisoned deeds are born from love,” she’d said, in a weary voice. “This island is not mine. To stamp my name upon it would be a betrayal of everything I have fought for. This island belongs to no one, and to everyone. Name it not.”

Yana clung to the slatted bench, gritting her teeth as the boat pitched and rolled, and her stomach pitched and rolled with it. Her neighbour—a bald-headed black man—watched her from the corner of his eyes as he smoked his roll-up. He was wearing short-sleeved overalls and a pair of battered leather boots, and had the solid, indomitable physique of a working man in his prime. He also smelled faintly of fish, which wasn’t helping. “Deep breaths,” he said. “Eyes on the horizon.”

Yana nodded, and promptly threw up over the side.

The man stubbed out his roll-up. “Ginger pastilles,” he called out to the other passengers. They seemed to know each other, probably took the same boat out every day. “Anyone?”

A tin was found, and passed up through the boat to her neighbour. Everyone seemed to like him. Not in the way people liked Ruko, or had liked her father—moths to a flame. He just felt comfortable to be around, the way some people do.

He handed the tin to Yana. While she sucked on a pastille, he told her about the fourth palace, where he worked. An Oxman, then. If he was lucky, he said, he would finish his fucking paper- work over breakfast, then he’d get out into the orchards and, he added vaguely, “see how that’s going.”The island, he explained, was designed to be self-sufficient in times of siege; the farm attached to the Ox palace could support the court for years if necessary. This wasn’t news, everyone knew about the imperial island and how it worked, but he carried on talking, in his laid-back, Southern Heartlands drawl, and after a while Yana felt much better, which had been the whole point.

The island was close now; she could see black and white terns and guillemots nestled among its steep cliffs, waves rinsing the rocks below. Above the cliffs sat the high perimeter walls, cornered with watchtowers. “A thousand years old, those walls,” the Oxman said. “They teach you that in school?”

Yana let the last of the ginger pastille dissolve before answering. “Pirate raid, 517. Took forty years to build.”

“You know your history.” The Oxman sounded impressed. “Raven?”

Yana scrunched her face. Now she was sixteen, she was free to head over to the temple and affiliate with whichever Guardian she preferred. Definitely not the Raven, despite the ancestral connection. Ravens were lawyers, scholars, teachers, administrators. Desks, ink, bookshelves. No thanks.¹ “Too much fucking paperwork,” she said, and her new friend grinned to have his words thrown back at him.

She stole a glance at Yasila, sitting further down the boat with Ruko. “My mother’s cross with me.”

The Oxman lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, she is? For throwing up?” He laughed at the idea.

“For needing help.”

“Ah.”

A sleek grey seal swam up alongside the boat, huffi ng through its wide nostrils. The Oxman pulled a large, plump fi sh from his overalls. Th e seal leapt up on its tail, caught the fi sh neatly in its mouth and fl opped back into the sea, spraying Yana with water. She laughed and wiped her face.

The Oxman laughed with her. “You know, it’s the little things.” “Life is short, so enjoy it.”
He lowered his head, still smiling. But his eyes were serious.

“Exactly.”

“Yanara.” Her mother’s voice fl oated down the boat. “Come and sit with your brother.”
Before the island, one last stop—a sharp, treacherous rock, at the top of which lay a squat garrison, built of dark grey brick. Here the Valits would be processed before walking across the Mirror Bridge to the ancient Guardian Gate. This dramatic approach to the island was a sign that their visit was of high significance to the emperor. Perhaps they would be honoured. Perhaps they would be punished. The uncertainty was deliberate.

Yana watched the day boat set off again, taking the friendly Oxman with it. She felt a pang of loss. She hadn’t even caught his name.

Sergeant Worthy ushered her on to a small wooden platform with roped sides. There was only room for three at a time—he would have to return for her mother and Ruko. He turned his back and cranked the winch. The pulley juddered into life, drawing them slowly up the rock—an ugly, jagged thing, like a rotten tooth. Eyart’s Doom, they called it. Empress Yasthala had signed the truce up there with the Six Families, at the end of the war. “Our trials are over,” her husband had declared, his hand upon her shoulder. “At last we shall know peace.” Never say this. Three days later Eyart was dead.

Yana looked down. Ruko and Yasila were twenty feet below and receding. Beyond them, the restless sea churned against the rocks. Ruko’s brows were drawn into a frown. She couldn’t tell from this distance if he was worried for her, or annoyed he was going second. Yana was the firstborn. Their father used to tease them about it. “Eight, Ruko!” he’d laugh, whenever Yana beat her brother at something. “She’s elbowed you out the way again.” Family jokes. Powerful things.

The platform creaked its way up the side of the rock, disturbing the terns that lifted and wheeled about in protest. A hot sum- mer breeze blew Yana’s hair across her face. She pushed it back. She could see the Mirror Bridge from here. She tried not to think of those who had walked it before her—how many of them had come to a bad end. Instead she studied Sergeant Worthy’s back, the smooth way he worked the winch. He must know why they were summoned, he must know if she and her brother were in danger.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” she asked. “Is there anything you can tell me?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

She tried again. “It’s just you and me up here.”

He glanced back at her. Bright hazel eyes, framed with thick black lashes. “When you come before the emperor, I’ll be watching you. My advice?” He returned to the winch. “Don’t lie.”

The Mirror Bridge stretched across the sea from the garrison to the palace island. Constructed from huge iron segments bolted together, it was painted gold, like something from a folk tale. The floor gave the bridge its name—tiles of mirrored glass, dazzlingly bright in the morning sun. Some said a Dragonspell kept it in pristine condition. The team of servants who maintained it knew better.

Yana took two steps, and slipped. For a half-second she felt the terror of falling, before her fingers found the railing. And there on the floor she saw herself, trapped in a dozen mirrored pieces. Fear and relief. From this height, you’d fall so fast the sea might as well be rock. Here was the hidden lesson of the bridge. Watch your footing. Watch yourself. The emperor awaits. She took off her borrowed felt slippers and walked the rest of the way barefoot. At the mid point, she stopped to read a small bronze plaque fixed to the railing. Shimmer Arbell had jumped to her death here, just over a year ago. Right in front of the emperor. The greatest artist of the age, gone at thirty-nine.

The The plaque said: Her light still shines.

“Keep moving,” Sergeant Worthy called from the back.

The Guardian Gate loomed up before her—a pair of giant, painted wooden doors, almost as tall as the perimeter wall. Yas-thala had shipped the Gate from the old court at Samra. It was ancient even by Samran standards—but its message remained as fresh as the day it was first painted. Fierce icons of the Eight glared out towards the mainland, eyes rimmed white in the old style, blood streaming from tooth and claw. Th ese were not the Eight of the Kind Returns, cheerful and benevolent. These were the Eight that would come at the end of the world, to judge and to destroy.

Yana stepped off the bridge, still barefoot. Out of habit, she looked for the Monkey’s image on the Gate. The Guardians were paired in the traditional way, side by side, one on each door:

Yana had always felt a close connection to the Monkey, Guardian of the Arts, of Festivals and Games. In fact, she had planned to visit the temple this morning to affiliate. The Sixth Guardian was usually portrayed as the most approachable of the Eight, friendly and helpful. Staring up at the ferocious image on the door, she was reminded of something her father had taught her.“The Monkey can be playful, but it is still a creature of the wild.Today, it dances at your side. Tomorrow it may jump on your back, and sink its teeth in your throat. Affiliate as you please, when the time comes. But choose with your eyes wide open. Every Guardian has its shadow side.”

“Yana!” A strangled voice to her right.

She turned in surprise. It was her friend from the boat, panting heavily as he rubbed the sweat from his face and scalp. He must have climbed the steps carved into the island’s cliff face—an almost vertical ascent. There were several routes on to the island. Why the Eight would he stagger up this way?

He put his hands on his knees, still panting. “Damn.Time was ...I could run up ...those steps ...four at a time. And sing you a song at the end. Badly,” he conceded.“Very badly. But I could sing it.”

“What’s wrong?” Yana asked.

“The pastilles,” he gasped, beckoning for her to hand them over. Yana’s face fell. “The Hounds confiscated them. I’m so sorry. I’ll find a way to pay you back if . . .”

Th e Oxman laughed himself into a coughing fit.

“Oh. You’re joking.”

He nodded, still coughing.

Yana glanced back towards the bridge. Ruko had almost made it across, Yasila and Sergeant Worthy not far behind.

Th e Oxman was patting his overall pockets. He dug out a brooch, shaped like an ox-head. Th e skull was carved from white jade, the wide horns tipped with bronze. He pinned it to his chest.

Th e guards at the Gate immediately stood to attention, hands punched to their hearts in the Hound salute.

Yana’s mouth dropped. Not a brooch, but a badge of High Offi ce. Fenn Fedala. It had to be. Th e emperor’s High Engineer. Th e man who kept the empire running.
He grinned, enjoying her reaction. “They salute the offi ce, not the person,” he said, signalling to the Hounds to stand down. “I’ve always admired that. It’s what you do that matters, not who you are.”

Yana slapped her hands to her cheeks. “I threw up in front of Fenn Fedala.”
“And I shall never forget it,” Fenn said, solemnly.

Sergeant Worthy approached them, then thought better of it. Fenn outranked him by several miles. He called to the Hounds to open the Gate.

Fenn touched Yana’s arm. “Came to wish you good luck. May the Ox clear the road ahead for you.”

“And remain Hidden,” she answered in a wavering voice, touched by the blessing, and the eff ort he’d made. Spite, she could handle. Kindness always knocked her sideways.
Th e Guardian Gate cracked open. Over Fenn’s shoulder, Yana saw a wide stone path, cutting through sloping lawns studded with broad oak trees. A pair of gardeners were busy clipping the grass, wide straw hats shading their brows.

Yana glanced back towards the bridge. Ruko had almost made

it across, Yasila and Sergeant Worthy not far behind.

The Oxman was patting his overall pockets. He dug out a brooch, shaped like an ox-head. The skull was carved from white jade, the wide horns tipped with bronze. He pinned it to his chest.

The guards at the Gate immediately stood to attention, hands punched to their hearts in the Hound salute.

Yana’s mouth dropped. Not a brooch, but a badge of High Office.

Fenn Fedala. It had to be. The emperor’s High Engineer. The man who kept the empire running.

He grinned, enjoying her reaction. “They salute the office, not the person,” he said, signalling to the Hounds to stand down. “I’ve always admired that. It’s what you do that matters, not who you are.”

Yana slapped her hands to her cheeks. “I threw up in front of Fenn Fedala.”

“And I shall never forget it,” Fenn said, solemnly.

Sergeant Worthy approached them, then thought better of it. Fenn outranked him by several miles. He called to the Hounds to open the Gate.

Fenn touched Yana’s arm. “Came to wish you good luck. May the Ox clear the road ahead for you.”

“And remain Hidden,”she answered in a wavering voice, touched by the blessing, and the effort he’d made. Spite, she could handle. Kindness always knocked her sideways.

The Guardian Gate cracked open. Over Fenn’s shoulder, Yana saw a wide stone path, cutting through sloping lawns studded with broad oak trees. A pair of gardeners were busy clipping the grass, wide straw hats shading their brows.

“Looks idyllic, doesn’t it?” he said. His voice was mild, but Yana heard the warning.

Looks idyllic. Very, very softly he added, “So ...I’ll be in the orchards, like I said.”

And again, Yana heard the part he left out. Come find me, if you need me.

When he saw that she understood his meaning, he squeezed her shoulder, and walked on through the Gate.

Sergeant Worthy had no intention of keeping the emperor wait- ing. Leading the way, he kept a fast, striding pace over the undulating common ground. Yana, back in her borrowed felt slippers, struggled to keep up. One of the Hounds jabbed her in the back with his baton. “Stop that,” Worthy said, without turning round. Which was eerie—exactly how good was his peripheral vision?— but also gave Yana hope. Were they not to be harmed? Were they guests, not prisoners?

They were halfway up the stone path when Yana spotted three figures at the top of the lawn bank. Courtiers, she guessed from their fine-tailored tunics and sashes. They stood for a moment with their hands draped on each other’s shoulders, watching the new arrivals. And then, to Yana’s astonishment, they dropped to the grass and rolled down the slope together, head over heels, tumbling at increasing speed until they landed at the bottom in a tangle, laughing.

“Foxes,” Worthy explained in a tight voice. He tilted his chin up ahead to the left. “The first palace is over that way.”

“But why did they—”

And again, Yana heard the part he left out. Come find me, if you need me.

When he saw that she understood his meaning, he squeezed her shoulder, and walked on through the Gate.

Sergeant Worthy had no intention of keeping the emperor wait- ing. Leading the way, he kept a fast, striding pace over the undu- lating common ground. Yana, back in her borrowed felt slippers, struggled to keep up. One of the Hounds jabbed her in the back with his baton. “Stop that,” Worthy said, without turning round. Which was eerie—exactly how good was his peripheral vision?— but also gave Yana hope. Were they not to be harmed? Were they guests, not prisoners?

They were halfway up the stone path when Yana spotted three figures at the top of the lawn bank. Courtiers, she guessed from their fine-tailored tunics and sashes. They stood for a moment with their hands draped on each other’s shoulders, watching the new arrivals. And then, to Yana’s astonishment, they dropped to the grass and rolled down the slope together, head over heels, tumbling at increasing speed until they landed at the bottom in a tangle, laughing.

“Foxes,” Worthy explained in a tight voice. He tilted his chin up ahead to the left. “The first palace is over that way.”

“But why did they—”

“Because they’re twats,” the Hound behind her muttered. Foxes and Hounds. Rarely friends.

At the top of the rise, far to the east, they saw their ultimate destination: the eighth palace. The imperial palace. The Palace of the Awakening Dragon. A noble edifice of pale gold limestone, capped with sea-green slate, it stood at the island’s highest point, and all things bowed before it. Attached to the northern wing lay the inner sanctum—an octagonal building of dazzling white marble. Th e throne room lay nestled somewhere within, a jewel curled loosely inside a dragon’s claws.

In front of the palace lay the Grand Canal—a glittering waterway a quarter-mile wide and two and a half miles long, filled with brightly coloured pleasure boats and banqueting platforms. At the centre of the canal, lined up in perfect symmetry with the Dragon palace, sat the Imperial Temple, white and gold and gleaming on its own small island. Three white marble bridges arced from bank to bank, their sides cascading with roses of cream and apricot. Weeping willows trailed their leaves gracefully, touching their own reflection on the canal’s mirrored surface.

“Beautiful,” Ruko said, then shook his head. It was so much more than that. A dream. A wonderful, dangerous dream.

Yana was using this moment for a more practical purpose—to catch her breath. The climb had given her a stitch. She clutched her side, wincing at the sharp, stabbing pain.

Worthy noticed it. He noticed everything. “We’ll take a boat from here,” he told his squad, and dismissed them. The canal was the most direct route to the imperial palace—and the quickest, if you weren’t prepared to jog.

When they reached the water’s edge, he waved down a boat- woman. “Can you manage four of us to the eighth?” he asked. She gave him a look. Of course she could. The cheek. They clambered aboard and she rowed off, biceps bulging, oars slicing the water with a smooth, practised precision.

As they glided along, Yana caught glimpses of the island’s seven satellite palaces, each set within its own private land. The black larch cladding of the Raven palace. The Bear palace, a fortress with thick stone walls, red pennants rising over dense pine forest. The Tiger palace, with its white marble columns and obelisks, its elegant glass pavilions and botanical gardens.“Samra,” Ruko whispered in her ear, and he was right, it did look like the old capital, in the days before its decline.

If you had asked Yana—Have you seen this before?—she would have said no. But that was not strictly true. The day the twins were born, their father had carried them proudly down the Grand Canal, and the people on the banks had cheered and waved, because they thought Andren was certain to win the Festival, and become their next emperor. They were mistaken.

Today, the courtiers did not cheer. They stared. Taking breakfast under a shaded veranda; strolling arm in arm across an arched bridge. Sprawled on the canal bank with friends. They stared and whispered. Stared and looked away. Many wore coloured sashes around their waists, showing their Guardian affiliation. Some had wrapped their hair in scarves—yellow for the Monkey, green for the Tiger. A group of brown-sashed Oxes heading for the temple fell into awkward silence as they sailed past. Yana kept her head down, until she felt her mother’s hand at the base of her spine. Not for comfort, but to correct her posture.

When they reached the eastern end of the canal, Sergeant Worthy tipped the boatwoman an extra bronze tile for her efforts. They’d arrived in good time. Crossing the vast, cobbled parade ground, he warned them to stay close, which made Yana feel like a prisoner again.

At the door, Worthy waved his summons at a pair of Hounds and they nodded him through. This was the working end of the palace, the corridors and staircases bustling with staff and servants, black-clad Raven lawyers clutching files, Ox engineers consulting blueprints, a harried minister arguing with her entourage. A series of doors and checks funnelled them towards the inner sanctum. The press of the crowds, the chatter of court business faded away, until they were alone, the four of them.

They stopped at a pair of carved oak doors. Two guards barred the way, red tunics slashed with five black claw marks. They opened the door without a word.

The The inner sanctum. Silence. The deep silence of immeasurable power.

The golden halls gleamed. Tapestries and silk rugs. Incense burning on white marble plinths. Frankincense for long life. Patchouli for serenity.

This is where our father died.

The doors to the throne room opened. They had arrived. Yana reached for Ruko’s hand and they walked in together, side by side.

CHAPTER THREE

"You will know the story of Prisoner Quen and the Bear,” the emperor said, from his white marble throne. Behind him, the morning sun streamed through the great octagonal window. He could have settled back into that golden shaft of light, sanctifying himself, but that would have been out of character. Instead, he sat hunkered at the edge of his seat, legs apart, hands clasped between his knees. The posture of a man who would rather be on his feet.

Today, Bersun was plainly dressed. An iron band for a crown, stamped with an ∞—sacred symbol of the Eternal Path. His black tunic was slashed with five scarlet claw marks, a reversal of his bodyguards’ uniform. He wore chain mail beneath his tunic, and a longsword at his belt. Orrun was at peace, the rebellion a long-faded scar. But Bersun was a warrior to the bone. Even now, after more than two decades on the throne, he looked more nat-ural dressed as one.

Quen and the Bear. Of course they knew it—the most famous story of the age, already passed into legend. How the ruthless pirate Quen was transformed by his encounters with the Bear into Brother Lanrik, wise and saintly abbot of Anat-garra.

“Quen was a worthless piece of shit,” the emperor said. “But the Bear gave him a second chance.”

A warrior, yes. A storyteller, no.

Yana, standing with Ruko at the base of the throne steps, kept her eyes on the fl oor. She was feeling sick again. Th e heady, overwhelming smell of the incense. The grim-faced bodyguards lining the steps. Most of all the giant frescoes that covered every inch of the walls and ceiling. Dedication to the Eight—Shimmer Arbell’s infamous masterpiece. Defying convention, she had painted the eight Guardians not as symbols or myths, but as living beings, in their natural settings. On the wall behind Yana, the Bear stood in a rushing river, snatching salmon from the rapids. Painted over the doors, the Tiger stalked its prey through the long grass. To her right, a magnificent Raven posed on a cliff beside a storm-swept sea.

Arbell had etched a single word in gold above each portrait. Together, they formed half of a phrase every child learned at temple.

SEVEN TIMES HAVE THE GUARDIANS SAVED ORRUN

The second half was left unwritten, for its message could be found painted on the ceiling. A portrait of the Dragon. Not slumbering in the usual way, coiled within its cave, but swimming down through a jagged tear in the sky, fire building in its throat, preparing to burn all before it to ash. The Awakening Dragon of the Last Return, poised right above Yana’s head. She could almost feel the heat from its jaws.

Seven times have the Guardians saved Orrun. The next time they Return, they will destroy it.

“Your father,” the emperor said. The room stilled at those two words. A faint smile crossed his lips. “He’s causing trouble again.”

Yana held her breath. Her father was dead. He’d died right here on this spot, where she was standing. Beneath the Dragon.

She sensed movement from one of the bodyguards, the scuff of boots. When she looked up, the emperor was holding a scroll in his fist. He held it out for the room to see. The message was written in dark green ink and signed with a tiger’s eye, painted in green and gold. Yana recognised the flowing, elegant handwriting, though she had not seen it in years. It belonged to Rivenna Glorren, abbess of the Tiger Monastery. The twins’ Guardian-mother.

Few had expected the abbess to survive the purges. She and Andren had been lovers before he married Yasila, and had remained the closest of friends. How could she not have played some part in the rebellion? The inquiry subjected her to hours of interrogation under Houndsight, to no avail. Not only was Rivenna found innocent, but she demanded—and was given—a formal apology for her treatment.

Yana had not seen her Guardian-mother for years. She had not mourned the loss. Even as a very young child, Yana had sensed that Rivenna’s indifference was much safer than her interest.

The emperor was reading the message again, as if he hoped it might say something different this time. “It seems your father saw something special in you.” He looked up. “Yanara.”

In her periphery, Yana saw Ruko’s shoulders slump.

“A future contender for the throne.” Bersun lifted his brow at the presumption. “He left a legacy in your name, for when you came of age.” He waved the scroll again. “You have a place waiting for you at the Tiger monastery. If you want it.”

The floor tilted under Yana’s feet. The Guardians loomed from the wall as she fought through a tangle of emotions. Pride, fear, confusion, excitement. And beneath that—a dark slick of guilt. This was her brother’s wish, not hers. A secret he had shared only with Yana—that he planned to affiliate to the Tiger, and seek a place at Anat-hurun, like his father before him. Yana had in- dulged him in his fantasy—for that is what it had seemed to her. Her brother, the Traitor’s son, training to become a Tiger warrior. A dream so impossible, it was rendered harmless.

“I could prevent this,” Bersun said. “My Raven lawyers would peck it apart in five minutes.”He had made it his coronation pledge to reform the monasteries—most of all these paid-for places. “But I’ve read the Foxes’ reports on you.” The emperor swivelled to- wards Yasila, who stood beneath the portrait of the Raven like an accompanying statue. “And your mother speaks well of you.”

Yasila—always so scrupulous with what she hid and what she revealed—threw the emperor a glare of such intense, undisguised hatred that Bersun burst out laughing.

Well at least those rumours about them aren’t true, Yana thought. Bersun swivelled back again. He deliberated for a moment, his gaze softening as it settled on Yana. “A child should not pay for the sins of her father. I’m willing to give you a second chance, as the Bear teaches. Take the place, with my blessing.”

There was a silence. Yana realised she was supposed to fill it. “Thank you, your majesty ...”

Bersun narrowed his eyes. “You’re not sure you want it,” he said, shrewdly. “Fair enough. This will change your life. Take a moment.” He handed the scroll back to his guard. “A moment, mind. I’m sure you’ve heard of my legendary impatience.” He shared an amused glance with the guard.

Yana took her moment.

The Tiger monastery. The most elite of all the anats, and the most secretive. A future unfurled in front of her—a path into a magic forest. She could transform herself into a Tiger warrior. She could compete to become their next contender for the throne. Bersun had at most eight years left to rule, before the law demanded he step down.

Eight years—she would be twenty-four. Not a bad age to face the Trials. And what better way to honour her father, than to take the throne in his memory?

I could clear his name.

Was this what Andren had foreseen, when he put the legacy down in her name? Her father, always ten steps ahead.

But this was Ruko’s dream. Could she really steal it from him?

But this was Ruko’s dream. Could she really steal it from him? As if reading her thoughts, the emperor tutted, annoyed with himself. “Damn it. I should say. If you refuse, I’m to off er the place to your brother.” He gave Ruko a glancing smile. “Sorry, lad—for-got all about you there.”

A soft hiss escaped Ruko’s lips—half annoyance, half excite-ment. Suddenly, there was a chance for him. “Yana.” He pleaded silently with her, dark brown eyes filled with hope and hunger. My dream. Let me have my dream back.

But their father had chosen her.

Ruko reached for her. “Yana, please . . .”

“Quiet,” a flat voice prompted.

It was the first time High Commander Hol Vabras had spoken. He stood to their left at the base of the throne steps, so unremarkable, so average, that any attempt at description would slide off him. Describing Hol Vabras would be like trying to describe the taste of water. “He’s so forgettable,” a Fox courtier once said, “it’s a wonder his mother remembered to push him out.” And everyone had laughed, then stopped, because Vabras was standing there, right next to them. The courtier had disappeared shortly after- wards, which was a shame. If you’re going to lose your life over a joke, at least make it a good one.

The emperor rose from his throne, gripping the hilt of his battle-worn sword. On the steps, his bodyguards stood to attention, slamming their halberds to the ground in one explosive movement. The sound echoed off the walls, leaving silence behind it. He made his way down the steps, and stopped in front of the twins. Eight, he really was a giant. “So. Yanara Valit. What will it be?”

Yana was still deliberating. Her father had taught her that. Don’t rush in, no matter who is pressing you for an answer. Weigh your options. Consider the risks versus the rewards. Think.

Didshe want to rule? Because that was the implicit offer, hid- den within her Guardian-mother’s scroll. To be trained up as a contender, and win the throne. And below that, whispered be- tween the lines of green ink, so quiet that the emperor could not hear it—avenge your father.

Yana’s only dream—until this moment—had been to run an art shop and café in the Central Grid. Settle down, have a family, and be known as Yanara, instead of Traitor’s daughter. Even that had felt overly ambitious.

But now here was the emperor, offering her a gift so vast she could barely grasp its dimensions. The chance to rise. The chance to rule. Empress Yanara.

The magic forest called out to her. Why not? Why not?

“Yes or no,” the emperor prompted.

“Yes, your majesty.” Barely a whisper. Shocked by her own daring.

Bersun cupped his ear, playful.

Yana repeated, in a clear voice: “Yes, your majesty.”

He dropped his great paw of a hand on her shoulder and gave her an encouraging shake. “Good. Good! Don’t be so timid.” The floor dropped away under Yana’s feet. Vertigo, as her new life rushed towards her.

“But it’s not fair!” Ruko exploded.\

The emperor sighed and gave Ruko a complicated look—a mixture of irritation and sympathy. “Peace, lad.”

Ruko was too caught up in the injustice to stop himself. “But she’s not a Tiger,” he protested. “She was going to the temple this morning to affiliate to the Monkey. Yana, for Eight’s sake.” Ruko snatched her wrist. She had never seen him look so desperate. His dream, slipping away from him. “You know this isn’t right. Let me go. I swear, beneath the Awakening Dragon, I will train harder than anyone has ever trained.”

“Enough.” The emperor said it gently, but everyone heard the warning wrapped inside it. Enough.

Ruko lowered his head, crushed. His thick black hair swung forward, covering his face. And in that moment Yana thought—I have lost him, my twin. My brother. Perhaps not for ever, but for a long, long time.

“ ‘The path to the throne is narrow, and must be walked alone,’”² the emperor said, observing her quietly.

So—he did know what the scroll was offering. And he was letting her go anyway. He was choosing to trust her.

“Your majesty,” Vabras interjected. “Before you make a final decision—I have some questions.”

“As you wish.” The emperor shrugged. He had made up his mind. Ruko—sensing a fresh opportunity—lifted his head and squared his shoulders. Yana felt a flicker of alarm. This was Vabras, the man who had led the purges. She tried to signal to Ruko.

Be careful... He ignored her. This was his last chance, and he would take it.

“You believe you deserve this gift,” Vabras said. “Not your sister.” Ruko raised his chin, defiant. “I do.”

“Why? Your sister is the better student.”

Ruko bristled. “I’ve fallen a few points behind this year ...”

A few points? Yana clamped her mouth shut, but the emperor spoke for her. “You barely scraped a pass, boy,” he growled. “Coasting on your charm and good looks.”

Ruko, eager to defend himself, barely paused for breath. “I’ve spent the whole summer volunteering with an Ox team, restoring our home grid’s community hall, doing my civic duty.”

Volunteering? Yana had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. He’d only joined that Ox team as punishment for failing half his exams. Ruko wouldn’t know his civic duty if it paraded past him on a Kind Return Festival float, trailing streamers.

“Ask anyone. They’ll tell you I’m a good, honest citizen, loyal to his majesty—”

Vabras pounced. “And your sister is not?”

Ruko’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t talking about Yana.”

“Worthy,” Vabras said, signalling for the sergeant to join the interrogation.

For that is what it had been, all along.

Sergeant Worthy, who had been standing patiently by the doors, peeled away and took his place next to his commander.

The emperor retreated up the steps. Worthy and Vabras stood in front of Ruko. They said nothing, only studied him, building up the pressure.

Ruko bit his lip. He had finally realised his mistake. “Is your sister loyal to the emperor?” Vabras asked.

“Yes.” He answered too fast. There was a waver in his voice.

Anxiety—but it sounded like doubt.

“Is your sister loyal to the emperor?” Vabras asked again. Ruko swallowed, and glanced at Yana.

“Yes. Of course she is. Yes.”

“He’s hiding something,” Sergeant Worthy said.

“I’m not,” Ruko said, eyes pleading. “I swear I’m not.”

Worthy glanced at his commander. “He’s lying.”

Without changing his expression, Vabras unsheathed his dagger.

Ruko shrank back, terrified.

“Whatever it is, just tell us.”Sergeant Worthy sounded weary. “If you keep lying, you’ll put your whole family under suspicion. But if it’s nothing ...No one’s looking to punish you, or your sister, for some small lapse of judgement.”

A skilfully prepared line. Ruko—always so keen to talk himself out of trouble—snatched his chance. “It really is nothing,” he said, relief softening his shoulders.

Yana’s stomach dropped. No, no, no.

Subtly, Sergeant Worthy shifted position, blocking Ruko’s view of his twin. Easier to betray someone, when you can’t see them. “Go on.”

Ruko took a breath. “Yana kept my father’s colours.” A quiet hiss from the emperor, on the steps. The embroidered silk band, worn by his rival, when they competed against each other for the throne.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Ruko added in a rush. “It was just a lapse in judgement, like you said.”

Vabras sheathed his dagger. “Would you have kept them?” “Well, no ...”

“Why not?”

Ruko’s mouth opened and closed. There was no way to answer, without implicating Yana.

“Because you are loyal to his majesty,” Vabras answered for him. “No. No, it’s not that ...Yana is loyal.”

Vabras said, in a deathly voice, “I shall be the judge of that.” Yana’s legs were trembling. It was too much. Vabras. Sergeant

Worthy, circling. The Guardians glaring down from the walls. The Dragon on the ceiling, jaws wide, fire in its throat.

“Why did you keep your father’s colours?”

“He asked me ...” She took a breath. “He made me promise to keep them safe.”

The very last time she had seen him. A cold, grey morning in the Governor’s House in Samra. Andren was dressed in his travel clothes, long black hair plaited and tied for the road, watching from his study window as the groom saddled his horse in the vine-strewn courtyard below. A leather purse in his hand.

“Why would he give them to you?” Vabras wondered.

“Open it,” her father had said, handing her the purse. She could still remember the awe of that moment, as they stood together by the crackling fire. The neat click of the clasp. Her intake of breath as she pulled out the forest-green band and realised what she was holding. Her father’s colours. The Tiger’s eye sigil embroidered so perfectly in the centre she thought it might blink, if she touched it.

“Why not your brother?” Vabras said. “Why not your mother?” Yana glanced anxiously towards Yasila. She’d drifted further behind the throne, standing now beneath the wild drama of the Fox fresco—a cornered vixen, defending her cubs from some unseen attack. Defend us, Yana begged, with her eyes. Mother. Yasila did nothing.

“He chose you,” Vabras said, “because you were his favourite.”

“No, that’s not true—”Except it was. It was true. He’d put her name down for Anat-hurun. Not Ruko’s. Not both of them. Just hers.

Vabras talked over her. “Because you were alike. Clever. Cau- tious. Hard to read.” A quirk of a smile. “Did your father confide in you?”

A white burst of fear. “No.”

“Did he tell you of his plans to kill the emperor? To take the throne by force?”

Yana was shaking, violently. The moment she had always feared, and it had snuck up on her like an assassin.

That cold winter’s morning in front of the fire. The green silk colours in her hand, the stamp of hooves in the courtyard below. Her father said, “The throne has been stolen from me, and I must steal it back, for the good of Orrun. One day you will understand.”

She never had.

A tear slid down her cheek.

“Worthy,” Vabras prompted. “What do you see?”

The sergeant’s eyes gleamed, then faded. His face was sombre. “She knew. He told her.”

“Traitor!” Bersun snarled, snatching the sword from his belt. Not the emperor in that moment, but something far more ferocious. A Bear warrior, raging. Yana cringed, afraid he would storm down the steps and cut her head from her shoulders. Instead, he prowled the same step back and forth, as if he had caged himself. “You knew. You could have stopped it all. And you said nothing!”

Yana dropped to her knees. She curled her fingers against the cold marble floor, finding no comfort there. He was right. She couldhave stopped it. “I’m sorry. Your majesty, I’m so sorry. I was eight years old ...I didn’t know what to do. I prayed every day that he would change his mind and come home. That’s all I wanted. For him to come home.” She wept then, remembering, and there was silence from the room.

The emperor sheathed his sword, muttering something under his breath. He looked to his High Commander. What now?

is breath. He looked to his High Commander. What now?

“She’s a traitor,” Vabras said, to the point as ever. “She was eight, Vabras.”

“She’s sixteen now. And she still holds his colours.” The emperor had no answer to that.

“The law is clear. The greatest crime carries the greatest punishment.”

Exile. No.

They wouldn’t do that to her. The Guardians glared down from the wall. They wouldn’t ...

“Yana?” Worthy said, taking a step towards her. “She’s going to faint.”

Yana willed herself to breathe. She would not faint. She would not. Slowly, she got to her feet.

The sergeant drew back.

The emperor was arguing with Vabras. “...a punishment for monsters. I haven’t exiled a soul in all my years on the throne. I won’t start now.”

Yana needed her brother. “Ruko,” she whispered, and reached for his hand.

He wouldn’t look at her.

Bersun had retreated to his throne. He called for wine, which appeared at once, in a golden cup embellished with rubies. He drank slowly, while the room watched and waited, held captive. This was a trick her father used to play—the emperor had prob- ably learned it from him. We live on in the gifts we give.³

At last, he came to a decision. In a formal tone he had not used before, he said, “Yanara Valit. You have openly confessed to treason. And the law is clear.” A nod to Vabras. “That being said. I promised you a second chance. I commute your sentence to life in the House of Mist and Shadows.”

Yana dropped back down to her knees in relief. “Thank you, your majesty. May the Eight bless you.”

“And remain Hidden,” the guards murmured. Shal Worthy gave a tight, satisfied nod. This was good, this was wise. This would satisfy both the people and the law. Not an easy life, locked away in the eastern marshes. So young, to be giving up the world for a life of service. But given the alternative ...

Yana sent a silent prayer to the Guardians who had saved her. To the Bear, merciful and wise. To the Fox, the Guardian of Escape. To the Monkey, her own Guardian, for watching over her. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Ruko stepped forward. “Then I am going to Anat-hurun?” he said, not bothering to conceal his excitement.“I can take her place?” The emperor stared at the remnants of his wine. “No,” he said.

“No. I think not.”

Ruko’s face fell. “But why?”

“We are talking of treason,” the emperor said. “The darkest of crimes. My own High Commander thinks I am being too generous. I cannot spare your sister andsend you to Anat-hurun. There must be consequences.”

“But why should I be punished for her crimes? It’s not fair—”

The emperor leapt from the throne and threw his goblet at Ruko. It clanged down the steps, splashing red wine across the white marble. When it reached the bottom Vabras stopped it neatly with his foot.

“What would you have me do?” Bersun shouted. “Send your sister into exile? You do know what that means? What they’ll do to her? Is that what you want?”

“No, but it was her mistake, not mine—”

“What would you have me do?” the emperor repeated. “What would you do, boy, in my place? She’s your sister. Go on, tell me. Would you ...” He stopped. An idea was forming. “Eight, why not. Why not? Let’s teach the boy a lesson. Get up here.” Bersun beckoned Ruko up the steps.

Ruko hesitated, sensing a trap. “Get up here now,” Bersun roared.

Ruko hurried up the steps. When he reached the top, Bersun grabbed him and slung him on the throne like a sack of rubbish. “There. Emperor Ruko. How does that feel?”

Ruko, sprawled on the throne, was too stunned to answer.

“Guardians of Orrun!” Bersun swept his arm to take in the portraits of the Eight. “Witness this oath—the unbreakable oath of a Bear warrior of Anat-garra. I hereby grant Ruko Valit the power to choose his sister’s fate, and his own. Once made, his decision cannot be unmade. There. That should do it.” He cuffed Ruko on the head, almost playful. “Her life’s in your hands now, boy.”

At the bottom of the steps, Yana was trapped in silent terror. The emperor couldn’t see Ruko’s expression, but she could. She could see that he was deliberating, was genuinely considering ...

“Not so easy, is it?” Bersun said. Ruko shook his head. No. It wasn’t easy.

“Good. Now you understand. So let’s hear it. Will you send your sister into exile, to feed your own ambition? Or will you spare her, as I did?”

Yana saw her brother’s face empty. He sat up straight on the marble throne, and placed his hands on each arm, as if he really were the emperor.

“Exile.”

Silence. And then, from behind the throne, a high, piercing wail. Her mother. Her mother was screaming.

I wonder if I could explain it to them, Ruko thought, in a way they might forgive.

He could tell them that he was saving his sister from a miserable fate. Locking her away with the Grey Penitents wasn’t mercy but a slow, suffocating torture. This way might seem cruel, but it was kinder in the long run. He could say this, with that pathetic whine in his voice. It wouldn’t make any difference.

And it wasn’t true.

Be honest. A voice in his head, the voice of the man he would in time become. Accept what you have done, and why you have done it. The emperor had given Ruko a taste of absolute power. For that brief moment, he was the most important person in the world.

Everyone waiting on his word. And it had felt good. It had felt right.

He sat up straighter on the throne. Below him, collapsed on the floor, his mother was cradling his sister. “Not my Yana,” she said, in a daze. “Not my Yana.”

Ruko had always wondered how his mother kept her face so blank. Now he understood. You had to open a hole inside yourself and let everything drain through it. The horror, the grief, the guilt. The love. Most of all, the love. Let it drain away until there was no feeling left.

And in that starless void, Ruko saw a golden rope, stretching off into the distance. His path, his golden path to the throne. The only way forward now. He put one foot upon the rope, and then the other. His journey had begun.

Shoults Will Report to HBGUS Distribution CEO Matt Wright in Newly Created Role

NEW YORK (March 5, 2025) — Matt Wright, CEO of Hachette Book Group US Distribution and Hachette UK Distribution, announced today that Michael (“Mike”) Shoults has been named HBGUS Distribution’s Chief Operating Officer (COO). In this newly created role, Shoults will report to Wright and oversee both the Warehouse Operations in Indiana, and the Fulfilment Departments located in Boston and Indiana.

“I created this role to drive continuous service improvement from the point that we receive a customer’s order, to the delivery of that order, continuing right through to after sales care,” said Wright. “By joining up the functions, the role of COO will have complete responsibility for the end-to-end service delivery. In addition, this role will be instrumental in building strong relationships with our publisher clients, and their customers, ensuring that our improvement plans align closely with their needs.”

HBGUS Distribution draws together all order management, fulfilment, and cash collection activities in the US for Hachette Book Group and its third-party client publishers, which represent 50 percent of the business. Services for client publishers are performed by the warehouse operations based in Indiana, the Fulfilment team based in both Indiana and Boston and supported by the Credit Control and Client Accounting teams based in Boston.

Shoults has led teams in a host of different spaces and disciplines over 20 years, but as a self-proclaimed lover of books, Hachette “feels like coming home.”

An alum of Western Kentucky University, Shoults grew up in a military family that moved around the world before putting down roots in Kentucky for his high school and college years. After joining the US Army, he was commissioned in 2005 as a lieutenant and served eight years in roles with increasing leadership responsibilities, including multiple combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan.

Following an honorable discharge from the military, Shoults joined Amazon and led large teams in a variety of spaces, including fulfillment, transportation, and cargo aviation operations. In 2021, Mike joined GameStop to overhaul its transportation and logistics operation. He then joined the private equity startup world as the Global Head of Supply Chain of a $400M CPG startup formerly known as Heyday stabilizing the supply chain, driving cost under control and thereby positioning the company for acquisition.

“I feel like my life’s professional work and personal passion for books has led me to this very point,” said Shoults. “The opportunity to join Hachette and lead in a big way is more than good fortune; it’s an absolute dream for me. It makes sense that I should funnel my zeal for supply chain ops and my love of books into delivering for readers across the country!”

“I am delighted that Mike has joined the HBG US Distribution Team. Mike has a proven track record of delivering continuous improvement and world-class service in many different businesses,” said Wright. “He will be instrumental in leading and developing our business in the years ahead, and I am certain that he will be extremely successful in this role.”

About Hachette US Distribution
HBGUS Distribution draws together all order management, fulfilment, and cash collection activities in the US for Hachette Book Group and its third-party client publishers, which represent 50 percent of the business. Services for client publishers are performed by the warehouse operations based in Indiana, the Fulfilment team based in both Indiana and Boston and supported by the Credit Control and Client Accounting teams based in Boston.

About Hachette Book Group
Hachette Book Group (HBG) is a leading U.S. general-interest book publisher made up of dozens of esteemed imprints within the publishing groups Basic Books Group; Grand Central Publishing Group; Hachette Audio; Little, Brown and Company; Little, Brown Books for Young Readers; Orbit; Union Square & Co.; and Workman Running Press Group. We also provide custom distribution, fulfillment, and sales services to other publishing companies. Our books and authors have received the Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award, Caldecott Medal, Newbery Medal, Booker Prize, Nobel Peace Prize, and other major honors. We are committed to diversity in our company and our publishing programs, and to fostering a culture of inclusion for all of our employees and authors. We are proud to be part of Hachette Livre, the world’s third-largest trade and educational publisher. Visit hachettebookgroup.com to learn more about our imprints, titles, and products. For updated news, please follow us on Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, Threads, TikTok, X.com, and YouTube.

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Press Contact: Gabrielle Gambrell Gabrielle.Gambrell@hbgusa.com