Authors

This morning, while I waited for Gordon’s MRI, my phone made this video for me complete with the overly sentimental music. Apparently I take a lot of pictures of the orange menace. He got in trouble yesterday because he was very pushy about shoving the dogs aside to sit in a specific spot on my lap.

Behold, Tuna the Cat.

He can never see this, or his ego will be even bigger.

The post Tuna’s Video first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

So I’ve been living under a holiday rock. The tree is still up. Yes, I know, but it’s pretty. I will take it down, leave me alone.

Anyway, I just now saw this.

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A post shared by Elisabeth Wheatley (@elisabethwheatley)

I think Elizabeth Wheatley is in Austin and I so owe her a lunch and a coffee. Thank you for making my day! You can find Elizabeth’s books at her online home, at https://elisabethwheatley.com/.

The post The Book Goblin first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

The Series Collide Kickstarter is winding down. As of this writing, we have hit two stretch goals, which brings the total of short stories you’ll get when you back the Kickstarter to 104. Given the unpredictability at the end of a Kickstarter, we might add anywhere from two to four more stories to that total as we hit even more goals.

That’s a lot of reading.

I don’t know about you folks, but I’m finding myself in great need of escapism right now. Fiction is the best way to block out the problems of 2025. What could be better than concentrating on some made-up adventures right now?

The Series Collide Kickstarter features 100 short stories in 36 series. Fifty stories are by me and fifty are by Dean. Think of the five books in the Kickstarter as a massive sampler. You can sample each series and if you like what you’ve read, you’ll have a lot more series reading ahead of you.

As an illustration, read this week’s Free Fiction story. It’s from my Retrieval Artist series. If you like it, there are 15 novels to grab your attention.

So head on over to the Kickstarter. In addition to the five Series Collide books, you can find other short story collections as well as some writing workshops and the opportunity to submit stories to Pulphouse Magazine (which is usually closed to submissions.)

 

Polish published Vesper has revealed the cover for Żądlak, their upcoming translation of Stinger, to be published in February 2025! The art is by Maciej Kamuda, and the translation is by Sławomir Kędzierski.

Żądlak on the Vesper website

From the award-winning, bestselling Retrieval Artist Universe comes a story about a pulse-pounding race for survival and a foreshadowing of dangerous events yet to unfold.

Takara Hamasaki made plans to leave the far-flung starbase for weeks, but something always stopped her. Until today. Now, she finds herself running for her life as bodies fall all around her, cut down by dozens of identical-looking men. If only she can reach her ship, maybe she can escape. Because one thing seems perfectly clear: The men attacking the starbase plan to leave no survivors.  

“Sole Survivor” is available for one week on this site. The ebook is also available on all retail stores, as well as here.

Love my series stories, like the Retrieval Artist? Support the latest Kickstarter containing 50 stories from my different series – Go here now to check it out! 

 

Sole Survivor A Retrieval Artist Universe Story by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

 

Takara Hamasaki crouched behind the half-open door, her heart pounding. She stared into the corridor, saw more boots go by. Good god, they made such a horrible thudding noise.

Her mouth tasted of metal, and her eyes stung. The environmental system had to be compromised. Which didn’t surprise her, given the explosion that happened not three minutes ago.

The entire starbase rocked from it. The explosion had to have been huge. The base’s exterior was compensating—that had come through her desk just before she left—but she didn’t know how long it would compensate.

That wasn’t true; she knew it could compensate forever if nothing else went wrong. But she had a hunch a lot of other things would go wrong. Terribly wrong.

She’d had that feeling for months now. It had grown daily, until she woke up every morning, wondering why the hell she hadn’t left yet.

Three weeks ago, she had started stocking her tiny ship, the crap-ass thing that had brought her here half her life ago. She would have left then, except for one thing:

She had no money.

Yeah, she had a job, and yeah, she got paid, but it cost a small fortune to live this far out. The base was in the middle of nowhere, barely in what the Earth Alliance called the Frontier, and a week’s food alone cost as much as her rent in the last Alliance place she had stayed. She got paid well, but every single bit of that money went back into living.

Dammit. She should have started sleeping in her ship. She’d been thinking of it, letting the one-room apartment go, but she kinda liked the privacy, and she really liked the amenities—entertainment on demand, a bed that wrapped itself around her and helped her sleep, and a view of the entire public district from above.

She liked to think it was that view that kept her in the apartment, but if she were honest with herself, it was that view and the bed and the entertainment, maybe not in that order.

And she was cursing herself now.

Then the men—they were all men—wearing boots and weird uniforms marched toward the center of the base. Thousands of people lived or stayed here, but there wasn’t much security. Not enough to deal with those men. She would hear that drumbeat of their stupid boots in her sleep for the rest of her life.

If the rest of her life wasn’t measured in hours. If she ever got a chance to sleep again.

Her traitorous heart was beating in time to those boots. She was breathing through her mouth, hating the taste of the air.

If nothing else, she had to get out of here just to get some good clean oxygen. She had no idea what was causing that burned-rubber stench, but something was, and it was getting worse.

More boots stomped by, and she realized she couldn’t tell the difference between the sound of those that had already passed her and those that were coming up the corridor.

She only had fifty meters to go to get to the docking ring, but that fifty meters seemed like a lightyear.

And she wouldn’t even be here, if it weren’t for her damn survival instinct. She had looked up—before the explosion—saw twenty blond-haired men, all of whom looked like twins. Ten twins—two sets of decaplets?—she had no idea what twenty identical people, the same age, and clearly monozygotic, were called. She supposed there was some name for them, but she wasn’t sure. And, as usual, her brain was busy solving that, instead of trying to save her own single individual untwinned life.

She had scurried through the starbase, utterly terrified. The moment she saw those men enter the base, she left her office through the service corridors. When that seemed too dangerous, she crawled through the bot holes. Thank the universe she was tiny. She usually hated the fact that she was the size of an eleven-year-old girl, and didn’t quite weigh 100 pounds.

At this moment, she figured her tiny size might just save her life.

That, and her prodigious brain. If she could keep it focused instead of letting it skitter away.

Twenty identical men—and that wasn’t the worst of it. They looked like younger versions of the creepy pale guys who had come into the office six months ago, looking for ships. They wanted to know the best place to buy ships in the starbase.

There was no place to buy new ships on the starbase. There were only old and abandoned ships. Fortunately, she had managed to prevent the sale of hers, a year ago. She’d illegally gone into the records and changed her ship’s status from delinquent to paid in full, and then she had made that paid-in-full thing repeat every year. (She’d check it, of course, but it hadn’t failed her, and now it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting off this damn base.)

Still those old creepy guys had gotten the names of some good dealers on some nearby satellites and moons, and had left—she thought forever—but they had come back with a scary fast ship and lots of determination.

And, it seemed, lots of younger versions of themselves.

(Clones. What if they were clones? What did that mean?)

The drumbeat of their stupid boots had faded. She scurried into the corridor, then heard a high-pitched male scream, and a thud.

Her heart picked up its own rhythm—faster, so fast, in fact that it felt like her heart was trying to get to the ship before she did.

She slammed herself against the corridor wall, felt it give (cheap-ass base) and caught herself before she fell inward on some unattached panel coupling.

She looked both ways, saw nothing, looked up, didn’t see any movement in the cameras—which the base insisted on keeping obvious so that all kinds of criminals would show up here. If the criminals knew where the monitors were, they felt safe, weirdly enough.

And this base needed criminals. This far outside of the Alliance, the only humans with money were the ones who had stolen it—either illegally or legally through some kind of enterprise that was allowed out here, but not inside the Alliance.

And this place catered to humans. It accepted non-human visitors, but no one here wanted them to stay. In the non-Earth atmosphere sections, the cameras weren’t obvious.

She thanked whatever deity was this far outside of the Alliance that she hadn’t been near the alien wing when the twenty creepy guys arrived and started marching in.

And then her brain offered up some stupid math it had been working on while she was trying to save her own worthless life.

She’d seen more than forty boots stomp past her.

That group of twenty lookalikes had only been the first wave.

Another scream and a thud. Then a woman’s voice:

No! No! I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll—

And the voice just stopped. No thud, no nothing. Just silence.

Takara swallowed hard. That metallic taste made her want to retch, but she didn’t. She didn’t have time for it. She could puke all she wanted when she got on that ship, and got the hell away from here.

She levered herself off the wall, wondering in that moment how long the gravity would remain on if the environmental system melted. Her nose itched—that damn smell—and she wiped the sleeve of her too-thin blouse over it.

She should have dressed better that morning. Not for work, but for escape. Stupid desk job. It made her feel so important. An administrator at 25. She should have questioned it.

She should have questioned so many things.

Like the creepy older guys who looked like the baked and fried versions of the men in boots, stomping down the corridors, killing people.

She blinked, wondered if her eyes were tearing because of the smell or because of her panic, then voted for the smell. The air in the corridor had a bit of white to it, like smoke or something worse, a leaking environment from the alien section.

She was torn between running and tip-toeing her way through the remaining forty-seven meters. She opted for a kind of jog-walk, that way her heels didn’t slap the floor like those boots stomped it.

Another scream, farther away, and the clear sound of begging, although she didn’t recognize the language. Human anyway, or something that spoke like a human and screamed like a human.

Why were these matching people stalking the halls killing everyone they saw? Were they trying to take over the base? If so, why not come to her office? Hers was the first one in the administrative wing, showing her lower-level status—in charge, but not in charge.

In charge enough to see that the base’s exterior was compensating for having a hole blown in it. In charge enough to know how powerful an explosion had to be to break through the shield that protected the base against asteroids and out-of-control ships and anything else that bounced off the thick layers of protection.

A bend in the corridor. Her eyes dripped, her nose dripped, and her throat felt like it was burning up.

She couldn’t see as clearly as she wanted to—no pure white smoke any more, some nasty brown stuff mixed in, and a bit of black.

She pulled off her blouse and put it over her face like a mask, wished she had her environmental suit, wished she knew where she could steal one right now, and then sprinted toward the docking ring.

If she kept walk-jogging, she’d never get there before the oxygen left the area.

Then something else shook the entire base. Like it had earlier. Another damn explosion.

She whimpered, rounded the last corner, saw the docking ring doors—closed.

She cursed (although she wasn’t sure if she did it out loud or just in her head) and hoped to that ever-present unknown deity that her access code still worked.

The minute those doors slid open, the matching marching murderers would know she was here. Or rather, that someone was here.

They’d come for her. They’d make her scream.

But she’d be damned if she begged.

She hadn’t begged ever, not when her dad beat her within an inch of her life, not when she got accused of stealing from that high-class school her mother had warehoused her in, not when her credit got cut off as she fled to the outer reaches of the Alliance.

She hadn’t begged no matter what situation she was in, and she wouldn’t now. It was a point of pride. It might be the last point of pride, hell, it might mark her last victory just before she died, but it would be a victory nonetheless, and it would be hers.

Takara slammed her hand against the identiscanner, then punched in a code, because otherwise she’d have to use her links, and she wasn’t turning them back on, maybe ever, because she didn’t want those crazy matching idiots to not only find her, but find her entire life, stored in the personal memory attached to her private access numbers.

The docking ring doors irised open, and actual air hit her. Real oxygen without the stupid smoky stuff, good enough to make her leap through the doors. Then she turned around and closed them.

She scanned the area, saw feet—not in boots—attached to motionless legs, attached to bleeding bodies, attached to people she knew, and she just shut it all off, because if she saw them as friends or co-workers or hell, other human beings, she wouldn’t be able to run past them, wouldn’t be able to get to her ship, wouldn’t get the hell out of here.

She kept her shirt against her face, just in case, but her eyes were clearing. The air here looked like air, but it smelled like a latrine. Death—fast death, recent death. She’d used it for entertainment, watched it, read about it, stepped inside it virtually, but she’d never experienced it. Not really, not like this.

Her ship, the far end of this ring, the cheap area, where the base bent downward and would have brushed the top of some bigger ship, something that actually had speed and firepower and worth.

Then she mentally corrected herself: her ship had worth. It would get her out of this death trap. She would escape before one of those tall blond booted men found her. She would—

—she flew forward, landed on her belly, her elbow scraping against the metal walkway, air leaving her body. Her shirt went somewhere, her chin banged on the floor, and then the sound—a whoop-whamp, followed by a sustained series of crashes.

Something was collapsing, or maybe one of the explosions was near her, or she had no damn idea, she just knew she had to get out, get out, get out—

She pushed herself to her feet, her knees sore too, her pants torn, her stomach burning, but she didn’t look down because the feel of that burn matched the feel of her elbow, so she was probably scraped.

She didn’t even grab her shirt; she just ran the last meter to her ship, which had moved even with its mooring clamps—good god, something was shaking this place, something bad, something big.

Her ship was so small, it didn’t even have a boarding ramp. The door was pressed against the clamps, or it should have been, but there was a gap between the clamps and the ship and the walkway, and it was probably tearing something in the ship, but she didn’t want to think about that so she didn’t.

Instead, she slammed her palm against the door four times, the emergency enter code, which wasn’t a code at all, but was something she thought (back when she was young and stupid and new to access codes) no one would figure out.

What she hadn’t figured out was that no one wanted this cheap-ass ship, so no one tried to break into it. No one wanted to try, no one cared, except her, right now, as the door didn’t open and didn’t open and didn’t open—

—and then it did.

Her brain was slowing down time. She’d heard about this phenomenon, something happened chemically in the human brain, slowed perception, made it easier (quicker?) to make decisions—and there her stupid brain was again, thinking about the wrong things as she tried to survive.

Hell, that had helped her survive as a kid, this checking-out thing in the middle of an emergency, but it wasn’t going to help her now.

She scrambled inside her ship, felt it tilt, heard the hull groan. If she didn’t do something about those clamps, she wouldn’t have a ship.

She somehow remembered to slap the door’s closing mechanism before she sprinted to the cockpit. Her bruised knees made her legs wobbly or maybe the ship was tilting even more. The groaning in the hull was certainly increasing.

The cockpit door was open, the place was a mess, as always. She used to sleep in here on long runs, and she always meant to clean up the blankets and pillows and clothes, but never did.

Now she stood in the middle of it, and turned on the navigation board. She instructed the ship to decouple, then turned her links on—not all of them, just the private link that hooked her to the ship—and heard more groaning.

“Goddammit!” she screamed at the ship, slamming her hands on the board. “Decouple, decouple—get rid of the goddamn clamps!”

Inform space traffic control to open the exit through the rings, the ship said in its prissiest voice as if there was no emergency.

Tears pricked her eyes. Crap. She’d be stuck here because of some goddamn rule that ship couldn’t take off if there was no exit. She’d die if there was another explosion.

“There’s no space traffic control here,” she said. “Space traffic control is dead. We have to get out. Everyone’s dead.”

Her voice wobbled just like the ship had as she realized what she had said. Everyone. Everyone she had worked with, her friends, her co-workers, the people she drank with, laughed with, everyone—

We cannot leave if the exit isn’t open, the ship said slowly and even more prissily, if that were possible.

“Then ram it,” she said.

That will destroy us, the ship said, so damn calmly. Like it had no idea they were about to be destroyed anyway.

Takara ran her fingers over the board, looking for—she couldn’t remember. This thing was supposed to have weapons, but she’d never used them, didn’t know exactly what they were. She’d bought this stupid ship for a song six years ago, and the weapons were only mentioned in passing.

She couldn’t find anything, so she gambled.

“Blow a damn hole through the closed exit,” she said, not knowing if she could do that, if the ship even allowed that. Weren’t there supposed to be failsafes so that no one could blow a hole through something on this base?

That will leave us with only one remaining laser shot, the ship said.

“I don’t give a good goddamn!” she screamed. “Fire!”

And it did. Or something happened. Because the ship heated, and rocked and she heard a bang like nothing she’d ever heard before, and the sound of things falling on the ship.

“Get us out of here!” she shouted.

And the ship went upwards, fast, faster than ever.

She tumbled backwards. The attitude controls were screwed or the gravity or something but she didn’t care.

“Visuals,” she said, and floating on the screens that appeared in front of her was the hole that the ship had blown through the exit, and debris heading out with them, and bits of ship—and then she realized that there were bits of more than ship. Bits of the starbase and other ships and son of a bitch, more bodies and—

“Make sure you don’t hit anything,” she said, not knowing how to give the correct command.

I will evade large debris, the ship said as if this were an everyday occurrence. However, I do need a destination.

“Far the fuck away from here,” Takara said.

How far?

“I don’t know,” she said. “Out of danger.”

She was pressed against what she usually thought of as the side wall, with blankets and smelly sheets and musty pillows against her.

“And fix the attitude controls and the gravity, would you?” she snapped.

The interior of the ship seemed to right itself. She flopped on her stomach again, only this time, it didn’t hurt.

She stood, her mouth wet and tasting of blood. She put a hand to her face, realized her nose was bleeding, and grabbed a sheet, stuffing it against her skin.

She dragged it with her to the controls. The images had disappeared (had she ordered that? She didn’t remember ordering that) and so she called them up again, saw more body parts, and globules of stuff (blood? Intestines?) and shut it all off—consciously this time.

God, she was lucky. She had administration codes. She had a sense that things were going bad. She had her ship ready. And, most important of all, she had been close enough to the docking ring to get out of there before anyone knew she even existed.

She sank into the chair and closed her eyes, wondering what in the bloody hell was going on.

She’d met those men, the creepy older ones, and asked her boss what they wanted with ships, and he’d said, Better not to ask, hon.

He always called her hon, and she finally realized it was because he couldn’t remember her name. And now he was dead or would be dead or was dying or something awful like that. He’d been inside the administration area when the twenty clones had come in—or the forty clones—or the sixty clones, god, she had no idea how many.

It was her boss’s boss who answered her, later, when she mentioned that the men looked alike.

Don’t ask about it, Takara, he’d said quietly. They’re creatures of someone else. Designer Criminal Clones. They need a ship for nefarious doings.

They’re not in charge? She’d asked.

He’d shaken his head. Someone made them for a job.

Her eyes opened, saw the mess that her cockpit had become. A job. They’d had to find fast ships for a job.

But if the creepy older ones were made for a job, so were the younger versions.

She called up the screens, asked for images of the starbase. It was a small base, far away from anything, important only to malcontents and criminals, and those, like her, whose ships wouldn’t cross the great distance between human-centered planets without a rest and refueling stop.

The starbase was glowing—fires inside, except where the exterior had been breached. Those sections were dark and ruined. It looked like a volcano that had already exploded—twice. More than twice. Several times.

Ship, her ship said, and for a minute, she thought it was being recursive.

“What?” she asked.

Approaching quickly. Starboard side.

She swiveled the view, saw a ship twice the size of hers, familiar too. The creepy older men had come back to the starbase in a ship just like that.

“Can you show me who is inside?” she asked.

I can show you who the ship is registered to and who disembarked from it earlier today, her ship sent. I cannot show who is inside it now.

Then, on an inset screen floating near the other screens, images of the two creepy older men and five younger leaving the ship. They went inside the base.

“Did anyone else who looked like them—”

The other clones disembarked from a ship that landed an hour later, her ship answered, anticipating her question for once. Did ships think?

Then she shook her head. She knew better than that. Ships like this one had computers that could deduce based on past performance, nothing more.

That ship has been destroyed, the ship sent, along with the docking ring.

“What?” Takara asked. She moved the imagery again, saw another explosion. The docking ring about five minutes after she left.

She was trembling. Everyone gone. Except her. And the creepy men, and maybe the five young guys they had brought with them.

Bastards. Filthy stinking horrible asshole bastards.

“You said we have one shot left,” she said.

Yes, but—

“Target that ship,” she said. “Blow the hell out of it.”

Our laser shot cannot penetrate their shields.

Her gaze scanned the area. Other ships whirling, twirling, looping through space, heading her way.

Their way.

She ran through the records stored in her links. She’d always made copies of things. She was anal that way, and scared enough to figure she might need blackmail material.

One thing she did handle as a so-called administrator: requests to dock for ships with unusual fuel sources. She kept them on the far side of the ring.

She scanned for them, and their unusual size, saw one, realized it had a huge fuel cell, still intact.

“Can you shoot that ship?” she asked, sending the image across the links, “and push it into the manned ship?”

What she wanted to say was “the ship with the creepy guys,” but she knew her ship wouldn’t know what she meant.

Yes, her ship sent. But it will do nothing to the ship except make them collide.

“Oh, yes it will,” Takara said. “Make sure the fuel cell hits the manned ship directly.”

That will cause a chain reaction that will be so large it might impact us, her ship sent.

“Yeah, then get us out of here,” Takara said.

We have a forty-nine percent chance of survival if we try that, her ship sent.

“Which is better than what we’ll have if that fucking ship catches up with us,” Takara said.

Are you ordering me to take the shot? Her ship asked.

“Yes!”

Her ship shook slightly as the last laser shot emerged from the front. The manned ship didn’t even seem to notice or care that she had firepower. Of course, from their perspective, she had missed them.

The shot went wide, hit the other ship, and destroyed part of its hull, pushing it into the manned ship.

And nothing happened. They collided, and then bounced away, the manned ship’s trajectory changed and little else.

Then the other ship’s fuel cell glowed green, and Takara’s ship sped up, again losing attitude control and sending her flying into the back wall.

An explosion—green and gold and white—flashed around her.

She looked up from the pile of blankets at the floating screens, saw only debris, and asked, “Did we do it?”

Our shot hit the ship. It exploded. Our laser shot ignited the fuel cell—

“I know,” she snapped. “What about the manned ship?”

It is destroyed.

She let out a sigh of relief, then leaned back against the wall, gathering the pillows and blanket against her. The blood had dried on her face, and she hadn’t even noticed until now. Her elbow ached, her knees stung, and her stomach hurt, and she felt—

Alive.

She felt alive and giddy and sad and terrified and…

Curious.

She scanned through the information on the creepy men. They didn’t have names, at least that they had given to the administration. Just numbers. Numbers that didn’t make sense.

She saw some imagery: the men talking to her boss, saying something about training missions for their weapons, experimental weapons, and something about soldiers—a promise of a big payout if the experiment worked.

And if it doesn’t? her boss asked.

The creepy men smiled. You’ll know if it doesn’t.

Practice sessions. Soldiers. A failed experiment. Had her boss realized that’s what this was in his last moment of life? Had he indeed known?

And the men, heading off to report the failure to someone.

But they hadn’t gotten there. She had stopped them.

But not the someone in charge.

She ran a hand over her face. She would send all of this to Alliance. There wasn’t much more she could do. She wasn’t even sure what the Alliance could do.

This was the Frontier. It was lawless by any Alliance definition. Each place governed itself.

She had liked that when she arrived. She was untraceable, unknown, completely alone.

Then she’d made friends, realized that every place had a rhythm, every place had good and bad parts, and she had decided to stay. Become someone.

Until she got that feeling from the creepy men, and had planned to leave.

“Fix the attitude and gravity controls, would you?” she asked, only this time, she didn’t sound panicked or upset.

The ship righted itself. Apparently when it sped up, it didn’t have enough power for all of its functions. She was going to need to get repairs.

Maybe in the Alliance. She had enough fuel to get there.

She’d been stockpiling. Food, fuel, everything but money.

She could get back to a place where there were laws she understood, where someone didn’t blow up a starbase as an experiment with creepy matching soldiers.

She’d let the authorities know that someone—a very scary someone—was planning something. But what she didn’t know. She didn’t even know if it was directed against the Alliance.

She would guess it wasn’t.

It would take more than twenty, forty, sixty, one hundred matching (fuckups) soldiers to defeat the Alliance. No one had gone to war against it in centuries. It was too big.

Something like this had to be Frontier politics. A war against something else, or an invasion or something.

And it had failed.

All of the soldiers had died.

Along with everyone else.

Except her, of course.

She hadn’t died.

She had lived to tell about it.

And she would tell whoever would listen.

Once she was safe inside the Alliance.

A place too big to be attacked. Too big to be defeated.

Too big to ever allow her to go through anything like this again.

 

____________________________________________

“Sole Survivor” is available for one week on this site. The ebook is also available on all retail stores, as well as here.

Love my series stories, like the Retrieval Artist Series? Support the latest Kickstarter containing 50 stories from my different series – Go here now to check it out! 

Sole Survivor

Copyright © 2015 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
First published in Fiction River: Pulse Pounders, edited by Kevin J. Anderson, WMG Publishing, January 2015
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and Layout copyright © 2015 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © Philcold/Dreamstime

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

I missed December, and apologize: I was writing. I’m still writing; Cast in Blood isn’t finished, and it may undergo a title change by the end. Also, I’m now in the “panic about how long this book is going to be” phase of the novel, but it is otherwise going well. In advance: this will not be the last Barrani book. I am hoping to finish, with a reasonable arc, a book that is going to be followed by another Cast Barrani book. Just saying. My entire household succumbed to the stomach flu a week ago, and we have all mostly recovered, although I’m now in that state were, having eaten almost nothing for a week, my body assumes it is … Continue reading →

As some of you remember, Clean Sweep was adapted into comic book format by Tapas. It has been licensed by Andrews McMeel and released as a beautiful graphic novel. Because of the length, Clean Sweep was broken into 2 volumes.

Volume I

The second volume of Clean Sweep will be released on January 28th. Tada!

Volume II

To be clear: this is not Sweep in Peace. It’s the second half of Clean Sweep. The comic book expanded the story and added new characters.

When the first volume was released, Andrews McMeel offered these stickers below as a giveaway. As an aside, they have been an awesome publisher to work with. Highly recommend.

There was some butthurt regarding people not being able to buy the stickers.

The stickers for Volume I featured cute versions of the characters. These cutified characters are called chibis. In the example below, top panel is regular art and the bottom part is chibi art. Usage of chibis in comic books usually indicates light-hearted or funny moments when a character is comically upset, for example.

Andrews McMeel just asked us about the stickers for Volume II. BDH, we need your help!

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

And

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Let your opinions flow!

The post The Clean Sweep: Vol II and the Dilemma of Stickers first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

There are lots of things I would like to write about today. Our lives are busy right now, in a variety of ways, all of them pretty positive. I have professional stuff going on, personal stuff going on. I could write about all of it.

But Los Angeles is on fire. I’m writing this as the weekend approaches. Maybe — MAYBE — by the time you read this, the fires will be under control. But I doubt it. The photographs of damage on the ground are horrendous. The satellite imagery — before and after shots of neighborhoods and towns — is terrifying. The pictures posted overnight of the fires as seen from airplanes on approach to LAX look like something out of a disaster movie.

I don’t live in California (not anymore, but I once did; I love the state), but I have family and friends who do, people I love who have been impacted directly by this mind-boggling tragedy. Chances are, you do, too. Or if not you, then someone close to you does.

That’s the thing about climate change. It touches all of us. We don’t have to be in the path of the latest Category 5 hurricane, or impacted by yet another drought, or threatened by apocalyptic fires, for its impacts to reach us. It’s not all cataclysm and news headlines. It’s higher grocery prices resulting from crop damage (storms, heat, frost, drought, flood — take your pick). It’s stronger winds resulting from greater temperature gradients, which lead in turn to harder headwinds when we fly, or more turbulence, and yes, greater, more frequent delays at the airport.

It’s hotter summers and milder winters. It’s also more storms year-round, except, of course, during droughts. It’s more mosquitoes and ticks. It’s less snow for ski resorts. It’s vanishing glaciers in our beautiful national parks. It’s more mass extinctions, falling bird populations (30% of North American birds have been lost in the last fifty years, not all because of climate change, but it’s a significant factor), and frightening losses in the populations of our natural pollinators.

It’s greater strains on our electrical grid, more blackouts, a greater need for frequent rolling power outages, all of which contribute to higher utility costs. It’s increased insurance premiums, as insurance companies race to recoup the losses caused by the aforementioned floods and fires and storms.

Climate change is a thousand different things. Some cause inconveniences and cost us a few bucks. Some cause deaths, disease, injuries, and cost our society billions.

“We don’t get as much snow as we used to.”

“There are more storms than there used to be.”

“Glacier National Park won’t have glaciers for much longer.”

“Los Angeles is on fire.”

It’s not a hoax. It’s not a left-wing plot to grow government and control our lives. It’s not a figment of some scientists’ imaginations. It’s real. It’s borne out in evidence gathered by meteorologists, physicists, biologists, ecologists, and historians. It is a threat to our economy, our way of life, and the health and welfare of every person on the planet, as well as our children and grandchildren.

If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem. The proof is in all that our planet has experienced over the past half century and more. Refusing to acknowledge the truth of climate change does nothing to slow it down or mitigate its myriad costs. All it does is ensure that future generations will pay an ever greater price for our failures.

But if you still don’t believe me, take five minutes — five full minutes — to look at the images coming out of Southern California. I guarantee, you’ve never seen anything like it. None of us has. We will see it again, though. Sooner rather than later, with ever-increasing frequency.

As to the suggestion made by some Republicans, including the Felon-elect, that California should be denied disaster aid because Democratic Governor Gavin Newsom has mismanaged the state’s water resources, I will simply refer you to this article from the BBC: https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/czj3yk90kpyo

Not only are GOP claims baseless, they are deeply cruel. Denying aid to the state won’t hurt Newsom. It will hurt innocent people who have lost their homes and businesses. And if blame for this travesty falls on anyone, it ought to be those who have spent the last three decades denying that climate change is real, the political Neros who pander to the fossil fuel industry while the planet burns.

Climate change is here. It’s merciless and indiscriminate. You can see its impact on your televisions and computer screens and smart phones right now. And it’s only getting worse.

Power tools and alcohol, what could possibly go wrong?

I’ll be in my bunker.

Do I need to be awake? And, maybe, running away?

Naw, I’m sure it’ll turn out fine.

Thank you for the overview of Motion Essentia. There are some useful features there, pity that Stephen isn’t going to be able to use his skills in this area (or have a hard time if he does!). Maybe House Ashford could fund a Sigl or two?

I’m typing this on my new Goldtouch keyboard, and so far I don’t like it. I like how the keys feel, but this one doesn’t come apart. It splits, and I can’t seem to find a comfortable position with it. The ergonomic mouse, however, is a dream.

In the news interesting to nobody except my family, my bloodwork came back and my A1C is 5.5. I’m officially in the normal diabetic range. I did a little dance to my husband’s amusement.

I’m still having trouble really revving my writing engine up. It takes a little bit to slide back into writing full speed mindset and it’s a little elusive at the moment. But a friend sent me a rumor that apparently we are not working on Hugh 2 and the prologue was a fake out somehow. I love you, BDH. Never change!

Chapter 1

Hugh D’Ambray, Preceptor of Iron Dogs, former Warlord of the Builder of Towers, and Savior of Aberdine, stared through the window of his study and brooded. 

He was on the fifth floor of the main keep, a hundred-foot-tall square tower that anchored Baile Castle to the top of the hill.  The keep had a crenelated turret on each corner.  He was in the southeastern turret now, standing by a small desk he’d brought there a month ago.

His new study had two windows.  The left presented a beautiful night landscape of the castle grounds, the sloping hill, and the dense, dark woods stretching as far as the eye could see, the kind of old growth forest that Kentucky hadn’t seen for centuries, fed by the magic waves that flooded the world without warning. The right window offered him the view of the southwestern turret.

The night came quickly at the end of November, the sky a deep indigo studded with an occasional star. The moon was out, full and pale like a coin in the sky, and its light snagged on the pale stone of the castle. The magic had retreated three days ago and was yet to return, and the turret’s arched window glowed with warm electric light. He could see a small desk with a stack of papers on top of it and a chair.

The harpy wasn’t in it.

His wife was a creature of habit.  For three weeks he watched her enter the study at around 8:00 pm, sit in that chair, and then work for at least an hour.  Sometimes she read reports. Sometimes she wrote. Occasionally she puttered around with some herbs or did other witchy things, but no matter what else happened that day, he could count on seeing her white hair and her profile in that window. It had become a habit. He would work at his desk, she would work at hers, and once in a while he would glance up and see her there. He liked knowing where she was.

On Monday, when Elara wasn’t at her desk, he didn’t worry.  Occasional deviation from routine was normal. On Tuesday, she wasn’t at her desk again. On Wednesday, she wasn’t there either.

Something or someone was keeping her from her desk.

Yesterday, after waiting for half an hour, he thought of an excuse, marched down the long hallway separating their quarters, and knocked on her door.  She met him at the doorway and didn’t invite him in. He made an ass of himself, hoping to irritate her enough so she’d slip up and give some hint as to what she was doing, but she just shut the door.  He learned nothing.

It was Thursday now. The chair was empty.

There was a textured ledge running just under his window all the way to the other turret. It was 20 inches deep.

If she had someone in there with her who was keeping her occupied, he would have no way of knowing. He had kept his main door open since Tuesday night, but he didn’t hear anyone come up the stairs and parking himself in the doorway to watch the approach to her rooms would be too obvious.

Hugh unlatched the window.  It swung inward and the cold air hit him. He crouched on the windowsill, grabbed the edge of the window, and stepped onto the ledge.  Below him, the hard stones of the bailey were barely visible in the gauzy moonlight. If he slipped, the trip down would be short and brutal.

He pressed his back against the stone and took a sideway step toward the other turret.

Step.  Another. The turret didn’t seem any closer.

He was a fucking fool.

Happy Friday!

The post A Fool first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Ithaki Publications in Turkey is releasing Kuğu Şarkısı, their Turkish translation of Swan Song, on January 16, 2025! They acquired the rights in 2020, and they previously published Boy’s Life in 2022. Both books were translated by Esat Ören. The cover has been added to the Book Cover Gallery. Thanks to Turkish reader Ahmet Okan for the heads-up!

Kuğu Şarkısı on Ithaki’s website

Audrey Brunner sent in her interpretations of the main characters of Swan Song. Thanks, Audrey!

Jim will be attending C2E2 April 11th-13th in Chicago Illinois! Tickets are available on C2E2’s website. For schedules and for any changes in times or location, please visit their website.

In reply to Bill.

Just to add, we have seen three groups of raiders in the series (four if you count Stephen’s) and only Tier had taken along a technician to extract the Essentia…

The preorder for the dramatized adaptation of Magic Binds, Kate Daniels 9, is live on the Graphic Audio website. The release will be March 25th on all platforms – that means for the GA app as well as Audible, Hoopla, Chirp etc.

Mercenary Kate Daniels knows all too well that magic in post-Shift Atlanta is a dangerous business. But nothing she’s faced could have prepared her for what’s to come in this heart-stopping novel in the #1 New York Times bestselling series.

Kate and the former Beast Lord Curran Lennart are finally making their relationship official. But there are some steep obstacles standing in the way of their walk to the altar.

Kate’s father, Roland, has kidnapped the demigod Saiman and is slowly bleeding him dry in a never-ending bid for power. A Witch Oracle has predicted that if Kate marries the man she loves, Atlanta will burn and she will lose him forever. And the only person Kate can ask for help is long dead.

The odds are impossible. The future is grim. But Kate Daniels has never been one to play by the rules…

I am excited for every one of these immersive releases, but Magic Binds is my favourite of the KD main series, so I double-extra cannot wait. Roman wedding planner extraordinaire, Christopher’s identity revealed, Kate in a tutu, the battle for Atlanta AND the realisation that GA Magic Triumphs is right around the corner, which will of course be epic!

I’m trying to pace myself, so I’ll remind you that first we have the Graphic Audio release of Magic Shifts this month, on the 31st of January. We’ll get exclusive samples of it closer to the date.

I know that everyone wants to know what will happen after the main Kate series is fully adapted. Will we get the same full cast of actors, immersive sound effects and cinematic music treatment for Gunmetal Magic, Magic Stars, the Wilmington Years, Iron and Magic, Blood Heir? I don’t yet have answers for you, I’m afraid, but our enthusiasm has been heard.

What I can share is that we had a very productive meeting just before the holidays – and the official release for the dramatized adaptation of Burn for Me, Hidden Legacy 1, is scheduled by Graphic Audio for April 25th this year.

So we’ll have overlapping Kates and Nevadas for a while, living the Horde dream!

The post Graphic Audio Preorders and News first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

As we do every January, Dean and I are participating in Kickstarter’s Make 100 Project. This year, we put together five big thick books with stories from our various series. Each of us has 10 stories in each book, and all of the stories are great introductions to the series that we write.

I have a slight quibble with our tag line. Yes, Dean & I are two authors, but some of my other pen names make guest appearances. You’ll find some Kristine Grayson short stories in these books as well as Kris Nelscott stories. So that’s at least four authors…

You’ll also find Retrieval Artist stories here, Spade and Paladin, Winston & Ruby, some stories from Seavy Village, Diving, the Fey…and that’s just me. Dean’s stories will introduce you to some great characters, from Poker Boy to Pakhet Jones.

The Kickstarter has just gone live. You can visit it and see all the fun rewards if you click here.

Here’s the video I did for the Kickstarter. Enjoy!

Hi, everyone

This probably requires some explanation.

If you have been following my work for some time, you will know that I created Schooled In Magic – a cross between Harry Potter and Lest Darkness Falls in which the heroine is transported to another world, goes to a magic school, and start introducing semi-modern ideas, innovations, technologies that eventually create a steampunk world in which magic and technology not only coexist but enhance each other in a number of surprising ways. It is a world where airships and guns face witches on broomsticks and wizards with magic wands. At this point in the saga, the pace of change is picking up and nothing is certain any longer, from the limits of magic to politics and just about everything else.

Naturally, you can download the first book in the series from Kindle Unlimited here (it will be free between 8/1/2025-12/1/2025):

And you can see the other books in the series here:

https://chrishanger.net/Published/SIMseries/SIMindex.html

The Princess Exile is a stand-alone book set in that universe. You do not have to know much more about the universe than what I said above to understand it, as pretty much all the characters in this book are new. Some locations are not, but I will try to fill in as much detail as possible as I go along.

And now I’ve got your attention …

Please join my mailing list (https://chrishanger.simplelists.com/chrishanger/subscribe/) as in this day and age it is the only way to keep up with every new release. I promise I won’t spam you with anything other than my releases: I do have a blog, which is a little more than just new releases, and you can see it at https://chrishanger.wordpress.com/

or you can just follow me through any of the other ways listed here: https://chrishanger.net/How%20To%20Follow.html

Links to the general theme, Fantastic Schools are currently (and constantly) looking for new authors. If you are interested in writing for us, please check out the link below:

.https://chrishanger.net/Fantasticschools/FSindex.html

Thank you for your time

Chris

Prologue

The most frustrating thing about Princess Anastasia, Circe had discovered over the last two years, was that she didn’t have any idea how lucky she was.

She was the only child of King Arthur and Queen Marion, the acknowledged heir to the Kingdom of Rockfall. Her kingdom was not inherently opposed to a woman taking the throne and ruling in her own right, and there were no suggestions she should marry a good man and let him rule the kingdom in her name. She was young and beautiful, with long dark hair, a pale face and a well-developed body that had the poets writing sonnets to her beauty, sonnets that were not in any way exaggerated by crawlers hoping for Royal patronage. Her beauty owed nothing to the magic flowing through her veins, nor a small collection of cosmetics the castle staff kept on hand for older and far less secure aristocratic woman. The Princess truly was a lucky girl.

She was also lazy.

She had the very best of tutors, from a father who ruled his kingdom with a combination of a firm hand and practical politicking to experts in everything from magic to reading, writing, and numbers. She was very far from stupid, and she could learn a great deal about anything that interested her with remarkable speed, but she had little interest in making use of the resources around her to broaden her mind. Her father found it hard to convince her to attend court, her tutors found it harder still to make her pay mind to her lessons. She had mastered the basics – she could read and write and few would deny her calligraphy was the equal of her father’s – but showed no interest in learning more. She spent more time riding her horse than she did behind a desk, learning the skills she would need when her father passed on and left her the kingdom.

Circe found it outrageous. She had climbed out of the gutter through a combination of magic, ruthlessness, and sheer dumb luck. If she hadn’t found someone willing to school her in magic, and so many other skills denied to a lowborn guttersnipe, she knew it was unlikely she would have survived to reach adulthood. She had made a devil’s bargain, trading her body and her mind for lessons the Princess was offered for free, and it was hard not to feel anger and resentment at how the Princess disdained the learning that would likely save her life. She had so many opportunities and she declined them all, to her own detriment. The Princess was too intolerant to pay attention to politics, but Circe was not. Her father was holding the kingdom together through sheer force of will and bloody mindedness. It was unclear if his daughter could master the arts of government in time to take the helm when he died. Circe would not have cared to put money on it. Rockfall was in for some rough times.

The worst thing of all, she reflected in the privacy of her own mind, was that it was hard to hate Princess Anastasia.

The Princess was lazy, and intolerant, but she wasn’t a bad person. Circe had seen aristocratic girls and women treat their maids like slaves, lashing out at them physically or verbally every time they were even slightly displeased. She had heard tales of far worse, from young women who took service the households of the great and the good to maidens who found themselves seduced and then abandoned by their aristocratic paramours, and compared to many others life in the Princess’s tiny household was surprisingly pleasant. If Circe had been a genuine Lady’s Maid, she would have lit incense in thanks for such a caring mistress.

And if Circe had been less driven to attain power, by any means necessary, she might have had second thoughts about what she intended to do.

It would have been easier, in some ways, if her mistress had been truly unpleasant. Circe would have had no qualms about displacing a horrible person, and anyone who noticed the swap would likely keep their mouth shut for fear of the original returning. She knew better than to allow sympathy, or even guilt, to distract her – she had already gone too far to stop now – but it was still a little harder than it should have been to take the final step. She told herself that she was doing the Princess a favour, giving Anastasia the sort of lesson her parents should have given her a long time ago, but Circe doubted Anastasia would feel the same way. The hell of it was that Circe herself would have been delighted, if someone had made her the same offer.

But the Princess did not know how lucky she truly was.

The bell rang. Circe stood, brushing down her dress. It was time.

Hardly anyone noticed her as she made her way to the Princess’s chambers. She had always taken care to dress as drably as possible, to make no attempt to exploit her position as the Princess’s maid, to do as little as possible to draw attention to herself. A handful of castle servants, more observant than their masters, had wondered at her willingness to remain in the shadows, but none had realised the truth. Being unseen gave one a kind of freedom, a freedom she had ruthlessly exploited. It had taken months of effort to subvert the castle wards, to allow herself a degree of access and control that would have shocked the court wizard if he ever realised what she had done, but it was about to pay off.

She stopped outside the door and centred herself. Once she stepped inside, she was committed. She could still stop herself …

No. That wasn’t possible. She had committed herself long ago.

And now it was time to make the final move and reap her reward.

Chapter One

“I don’t want to hear any more,” Princess Anastasia said, firmly.”I’ve had quite enough.”

The Royal Tutor blinked owlishly at her. He was younger than most tutors, with an air of grim determination that was oddly subverted by the way his tutoring robes hung oddly around his body. The appearance of an elderly man of letters, a person of great knowledge and practical wisdom, was difficult for a young man to project, no matter how well he knew his material. He’d yet to master the skill of making his lessons interesting, no matter how boring the subject matter, and it cost him. There were few other ways to keep a young woman of noble blood, let alone a princess, focusing on her work.

“But Your Highness …”

“You are dismissed,” Anastasia said. She picked up the textbook, the latest – and probably already outdated – tome on political developments since the end of the Necromantic Wars and passed it to him. “I’ll send for you when I am ready to resume the lessons.”

The tutor bowed, moving far more spryly than most of his peers could hope, and backed out of the chamber. Anastasia watched him go, somehow resisting the urge to point out that his wig was crooked, on the verge of falling off. Whoever had designed the poor man’s robes had a great deal to answer for, particularly the insistence that their wearers should either dye their hair grey or wear a grey wig. It might give an elderly man a sense of dignity, but it made a young man seem a fool, a child wearing his father’s clothes. They just didn’t suit him.

She sank back into her chair, feeling a twinge of envy. The tutor – it dawned on her, not for the first time, that she honestly didn’t recall the young man’s name – had chosen his life, devoting himself to studying politics, the New Learning, magitech and a dozen other subjects that interested him, even though he had little hope of ever practicing them personally. Her future was fixed, as sure as the sun rose in the east and sank in the west. She was the Crown Princess of Rockfall and she would be Queen, when her father passed into the realm of the dead. There was no competition, no sibling or cousin who might make a bid for the throne themselves. She would be Queen. There was no point in trying to pretend otherwise.

And I can’t even pass it on to someone else, she thought, numbly. It is my fate.

She rang the bell and leaned back in her chair, waiting. Patsy materialised a moment later, entering the room so silently it was hard to notice her until she announced herself. Anastasia almost envied her maid’s talent for remaining unnoticed, her dress and demeanour so subtle that she was often invisible in a crowd, without even a hint of magic. She had no interest in building a power base of her own, exploiting her position as the Princess’s personal maid to enrich herself or even find a good husband from the lower ranking aristocrats or merchants. It was hard, sometimes, to describe her. She was so bland and boring, carrying out her duties without drawing attention to herself, that Anastasia had to think to recall the colour of her maid’s eyes. Her outfit was just … bland.

“Your Highness,” Patsy said, dropping a neat little curtsy. She hadn’t adopted the modern custom of showing too much flesh, or even wearing something that drew attention to her curves without showing anything below the neckline. “What can I do for you?”

Anastasia stood, brushing down her dress. “I feel like going for a ride,” she said, shortly. If she left now, she’d be well away from the castle by the time her next tutor arrived. “Send someone to alert the stablemaster, then help me get into my riding clothes.”

Patsy raised an eyebrow. “You have an appointment with the Court Wizard at eleven bells, then lunch with your mother at one …”

“I’m sure they’ll get on just fine without me,” Anastasia said, waspishly. The Court Wizard expected her to memorise volumes of magical theory before he taught her more than the basics, her mother veered between lecturing Anastasia on her duties and moaning about events in Alluvia. It might be Patsy’s duty to remind her, but Anastasia had no intention of going. “My mother hasn’t had a single new thing to say for years.”

“As you command, Your Highness.” Patsy turned to the door, opened it to summon a messenger boy, and sent him on his way with a few short words. “Do you intend to ride far?”

“Far enough not to be found,” Anastasia said. She strode into her bedroom, cursing the fashion that made it hard to get out of a dress without help. “It’s going to be one of those days.”

Her maid made no comment as she helped Anastasia to undress, then presented her with a set of riding clothes. They were so much more convenient – breeches, a jacket, boots – that she had determined she’d wear them all the time, when she was Queen. The dresses might show off her family’s wealth and power, just in case one of the courtiers had forgotten where he was, but they were uncomfortable and irritating. It wasn’t as if anyone was likely to forget she was the princess. Her face adorned the wall of everyone who was anyone, who wanted to be. She’d certainly sat for enough portraits over the years.

She stood, studying herself in the mirror. Long dark ringlets of hair framed a tinted olive face, dark eyes and lips that drew the eyes of everyone in the room. Everyone said she was beautiful and she knew for a fact they were telling the truth, although it would be a rare courtier indeed who suggested their princess was anything less than stunningly beautiful. Rockfall had fewer courtiers trying to outdo their peers by singing the praises of the Royal Family, if Queen Marion was to be believed, but … Anastasia shook her head. Her father had cautioned her to be wary of taking such crawlers seriously. They would change their tune in a heartbeat if they felt it wise.

“You need a cloak, Your Highness,” Patsy said. She’d changed too, into a riding outfit that was as drab as her regular dress. “And you should take your amulet.”

Anastasia snorted, but reached for the amulet and placed it around her neck. Patsy was right. The golden design was surprisingly simple, compared to the jewellery showered on her by everyone who wanted to buy her favour, but the charms woven into the metal were designed to protect her against almost any threat, at least long enough to buy her time to escape. Her father wouldn’t be pleased if she left the castle without it, and she didn’t want to upset him. She loved her father. And yet, he never had enough time for her.

“We’ll go down the back stairs,” Anastasia said. “We wouldn’t want to be stopped along the way.”

“No, Your Highness,” Patsy agreed. “That would be most inconvenient.”

There was a faint hint of sarcasm in her voice. Anastasia ignored it. Patsy’s job was to do as she was told, while serving as a maid, chaperone and woman-of-all-work. Anastasia knew little about Patsy and that was how it should be. She did her job well and that was all that mattered. She certainly didn’t have the kind of relatives or connections that would press her to take advantage of her position, or try to influence their princess. Anastasia wasn’t looking forward to assuming the throne. She would have to take the young ladies of the kingdom as her handmaidens then, enduring their presence in her most private moments. Her mother had often complained about the custom and Anastasia didn’t blame her. She had little privacy of her own too.

The back stairs were supposed to be secret, although Anastasia was fairly sure everyone knew they existed even if they didn’t have access. Her skin prickled as they stepped through a handful of wards, designed to keep out intruders, and walked down the thin stairs to the bottom. The stables, located at the rear of the castle, teemed with activity, young boys mucking out the stalls while the stablemaster strode from steed to steed, checking their work with a gimlet eye. He showed no hint of surprise as he saw her, merely bowing low and motioning for two of the newer stableboys to bow too. Anastasia pretended not to notice their hesitation, then uncertainty over how deeply they should bow. She hadn’t enjoyed her etiquette lessons either.

“Champion and Lady are ready, My Lady,” the stablemaster said. “I’ve taken the liberty of adding a picnic to your saddlebags.”

“Thank you,” Anastasia said. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy it.”

She allowed the man to lead her to the final stall, Patsy trailing behind her like a shadow. Her horse looked pleased to see her, whinnying as Anastasia put her arms around his neck and gave him a hug. A sudden pang of guilt shot through her – she’d been too busy to come down and see him – and she made a promise to herself that she’d make sure to rub him down and muck out his stall personally, when they returned. It was good for bonding with her steed, her father had said, and besides, it would provide a good excuse for being late for dinner. Or taking her meal alone, in her chambers. Eating in front of the entire court, every eye on her, was never pleasant. And right now, she didn’t have the power to make up for the inconvenience.

“Come on,” she said, to Patsy. She didn’t wait for assistance, merely scrambled into the saddle and took the reins. “We have to be on the move.”

Patsy’s face didn’t change, but Anastasia had the impression the normally imperturbable maid was irked as she clambered onto Lady. Patsy could ride reasonably well, yet she was no horsewoman and clearly wasn’t particularly comfortable on horseback. Lady was as tame as any horse could be, the kind of beast small children would be seated on to learn the basics before they graduated to more frisky steeds, but Patsy had never quite reached the point where she could try a better horse. Anastasia wouldn’t have begrudged her the lessons, if she’d wanted to improve her horsemanship, yet … she shook her head, dismissing the thought. Patsy was her maid. She could easily remain behind …

But I have to be chaperoned, Anastasia thought, with a flicker of irritation. Her mother’s prudish insistence on maintaining her reputation at all times, on ensuring her virtue could not be questioned let alone drawn into disrepute, was just … irritating. No one questioned her father’s conduct, no one raised their eyebrows if he had private meetings … she told herself, not for the first time, that things would be different when she took the throne. I’ll do whatever I want and to hell with anyone who says me nay.

She put the thought out of her mind as Champion trotted out of the stable and through the rear gate, the guards bowing or doffing their hats as she passed. The cold air slapped her across the face, shaking away the lethargy of a morning spent being bored to death by tutors who never used one word when a dozen could do. Lady followed, Patsy so quiet it was easy to forget she was there. Anastasia felt a flicker of dark amusement as they cantered through the streets of Caithness and out into the Royal Forest. The sense of sudden freedom was overwhelming. It would be easy, she told herself, to dig in her spurs and make a run for Rumbling Bridge, the nearest pass through the mountains that surrounded Rockfall, protecting the kingdom from her larger and more powerful neighbours. Or even to just lose herself in the forest. It would feel good to make a choice for herself, even if it were a poor one.

Champion neighed as she pulled on the reins, commanding him to slow and turn. The castle rose up above the city, the largest structure in the kingdom. Caithness was small by the standards of many other kingdoms, but it was still large enough for her. She felt a twinge of bitter regret as she spied a handful of caravans making their way down the Northern Road, carrying trade goods through the passes and in and out of the city. The kingdom was far more progressive than most when it came to women’s rights, and there were plenty of female traders travelling from kingdom to kingdom, but she was trapped. She would spend the rest of her life in Rockfall, both ruler and prisoner of her kingdom. Lady trotted up, Patsy seated uncomfortably on her back, and Anastasia gritted her teeth. Her maid didn’t know how lucky she was. She could leave her post at any moment and find somewhere better, somewhere more suited to her talents.

“Your father is expecting you to read the latest trade agreements this evening,” Patsy reminded her. “We have to be back for dinner.”

Anastasia shook her head, curtly. The king was supposed to be the ruler of the kingdom, but Parliament did much of the work while he sat on his throne and looked regal. Anastasia didn’t pretend to understand how her father could spend so much time in committees, chairing meetings and letting everyone have their say; she wondered, sometimes, why he wasn’t the absolute monarch she knew him to be. Her mother didn’t help, grumbling about her father’s willingness to compromise rather than lay down the law. She had come from a kingdom where the king had lost his grip and faced an outright rebellion, one that had cost him his head. It didn’t help that far too many people wondered what sort of political ideas she’d brought with her …

“You also have to receive a messenger from a foreign suitor, asking for your hand in marriage,” Patsy continued. “He’s supposed to arrive, spontaneously, this evening.”

“This must be an entirely new definition of the word spontaneous,” Anastasia muttered, sourly. The bards had hundreds of songs about princes who left their kingdoms to play at being suitors to a princess, winning their hearts by coming hundreds of miles to press their suits in person, but the real world was rarely so obliging. Any spontaneous visit was planned in advance and no one thought otherwise, save perhaps children too young to realise the truth. A prince turning up in disguise, without warning, would be a major scandal. “Do you think his portrait will look like the reality?”

“I couldn’t possibly say,” Patsy said.

“Parliament will have its say,” Anastasia said. It was true. She couldn’t be allowed to make such a choice for herself, not when the kingdom was at stake. “And so will my father.”

She turned her horse and galloped onwards, cantering to her favourite part of the woods. A small lake, so well hidden within the trees that she could pretend she was truly alone. She knew better than to believe it, but … anyone within the Royal Forest without permission would be careful to remain unnoticed, not when a poacher could have his hand cut off for trespassing. Or worse. She pulled Champion to a halt and scrambled off his back, leaving him to nibble the grass as she stepped towards the lake. The horse was too well trained to run off, not unless something happened to her. Lady arrived a moment later, Patsy dropping herself to the ground with a thud. Anastasia didn’t turn. Her maid might not be a good horsewoman, but it was difficult to imagine anything putting her down for long.

The thought faded as she stared over the lake. It was oddly quiet, the normal sound of birds flying through the trees and small rodents darting through the undergrowth almost inaudible. A twinge of unease ran down Anastasia’s spine, banished almost at once. It was a cold day and most of the forest’s wildlife would be nesting, trying to stay warm. She lifted her eyes to the distant mountains, noting the snow on the peaks. It had been a long time since she’d been so far from Caithness, and she’d never be allowed to travel beyond the mountains.

Patsy came up behind her. “A Crown for your thoughts, My Lady?”

Anastasia surprised herself by answering the question. “I’m trapped in a gilded cage.”

There was a hint of … something … in Patsy’s voice. “There are many who would wish to be in your place, My Lady.”

Anastasia blinked. It was rare for anyone to reprove her, let alone scold her. She was the Princess. No one could ever forget that, not even her mother. Certainly not a Lady’s Maid who could be dismissed at any moment, without so much as bothering with an excuse. Anastasia had dismissed maids before. She could certainly do it again.

“You can have it, if you like,” she said, snarkily. It wasn’t going to happen and they both knew it. Anastasia could no more surrender her birthright than she could cut her own throat. “It’s not a blessing.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Patsy said, her voice tinged with dark amusement. “I believe I shall.”

Anastasia turned, quickly. Patsy looked different, in a manner Anastasia couldn’t quite place. She looked … as if she wasn’t trying to be unnoticed, unnoticeable, any longer. Her stance was firmer, drawing attention to her in a manner she normally shunned … she looked, suddenly, very dangerous. Anastasia’s father had a regal presence, one that made it very hard for anyone to disobey his commands; Patsy, now, had a presence of her own. The shock was so great it was hard for Anastasia to think clearly, let alone speak. Her thoughts were spinning helplessly. Everything was just … wrong.

“I …”

Patsy jabbed a finger at Anastasia. Her entire body froze.

It’s a cold morning. I’ve already ran the dishwasher, I have Hot Cinnamon tea in my cup, and my “Christmas” Amaryllis finally bloomed.

Unfortunately, I also have compression gloves on my hands, as the 7th edit of Maggie did kill my hands a little bit. I don’t usually get carpal tunnel. I end up with cubital instead, where my pinkie and ring finger hurt. There is no weakness this time – I heaved a cast iron pan around to check – but the hands do hurt a bit.

Not sure how this is going to work long term, as Gordon’s shoulder is also hurt and I don’t know how much typing he is going to be doing. (None, at least until the MRI on the 15th, ideally.) The worst part is, he doesn’t remember how he hurt himself. There was no “Ow!” moment. Our doc is pretty sure that it’s a partial tear, but when and where it happened is a mystery.

I’m considering an ergonomic keyboard. I loved my split Kinesis, but unfortunately once you get used to typing on it, you can no longer type on the regular keyboard and that drives me nuts, because I do still like computer games. If only there was a keyboard that would be easy on my hands and still let me game, heh.

I have no idea what to make for dinner, but given the cold temperatures currently in Texas, it might end up being a pot roast. Maybe I will make some bread, too. I had pulled out all of the stop for the holidays and did one of those ridiculous plaited breads. Turns out that Hokkaido Milk Bread holds its shape when braided. I might just take the easy way and make your basic French bread in the bread machine, though.

This morning, I have the first scene of Iron and Magic #2 to work on and the bonus content for Maggie. I might work from home today, as the office is kind of chilly. ::looks at the comment count on the prologue:: Hehehehe.

It’s so nice to have encouragement. Thank you, guys.

All in all, I’m looking forward to the new year. It promises a ton of work, but that’s a good problem to have as a writer. It’s when nothing comes out that things go horribly wrong. Someone asked me what my New Year resolution was. I stopped making them awhile ago. It’s like a curse – whatever I resolve to do doesn’t come to pass. But if you want to share yours, I am all ears.

The post Red Flowers and Cold Days first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

What is “Threshold,” you ask? It’s the entrance to a house or building, but that’s not important right now. It’s also the collection of short stories set before, during, and after (but mostly after) the events of the Cradle series!

You may have already read it, if you bought it during our Kickstarter promo last year or if you’re from the future, but if you don’t fall into either of those categories…now’s your chance!

This collection is available in ebook, audio, and paperback (but if you’re buying the paperback, read the SPECIAL PAPERBACK NOTE at the bottom of this post first).*

So go, be free! Read about all the extracurricular adventures the cast is getting up to outside of the plot!

Also, for those of you who read the first version, I’ve fixed a few of the errors you were kind enough to point out. So thanks for doing that! Now small children will stop throwing stones at me in the streets to punish me for my failures.

Links for you and your most special friends:

​Audiobook: https://www.audible.com/pd/Threshold-Audiobook/B0DN34J845

Ebook and 6x9 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DNKD1JGN 

​And thanks for reading!
-Will

*SPECIAL PAPERBACK NOTE FOR SPECIAL PAPERBACK PEOPLE: the paperback edition we have right now measures 6 inches by 9 inches, which is relatively big.

If you bought your books before March 2023 (just before Waybound), you probably have the smaller size, which is 5 inches by 8 inches. Later this month, we’ll release a 5”x8” version so you can have a copy that matches your set and doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb.

Sorry for the inconvenience! We didn’t want to swap sizes mid-series either.