Excerpt: A Sabre in the Hemlock (Blade Bound Saga, #2) Dorothy Dreyer + giveaway

A Sabre in the Hemlock (Blade Bound Saga, #2)
Dorothy Dreyer
November 18th 2025
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance
With enemies closing in and magic slipping from her control, Celeste draws closer to unraveling a prophecy that could cost her the man she loves—as well as her soul.

In the wake of the carnoraxis attack on Ivystone Citadel, Celeste Westergaard’s battle for her future has only just begun. Trapped under the king’s watchful eye and hiding the magic awakening within her, Celeste must play the role expected of her, all the while uncovering secrets buried throughout Terre Ferique.

As the royal court embarks on a tour to solidify Dante’s claim to legitimacy, whispers of war and treachery follow their every step. The Shadow Tsar’s reach is growing, and the prophecy that fuels his reign foretells the rise of a power that will bring his downfall—one tied to the blood of the fae.

From glittering courts to bloodstained battlefields, Celeste must walk a knife’s edge between duty and desire, deception and truth. Because if the tsar discovers who she really is, he won’t just come for her magic, he’ll come for her soul.

A Sabre in the Hemlock is the thrilling sequel to the award-winning A Dagger in the Ivy, weaving romance, danger, and dark intrigue into an unforgettable tale of power and sacrifice.

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EXCERPT:
His jaw flexes. “You used your magic again.”

“Dante—”

“You promised you wouldn’t,” he says, voice quiet but taut, threaded with frustration. “You said you’d wait. You said you’d let Ezra figure it out.”

“I never promised,” I snap back, chin lifting. “You asked me not to, but I never agreed.”

“You bled, Celeste.” He leans closer, his voice low, heated. “I could tell something was wrong, even from the water. And what I couldn’t see, Nadya filled me in on.”

Of course she did.

“I had to help you.” The words come out louder than I intend, sharp with the emotion I’ve been burying all day. “They sent armed soldiers after you. You were bleeding underwater. You could have been pummeled by a f***ing tsunami. You don’t get to ask me to sit and watch you die.”

His hands flex, fists clenching just beneath the surface. “And what if helping me had killed you instead?”

I stare at him, my breath shallow. I don’t have an answer—not one that would make him feel better.

He paces a few steps through the water, raking a hand through his hair until it curls wild and damp around his temples. “Gods, you’re so damn stubborn.”

“And you’re so damn arrogant if you think you can tell me when and how I’m allowed to use a power that’s mine.”

He turns sharply, water sluicing off his chest, his gaze fierce enough to stop me in place. He crosses the space between us with quick, sure strides—and suddenly, he’s there, his hands finding me beneath the water, one arm locking around my waist, the other curling so that his hand is tugging the hair at the nape of my neck.

The heat of him burns through the chill. My breath stutters.

“Of course you’d fight me,” he mutters, his voice hoarse against my cheek. “Even when I’m trying to protect you.”

“And of course you’d push me,” I breathe back, “even when I’m trying to save you.”

The air thrums between us, thick with something neither of us is willing to yield. My pulse hammers as his thumb grazes the side of my throat, slow and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the beat of my heart.

“I told you,” he says, his forehead almost brushing mine, “you bleed for no one.”

“And I told you,” I whisper, “you don’t get to decide that.”

His jaw tightens—and then, in one breath, his lips are on mine.

About the Author: 

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Dorothy Dreyer is a Philippine-born American living in Germany with her family. She is an award-winning, USA Today Bestselling Author of fantasy, romance, and horror books that usually have some element of magic or the supernatural in them. Aside from reading, she enjoys movies, binge-watching series, chocolate, take-out, traveling, and having fun with friends and family. She tends to sing sometimes, too, so keep her away from your Karaoke bars.

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A Sabre in the Hemlock Blitz

Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore by Emily Krempholtz + excerpt

Perfect for readers craving the magical romance of Sangu Mandanna with the cozy vibes of Travis Baldree and Julie Leong, the novel follows a powerful plant witch—and former villain’s assistant—and a grumpy alchemist who must work together to save their home from a magical plague.

 

Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore
by Emily Krempholtz
November 18, 2025
Genre: Romantasy
A powerful plant witch and a grumpy alchemist must work together to save their quiet town from a magical plague in this debut cozy fantasy romance about starting over, redemption, and what it really means to be a good person.

Guy Shadowfade is dead, and after a lifetime as the dark sorcerer’s right-hand, Violet Thistlewaite is determined to start over—not as the fearsome Thornwitch, but as someone kind. Someone better. Someone good.

The quaint town of Dragon’s Rest, Violet decides, will be her second chance—she’ll set down roots, open a flower shop, keep her sentient (mildly homicidal) houseplant in check, and prune dark magic from the twisted boughs of her life.

Violet’s vibrant bouquets and cheerful enchantments soon charm the welcoming townsfolk, though nothing seems to impress the prickly yet dashingly handsome Nathaniel Marsh, an alchemist sharing her greenhouse. With a struggling business and his own second chance seemingly out of reach, Nathaniel has no time for flowers or frippery—and certainly none for the intriguing witch next door.

When a mysterious blight endangers every living plant in Dragon’s Rest, Violet and Nathaniel must work together, through their fears, pasts, and growing feelings for one another, to save their community. But with a figure from her previous life knocking at her door and her secrets threatening to uproot everything she’s worked so hard to grow, Violet can’t help but wonder…does a former villain truly deserve a happily-ever-after?

"Krempholtz’s novel, a mostly cozy fantasy with just a touch of grumpy/sunshine romance, takes a story of redemption and second chances and mixes it delightfully with a town full of secrets, creating a tale about surviving dysfunctional family to become the person you were meant to be. Readers of cozy fantasy will adore Krempholtz’s debut, and fans of Wooing the Witch Queen by Stephanie Burgis, The Keeper of Magical Things by Julie Leong, and the “Wicked Years” series by Gregory Maguire will find a new home in Dragon’s Rest."

—Library Journal (starred review)

Amazon

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Prologue: Be Good

Until very recently (eight minutes ago, in fact), the blood spattering the outside of Karina's brand-new tunic had pulsed inside the heart of the dark sorcerer known as Shadowfade. Brock, the knight she traveled with who did most of the laundry, would be appalled when he saw it. But Karina the Tempest, Protector of the Queen's Realm of Mereth, chose to think of the stain as a rather dashing and intimidating addition to her look as she strode through the castle grounds, blade in hand.

Karina searched for movement atop the black stone battlements that stood watch like hulking sentinels over the expansive gardens. The carefully groomed paths flanked by topiaries and flower beds were full of poisonous blooms, no doubt, but greener and more cheerful than she would have expected from a villain like Shadowfade.

None of this was as she expected. With as fearsome a reputation as Guy Shadowfade had amassed, vanquishing him should have been much more of a trial. Her lingering concern whispered that this had been some elaborate trick.

But Karina would have time for those thoughts later. One way or another, the sorcerer was finally defeated and his minions scattered, meaning it was up to Karina and her companions to make sure they could cause no further harm to the Merethi people.

"She went into the hedge maze!" Maggie cried, her long legs a blur as she sprinted in the opposite direction, her staff in hand as she chased another foe-hopefully that dreadful alchemist who had burned through Karina's favorite pair of boots with his poisons. "Brock and I will take care of the others!"

Karina nodded curtly, her eyes dragging on her partner's form for only a second longer than necessary before she took off into the hedge maze, sword gripped tightly in her fist. As she navigated the twists and turns of the maze, she kept an eye out for danger. She wouldn't have put it past Shadowfade to fill his grounds with tricks and traps, but the maze was strangely pleasant, its greenery on full display despite the late-winter season, and its corners staged with cheerful pots of colorful flowers. Like everything else about today, it didn't meet her expectations, and it only put Karina further on edge.

At the center of the maze, in a wide, round clearing, she found the one they called the Thornwitch.

To look upon the Thornwitch, it was said, was to look your death in the eye as it reached for you with vines that strangled and flowers that poisoned. The Thornwitch had destroyed the crops of an entire county with a single wave of her hand, dooming them to famine. She had torn buildings from their foundations by roiling the roots beneath them and disrupted trade routes by tearing apart roadways and growing impenetrable forests of the poisonous thorny vines for which she'd been named. She could command anything that grew and twist it to her dark purposes.

She was a monster, or so Karina had always heard. Hideous and deformed, some said, though others swore she was a temptress more beautiful than Evry, fearsome goddess of the second moon. When she'd fought her back at the castle, Karina had gotten only an impression of thorns, spiny like the quills of a porcupine, and eyes glowing like fox fire.

But the woman in front of her was sitting serenely on a garden bench like a young lady enjoying afternoon tea, not like an infamous trafficker of cruel poisons and punishments for the sorcerer's enemies. Gone were the thorns that sprung from her skin like spines and harshened her facial structure. Gone was the unearthly glow from her eyes and the vines that sprouted from her back like wings, slinging clouds of toxic pollen. If not for the iconic purple cloak puddled at her feet, Karina wouldn't have recognized her at all.

She was young, late twenties if Karina had to guess, and without the thorns that she had been named for, her face was soft and round. Pretty, in a homespun sort of way, with pale, freckled skin, thick brown hair that tumbled over her shoulders like vines reaching for a hold, and honey-tinted eyes beneath soft-angled brows. A white scar, perhaps the length of Karina's thumb, tracked down her face just to the right of her nose, slightly puckered where it bisected the edge of her lips and tugged one side of her mouth upward in a permanent smirk.

She would have been popular in a tavern, Karina judged, though of course she had nothing on Maggie's elegant beauty. Still, there was little to liken her to the monster of the stories or the villain she'd seen just minutes ago.

"Hello," the witch said softly, her voice high and clear.

Karina raised Flamebright, putting the sword between her and the witch, though she was realizing now, too late, that she was surrounded by plants. Here, the Thornwitch could incapacitate her with a twitch of her fingers, which were covered in dirt and curled tight around a long, sharp branch, still filthy with blood from the fight. The Thornwitch followed her gaze and allowed the branch to crumble to dust, leaving dark stains on her fingertips that matched the black silk of her tight clothing.

"Why haven't you killed me yet?" Karina asked, her voice like brittle steel.

The witch only blinked her long lashes. "Should I have?"

"We're surrounded by plants."

"Well, yes. This is my garden, after all." The witch paused. "Are you here to kill me now?"

Karina hesitated. If anyone had asked her even twenty minutes ago, her answer would have been a resounding yes. "I don't know. Do you want to die?"

She lowered her gaze. "I don't deserve to live."

"That's not what I asked."

The Thornwitch's chin trembled, though she quickly got herself under control. Karina hid her surprise. The witch in the stories felt no fear, only anger and hatred. But stories-she knew well, being one herself-were just stories in the end. Made of equal parts truth and lies, and it was often impossible to be certain which was which.

There was more to the Thornwitch than Karina could fathom, and more still she didn't understand. She had fled to the hedge maze, but why did she stop here? Why wasn't she fighting back? Her mind snagged on something the witch had said. Karina looked around at the center of the maze-the ivy-covered bench where the Thornwitch sat beneath a large flowering shrub heavy with pink flowers, the koi pond edged with round, smooth stones, the lush flower beds filled with buttery daffodils and the tall jut of foxgloves. "This is your garden?"

The Thornwitch looked around, fondness shining in her eyes. "Yes."

Karina remembered the tidy room she'd found in the castle, with a small bed and potted flowers and leafy vines crowded in the doorway to the balcony.

And a lock-on the outside of the door.

"You made all of this."

The witch did twitch her fingers then, but instead of carnivorous plants or thorny vines, a flower burst from the ground next to Karina. From amidst its splayed, fingerlike leaves sprung several clusters of vibrant purple flowers.

"It's gorgeous," Karina murmured, her fingers stretching toward a flower, half afraid it would sprout teeth and sever her fingers.

The witch tossed her head back and laughed. "It's monkshood. Incredibly toxic."

Karina snatched her hand back.

"All of this is poison." The witch gestured at her garden. Bitterness stained her words. "Nightshade. Foxglove. Oleander. Even the ivy-it might look pretty but all it does is destroy."

"But what else could you do?" A thought bloomed in Karina's mind, tickling her with the gentle press of a hunch. "With Shadowfade gone, you could create something good."

"Good is not in the Thornwitch's nature." The witch's words were scornful, but there was curiosity in her brown eyes.

"And the woman behind the Thornwitch?"

She jerked back as though Karina had drawn her sword, her jaw tight. The hero studied the villain whose name was spoken at a whisper throughout the countryside. There was something in her expression, behind that angry, suspicious mask, that looked a lot like wistfulness. Uncertainty. Hope. Karina thought back to the castle, to Shadowfade's final moments. The words on his lips with his final breaths.

Truth and lies, she thought. Both stand before me, but which is which?

Karina decided. "The Thornwitch dies here today. But you-whoever you are without her-don't have to. You could do so much better. You could be good."

The Thornwitch looked confused as Karina sheathed her weapon. The ivy on the bench detached itself to curl gently around the witch's ankle in what looked like a gesture of comfort.

"Just be good," Karina told her. "And don't make me regret this."

Chapter 1: Welcome to Dragon's Rest

Grimy puddles filled the missing cobblestones in the streets of Dragon's Rest, pockmarks of muck that spoke louder than words of what had become of the town. In the decades since Shadowfade had built his fortress on the craggy peak that towered over the edge of its borders, Dragon's Rest had gone from a prosperous community to a mountainside ghost town full of closed shutters and chipped paint.

The letter Violet had retrieved from the post office said she could meet her new landlord at Wingspan Green, and the postmaster said she'd know the town's largest park when she saw it, but despite the directions she'd scrawled on the back of the parchment, Violet was hopelessly lost.

"How does anyone navigate this place?" she wondered aloud, looking up at the darkening sky. Rava and Evry, two of the three moons, had already come to life for the evening, illuminating the hand-painted street signs on the corner. Evry was nearly full, and Violet was glad-she could use some of the goddess's bold nature now. Dragon's Rest wasn't a large town, but its winding, sloping streets curved and twisted like an errant vine creeping up a stone wall, looking for purchase.

"Are you lost, dear?" A tall elf woman with pale skin and a saffron-colored hair wrap approached Violet, her smile kind.

Violet ducked her head behind the potted plant in her arms. There was no reason for anyone in Dragon's Rest to recognize her, not unless she lost control of her magic, but still, she felt a spike of concern at having to interact with strangers.

No one will recognize you, she convinced herself. Still, Bartleby the pothos, with his broad, heart-shaped leaves, was a good disguise. Sensing her hesitation, the potted plant patted her on the shoulder, his flat leaves either smoothing the wrinkles in her cloak or trying to strangle her. It was often hard to tell with Bartleby. "I'm looking for Wingspan Green?"

The woman pointed back in the direction Violet had just come from. "You just missed the turnoff. Head that way and take a left at the first corner, then keep going straight. You can't miss it."

"Thank you," said Violet, peeking out from behind Bartleby to offer the woman a smile she hoped didn't look threatening. She was leaving that life behind. She was going to be good now, like Karina the Tempest had told her to.

Sure enough, now that she was headed in the right direction, Wingspan Green was easy to spot from several blocks away. The large, circular park was surrounded by battered storefronts with faded awnings. It was carpeted with green grass and lined with trees, which were just beginning to bud in defiance of these last stubborn days of winter, and the very presence of the greenery made Violet breathe a little easier. Paths meandered through the space, dotted with benches and a few small tables as well as what seemed to be a platform near the center, though it was blocked by a huge rock formation that looked as though it had tumbled down from the mountains sometime in the last thousand years and had since been tucked into bed beneath a blanket of moss.

Bartleby shuddered.

"Oh, shush you," Violet scolded him.

Before he had been turned into a plant, Bartleby wouldn't have just argued with her, he'd have towered over her and threatened bodily injury for shushing him like a child. He still managed to find ways to menace Violet on a near-daily basis, but she'd been careful to remove all sharp implements from within reach of his vines before they set off for Dragon's Rest.

"I think it's lovely," she said now, both to herself and to him. "The place has loads of potential." She stepped onto the grass, wishing she were barefoot so she could feel the soil beneath her toes. No flowers anywhere, but then, without magic like hers, it was too early in the season yet. Cesenne, the goddess of the third moon, whose phases heralded the changing of the seasons, would soon wax anew as spring began, and Violet suspected the park would liven up then. Perhaps once she'd settled and opened her shop, she could add a few flower beds to give it some splashes of color. A pang of longing for her gardens struck her, quickly suppressed by complicated relief for her own freedom.

She would plant a new garden here in Dragon's Rest and open a shop where she could sell her flowers. Just the thought of surrounding herself with blooms all day made her feel lighter. No one would have to know who she once was or how she'd once used her magic. She bent to stroke the grass and couldn't resist releasing just a bit of power from the well deep in her core. As easy as exhaling, especially under the moons, her magic spilled into the grass, making it grow tall enough to tickle Violet's wrist and wrap lovingly around her fingers in the one embrace she'd cherished her whole life. It was hard sometimes, when she did little things like this, to remember that her plant magic was evil at heart, but she'd done enough terrible things as the Thornwitch that she couldn't deny it.

Your own mother knew the truth about you, whispered a voice in her head nearly as recognizable as her own. She saw the darkness in your magic and she abandoned you for it. You are so lucky I found you, petal. You will always have a home with me.

But now Shadowfade was dead and that home was gone.

If she could keep that dark part of herself locked away, perhaps Violet could call this place home. Yes, it was dingy and a little weather-beaten, but then, so was she. Here, she could finally start over. Maybe she would learn who she could be without Guy Shadowfade. Without the Thornwitch.

The Violet who opened a flower shop in Dragon's Rest would have no idea what it was like to watch the life leave someone's eyes. She'd never have heard the wails of an entire village as she sank their homes into a bog that hadn't existed before she swept into town. Bartleby was simply a fondly named houseplant, not one of her former adversaries who'd spent the last half decade transformed into a potted pothos.

About the Author
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Emily Krempholtz has never quit her day job to open a flower shop, but that’s because she’s already doing what she loves. As a bestselling ghostwriter, editor, and book coach, Emily spends all day every day in the world of books and is delighted to finally have one with her own name on the cover.

When she’s not writing or reading, Emily bakes cakes that look like book covers and changes her hair color like some kind of mood ring. She lives in sunny Colorado, where you’ll often find her in the mountains—either hiking (and pretending to be a character in a novel) or curled up in a hammock with a book (also pretending to be a character in a novel). She’s on a lifelong quest to discover the magic in the world and has a sneaking suspicion the written word is where she’ll find it.

A Bustle in the Hedgerow (Jiggery Pokery Book 1) by Jack MacGregor + giveaway

Prepare to be introduced to tantalising tales of seismic skulduggery, fervent fairytalery and flagrant frootery, as a prile of pulchritudinous practitioners of the prestige (that's three beautiful witches, to you) and their feline familiars put their world to rights with fantastical, folklorish results.

A Bustle in the Hedgerow (Jiggery Pokery Book 1) 
by Jack MacGregor
Genre: YA Paranormal Fantasy
Merry meet! Young witch Jinny Lane adopts a beautiful black cat named Jet Jupiter Splinters and so begins their adventures with fellow witches Miss Riz and Miss Lou. A local resident causes trouble in the neighbourhood and the 3 witches retaliate with the help of some faeries....

Green Cat Books

 

 

The Shadow Cutters (Jiggery Pokery Book 2)
A journey is on the cards for Miss' Jinny, Lou and Riz and off they go in a borrowed campervan. Along the way they collect a few more pets, lots of Tunnock's Teacakes, a curse or 2 and some shadow cutters.

Both books are guaranteed to have you rolling with laughter!

Green Cat Books

Candy and Gore And Other Spooky Short Stories
Brace yourself for eight stories of scary spectres (and for ghosts that try to be) written by a collection of authors who love all things paranormal...

Dreadmoor Hall by S L Saunders
The White Lady and the Headless Knight by Kram Rednip
The Long Way Home by Neil Pettifer
The Gallows Grave by Richard Tyndall
To B&B or not B&B by Kram Rednip
A Most Transparent Gentleman by Peach Berry
Paranormal Investigator by Lisa J Rivers
Too Much Candy and Gore by H L Wood

Green Cat Books

The Day of the Spider
by Keith Wood
Genre: Dark Historical Halloween Murder Fiction
'The Day of the Spider' is a sort of sequel to the debut novel, 'One Day in May' by the author, but can be equally read as a standalone work as it is very different, though still set in the 18th century.

The novel is primarily set in the heart of the Hambleton Hills of North Yorkshire, though it starts off in Mansfield in Nottinghamshire where the heroine (or should that be anti-heroine), Nellie Chapman, a sexually abused young woman from a traditional mining family feels she has to move a long way from her past life. She has no plans but to get away and live a life on her own terms, an uncommon practice for a woman in the 18th century.
Despite Nellie's unlawful past, fate ensures that she seems to bear a charmed life. You may hate her or love her; it's for you to judge and you'll find plenty to entertain as you sit in judgement.

Amazon-Green Cat Books-Goodreads

About the Author:
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As we all know by now, Brigadoon is a mythical, enchanted, Scottish village that appears for only one day every century.

That day was when Jack MacGregor's parents took the leap, together with their new born son, and opted to relocate to an 'earthlier' environment, having the spectral pre knowledge that Jack would, one day, become an author of note (ish).

Were he to keep residence in the village there would not be a wide enough audience to read or even purchase his ramblings. That and the fact that there was no such thing as 'television' or 'films' or even bookshops in Brigadoon meant his literary career would have been somewhat stunted were he to stay.

Jack was therefore raised in a town in Lancashire, where he developed a strong Bolton accent and a fascination, via Pendle Hill, for witches... oh, and The Munsters and The Addams Family.

The move also allowed his parents to spend their leisure time holidaying in such glamorous locales as Blackpool, Fleetwood and Morecambe - places that they had heard word of only in ancient folklore, back in the old village. Places they could but dream of. If only they had known the reality.

Anyway, Jack's education was undertaken in an old Salesian boys' school, or college as it was then known, where he honed the gentlemanly skills of football, fencing, athletics, music, art and of course English language and literature. He took no heed when it came to mathematics, physics or Latin studies - he already knew they would be of little use to him in his future life. And he was correct!

(Excuse me for a moment please. After returning from her daily romp on the back field, our minx of a Springer Spaniel, Jinny (named after a character in Jack's books) has just performed the most pungent poo known to, well, anybody or anything, right outside the office door, and guess who's down for cleaning it up...)

Where was I? Apart from in the shit... so, in a nutshell (or nutcase) Jack took on many unsuitable roles after leaving college:

Lithographic printing, landscaping, butchering (no murder, mind), music repping, DJ (he invented The Headbangers Ball, which fizzled out when MTV nicked the name for their very own with no recompense to JM) working in a record shop or three, owning a record shop, working as a Placement Officer for the DHSS, then running two of the UK's finest small music venues.

From nowhere (but allegedly, China) came a mystery 'pandemic' whilst Jack was working part time as a courier - he was now a 'Key Worker'! Ha Ha and thrice Ha!

The peace and quiet that accompanied this outrageous farce finally gave Jack the time and head space he needed to put pen to paper (or one finger to keyboard) and commence work on the weird and weirder tales that had been rattling around for many a year.

He had planned much of this in the Lake District, in the Valley of the Golden Eagles, surrounded by a multitude of darling red squirrels and the odd faery, but when it came to finally 'getting it all down' Jack completely ignored everything he'd planned and free-formed anew.

The only inspiration was a tiny black cat that Jack's partner had discovered sitting smack in the middle of the crossroads, outside their venue, one terribly stormy evening.

She brought him in and introduced him to their existing cat, Spike, who proceeded to boss him mercilessly until he became his slave. Still is!

That tiny black mouser was wittily christened 'Jet' and the tale of 'Jet Splinters' unfolded around him, without plan or forethought.

Two books were picked up and published almost immediately by Green Cat Books in the shire of Derby and the third has been a long time coming due to real life getting in the way.

Book 3 has definitely been birthed and should be on its way by 2026, but that's been promised for simply ages... getting Book 1: 'A Bustle In the Hedgerow' and Book 2: 'The Shadow Cutters', under the banner of 'Jiggery Pokery', to TV or Film is a priority, hopefully before Jack MacGregor's demise, because he'd like to watch them too ... and that, my patient friends, brings you all up to date.

 

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a $10 giveaway!

Enter the Jiggery Pokery Giveaway Here!

The Seventh Champion (The Dragon Queen Duology) by Sylvia Mercedes + excerpt

Dragons, deadly secrets, and forbidden romance collide in Sylvia Mercedes’s upcoming romantasy, THE SEVENTH CHAMPION (Ace Trade Paperback Original; November 11, 2025)—perfect for fans of Fourth Wing, A Court of Thorns and Roses, and Bride of the Shadow King. With heart-pounding magical trials, a reluctant princess with dormant dragon power, and a morally gray assassin who just might fall for his target, this sweeping new fantasy duology opener is everything romantasy readers crave.

The Seventh Champion (The Dragon Queen Duology)
by Sylvia Mercedes
November 11, 2025
A dragon princess joins forces with a scarred prince to escape a competition for her hand in marriage, unaware he is hiding dark secrets of his own in the first of a new romantasy duology from the author of Bride of the Shadow King.

Swept from her quiet life as an apothecary’s apprentice to the treacherous court of the High King, Rosie Harpwood is shocked to discover she is the long-lost daughter of the demonic Dragon Queen. Reawakening her dormant magic is the kingdom's only hope for salvation, but the journey is perilous, and she'll need a champion to guide her. So the High King hosts a series of trials to determine which prince is worthy of the honor — as well as claiming Rosie's hand in marriage.

Rosie, however, has other ideas.

A talented healer and lover of small, fluffy creatures, Rosie wants nothing to do with demon queens or saving the world. Determined to escape this fate, she joins forces with one of the champions to plot her getaway. Prince Valtar may be enigmatic and a little bit terrifying, but something about him makes her blood burn in ways that have nothing to do with her dragon heritage.

Trained from youth to serve the Dragon Queen, Valtar has proven himself a ruthless assassin. Posing as a suitor to get close enough to his target shouldn't be a problem. But Valtar wasn’t planning on his target being Rosie, the girl he failed to assassinate years ago . . . who has haunted his dreams ever since. 

Amazon 

Praise for The Seventh Champion  

"I've always admired Sylvia Mercedes for the seemingly effortless skill she brings to her storytelling, and it's on display again in The Seventh Champion. With a sunshiney heroine who's a pure delight, a grumpy hero to swoon over, and a thoroughly entertaining, romance-infused, action-packed plot, this book is the absolute in reading pleasure."—India Holton, international bestselling author of The Geographer’s Map to Romance

“I was enchanted from the moment I read the opening line, and once I started reading, I could not stop. Full of charming wit, deadly trials, and the most delicious slow-burn yearning. I am utterly obsessed with this grumpy-sunshine pair!”—Tessonja Odette, author of A Rivalry of Hearts

“The Seventh Champion was such a fun romantasy read! Featuring a dragon princess and the deadly trials that pit her suitors against one another, this book kept me guessing until the last page. Rosie was a funny and endearing sunshine heroine, and Valtar the perfect broody--and loomy!--counterpart. I can't wait for the sequel to find out what Sylvia has in store for these two!”—Demi Winters, author of The Road of Bones

"With delicious banter and a tightly woven plot, Mercedes (Bride of the Shadow King) once again entices readers into a romantasy world they’ll be loathe to leave...Sharp dialogue, plentiful action, and well-developed characters build a fascinating foundation for Mercedes’s promising new series."—Publishers Weekly

"A thrilling and romantic fantasy adventure...The Seventh Champion is a fast-paced and exciting beginning to The Dragon Queen duology."—BookPage

"Mercedes’s (Bride of the Shadow King) Seventh Champion duology opens with a low-steam, action-packed book. Recommended for Sarah J. Maas and Elise Kova fans looking for a story about a young heroine who is waiting to reach her full power."—Library Journal 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1

Rosie

If this is going to work, the kiss had better be believable.

I mean, it doesn't have to be the most passionate kiss in the history of kisses. Not the sort of kiss one hears about in ballads when the more lovelorn minstrels wander through town, plucking at their lute strings and sighing soulfully at passing maidens. Those kisses were always a bit much for my taste, though perhaps I would think differently were I one of the participants and not merely hearing about them thirdhand.

But if I'm going to convince Prince Taigan that he does not, in fact, own me-that I am free to do what I like with whomever I like, and it's none of his dragon-eaten business-I can't very well look as though I'm kissing a statue. Which is what this kiss feels like in the first moment of contact when my lips crash against the stranger's.

To be fair, I can't blame the poor man. I'm sure he did not take up position in that shadowy alcove, half-hidden behind a curtain, expecting to be collared by a frantic young woman and dragged out of hiding, only to have her whisper a hasty "Excuse me, but I need to kiss you now," just before smashing her lips on his. It's not the sort of thing one anticipates when going about one's day.

I'm not even sure which one of my half dozen unobtrusive guardsmen he is. With my luck, I'll step back from this embrace only to discover I've amorously assaulted poor old Captain Norlan, whose mustache droops well past his upper lip and who smells overwhelmingly of stale tobacco. Worse still, what if it's the weaselly one? The one with the spots and the larynx, who spits gobs when he thinks I'm not looking?

Not that I care. To prove my autonomy to Prince Taigan, I'd kiss a goblin if I had to.

One might think, as far as kissing is concerned, Taigan himself would make an excellent candidate. For one thing, I know his name and what he looks like, which is more than I can say for my current partner. And I'll be honest, when it comes to sheer charisma, it would be difficult to find any man Taigan's equal, what with his sweeping tangle of golden curls and those vivid green eyes shadowed with just enough delicious darkness to be intriguing. No doubt he leaves blushing maidens swooning in his wake wherever he goes.

But I don't like the way he looks at me. As though he already owns me. It was bad enough being stolen from my home in the middle of the night, carried off to this gods-forsaken subterranean fortress in who-the-hells-knows where. To be told I belong to a stranger? I don't care how broad his shoulders or how warm and throaty his voice. It's not to be borne.

"Don't you go bestowing your favors on any other champion," he said just last night, mere moments after our introduction. With the confidence of a man inspecting a newly acquired mare, he trailed a lazy knuckle down the curve of my cheek. My skin crawled in response, but his smile only broadened. "You're mine. I won't stand for anyone else laying a finger on you."

Oh really? You won't stand for it, won't you?

That's about as much thought as flashed through my head when, about thirty seconds ago, while strolling along the dim passage on my way back from an eye-achingly long lesson in the court library, I'd spotted the prince climbing the stairway toward me. He strode with all the purposeful force of a dragon-slaying hero. Which is what he is. And why he is the First Champion and the odds-on favorite to win the upcoming tournament and claim my hand in marriage.

But he's not won anything yet.

A thrill of panic raced through me at the sight of Taigan. He hadn't spotted me, and I cast about for an escape. My gaze landed on a nearby windowed alcove where a bit of curtain stirred in a . . . well, not a breeze. There aren't many breezes this far underground in the subterranean dwarven palace of Stromin; I've learned that much in the week since my arrival. There aren't many windows either, considering the distinct lack of view. Perhaps someone thought it would make the place feel homey to hang up curtains and pretend we're not all living under several tons of solid rock.

Regardless, there was a man standing behind that curtain. I couldn't see who. It didn't matter; at sight of him, inspiration struck. He was male. He would do.

And now I'm kissing him.

He doesn't smell of stale tobacco. I'll give him that at least. Instead, there's a not-at-all-unpleasant aroma of burnt cedar about him. If he is the weaselly guardsman, neither his spots nor his larynx seem to interfere with his lip skills, so perhaps I shouldn't have been so hasty to judge. Because this is . . . a nice kiss. Unexpectedly nice. Startled, yes. That first moment of lips meeting felt rather like kissing marble (this I can state with confidence, having practiced kissing on an old carved bust of King Glorindal before graduating to live subjects).

But then a hand slips around my waist to the small of my back, pressing me against a warm, hard slab of manly chest clad in a leather cuirass, all of which is quite unlike anything in my past experience.

This is a mistake. Isn't it? Yes, it must be. After all, kissing a stranger isn't going to make Taigan any less determined to possess me. And it might cost this poor, unsuspecting guardsman his job. There are rules among the ranks, surely. Fraternizing with the Dragon Queen's daughter is probably frowned upon, even if the Dragon Queen's daughter started it in the first place. I should take a step back, put a little distance between us, and murmur a quick apology before Prince Taigan reaches the top of the stairs. Yes, that's what I'm going to-

His mouth moves against mine.

It's not a lot of movement. Just enough to make me suddenly aware that I am not actually kissing King Glorindal's stony visage. This is a living person. A living person who knows what to do with his mouth. It's amazing what a difference it makes. Granted, I might be too easily impressed considering my rather limited frame of reference. But something about that movement-that slight change of angle, that subtle parting of lips, that unexpected sense of giving and taking-sends a bolt of pure heat shooting straight to my gut where it blooms in petals of fire.

Please, gods, don't let this be old Captain Norlan! Because if it is, and this is how I'm reacting, then . . .

"What is the meaning of this?"

Taigan's voice lances through my awareness. I yelp, yanking my mouth free of the stranger's, and try to retreat a step. But the hand at my back doesn't relent, and when I press my palms flat against that massive chest, it offers no give. Not an inch. I suck in a breath, flicking my gaze up to the face of the man with whom I've just shared what can only be described as a moment.

I'm caught by a pair of jet-black eyes. So dark, I might be staring into the void between stars.

My head goes light. And a little fuzzy. The ground under my feet seems to dip, though that might have something to do with the fact that I've stood here for I don't know how long holding on to that gasped inhale. With an effort, I push air from my lungs, simultaneously forcing my gaze to drop from those terrifying eyes to his mouth. His very full, sensual mouth, the lips still slightly parted. He's breathing hard in short, sharp pants. But then, can I blame him? It must have been a shock to be dragged from his nice, cozy lurking spot where he'd been quietly minding his own business.

Why exactly was he lurking behind that curtain anyway?

The question scratches at the back of my brain. I've no time to consider it, however, for just then things start to happen in a rush. First a hand clamps down painfully on my upper arm, and Taigan's voice is shouting words I cannot in this moment fully comprehend. It's all a kind of wordless roaring, mostly drowned out by the thud of my pulse. There's a sudden flurry of movement, which, combined with the way the room is still pitching around me, should send me sprawling to the floor.

Instead, I find myself gripped around the waist by a powerful arm and pressed protectively up against a lean, muscular side. The stranger-my kissing partner-stands at a protective angle, one fist gripping Prince Taigan by the front of his shirt.

Taigan is no puny young squire. He's as broad and muscled as one would expect from a man who was trained to be a warrior from the time he was five years old. The rigors of knighthood carved him into a glorious dragon slayer by the age of eighteen. Now twenty-four, he's had time to add both bulk and experience onto what must have already been an impressive frame.

And yet, using only one arm, this stranger has lifted the prince up onto the tips of his toes.

Oh.

My.

Taigan's voice, abruptly cut off, still rings against the stones around us. As those last echoes vanish, a new voice speaks in a low, dangerous rumble: "You will learn better manners, Prince. Do not attempt to handle the lady so roughly in my presence again."

For a small eternity, the three of us stand frozen, an odd little tableau for anyone who might happen upon us. My blood roars and my eyes bulge from their sockets. I'm quite certain if that supportive hand at my side is suddenly removed, I'll simply fall to the floor like a flower with a broken stem.

Reason returns at last with a gust of exhaled breath. "No, please!" I cry. When the stranger doesn't take his predatory eyes off the prince, I reach up and pluck at his sleeve to get his attention. "I'm sure he didn't mean any harm!"

"Are you?" The stranger turns and fixes me with those void eyes of his.

My heart jolts to a stop, transfixed by that gaze. "Please," I manage, pushing the words from my still-warm lips. "Please, put him down! I'm sure he saw us . . . you . . . when we were . . . and assumed . . . assumed . . ."

For the life of me, I can't think how to finish. After all, Prince Taigan, coming upon us like that, probably assumed some assault of virtue was taking place. And he wasn't wrong. Just not quite in the way he was thinking.

Heat erupts across my cheeks. In this moment, I could probably light up these dark caverns brighter than a freshly ensorcelled scintil. "I'm sure he was just trying to protect me," I finish lamely. Gods on high, am I actually defending Taigan? Of all people?

The prince's stare is fastened on me over the arm of his captor. I cannot bear to meet it, not if my life depended on it. I shift my gaze up to the stranger again. A nearby scintil flickers across his features as I take my first good look at him. Once one gets past the absolute massiveness of his shoulders and chest, the utter blackness of his eyes, there's plenty to take in. Like the scar that cuts through one eyebrow and trails just past the outer edge of his left eye. It looks unsettlingly like a talon slash. His skin is startlingly pale, almost to the point of sallow. It's the one flaw in an otherwise oddly perfect specimen. Though perfect isn't the right word, if I'm being honest. Everything about this man is built on a theme of power, not beauty. His features are large and strong, his nose prominent, his jaw rock-solid. The only thing that might be considered pretty about him is his mouth. Those full lips, flushed and a little swollen by the aggressiveness of my unexpected kiss.

Why do my eyes keep going back to them?

Taigan is speaking again. With an effort, I drag my attention back to the prince, who struggles now in the stranger's grasp. "You will give me satisfaction, sir!" he cries in a half-strangled voice. "Unhand me at once and face me like a man!"

The stranger's gaze finally slides away from me and slices into the prince like two onyx blades. "As I recall, it was you who provoked us. The lady and I were peacefully occupied before you so rudely inserted yourself. You had not even the courtesy to launch your attack on someone your own size. Tell me, do you prefer to manhandle women?"

"I wasn't manhandling her!" Taigan snarls, his face almost purple with rage. "I was saving her!"

"From what?" The stranger smiles. It's the deadliest expression I've ever seen. "From me?"

Oh gods. With a little shrug and a wriggle, I pull out from under the stranger's arm. The air is oddly cold now that I'm no longer pressed against his side, and I struggle to find my balance. Find it I do, however, and glare up at the two men. "This is all a misunderstanding."

"Indeed?" The stranger looks at me again, and I wonder if this is how a mouse feels when caught in the hypnotic gaze of the cat. "Tell me what I have misunderstood."

My throat goes dry. I clear it with an effort. "Well, you see, I was . . . I didn't want the prince to . . ." Now they're both looking at me. Whatever explanations I'd half concocted evaporate from my brain. "Um . . ."

"Was this man bothering you?" the stranger demands.

"Bothering her?" Taigan's eyes flash with righteous fury. "I'm not the one who assaulted her honor! Do you not realize who this is? She is Princess Roselle Pandracor!"

At the sound of that word-princess-my stomach cramps and my shoulders hunch. It makes me positively sick; I'm not sure I'll ever get used to it.

Taigan, unaware of my reaction, continues relentlessly. "Go take your fun in a harlots' den where the likes of you belong. The princess is far above the base cravings of your foul dreams!"

The stranger's grip tightens on Taigan's shirt as he lifts him a fraction of an inch higher. "You dare speak of such things in her presence?"

All right, this is starting to get ridiculous.

"It's not as though I don't know what a harlot is!" I snap, tossing up my hands. "I'm not some frail hothouse flower. I know things." The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Gods above, is there any way to get out of this mess with my dignity intact?

About the Author
website
Sylvia Mercedes makes her home in the idyllic North Carolina countryside with her handsome husband, numerous small children, and the feline duo affectionately known as The Fluffy Brothers. When she’s not writing she’s . . . okay, let’s be honest. When she’s not writing, she’s running around after her littles, cleaning up glitter, trying to plan healthy-ish meals, and wondering where she left her phone. In between, she reads a steady diet of fantasy novels. But mostly she’s writing.

Turns of Fate (An Isle of Wyrd Novel) by Anne Bishop + excerpt

The Twilight Zone meets paranormal crime fiction in TURNS OF FATE (Ace Hardcover; November 11, 2025), the first novel of a brand-new urban fantasy series by New York Times bestselling author Anne Bishop. Readers of Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files series and fans of found family stories won’t want to miss this gripping novel about a young detective investigating crimes of the uncanny who learns that bargains can change your fate—for good or ill.

Turns of Fate (An Isle of Wyrd Novel)
by Anne Bishop
November 11, 2025
A young detective investigating crimes of the uncanny will learn that bargains can change your fate—for good or ill—in this darkly enthralling fantasy from the New York Times bestselling author of the Others and the Black Jewels series.

Words have power. Intentions matter.

Most people come to Destiny Park for entertainment. They come to have their cards read to tell them a bit about their future. They come to walk through a beautiful park and to eat at the hotel’s restaurant. They come in the hope of catching a glimpse of the Arcana, the paranormal beings who rule the Isle of Wyrd.

But some people come to make a bargain with the Arcana—to change their fate. And some people come for dark purposes.

When Detective Beth Fahey is sent to Destiny Park to inquire about a “ghost gun,” she will begin a strange journey on which she must learn to navigate the Arcana’s unforgiving laws and dangerous attractions. Her search will draw her into seemingly impossible cases and the secrets of her own past as tensions rise between the Arcana and their human neighbors across the river.

For the Isle of Wyrd is a place where the dead ride trains to their final destinations, predators literally become prey, and seekers’ true natures are revealed in the ripples of destiny unknowingly stirred in their wakes.

Who will live? Who will die? And who will be lost in between?

Praise for the novels of Anne Bishop

“Anne Bishop writes with a world-class blend of humor and chills. . . . startlingly original.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Charlaine Harris

“Anything by Anne Bishop goes on my keeper shelf.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Patricia Briggs

“The Queen of Fantasy....Teeming with intrigue, suspense, heartbreak, and hints of romance, Bishop's literary skills continue to astound and enchant.”
—Heroes and Heartbreakers

“A storyteller of stunning intensity, Ms. Bishop has a knack for appealing but complex characterization realized in a richly drawn, imaginative ambience.”
—Romantic Times

Amazon 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 
Detective Beth Fahey opened the next "solved" case file and wondered if reading through these reports was really necessary or if this was busywork her colleagues had found for the new, and only, female detective on the Penwych police force's special investigations team. She'd been told these files were examples of what the team investigated when called in by any of the police in the six towns located on the outer bank of the Fate River.

This case from the police in the town of Barker, for example.

A man who went out hunting with some friends had shot and killed a migratory goose (no mention in the file about whether shooting geese was legal at that time of year). Instead of taking the goose home, he gave it to his friends, because his wife was severely allergic to feathers.

The next day, the wife heard strange sounds coming from their backyard and discovered their in-ground pool was packed with geese. In fact, their entire yard was packed with geese. When several geese rushed toward her in a threatening manner, the wife went inside, screamed for her husband, and managed to call emergency services before she began wheezing and struggling to breathe, either from the number of feathered assailants in her yard or from a panic attack.

Coming out of the family room to see what his wife was fussing about, the man heard her wheezing, saw the geese, and fetched his rifle instead of having the sense to stay inside and let the authorities handle rounding up the geese.

He stepped outside, raised his rifle, and was immediately attacked by several geese. The unanticipated attack threw off his aim, and instead of shooting any of the geese, he managed to shoot the fuel tank on his neighbor's fancy new grill. The grill exploded, and the resulting fire not only damaged the neighbor's house but cooked a couple of unlucky geese.

The special team was called in because the wife claimed she'd had her tarot cards read the week before by the acquaintance of a friend, and it had been predicted that a disaster would occur if her husband tried to shoot creatures that were unable to defend themselves. (There was some debate about whether geese qualified as "unable to defend themselves.")

An inquiry was made. After talking to the individuals who ran Destiny Park, it was concluded that, while the series of events was strange, the Isle of Wyrd was not involved, and neither the man nor his wife had made a bargain with the Arcana.

Beth shook her head. She didn't discount tarot readings or any other means of tapping into a person's intuition, but why did the towns around the Fate River need a special team to investigate things like geese in someone's yard?

Then again, this had been one of the few "amusing" cases she'd reviewed. The others . . .

How was anyone supposed to deal with what she'd seen in some of those crime scene photos?

Maybe that was the point of this review-to find out if she could deal with the gruesome cases the team was required to investigate. Last fall, there had been four detectives on the team, along with two officers and Captain Forrester. Something had happened. No one would-or could-say exactly what that was, but one of those detectives transferred out of the 13th precinct to avoid any contact with the team, and another detective was on extended medical leave and wasn't likely to return.

She had been hired to fill one of those positions. She'd been given a week to find a place to live in Penwych and get herself settled before reporting to work. She'd spent last week reading old reports and looking at crime scene photos. And yet when she studied some of those photos, she could almost see dark and seductive shapes in the background, could almost hear words whispered in a language that might be understood in dreams.

Looking beyond the deaths, she could almost see the terrible married to the sublime and hear the warning: they chose this.

Not thoughts she would acknowledge to the psychologist who had the task of assessing police officers' mental health. She was sure there was already a notation in her file about her interest in macabre imagery and dark fantasy artwork, courtesy of Bonnie Wilson, the woman she had lived with while growing up-a woman who preferred religious pictures that included self-flagellation and went beyond what Beth considered gruesome and gory.

Tom Castelletti, the team's senior detective, walked into the area of the 13th precinct that was reserved for the special team, glanced at Captain Forrester's closed office door, and placed a file on Beth's desk.

"This one is hot," he said. "Read it. I'll be back with Kuhn in a few minutes, and we'll do the coin toss to see who has to cross the river."

He left, glancing again at the captain's closed door.

The coin toss had been mentioned once before. Beth thought it was an odd way to decide which detective on the team had to interview . . . What, exactly? A confidential informant? A local politician? Another cop?

According to Castelletti, all the detectives on the team participated. The two most senior officers began the coin toss. It was elimination in reverse, where winning the toss meant you were excused.

Shaking her head, Beth opened the file and focused her attention on this current case. She read the information, then read it again. It had to be a joke, because what the autopsy said wasn't possible. Couldn't be possible, and yet . . .

The frisson that ran through her told her that what she was reading was true.

Tom Castelletti and Detective Ian Kuhn returned.

Castelletti gave her a long look, then gestured to indicate she should join them around the big evidence table. "You've read the file?"

"I don't understand it, but I've read it," Beth replied.

"One of us is going to have to cross the river and make inquiries." Castelletti studied her. "You remember what we said about the coin toss?"

She nodded.

Castelletti lost the coin toss to Kuhn, and Beth lost to Castelletti, who looked relieved and uneasy.

He's spooked, she thought as a door opened.

Captain Charles Forrester stepped out of his office and looked at his officers, his eyes almost, but not quite, skipping over her. "Who lost the coin toss?"

"Detective Fahey, Captain," Castelletti said. "She'll need to get her skates on if she's going to catch the next ferry and not get stuck doing an overnight."

Forrester stared at the men so hard that they looked away. Looked ashamed. "Neither of you was given this kind of assignment when you first joined the team."

"She wanted to participate," Kuhn protested.

She hadn't been told she had a choice. In many ways, Castelletti and Kuhn acted like she was a placeholder, like they didn't expect her to be around in a couple of months. "I can handle this, Captain."

Forrester turned his stare on her. "Can you? With me, Detective." He stepped over to her desk, scooped up the folder she had been studying, and went into his office. When she walked in after him, he said, "Close the door. Then tell me what this says."

When he held out the folder, she took it. "Gerry Palowski. Twenty-five-year-old male, unemployed. Is-was-living with a current girlfriend but had a five-year-old daughter with a former girlfriend. According to statements made by both girlfriends when they were stable enough to be interviewed, Palowski wanted to go to a party with his ex and 'have some fun'-and he wanted the current girlfriend to babysit his daughter. She refused to stay home and babysit, and then his ex refused to go to the party, and that deprived Palowski of his fun. The next day, Palowski purchased a gun-"

"Transacted for the use of a gun," Forrester corrected.

"-and went over to his ex's apartment, where he shot his ex and their daughter before going back to his apartment to shoot his current girlfriend for spoiling party night. No fatalities. All three people are in the hospital in serious condition but are expected to pull through."

A miracle by anyone's definition. At close range, Palowski should not have missed a kill shot once, let alone three times, but the bullets did something impossibly crazy in terms of entry and angles that left three people wounded instead of dead.

"And Palowski?" Forrester asked.

Beth hesitated. In the crime scene photo that was taken where he was found, Palowski still looked like a hard-living twenty-five-year-old man sitting in the park, sleeping off a bender or some drugs. But the autopsy indicated that all of Palowski's internal organs belonged to a man in his nineties and that he died of natural causes-if aging seventy years in a matter of hours could be considered natural.

"You'll note that the report speculates that the same ghost gun used for the shootings has been used in other unsolved cases over the past eighty years or more."

"Ghost gun? An illegal firearm?"

"More than that. The gun comes from the Isle of Wyrd. It can't be traced or found beyond that point-and it always returns to the island after being used."

"So you know where it came from."

Forrester nodded. "I even know who, most likely, sold the use of it to Palowski. Having lost the coin toss, you are going to Wyrd to find out the terms of use and confirm that the gun returned to the island."

"I'm going undercover to try to purchase one of these ghost guns?"

"No." Forrester's voice turned sharp. "There is no such thing as undercover in Wyrd. Pretending to be someone you're not would be a death sentence for people like us."

"Like us, sir?"

"Normal people." Forrester hesitated. "People who aren't part of the threads that make up the supernatural on that island. There are other places like it around the world, but in this part of our country, the uncanny is concentrated on Wyrd and then ripples through all the towns on this side of the river." He stopped and seemed to focus on his breathing before he continued. "Have you visited the Isle of Wyrd, Detective Fahey?"

"No, sir." There hadn't been time for sightseeing between her hurried move to Penwych and reporting to work.

"Then let me explain what you're about to face."

Forrester took out his wallet, removed two fifty-dollar bills, and held them out to Beth. "Take it," he said when she didn't move. "I'll put in a chit for it."

"I can . . ."

"The ferry makes a trip across the Fate River every hour on the hour between sunup and sundown. When you get to the pier where the ferry takes on passengers, you'll see a booth where you'll exchange the money for the coins that are used on the island. Ask for six gold coins and eight silver coins. The gold coins are worth ten dollars; the silver are five dollars. The ferry usually costs a silver coin, but if the Ferryman asks for gold, don't argue."

A coin for the Ferryman? Was Forrester kidding? "They have flexible fees?"

"For everything."

"Why couldn't the patrol boat take me across the river?"

"Even a patrol boat doesn't dock anywhere on that island without an invitation," Forrester replied quietly. Then he continued in a normal voice, "You'll probably be met by Lucas Frost. He rules Destiny Park and sometimes acts as a liaison. Tell him we have a shooting with a strange outcome and think a ghost gun was involved." Forrester gave her a hard look. "Whatever he tells you, accept without question."

"Why?"

She had the impression that her captain was trying to decide how much to say.

"The Arcana control Destiny Park and the pavilion. Their influence extends over the whole island, but the pavilion is where they make transactions with people like us."

"Meaning non-supernaturals."

"Yes." Forrester let out a careful breath. "By our standards, they are amoral, but they are honest and honorable in their own way. Any bargain they make with you, they will keep. It just might not be in the way that you expect. And you had better keep any bargain you make with them, because if you fail, they can be unforgiving and brutal when extracting compensation." He paused. "The Arcana are very dangerous. Never forget that, Detective. When I say your fate lies in their hands, I am not exaggerating."

"Yes, sir."

He held out a hand. "It's forbidden to bring a weapon to Wyrd. The Arcana will overlook a pocketknife because they consider that a practical tool, but they won't overlook a gun, not even for a cop. I'll keep yours secured until you return."

Beth gave him her holster and weapon.

After locking them in a drawer in his desk, Forrester said, "Ask the questions you're allowed to ask about Palowski and the gun. If there is time, see a bit of the park while you're there to get a feel for the place. Then get yourself back here."

"If I miss the ferry, is there a place-"

"I don't care if you have answers or not, you will make damn sure that you don't miss the last ferry."

His anger was a heat that filled the space between them.

"Why is it so important?" she finally asked.

"Because things . . . change . . . on Wyrd after dark, and you don't want to be there when that happens."


Charles Forrester escorted Beth Fahey to the patrol car that would take her to the ferry’s pier. Then he returned to his office and closed the door before making the phone call.

"Frost." A voice that resonated with a power that made people hesitate to enter shadowy places.

"It's Charles Forrester." No response. There wouldn't be. The Arcana didn't waste time on small talk. "My new detective is on her way to the island to ask for your assistance in confirming some details on a case. She's green as grass and unfamiliar with Wyrd."

"You know how things are done here."

"I do. I'm asking for your understanding if she makes mistakes when dealing with you or your kin."

"When is she due to arrive?"

"She'll be on the next ferry."

"Soon, then."

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

Charles considered the question carefully. You never accused the Arcana of wrongdoing. They didn't care about such things when it concerned the mundane world. The Arcana in Destiny Park simply facilitated people who either tried to change their fate or wanted to fulfill their destiny. "A man from King's Hill has hired a private investigator to find his missing spouse. I have an appointment with the PI and should have more details later this afternoon. Apparently, the wife is mentally fragile, which is why the husband is particularly concerned about her disappearance-and why the PI is checking in with police stations all along the river." --This text refers to the hardcover edition.

 

About the Author
website
New York Times bestselling author Anne Bishop is a winner of the William L. Crawford Memorial Fantasy Award, presented by the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts, for The Black Jewels Trilogy. She is also the author of the Ephemera series, the Tir Alainn trilogy, the Novels of the Others, and the World of the Others novels—including Crowbones and Wild Country. She lives in upstate New York.