Authors

Another occasion to see House Andrews live!

Ilona and Gordon will appear as Featured Authors at the 2026 Columbus Book Festival on July 11 and 12, 2026.

Hosted by the Columbus Metropolitan Library Foundation, the festival events will be held at Main Library, 96 S. Grant Ave, and in the adjacent Topiary Park at the corner of Town and Washington Streets.

If you would like to see House Andrews in person, here is where to find them:

• Saturday, July 11 at 1:00 PM Spirits, Spells & Swoons: Romantasy | Stage 2

House Andrews will be talking romantasy, magic, danger, and all the delicious complications that come with throwing feelings into a fantasy kingdom that’s trying to kill you. Joining them on the panel are BFF Jeaniene Frost (A Curse of Beasts and Magic) and Shalini Abeysekara (This Blade of Ours).

• Sunday, July 12 at 10:30 AM Speed Matching | Room 2A

In Speed Matching, readers meet authors in small groups for quick five-minute rounds, getting a personal introduction to each book before the authors rotate to the next table.

• Sunday, July 12 at 3:00 PM God Complex: World-Building | Stage 2

Later that afternoon, Ilona Andrews will return to Stage 2 for a conversation about world-building alongside John Chu (The Subtle Art of Folding Space) and K.X. Song (The Dragon Wakes with Thunder). If your favorite part of fantasy is seeing how an author builds a world that feels layered, lived-in, and slightly alarming to inhabit, this is likely your panel.

Tickets?

All of these sessions are free and open to the public, with no tickets required. Seating for panel discussions is first come, first served however, so if there is a session you particularly want to attend, arriving early is your friend.

Signed books?

Yes! After each scheduled appearance (so both panels as well as the Speed Matching), Ilona and Gordon will head to their assigned table in the 2nd Floor Reading Room for a one-hour signing session, where readers will be able to meet them and have books signed.

The festival bookstore will also be set up there, with new releases as well as back-titles from all the featured festival authors available for purchase. By buying books at the Official Festival Bookstore you are supporting your local independent book stores! It is a partnership between Cover to Cover, The Book Loft, Gramercy Books, and Prologue Bookshop.

The festival organizers will also be announcing the full author lineup, exhibitors, and updated festival information through the official festival website which is here.

Book Clubs

One more quick note while I have your attention.

If you previously sent a request for a personalised book club letter from House Andrews and did not receive a response, please resend it with the subject line: Book Club Letter Request.

Both Ilona and myself have been truly buried under a truly ridiculous amount of fake “book club” spam lately, the ChatGPT-written kind that promises followers, Hollywood connections, immortal Texan ferrets in space, the works.

Some of the legitimate requests may have been accidentally sacrificed during the cleanup. Using that exact subject line will help real requests stand out from the nonsense.

Happy BDHing!

The post House Andrews at the 2026 Columbus Book Festival first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Pressida grimaced and unhooked a small barrel secured to her saddle. Her Andican mare gave the barrel a derisive snort. Pressida had tied her on the other side of the log, well out of Keraengle’s kicking range.

“That is what I love about knighthood.” Pressida pulled a knife out, pried the lid off the barrel, and dumped two gallons of ripe fish entrails onto the beach. “The sheer glamor of the job.”

The post Snippet Wednesday: the Glamor first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

The Unbroken anthology – featuring an all new fantasy novella from me – is now live on Kickstarter. 

Unbroken features original, never before published stories from 36 of the most prominent SFF authors working today (and me). Here’s the full line-up:

My novella is entitled The Black Reivers and will appeal to those who like their military fantasy with a whiff of gunpowder.

To support this project head on over to the Kickstarter page:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/unbroken/unbroken-new-tales-by-masters-of-fantasy

In other news, updated where-to-buy links for Upon the Forge of Battle, the third and final book in the Age of Wrath trilogy, are here covering all formats. The book will be released on August 25th. Buy here:

UK Hardcover: Amazon.co.uk – Waterstones – Blackwells

US Paperback: Amazon.com – Barnes & Noble – Bookshop.org

Ebook: Amazon.com – Barnes & Noble – Kobo – Bookshop.org – Google Play

Audiobook: Audible.com – Audible.co.uk – Barnes & Noble – Google Play – Kobo

Book description:

As the Age of Wrath reaches its bloody conclusion, the world will be reforged in steel and fire . . .

Thera Blackspear was once champion to the Sister Queens. Now she’s a queen herself, with Elvine as her spear maiden, wielding a weapon forged by the gods. But while the traitorous Sister Lore plots in the shadows, Ascarlia will never be safe.

Felnir has won a crown of his own and forged a kingdom at the tip of his divine blade. Yet his dreams are troubled by visions of the brother he thought long dead. A brother who needs his help, and whom Felnir would give anything to save – even his hard-won kingship.

Ruhlin’s many victories have made him a hero to the Morvek, who believe he is the prophesied saviour who will overthrow their Nihlvarian enemies. But now he finds himself a prisoner of the Vortigurn, the King of Nihlvar, who has secrets and schemes of his own.

Secrets that could unmake the world.

Upon the Forge of Battle is the epic conclusion to Anthony Ryan’s Age of Wrath trilogy, a gripping fantasy saga of bloody retribution, deadly intrigue, and soaring heroism.

Albert’s mother championed Earth Day and its environmental causes. The cause became her first priority, almost an obsession. And Albert’s obsession? His mother. In her honor, he will Save The Earth…maybe not in the way she expected.

“Earth Day” is free on this site for one week only. If you just want a copy of this story, download it on any e-book site or by clicking here. Enjoy!

Earth Day Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Case Number: HSFBDC42225I17

Excerpt:

…personal documents identify him as Albert Suttles, but in his statement, he repeatedly referred to himself as Raymond Bilojek…

My mom had an obsession with Senator Gaylord Nelson. Nobody remembers him any more, except in dusty old history books, not that there are dusty old history books any more. Everything’s online now. Even our confessionals.

Here’s mine.

Let me start again.

Mom had an obsession with Senator Gaylord Nelson. Not a stalkerish obsession, but one of those I-think-this-man-is-the-greatest obsessions. She used him as an example all the time, particularly in the dysfunctional early decades of this century.

There are no more men like Senator Gaylord Nelson, she said to me on her deathbed—not that I was with her at her deathbed. I was a full professor by then, supervising more research than I truly had time for, living in Berkeley, and enjoying it. Especially the weather. California weather, for a good Wisconsin boy, is like an early glimpse of heaven.

Not to mention that I spent my formal education in cold places. The University of Wisconsin-Madison, Yale, MIT. If it weren’t for my second post-doc at Cal-Tech, I would’ve thought that you had to nurture scientists in the cold in order for them to flower.

But I promised myself no jokes in this manifesto. Not that people get my jokes anyway. I’m too quiet. I think of the joke, turn it over in my mind, then inject it too late into the conversation. People have looked at me funny my entire life.

I long ago gave up trying to impress the unwashed with my conversational skills, even though I admire folks who have them. Earliest influences for me include comedians, especially the really brainy ones—George Carlin, Dennis Miller, Lewis Black—the ones who can quip their way out of anything. Or I thought they could, until I saw Carlin in his dotage, just out of rehab, working off a paper script, telling the audience honestly that he was testing material for an HBO special.

You remember HBO, right? That’s where I first saw the “Seven Words You Can’t Say On Television” speech. I must’ve been ten, maybe, one of those years when we could afford premium cable. 1977? Something like that. We were pretty itinerant, and I didn’t see much television at all, especially premium television as it was called then. So I remembered seeing Carlin on HBO.

But his other routines? I didn’t see those until later. And his influential “bad case of fleas” routine? I didn’t see that one until maybe mid-2007, on the Internet. Ironic, right?

Anyway, Mom. Senator Gaylord Nelson. She met him, you know. One of those Earth Day rallies back in the day. Said I met him too, back when Earth Day was a movement, and she was part of it. Not that she ever left the movement.

The movement defined our lives. She’d say, we moved for the environment.

Not for the weather, like normal people. But for the environment. Someone needed a volunteer to coordinate rallies? Mom was there. Someone needed a volunteer to post flyers? Mom was there. We lived off the kindness of strangers, she’d say, and it took me years to understand that she was quoting a Tennessee Williams play.

The kindness of strangers got me into a science-only high school. We need scientists, too, the man who fronted everything said. He was one of those truly rich bastards, the kind who gave his money to all sorts of causes. But his favorite was Mom’s favorite: the environment.

Everything from the Sierra Club to some wacky fringe organization (Save The Cockroaches!), this guy gave it money. And he funded Mom for years, which is something I don’t want to think about even now. Because I don’t know why Mom in particular, even though I have a hunch.

It does go back to Mom, you know. I’m smart enough to know that. The therapist I hired at my first tenured position told me I was “unhealthily obsessed” with her, and we had to break the obsession. That therapist couldn’t divorce me from Mom entirely. I recognize that too. Because without Mom, I wouldn’t be a tenured professor with a large research staff and grants for fifteen different projects, including the private one you’re seeing today.

Or will see today.

But I digress.

My digressions are why I’m not doing this as a video. Or a holographic video. Some kind of statement broadcast on every single remaining broadcast channel.

The Internet.

No one’ll see this until after.

But then, no one will see it after either.

Heh. Just realized.

This is all for me.

Case Number: HSFBDC42225I17

Excerpt:

…his research assistants, graduate students, and post-doctoral candidates weren’t hard to find. All wore Earth Day T-shirts, modeled on the first Earth Day poster from 1970. Separate interviews attached. Each mentions Suttles/Bilojek’s insistence on the Earth Day experiment, which most participated in for a grade or because they were terrified of losing their research posting…

My influences:

1. Comedians (see above).
2. Space photos, particularly that one from the late 1960s—you know, the beautiful blue-and-green globe? That was Mom’s favorite too. But for different reasons. Me, I like the vivid colors, the rocks against the blackness, the vibrant life that we don’t recognize as life—you know, the sun big and deep like an ocean, with storms and spots and—I could go on forever. But we don’t have forever. ?
3. Great scientists from the past. The unassuming guys, at least in the beginning. Archimedes in the bathtub. Galileo dropping balls from the Tower of Pisa. Einstein contemplating the universe from the silence of the patent office.

They didn’t have grants and grad students, publish-or-perish mandates, the necessity of finding the smallest niche in the large world of science just to get someone to fund a project. They didn’t have to write grandiose papers before their discoveries. Sometimes they didn’t even write grandiose papers after their discoveries.

So of course, in this modern era, I decided not to write a grandiose paper either. I got dozens and dozens of smaller grants, on smaller topics, and isn’t it ironic that if you Google (Google. Heh. Created outside the system.) my professional name, you’ll see article after article, interview after interview, with me, whom they call the Scientist of Small Things.

Apparently I did find notice. Someone—maybe a scientifically minded clerk, handling grant applications for the U.S. government—noticed my name originating most of them.

No one put together all the topics, though.

No one except me.

Case Number: HSFBDC42225I17

Excerpt:

…appended to this file a report from several different departments in Homeland Security, as well as reports from similar bureaus in Germany, Russia, China, South Africa…

Senator Gaylord Nelson, founder of Earth Day and, some say, the founder of the modern environmental movement, was a saint. George Carlin, comedian, the enemy.

At least according to Mom. On her deathbed. Or what I call her deathbed—that dreadful nursing home bed she didn’t leave for the last few years of her life. I saw her a year before she died—2007—and after that I discovered why Carlin was the enemy.

In that wonderful, eye-opening routine, he said he hated Earth Day. He said, and I quote: “Environmentalists don’t give a shit about the planet. You know what they’re interested in? A clean place to live. Their own habitat.”

Ah, it rang true. It rang so true.

That’s when I realized all my degrees, all those little environmental things I was doing weren’t for the planet. They were for the environmentalists. Like Mom.

And then, in that same routine, Carlin said, he said, the planet will be here after we’re long gone. And he added the inspiration: “The planet’ll shake us off like a bad case of fleas.”

That was my Eureka moment.

I know how to get rid of fleas.

Case Number: HSFBDC42225I17

Excerpt:

…when the FBI received a notice from the Patent Office, delineating several patents that returned to the same man, known as the Scientist of Small Things. The small things, when combined in the proper order, could be seen as a potential terrorist threat. The patent office employee [name redacted] did not contact the FBI immediately. After some thought, however, she determined she could not remain silent….

It took very little tweaking to move from “Save The Earth For Environmentalists” to “Save The Earth.”

Because to save the earth for environmentalists, you have to know what will kill the little buggers. Instead of getting rid of those factors, you add to them. You tweak them.

You make them stronger.

I figured out the balance. Tweak this and touch that and you make the planet shake off the fleas a little faster. It is a multidisciplinary approach. To understand how water reaches entire populations, one must know the engineering of water treatment plants as well as urban planning. One must also learn the details of water processing in each community.

Tiny things, small things, all reported back to the one man who can understand it all.

Amassing small bits of data into one large experiment. Only large minds can understand this.

And there are very few large minds around any more.

Almost none.

Case Number: HSFBDC42225I17

Excerpt:

… the case built slowly. The initial investigator retired, and Agent William Franks took over. Franks had received a Masters in Biology from Harvard before joining the Bureau. He did not like the coincidences either, and talked off the record to two of Suttles/Bilojek’s graduate students. That raised enough suspicions to bring in additional field agents….

My pet graduate students run all of my projects. I have developed a multidisciplinary department, highly regarded, since most of my students go on to so-called great things in the so-called real world.

My current graduate students and post-docs are doing a one-day experiment for me, or so they think. They are not large minds. They are useful small minds. In the years I have planned this, it has always helped to have useful small minds.

It has also helped that in 2007 my mission changed from Save The World For Environmentalists to Save The World. Because of Mom, because of my initial environmentalist approach, I know how to talk to small minds, to make them believe I am on their side.

And I am. Truly I am. I do want to save the world.

In fact, my pet scientists and I are doing exactly that today.

My pet scientists have tweaked the ground water, and the air filtration systems. They’ve added toxins to all the poisons we already touch, from oil to Styrofoam. They’re adding viruses to enclosed spaces, like airplanes and ships. They’re even coating restaurant surfaces.

I don’t care how we get the fleas off the planet. I just care that we do.

And now we will.

As the first Earth Day T-shirt says, “We Have Met The Enemy and He Is Us.”

Case Number: HSFBDC42225I17

Homeland Security, FBI Division

Arresting Officer William Franks

Excerpt from Franks’ verbal message, attached to the huge packets of reports submitted to the U.S. Justice Department:

…gotta say, Dave, it’s a good thing guys like this are rocket scientists. If they understood people, they wouldn’t confess before the crime. Whenever I feel down about humanity, I gotta remember that good citizens saw this manifesto and reported it. Dunno if we got everyone, but I hope we did. If nothing else, the outbreaks will be isolated now. This guy had a good plan. He almost killed millions.

Creepy bastard. When I locked him up, he smiled at me like we were old friends. Then his grin widened to crazy. You know. You’ve seen it on the face of so many of these bastards.

Usually you can dismiss them. But I’m having trouble shaking this one. Because of what he said to me I started to walk away.

He said, “So, flea, how does it feel to save the world?”

 

Earth Day

Copyright © Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Published by WMG Publishing

Cover and Layout copyright © by WMG Publishing

Cover design by WMG Publishing

Cover art copyright © Matthew Trommer/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.

Any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (“AI”) technologies is expressly prohibited. The author and publisher reserve all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

Happy Monday, BDH!

A couple of quick updates to start the week.

First, for everyone asking about purchasing the commissioned This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me artwork:

If you are looking for prints of the character art, Helena Elias’ store is open and she has a special Ilona Andrews page.

Luisa Preissler announced that her store will soon be carrying character art cards, and she showed the proofs on Instagram yesterday.

If you’d like to know when they go on sale, please sign up for Luisa’s newsletter here.

Candice Slater is also currently working through options for the Kair Toren art, which you can admire here.

If you want prints and cards and probably calendars, please buy them from the artists directly. The Ilona Andrews merch store will focus instead on book tie-in items, such as vellum inserts meant to go into the hardcover, bookmarks, and similar goodies.

And speaking of goodies, here is the Zoom recording from Saturday, where Ilona and Gordon answered your questions about This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me.

If you would like to use the transcript function on YouTube, click on the video description or the three-dot menu, and select Show transcript.

Thank you all for the incredible enthusiasm, the thoughtful questions, and the general release-week chaos. The BDH has been in magnificent form.

The post Art & Zoomies first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Is that…MY TAIL?! AAAAAAAAAH!

…the everloving hell?

She does that. Don’t worry about it.

I kinda am.

Who’s the new guy?

I have queeestions.

It is great to hear everything is working out smoothly.Lets hope the edits you need to do just superficial. Like you said your half way through book 5 lets get cracking on the rest of the book(1st draft). Keep up the fantastic work

This is all good news!

This post is a chapter from my book, The Write Attitude, which is now in a second edition. I’m posting it here to entice you to head over to Storybundle to pick up a copy, along with ebooks by T. Thorn Coyle, Ron Collins, Darcy Pattison, Anthea Sharp, and ten more great writers. Everyone’s book is an exclusive. That’s right. Everything in the bundle is exclusive to the bundle, including my book.

So if you want to read it now, pick it up from Storybundle. If you don’t want a deal on the ebook or if you only read print, then you can always preorder the book on various retailer sites starting at the end of May. The new edition will release on July 14.

The second edition of The Write Attitude is quite different from the first edition, which originally appeared in 2016. I kept some parts of the original book, but much of the material is newer. The new material comes from my Patreon page. Not every post from my Patreon page shows up here, although several do. If you want to see everything, though, head to Patreon and sign up. 

This post appeared on my Patreon page in October of 2025, and is one of the early chapters in the book.

 

GETTING LOST IN THE WORDS

From 2025

This past week, I finished the largest Fey book I’ve written to date. It is the fifth book in my side series on the Qavnerian Protectorate…and it ended up at 240,000 words long. I trimmed about 50,000 words out of it, and wrote the scenes that I missed. (Mostly the validation, because I always skip the validation in my first pass.) I figured the book was long because of how I wrote it. I dabbled at it during the two years of crisis that we endured at the business. For a while, I gave the book up entirely because I simply couldn’t concentrate on a story that big. That was when I wrote some of the novellas that came out this year, as well as a novel that will appear in late 2026.

My mind was trending long, I think, because I didn’t want to keep coming up with new things. I didn’t have the brain space for that.

I also found that I couldn’t make any decisions while still in the thrall of that huge, gigantic, super-sized novel. I wasn’t in the position to decide what I would do next. I’m going to figure that out in the next few days.

But some of the small things I meant to do included typing in about 6,000 words that Mick Herron wrote in the middle of his Slow Horses novel Bad Actors. He wrote a scene filled with mayhem that stretched over a couple of square miles of London and had at least four main viewpoint characters. (If you want to know what scene, it’s the one that more or less culminates with the iron and the bus, as well as a brick to the head.)

When I first read the thing, two years ago now, I became aware at the very end of the section that I not only had a feeling of mayhem, but that I had understood each part of the action. When a writer uses a technique that isn’t in my writing toolbox, I figure out how that technique works. Sometimes I can eyeball it, but occasionally, I type it into my own computer using my word program and my set-up, so I can see how it all works on the page.

It took two days’ writing sessions to do the typing, partly because I stopped to give my wrists a break and also because I would look up any words I didn’t know. As a reader, I skipped over the British slang that I was unfamiliar with, choosing to get it out through context, but as a writer, I wanted to know what he was doing.

So louring, cack-handed, and a whole bunch of other words entered my consciousness and, in the case of louring, changed my perspective on a moment in the scene that I was typing in.

Usually, when I type in another writer’s work, it’s a serious struggle. I want to add commas or punctuation or paragraphs or different words. Aside from the British slang, I did not feel the need to add or change words, but I did realize that he uses punctuation very differently than I do. There are a lot more colons in his work than there are in mine, and not as many commas. The only quibble I had, in fact, was that he wouldn’t use a comma in something like “For a moment he was thinking of his wife…” I would add a comma after “moment.” And he wouldn’t use an ellipsis plus a period for the end of a sentence. I don’t know if that was deliberate, a British punctuation thing, or personal preference. It caught me every time.

But the one thing I did note was this: I have been deep in the words in my own writing. Because life has thrown me a lot of lemons in the past year, I would catch them and consider them before making the lemonade. In other words, my critical voice was and is on very high right now.

Sometimes as I worked on the biggest Fey novel to ever come out of my computer, I would stop and stare at the words and think them very plain. That’s not a normal thought for me—or it wasn’t before this past year or two.

As I typed in Herron’s section, I noted that I reached the “words are plain” stage somewhere around 3,000 words in. His words were plain and sometimes repetitive. There were copy editing issues as well, one or two misspellings (not British spellings, but actual misspellings) and a few missing hyphens that my eye caught while I was working out his technique.

I had to pause and consider that moment, though. By putting his words into my format, I hit the same “these words are plain” place I hit in my own writing. Which meant that critical voice was not doing its job and looking at the technique. It was critiquing the words used instead of the effect those words had on the reader.

Copy editors make this error a lot. I train copy editors and have done so for decades now. The traditional publisher for my Grayson books in the 1990s used my books to test copy editors. If I got a heavy hand, the copy editor didn’t get hired. My Grayson books, like Herron’s Slough House series, are voice heavy. If the copy editor missed that, and put the book into proper English with traditional punctuation, they had no right to be called a copy editor at all.

The copy editor’s job is to find actual mistakes (misspellings, inadvertently repeated details, misnaming characters) rather than “clean up” some established writer’s punctuation. And copy editors who are harsher on new writers will often strip those writers of the very things that make their voice strong.

I can’t imagine the discussion Soho Crime had early on with Herron’s copy editors. He breaks every single rule of grammar and punctuation on purpose and does it to make a point in the story.

For example, I noted in his latest book, Clown Town, that in another mayhem scene, one character’s point-of-view section was usually one paragraph long and just a single sentence. I slowly realized that single sentence extended over many sections and many pages. Every time we were in that character’s point of view, there was a lot of punctuation, and not a bit of it was an actual period.

The period arrived at the end of the character’s point-of-view section in that mayhem scene…and I realized (because of how I read) that the character was dead. Herron played with that idea (are they really dead?) for the next twenty pages, and most readers would have missed the period at the end of the character’s section. But I didn’t. (I had the same problem in the book Silence of the Lambs when Thomas Harris has Hannibal Lector escape a well-guarded facility. Harris used an odd phrase, a strange verb, and a long sentence in the middle of a gigantic paragraph. The odd phrase from such a careful writer caught me up short. So I went backwards, looking to see if I’d missed anything else.

And yep, I had. I knew exactly how Lector escaped pages before Harris wanted me to. Most readers didn’t catch it until Harris did a big reveal. And then they would go back and see the odd phrase. I saw it going in.

Those things that excellent writers do out of their subconscious as they’re in the moment are things that a copy editor would “fix.” I can imagine that a novice (to Herron’s work) copy editor adding periods throughout those character sections—and ruining them.

The best copy editors read the book they’re editing for enjoyment first, so that they will see the author’s intent long before they start “fixing mistakes.” Most modern copy editors don’t do that at all, which is why you’ll hear Dean tell you that you don’t need a copy editor. He’s right: better to let some mistakes through than muck up the voice.

I hire and fire a lot of copy editors even now because I have a tendency in my fiction writing to repeat myself. Some of that comes because I write out of order. So I might actually introduce a character for the first time when I write chapter 45, but chapter 45 might have been the very first chapter I ever wrote. Then, later, I might write chapter 7, where the character appears for the reader for the first time and I’ll write the same description (often in the same language without checking back) again. And maybe I’ll worry that I hadn’t described the character when I get to chapter 15, and I’ll write the same description again.

I need someone to find that stuff. What’s amazing to me is that the words-only, rules-only copy editors never find the repeated information. Or the silly stuff, like a character putting on a hat in chapter 27 and then putting on a different hat six pages later without taking off the first hat.

That’s what’s valuable about copy editors. Not fixing the grammar, but fixing the goofy stuff. On the latest book which will appear in 2026, the other book I wrote during the crisis, I changed the name of one of the main characters but never did a search and replace. So occasionally, his name goes back and forth with one letter different. The very good copy editor that I have caught that. None of my first readers did—and neither did I.

In storytelling, the words are tools. Punctuation is also a tool. Paragraphing is a tool.

The rules are there for beginners. Storytellers need to have a huge toolbox, and they need to learn how to use those tools. Most writers get by with a hammer, some nails and a few screwdrivers. The best writers have finesse tools (to extend the metaphor) like a cape chisel, saw set pliers, and an egg beater drill just in case the story needs them.

And I can guarantee you that if the story does need them, the copy editor will probably not understand why they’re there—unless the copy editor is someone who actually reads and understands the story before looking at the words.

As for the rest of us—we storytellers—we need to stay out of the words and not worry about them. So what if they’re “plain”? So what if you’ve written a passive sentence? So what if they seem to lie flat on the page?

If you’re thinking those things, you’re not in the story at all. You’re in copyedit or critic mode.

Stop it.

Remember that you’re a storyteller. Not a writer. And don’t worry about the little fiddly bits. If you misspell them and the story’s compelling, your reader won’t even notice.

Just like reader me didn’t notice all the words I didn’t know in Herron’s work. I was so caught up in that mayhem scene that I went right over those unfamiliar words, and ended up thinking that the sequence was brilliant.

Because it is.

“Getting Lost in The Words” from The Write Attitude

Copyright © Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Published by WMG Publishing

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This ebook, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (“AI”) technologies is expressly prohibited. The author and publisher reserve all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

 

From Lividian Publications:

Lividian Publications is incredibly proud to announce our most ambitious undertaking ever: the Robert McCammon Library, a new hardcover series created to publish every Robert McCammon book in a unified set. Our goal is to build something lasting and worthy of McCammon’s extraordinary body of work, both for collectors who desire a definitive collection of hardcovers and for readers who want to enjoy these stories again and again for years to come.

These will be beautiful but affordable hardcovers that are Smyth-sewn like our Limited Editions, bound in cloth with hot foil stamping on the cover and spine, and printed on acid-free paper with a very reader-friendly page design.

François Vaillancourt has been commissioned as the illustrator for the entire set, giving the collection a unified look and feel. Each book will feature full-color wraparound dust jacket artwork and approximately ten black-and-white interior illustrations. As a special bonus, these hardcovers will be issued with a double-sided reversible dust jacket: one side will be printed with cover text in the style of a bookstore trade hardcover, while the other side will leave the artwork unobscured, like many of our Limited Editions. You can choose which version to display in your personal Robert McCammon Library.

There will also be an optional slipcase for each book, designed like our Limited Edition slipcases, and constructed with the same care by our master case maker.

Whenever possible, these editions will include an introduction or afterword by Robert McCammon to discuss the origins and inspirations for his writing. In addition, Mathias Clasen, the acclaimed Danish scholar of horror fiction, will contribute a scholarly essay for each book, exploring the themes of the story, the state of the world at the time the tale was written, and the work’s influence on the genre.

While these are not signed Limited Editions, Robert McCammon plans to sign copies of each book for The Alabama Booksmith and some of our Patreon supporters.

Later this year, we’ll publish the first two titles in the Robert McCammon Library, Baal and Bethany’s Sin, and then we’ll publish four more books every year after that in the order of original publication. The Night Boat, They Thirst, Mystery Walk, and Usher’s Passing are already in production for 2027. Also: our plan includes the entire Matthew Corbett series, finally published in a fully matching set.

Lividian Publications welcomes readers, collectors, and fans of the marvelous Robert McCammon to join us as we begin this monumental project. We look forward to building this incredible library with all of you.

Lividian has an FAQ page set up to answer questions about the library!

Artist Francois Vaillancourt has posted some sample images and notes on his Patreon page

Baal by Robert McCammon
Book #1 in the Robert McCammon Library
Includes an introduction by the author, artwork by
François Vaillancourt, a double-sided reversible dust
jacket, and much more!

From Lividian Publications‘s Robert McCammon Library:

Lividian Publications is incredibly proud to announce our most ambitious undertaking ever: the Robert McCammon Library, a new hardcover series created to publish every Robert McCammon book in a unified set meant for both readers and collectors alike. These will be beautiful but affordable hardcovers that are Smyth-sewn like our Limited Editions, bound in cloth with hot foil stamping on the cover and spine, and printed on acid-free paper with a very reader-friendly page design.

The debut volume is Baal, his first novel, which was originally published in 1978. This new special edition includes the complete novel, an introduction by Robert McCammon, full-color wrap-around dust jacket artwork and ten black-and-white interior illustrations by François Vaillancourt, and “When the World Goes to Hell: Apocalyptic Horror and Human Evil in Robert McCammon’s Baal” by Mathias Clasen, the acclaimed Danish scholar of horror fiction.

As a special bonus, this edition features a double-sided reversible dust jacket that represents its unique place between a trade edition and a Limited Edition. One side will be printed with cover text in the style of a bookstore trade hardcover, while the other side will leave the artwork unobscured, like most of our Limited Editions. You can choose which version to display in your personal Robert McCammon Library.

Pre-order Baal from Lividian Publications

Pre-order Baal from Alabama Booksmith (signed)

Retail Price: $65 USD (book without slipcase)
Edition: Limited Trade Hardcover (unsigned)
Publication Date: Fall 2026
Page Count: 350

Special Features:
• Full-color dust jacket artwork by François Vaillancourt
• Ten black and white interior illustrations by François Vaillancourt
• Double-sided “reversible” dust jacket
• “When the World Goes to Hell: Apocalyptic Horror and Human Evil in Robert McCammon’s Baal” by Mathias Clasen

Deluxe Production Features:
• Offset printed on an acid-free archival quality paper stock
• A fine cloth binding
• Hot foil stamping on the front cover and spine
• Smyth-sewn to create a more durable binding
• Twine head and tail bands
• High-quality endpapers

Optional Special Features:
• Custom-made slipcase stamped with hot foil and featuring a unique die-cut window can be added to your order ($35 USD)

About the Book:
A woman is ravished…
and to her a child is born…
unleashing an unimaginable evil upon the world!

And they call him BAAL in the orphanage, where he leads the children on a rampage of violence…in California, where he appears as the head of a deadly Manson-like cult…in Kuwait, where crazed millions heed his call to murder and orgy.

They call him BAAL in the Arctic’s hellish wasteland, where he is tracked by the only three men with a will to stop him: Zark, the shaman; Virga, the aging professor of theology; and Michael, the powerful, mysterious stranger.

About the Author:
Robert McCammon is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty books. He’s the winner of five Bram Stoker Awards and a World Fantasy Award, and he is best known for Swan Song, The Wolf’s Hour, and Boy’s Life. More recently, he has published The Five, which Stephen King called his best novel ever, and the Matthew Corbett series, a ten-book series of historical thrillers that USA Network has called “the Early American James Bond.” McCammon lives in Birmingham, Alabama.

Our store has been cloned by a scam artist. Meaning it has been copied in its entirety and reproduced elsewhere. It is down now thanks to the quick action by the registrar and vigilance of the BDH.

Unfortunately, in the age of AI it is very easy to copy sites. This will happen again.

PURCHASE ONLY FROM THE REAL STORE

At the top of this site you will see a banner that says OUR STORE.

Use ONLY that link, directly from our site.

The real store has been unlocked pending the investigation. We are super not ready to open, so the merch sales are locked for now but books are available. I will try to work on it this weekend, so we at least have something.

That thing about cloning myself – I really need to look into it.

PS: Mod R takeover!

While Ilona cracks on with somatic cell nuclear transfer, I am taking over to remind everyone there will be a:

Zoom Q&A tomorrow with Ilona and Gordon at 10:00 am Central Time

to celebrate the release of This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me!

For everyone who did not manage to get a space: as always the recording will be uploaded to the IA moderator account on YouTube early next week with captions enabled.

YouTube’s own transcript function is now good enough that I won’t be posting a separate transcript this time. Spoiler discussion will be limited by House Andrews’ desire to protect us from ourselves and by the covenant of the traditional publisher contract.

See you tomorrow!

The post Fake Store first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

I’m very happy for you!
I’m glad that things are going well with book #5 and (hopefully!) the edits for book #4 won’t be too much trouble.

Thanks for the update and good to hear that Book #5 is going so well, a little anxious that Book #4 Edits are finally going to be with you and just hope that the reason for delay wasn’t anything about the book itself!

I’m very much enjoying the series and looking forward with eager anticipation for Book #4 in November (Chapter #1 in September too?) and perhaps a bit more information on Hobbs and Joanna’s contribution in Stephen’s life?

Mod R has faithfully gathered your questions for the upcoming zoom, and I am going to ask you to rethink some of them. You’re asking things like who is the author, who Maggie ends up, and so on. Those are the questions that will be answered in the future books.

We cannot spoiler the story for you. Most of you probably made it past Chapter 23. How much less of a moment would it have been if you knew about it in advance? We want to give you as much excitement as we can.

Let us mess with your emotions. That’s what we do for a living.

We are also contractually precluded from telling you too much about Book 2. Tor is very specific that everything is confidential.

Plushies

We are very excited to announce a partnership with Andrielle of Phylogeny Unlimited. Andrielle is a biologist by training, and she has developed a line of prehistoric creatures for the Paleontological Research Institution. It’s called Paleozoic Pals, and they are hilariously anatomically correct, as in the number of segments on the trilobites and tentacles on the nautiloids is scientifically accurate.

Andrielle has a kickstarter right now, and I jumped on it so fast.

There are 6 days left, so if you are in the market for your own prehistoric sloth, I would get it now.

Right now Andrielle is working on a prototype of Sushi. We will likely aim for two sizes – a huggable friend and a desktop friend. This process takes time. We want to make sure that the toys are washable and are stuffed with fire-retardant stuffing, so they don’t catch fire if you throw them into the dryer.

That is a nightmare I didn’t know I needed, but from my research into plushies, apparently this can happen.

We know a lot of you have kids and pets, and stuffies might be stolen and may need to be washed. Actually, a funny story, while we were signing at Tropes and Trifles, the very good boy I posted before stole a toy from a customer. The toy was immediately recovered, and huge apologies were offered. The customer laughed it off, but just in the event something like this happens, we want the toy to survive the cleaning.

This process takes time, because we need to make sure the toy is cute, safe, and worth purchasing. We are aiming for Spring 2027 for availability. We know it’s a long way off, but we want to make sure that we do it right.

The App

We have an app in the works. It will allow you to keep track of the our books, it will offer feed from the blog, and have achievements, discounts, and some exclusive content. Nothing too ground-breaking, so please don’t go into full FOMO (fear of missing out.) It is being beta tested now. I have some screenshots for you.

This app is not a replacement for the newsletter. It will still be emailed.

This app is for people who want to make sure they don’t miss things and want to keep track of their reading. It will let you access blog posts and fiction. So if you are stuck in a doctor’s office and don’t want to go through the trouble of opening the browser and looking for the site, you should be able to just tap the app open and read the latest things.

We anticipate it going live sometime around the beginning of summer. We are launching for iPhone only, because coding for Android is different and more involved, and we don’t know what the response to this will be, so we need to see if people are interested.

The Game

So this very premature, but Kid 2 is working on a game. It is a sole-developer project right now, and it will be set in the Innkeeper Universe. Right now it’s a farming sim, where you crash land on a planet and have to survive. This project is a long way off. But she was very touched by how much everyone loved This Kingdom, and she made this little video for you.

So this is technically a Chi moment, because this little alien is a muckrat, but this was just a quick wave to say hello to BDH.

We will probably not update you on this until there is a demo. Right now it’s all core mechanics and technical challenges like making sure that when you chop a tree down, logs appear, and then you can put them into your inventory.

Merch Store

We are pushing the opening to May. There is just too much going on right now, and I really want to have vellum in my hands before we open. So the vellum has been ordered, and once I can actually see what it looks like in the book, we will be taking preorders.

We are still doing publicity. We still have interviews, and we are still signing things, and now we will be signing more things, because one special edition tripled their print run and another special edition has been just sold. This is…. #5? #6? I don’t even know. We managed to write twice this week, and it’s Thursday. Argh. I just want to get through this battle.

My philosophy is that if we don’t write, there will be nothing to promote, so we have to concentrate on the manuscript.

But if you are looking for prints, Helena’s store is open and Luisa’s store will be opening soon.

Someone asked before if it’s better to buy prints from us or the artists. If you want prints, please buy them from the artists.

We do not offer prints. We probably will not offer calendars.

We will be offering book-tie in items, like vellum, which is meant to be inserted into the hardcover. We would prefer that the artists benefited from their art through print sales. We specifically left those items to the artists’ discretion.

We will have a print round up for you when everyone sets up their stores.

The post Housekeeping, Plushies, Games, Etc first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Thank you so much to everyone who had come to see us at the signing. You guys are absolute best. If you read my tour summary, you probably know by now that book tours tend to be grueling. Meeting you is the only reason we actually go on tour. It’s not the sales – sorry, bookstores, and it’s not the publisher’s requests – it’s you. We absolutely love hanging out with you.

Now, to own up to some logistical issues: we have reached the point where the signings draw 200+ people. The Horde is mighty. We will probably have to limit signing of the stock from home in the future. We have some reports from people who came to the signing but could not stay long enough to get their book signed.

Our policy is always to defer to the store; however, we do specify that if you have mobility or health issues, small children, or pressing time commitments, we will accommodate you and you should be moved to the front of the line. That has been our touring policy since the very first tour. In the future, if you are attending, please let the store staff know.

We are very sorry if you missed us. We will try to get a couple of informal meet and greets in Austin area, probably one in the north, in Round Rock and one in the south. You can come, chat with us, and get you stuff signed.

This is not special-trip worthy unless you guys actually want to have a longer event, in which case I can rope a couple of local authors into it, and we can have an extended meet and greet. I can rent a hotel conference room very cheaply, we can park ourselves in there for the day, and I am sure I can get a local bookstore help us out with purchases. So let me know in the comments if that’s something you want to do.

Bookplates:

Sushi bookplates look like this. They are crack and peel, meaning you bend them and peel off the backing. We’ve received a lot of requests for these, so here is the deal: we are finishing signing 2,600 for a special edition, and then we are moving onto the store requests. Once we are done there, we will try to open the bookplates for general readership through the store. Unfortunately, we will have to charge you a small fee for the shipping and processing. So it might be like, I don’t know, $3-5 for ten or something. But we must honor our retail and special edition commitments first.

Despite us actively discouraging gift giving, you still brought us loot. We got books, treats, wine, and yarn. I am not going to shoot myself in the foot and tell you all about them, because we are very grateful. Please do not take this as encouragement for more gift giving. First, as grateful as we are, you already have given us a gift but purchasing and reading our work. Second, we have limited room in our suitcases. Meeting is is honestly enough. It makes us so happy.

First, I must tell you about this tea. Someone gave it to us at the signing, and I almost did a little dance.

This is Sencha Earl Grey Starlight. So I am not actually a fan of Earl Grey. I had gone overboard on drinking it at one point and kind of burned out on it.

This is unbelievably delicious. It tastes of creamy vanilla, and the traditional Earl Grey citrus is not the main star, but more of a supporting player. I am hoarding it. In fact, I am going to get up and brew myself a cup of this right now as a special treat for having done the taxes.

You can purchase this yumminess at Sencha.

Many thanks for my new drug of choice.

Second, BDH gifted us a couple of books. Full disclosure, I haven’t read either of them, because we are back at work on Maggie 2, so these are not recommendations. Just a thank you for the gifts.

Heart of the Siren by Alice Hanov

Alice’s website describes this as “dark romantasy” with spice.

The Doodle Knit Directory by Jamie Lomax

This tour demonstrated that all of you have zero intention to help me kick my knitting addiction

Kentucky Horse Country by James Archambeault

A very beautiful picture book that will be living on our coffee table. I looked through it and there are gorgeous horse pictures inside

This trip also reaffirmed that we both love Kentucky. There is just something about Lexington. We really love the city and the green pastures that roll just outside of it. Our biggest regret is not spending more time there. Also we were hoping to see Gwenda Bond, with whom we’ve been friendly online for years. Unfortunately, we missed that opportunity.

The person who crocheted this beautiful shawl is going through her second battle with cancer. Thank you so much for this gift. We are thinking of you. You’ve beaten it once, you can do it again. Please don’t lose hope.

Next we have this amazing bag. It was a most fortunate gift, because I stuffed all of the yarn and small gifts into it.

Mmmm, yarn. So excited about this.

I also bought some yarn in Baltimore.

It was pretty and I got tempted.

We were also give delicious things, and I have no pictures of those for obvious reasons.

Thank you again for the fantastic tour. ::hug::

The post Signings, Yarn, and Other Gifts first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

D Street—the closest thing Hope’s Pass has to a red light district. Three whorehouses and a few independents to service the miners who survived the mines outside of town.

When someone murders a prostitute, Will, the mayor, must fill in for the drunken sheriff and investigate. Only the crime has deep roots—roots that will touch Will’s entire family and make him question everything he has ever known.

“Death on D Street” is free on this site for one week only. If you like this crime story, you might like my other crime stories. A Kickstarter for my latest crime novel, Candid Shots of the 1970s, will run until Thursday, April 16. There you can get the new novel as well as Consecrated Ground, a novel that hasn’t seen print in 15 years, and a brand-new collection of short crime stories (although this one is not included). Click here to look at the Kickstarter.

If you just want a copy of this story, download it on any e-book site or by clicking here. Enjoy!

 

Death on D Street Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Ginny had just blown out the lamp and snuggled against me, her slender arm across my chest. The house still held too much of the day’s warmth for us to be cuddled so close together, but I didn’t move her. I liked the touch of her skin against mine, even when we were both too tired to do anything about it.

The baby was quiet for the first time in two days. She was teething and not happy about it. Ginny’d been rubbing my brandy against the baby’s gums and it didn’t seem to be doing anything except wasting good liquor. Still, Ginny swore that was a teething trick and I figured she’d know. She had gotten Sam through it, and on her own. By comparison, this couldn’t be as bad.

We should have expected the knock on the door—or something to break the quiet, but the knock surprised both of us. The baby wailed. Ginny must have already been asleep because she rolled over fast and reached for the gun she kept in the top dresser drawer.

I caught her arm and soothed her awake. I’d seen this reaction before and knew its source. A woman traveling alone across country had to be adept at protecting herself and her child. Nothing I could do convinced her she was safe. I’d stopped trying a year before.

I jerked on my pants as the knock came again. The baby’s wail grew into a scream. I grabbed a shirt and said, “See to the kids.” Then I headed down the stairs.

The knocking started a third time. I yanked the door open. Travis stood outside. He’d set his lantern on the porch. The yellow light illuminated his mud-stained pants and scuffed boots. The stench of cigars and cheap booze wafted inside.

“Sorry to wake ya,” he said, “but Doc sent me. We got a holy hell of a mess on D Street.”

D Street was the closest thing we had to a red light district. Three whorehouses and a few independents all lined up in a row. When I was sheriff, I restricted the hookers to that area. I’d learned that getting rid of them was impossible, not to mention unpopular. When men got time away from the mines, they wanted some affection, even if they had to pay for it.

“Where’s Sheriff Muller?” I asked.

“Couldn’t roust him.”

“Drunk again?” I glanced up the stairs. The baby was still crying. The floorboards creaked as Ginny walked with her, trying to quiet her.

“Smelled like it,” Travis said.

“What kind of mess?”

“Somebody killed Jeanne.”

I stepped onto the porch and pulled the door closed. “While she was servicing him?”

“Jesus, Will, how’m I supposed to know?”

I shook my head and strode down the street. The dust was caked thanks to the summer heat, the wagon ruts treacherous in the darkness. The air was cool now, almost cold—one of the benefits of being in the mountains—but by dawn the heat would be creeping back, oppressive and overwhelming.

D Street was three blocks over and two down. I walked along Main Street. Most of the saloons were still open. Music filtered out of O’Hallerans—someone was banging on the town’s only piano. A few drunks were collapsed on the wooden sidewalk, leaning against the building, and I knew who they were.

I’d lived in Hope’s Pass since it was founded, eight years before. I’d stumbled through here, looking to make my own fortune mining for silver. I lasted a month underground in the dark, candle burning away the oxygen, cave-ins a constant threat. Even though the pay was pretty good, I realized there were other ways to make money.

The town needed a sheriff and I volunteered, setting my own pay so high that no one in their right mind would meet it. But in those early days of what would become known as the Comstock Lode, no one was in their right mind.

They paid me more than I was worth for six years. Then Ginny came to town with little Sam and enough money to set up a dressmaking business. Four months later, we were married and I had resigned as sheriff. I felt it wasn’t right to be dragged out of bed at all hours to calm down drunken miners or settle disputes over one of the town’s whores. I ran for mayor and won; then I appointed Johann Muller as the new sheriff, which was, I think, the worst decision I’d ever made.

D Street was down two blocks from Main, at the very edge of the mountainside. The ground was treacherous here—subject to floods in heavy rains. The buildings here had washed away more than once. There were other problems as well. Mine shafts had been dug underneath this entire area of Hope’s Pass, and more than one man had fallen through the street to the emptiness below. One of my campaign pledges had been to shore up the South Town area, but no one was really pushing me to fulfill that promise.

Lights were on in all the houses, and laughter filtered down from one of the porches. The men here weren’t drunk—or at least weren’t obviously so. A lot of them stood outside, smoking and talking as they waited in line. It must have been payday for one of the mines. I’d gotten so caught up in my daughter’s teething drama I hadn’t been paying attention.

I walked to the very last house. The street trailed off into nothing here, just scraggly grass and dust. Light poured out of this house as well, but the door was shut tight. As I approached, I saw a man knock and get sent away.

I didn’t bother to knock. I tried the knob but it didn’t turn. I glanced over my shoulder. Travis hadn’t followed me. Apparently his only task had been to fetch me. That completed, he was able to go back to one of the saloons and see if he could finish the task of getting drunk.

So I rapped on the big picture window, closed despite the coolness of the evening, and shouted, “It’s the mayor!”

The door opened just a crack.

“Doc sent for me,” I said.

The door opened the rest of the way. I didn’t recognize the girl behind it. She was blonde and buxom, wearing a cheap satin wrap that tied at her waist and left nothing to the imagination. I didn’t recognize her, but that wasn’t a surprise. Girls came and went at these places so fast that sometimes I was surprised anyone knew who they were.

Her face was ashen and she didn’t even bother to greet me. She just stepped aside, waited until I crossed the threshold, then pulled the door closed.

Six girls were in the parlor. A few were wearing dresses. The rest had on stained wraps just like the girl who had opened the door. Lucinda Beale, who’d opened this house six years before, sat on the edge of a chaise lounge.

She waved a hand toward a door. “In there.”

The room smelled of sweat and perfume. One of the girls sat on the ornate staircase leading to the second floor. She held her face in her hands, her legs slightly spread, revealing everything.

I walked through the women. They all moved away from me, something I’d never experienced in a whorehouse before.

The door led to the back parlor. It was usually reserved for the girls and “family,” anyone involved with the house. I’d been there half a dozen times before, mostly for a drink after getting rid of unruly customers. I hadn’t been inside since I married Ginny.

I swung the door open and stepped inside the room. It was hot and had the copper odor of blood.

“Watch where you step.” Doc Clifton leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His open medical bag sat on the ornate red sofa. His face was puffy from lack of sleep. He’d been up the night before helping one of Rena’s girls down the way through a particularly difficult birth.

I gave him a sideways look. Doc nodded toward the floor.

Jeanne lay there, legs splayed, wrapper open. Her torso was undamaged. The only visible wound was around her neck. It had been cut so deeply that her head had nearly been severed. Her hands, flung back beside her face, were cut as well.

I crouched beside her body. Her eyes were open. Her expression was one of great fear. I’d seen that expression on her face before. Her ebony skin brought a certain kind of clientele to Lucinda’s—one with exotic tastes. But some of the customers objected to Jeanne’s presence. Most of the fights I’d stopped in his last year as sheriff had started over Jeanne.

“Someone got her this time, huh?” I asked.

“It’s not that simple.” Doc pushed himself off the wall. He pointed to her hands. A single matching slit ran across both palms.

“So he surprised her, cut her throat, and she grabbed at the knife at the last minute.”

Doc nodded. “But he killed her in here.”

I rocked on his toes and looked around. Blood spattered the rug and a nearby table. It had clearly spurted. “He spun her.”

“Yep.”

I sighed. Murder in a small town was always difficult. I hated the cases when they involved someone important. Investigating one with a prostitute—and one who wasn’t even white—would be even harder.

“We knew it was only a matter of time, Doc,” I said. “If someone didn’t get her here, they would have got her when Lucinda sent her to service the boys in Shantytown.” I’d escorted her back a number of times and that was when I’d seen the fear on her face. The men usually ignored her, but the town’s women—even my usually tolerant wife—gave her looks filled with hate.

Doc’s eyes narrowed. “You gonna let this slide, then, Will?”

Of course I was. Solving murders wasn’t my responsibility any more. “That’s for Sheriff Muller to decide.”

“Sheriff Muller’s a drunk and you know it. You gave him the job so someone would take the midnight calls and you could continue overseeing everything else.”

I stiffened. “The girls get hurt. Sometimes they die. It’s not a safe or particularly joyful profession. If anyone knows that, it’s you, Doc. How many times do you get sent to D Street to tend to someone who’d had it too rough or was dying in childbirth and didn’t know who the father was?”

“So we let this go.”

I looked at Jeanne. She’d been pretty in a quiet sort of way. And she had been soft-spoken, almost shy. The prettiness was gone now, leached out of her with the blood. “It might be better to forget about it.”

“Will you say that when this same maniac slits some other girl’s throat? Or what if he attacks a real citizen, someone you care about? What then?”

There was an edge to Doc’s words that I had never heard before. “You got a personal stake in this, Doc?”

His gaze slipped away from mine. “I don’t ever want to see a mess like this again.”

“Chances are it was a drifter.”

“Who got invited into the back parlor?”

“All right. Maybe it was someone who knew her. Maybe even a relative. Lord knows Lucinda wouldn’t want a colored man in her waiting room.”

Doc looked at me. His gaze was clear and direct. “Is this about Jeanne’s profession, Will? Or her color?”

My cheeks heated up. “I’m just trying to take care of this with a minimum of fuss.”

“Fuss? We got a dead woman lying at our feet. Someone damn near sliced her head off and you’re worried about fuss?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s my job to keep things calm in Hope’s Pass.”

Doc’s cheeks were an ugly red. “You ignore this, Will, and I’ll kick up a fuss like you never seen before.”

I turned to him, careful to keep my feet away from the blood smeared on the floor. “What was Jeanne to you, Doc?”

“A person,” he snapped, and walked out of the room.

***

I’d never been shamed into an investigation before, and truth be told, it didn’t make me enthusiastic about it. Still, I’d prove to Doc that I could solve this—or at least make sure whoever’d done this was long gone.

First, I gave the scene one more once-over. A silver tray lay near the kitchen door. Two glasses lay on the rug. One still had a bit of whisky inside. The smell of blood overpowered the smell of alcohol, which was why I hadn’t noticed it when I’d first come in.

The couch’s cushions were untouched, except for Doc’s bag, which he had left behind. I peered in it and saw nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, except for the body and the blood, the room was neat. Lucinda always had a penchant for clean.

There were no footprints in the blood on the floor, no handprints on the wall. Whoever had done this had been careful. There was also no break in the spatter, so he hadn’t gone at her from the front.

Already I could hazard a guess on how the attack happened. He’d been sent to the back parlor and waited there, standing near the empty fireplace as Jeanne came out of the kitchen, carrying a silver tray. She’d clearly expected to entertain him, but whether that entertainment would lead to a trip upstairs, I couldn’t yet tell. She’d planned on drinking with him, though, and she hadn’t even gotten to the place where she could set the drinks down.

He grabbed her from behind, slit her throat quickly and viciously. She’d realized what was going on—she probably had a hell of a self-preservation instinct—and grabbed at the knife as he pulled it along her throat. But she hadn’t had a chance to scream—he’d been too fast for her—and the method he chose wouldn’t have allowed it.

Her life sprayed out of her fast, but she’d still struggled, forcing him to spin around because he was having trouble holding her. But she’d stopped pretty quick, going limp in his arms. Then he dropped her and ran out the kitchen—arms and hands bloody, but otherwise unscathed.

Knife wasn’t there. Nothing else was there, except a downed silver tray and the body of a woman Doc felt important enough to take time from my family.

I pushed open the kitchen door, and went inside. The kitchen was clean and everything was in its place. No dirt on the sideboards, tin canisters lined up against the walls. No fire burned in the stove, even though this room was hotter than the parlor. The only thing out of order was the whiskey decanter on the long kitchen table—and the bloody handprint on the back door.

***

I decided to talk to the girls individually. Most of them couldn’t tell me anything—they’d been upstairs with a client. Only Lucinda and Elly had seen anything at all.

Elly’d been between customers when the front door opened. A blond man, his hair falling ragged over his collar, came inside. Despite the day’s heat, he’d had on a gray coat. It was worn, almost a part of him. His hands were tucked in the pockets, pulling it down, messing up its shape.

At first she thought him old because he was so thin and he walked with a limp. Then she looked at his face and realized he couldn’t be thirty yet. He spoke with a Southern accent and his eyes were haunted. She figured him to be a Reb who’d been wandering since the war ended. She didn’t remember seeing him before.

She’d sidled up to him, put a hand on his chest, and thrust herself against him. “I’m just what you need,” she’d said.

“Maybe so, darlin’,” he’d said gently, “but you ain’t what I want.”

She’d backed away from him then, and Lucinda’d come forward. Elly went to the kitchen where Jeanne was cleaning the sideboards. She hadn’t had a customer all night and she was restless, feeling trapped in the house, unable to go outside.

They talked for a while, about nothing, Elly said, and then Elly rolled herself a cigarette and took it out back so Lucinda wouldn’t catch her.

Not that Lucinda was trying. She was talking to the stranger, finding out exactly what it was he wanted.

He’d heard, he said, she had a colored girl in the house. Then he’d lowered his voice so soft she had to strain to hear. “Growin’ up the way I did, I got me a special hankerin for colored girls.”

“We do have a girl,” Lucinda said. “Her name’s Jeanne. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you.”

He glanced at the front door then, and she could sense how nervous he was. “I’d like to talk first, but if my friends find me with her…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. Lucinda had heard that request dozens of times.

“Why don’t you go to the back parlor?” Lucinda said, pointing the way. “I’ll have her join you in just a few minutes.”

He’d smiled then. She’d thought it a particularly gentle smile, grateful really, and she’d smiled back. She hadn’t thought anything of it, not even when she’d heard the tray and the thud. Jeanne knew the rules—clients should be taken upstairs once the transaction was to begin—but sometimes men were too eager. That was a rule Lucinda was always willing to bend, as long as the man paid in full.

It was when the hour was up and then some that Lucinda got impatient. She’d expected her southern drifter to leave long before that. So she’d pushed open the door to the back parlor, and she’d seen Jeanne and she’d hoped that somehow the girl had lived through it, which was why she’d sent for Doc at the same time she’d sent for the sheriff.

Which was why she was willing to talk to me.

“This sort of thing got me closed down in St Louis,” she said. “I been real careful about it in Hope’s Pass. I run a safe house and my girls get treated good. You catch this man, Will, and you make everyone know that what he did had nothing to do with me.”

“You should check your clientele for weapons, Cinda,” I said.

“I do. They have to leave their guns at the door.” Then her eyes brightened and she held up one chubby finger. “Just a moment.”

She walked toward the door, moved a picture and opened a wall safe. From inside, she pulled out a small pistol.

“I suppose all your clients know that’s there,” I said.

Lucinda nodded. “That’s where we keep the guns. The real safe is somewhere else.”

She studied the pistol for a moment, then came toward me. “I got this off him before he went into the back parlor. Obviously, he didn’t come back for it, although he should have.”

“Should have?” I stood.

“I’ve never handled a gun quite like this one before.” She extended the gun to me, and I froze.

It was a Remington-Elliot single shot Derringer, .41 rimfire caliber, with walnut grips and blue plating.

“You sure that was his?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” She frowned at it. “Pretty little thing, isn’t it?”

It was. It was so small that it fit in the palm of her hand. I took the gun from her and examined the barrel. Etched into the plating were the initials V.L., exactly as I expected.

“What’s there?” Lucinda asked.

“Hmm?” I looked at her. She was frowning at me. “Oh, nothing. Mind if I keep this?”

“I surely don’t want it.” She put her hands on her wide hips. “But it is a special gun. He might come back for it.”

“He might at that. Where’s Travis?” Travis worked as her security on busy nights.

“Probably drinking. He hasn’t come back since he fetched you.”

I checked the gun’s chamber. It wasn’t loaded. I slipped the gun in my pocket. “You get your own gun out, stay awake a while. I’ll make sure Sheriff Muller comes to keep an eye on this place, and I’ll find Travis for you.”

Lucinda smiled at me. “You always take good care of us, Will.”

In the past, I would have leaned over and kissed her cheek. But I didn’t dare get more perfume on me than had already leached into my clothes from this place. “You can tell Doc that it’s all right to come downstairs again.”

Lucinda’s smile turned sly. “I’m sure he’ll come down when he’s ready.”

“When he does,” I said, “make sure he does something with Jeanne. Remind him that’s his responsibility, not mine.”

Her smile faded. “Of all my girls to end up like that, I’d’ve never imagined Jeanne.”

“Why not?” I asked.

Lucinda’s gaze met mine. “She never was one who liked it rough.”

***

I found Travis and sent him back to Lucinda’s, not that he would do much good considering the condition he was in. Then I slapped Muller awake and sent him as well. He, at least, was a little more sober than Travis, only because he’d had time to sleep it off.

All the while, I fingered the gun in my pocket, the cold metal sending shivers through me. It took all my strength to find the men, to get them back to Lucinda’s, before heading home.

The sun was rising as I walked up Main. My house was dark, curtains closed, and the door locked. I opened the front door as quietly as I could and stepped inside. The early morning brightness hadn’t reached the interior of the house. Everything was in shadow. But the baby wasn’t crying.

I made my way up the stairs. When I reached the bedroom door, I stared at my wife, asleep in our bed. She lay on her left side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, her chest rising and falling with her even breathing. Even asleep she looked tired.

I walked toward her, never taking my gaze off her. She didn’t stir. I crouched beside her and opened the top drawer of the dresser, and suddenly she was awake, reaching for the gun, the one I was covering with my right hand.

“Will?” she asked, as she blinked herself fully awake. “Everything all right?”

“I don’t know.” My voice sounded odd to my own ears, flat and emotionless. I pulled her gun out of the drawer and rested it on my left palm. The blue plating was nicked, the walnut grip scratched. But even from my angle, I could see the engraved initials.

V.L.

“Will?”

From my pocket, I pulled out the other gun and let it rest on my right palm. “Look what I found tonight.”

All the color left her face. Her brown eyes were wide, and I could see her tamping down panic. “Where?”

“In a whorehouse safe.”

“That what they called you out for? A gun?”

I had heard that kind of question before, and it made me sad. It was a stalling-for-time question, one that let the asker think about her story rather than try to obtain an answer.

“No,” I said, not willing to tell her what had happened. “Tell me about your gun, Ginny.”

“It’s just a gun, Will.” Another stall.

“Then there’s nothing to stop you from telling me about it.”

Her gaze hadn’t left my face, but I could see that took some effort. She was at a disadvantage. I was good at reading people, but I was best at reading her.

“I got it in a pawn shop in Kansas City, before I took the wagon train out here. I figured Sam and I needed protection.”

“From a single shot revolver?”

She shrugged. “It was all I could afford.”

She was lying. God help me, I could tell she was lying. The slight twitch of her upper lip, the sweat forming at the hairline. Something about this was scaring her and she didn’t want to tell me what.

“I thought the V.L. stood for Virginia Lysander,” I said. “In fact, you told me that once.”

“It’s my gun,” she said. “It can stand for anything I want. I don’t know what it stood for before.”

“It was just a bit of luck that you found a gun with your initials on it?”

“That’s why I picked it out,” she said.

“I thought you said it was all you could afford.”

A spot of color formed in each cheek. She knew I’d caught her. “That too.”

“Ginny,” I said, almost pleading with her. “This is serious.”

She pushed her lips together. She wasn’t going to say any more.

“The man who owned this gun murdered Jeanne.”

She blinked at me. “Jeanne?”

“She was a whore on D Street.”

Ginny frowned as if she were trying to place the name. It was a small town and she had lived here nearly as long as Jeanne. I knew they had to know of each other. “You mean that coal-black girl who worked Shantytown?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you said you got the gun from a safe.”

“It’s a long story, Ginny. I just want to know how you fit in.”

She flung back the covers and got out of bed. She was moving with great purpose. “Where’s the man now?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I have to find out. I thought maybe you could help me.”

“How can I help you?” She grabbed her dress off the chair that she had lain it on the night before.

“Tell me what the connection is between the guns.”

She pulled the dress over her head, then keeping it bunched around her shoulders, stepped out of her nightdress. I couldn’t see her face when she said, “How should I know?”

“The matching gun, Ginny.”

“I told you. I bought it at a pawn shop.” She slipped her head through the dress. Her hair was mussed. “You believe me, don’t you?”

I stared at her, this woman I thought I knew well. I didn’t believe her, and I didn’t like the way I had started thinking. The way she woke up on edge, the fact that she always kept the gun near her, the difficulty she’d had initially trusting me or any man.

“Where’d you get the gun, Ginny?”

She blinked, looked away, then shook her head. “Don’t ask me any more. You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“What I like and don’t like doesn’t matter, Ginny. Where’d you get the gun.”

She leaned against the wall, her head narrowly missing the crucifix she had put up there when we got married. “From a dead man.”

Somehow that didn’t surprise me. “Who?”

She swallowed, closed her eyes, and bowed her head. “Sam’s father.”

***

He’d been a decorated officer in the Confederate Army. He’d returned to Atlanta on a short leave around Christmas, 1862. That was when he’d forcibly raped Ginny and left her pregnant with Sam. Sam was born in August 1863 and she found she didn’t care how he was conceived. He was her boy. She made up a husband, a father for Sam—Russ Lysander, tragically killed at Gettysburg, the man she’d always told me about—and prepared to leave Atlanta as soon as she was healthy enough.

It took her some time to regain her strength after the birth. By November of 1863, she was ready to leave. But as she was figuring out how best to travel with an infant, she ran into Sam’s father again.

He had returned to Atlanta on Jefferson Davis’s business. Somehow—Ginny wasn’t real clear about this—Sam’s father managed to overpower her and take her to his home where he tried to rape her again. Only this time, she managed to get his gun.

She shot him, point-blank range, through the heart. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Then, she said, her voice oddly emotionless, she robbed him—took his gold wedding band, the diamond earrings he’d given his wife, some pieces of silver—spoons, a small box, and napkin rings. She also took the Confederate bank notes from his pocket, and the gold coins he’d stashed in his safe, and she used all of that to make her way west.

As she told me all of this, she met my gaze. It was as if she didn’t care what I thought—she would always be proud of what she had done.

“Who’s the man with the second gun?” I asked.

“His son.”

I waited for her to tell me his name.

Her lips thinned. “Beau Lewis.”

We stared at each other for a long moment. I could see the fear and hesitation behind her bravado. She wanted me to reassure her that I still loved her, even though she had killed someone, even though she’d been defiled. Neither of those things mattered to me.

What mattered was that she hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me either of them until now.

“May I have my gun?” she asked.

“You don’t need it,” I said.

“And if he somehow finds out I’m in town?”

“You’re not using the same name, are you?” That question was as much for me as it was for her.

She shook her head once.

“Then you’ll be all right.”

“I don’t like to be without it, Will.” A plaintive note to her voice, just the hint of begging.

I handed her the gun. “Stay inside. I’ll be back soon.”

“How’re you going to find him?” she asked.

“If what you say is true, then this gun means something to him. He’ll come back for it.” I slipped the extra gun in my pocket. “And I’ll be waiting for him.”

***

Whorehouses were quiet places in the daytime. The girls usually slept long past noon, and no clients appeared before dark. Things began to become active in the afternoons at a well-run place like Lucinda’s—people ate, cleaned, shopped, did all they needed to do.

I figured Lewis knew this, and would be back. I had only a few hours in which to catch him.

By the time I arrived back at Lucinda’s, Travis had fallen asleep in the chair by the door. Muller for once was awake and alert, but hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary.

I relieved him, locked and jammed the back door, ordered Lucinda to keep the girls upstairs, and then I unlocked the front door. I positioned myself between the front door and the safe, my Colt resting on my leg with my hand covering it.

Sure enough, long about 9 a.m., I heard rustling outside. My grip tightened on the Colt, and I fished in my pocket for the Derringer. The door opened, and a man sidled inside.

He was gaunt and blond, his hair ragged, his face careworn. He wore a threadbare gray coat, his hands in its pockets, ruining its shape.

“Come back for this?” I asked, holding up the Derringer.

He froze, one hand on the jamb of the open door. Sunlight framed him, making him look as if he were outlined in light. “I left in a hurry last night.”

He had a soft Southern accent, not as coarse as I had imagined from Elly’s description. He sounded educated.

“I bet you did. A man usually doesn’t stick around when he murders someone in cold blood.”

To my surprise, he didn’t even try to bolt. “You the sheriff?”

“I’m the mayor.”

“Then you should know why I did what I did. That nigra girl, she murdered my daddy.”

“Did she now?”

“Yes, sir. After the Devil Lincoln issued his illegal declaration freeing all the slaves in a country he no longer ruled, she let herself into the house, took one of my daddy’s guns from his matched set, and shot him with it. Then she told all her people to run away. Thank the good Lord some of them stayed to tell me about it when I came home more’n a year ago.”

I felt cold. “You’re sure this was Jeanne?”

“Her name wasn’t Jeanne. It was Jubilee. She took my dead momma’s name when she pawned my family’s silver in St. Louis and signed onto the wagon train. That’s how I tracked her here.”

“Your momma’s name?” I had to brace my arm so that the hand holding the Colt didn’t shake.

“Virginia Lysander.”

I felt as if I were encased in a shell.

“I take it,” I said flatly, “you never met the woman who murdered your father.”

“Oh, I seen her,” he said. “She was ours, after all.”

“But you don’t remember her,” I said, “and you didn’t ask for her by name when you came here.”

“What is this?” He stepped further inside. “Why should I ask for her by name? She’d already changed it twice. I just asked where the town’s nigra women were. I was told there was only one.”

“And?” My throat was dry.

“She recognized me same time as I recognized her.” He held out his hands. “I was telling you this because I thought you was a reasonable man. I wasn’t willing to take her back to Georgia for trial. Laws’ve changed, and I didn’t want to travel with a darkie, not in today’s world. Surely, you can see that.”

“I can.”

“So you can give me my daddy’s gun, I’ll leave your fair city, and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”

I stood. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Whyever not?”

“You just reminded me,” I said as I approached him. “Laws have changed.”

“It’s Biblical. An eye for an eye. Justice has been done.”

“No, it hasn’t,” I said, fishing for my handcuffs. “Murder’s a hanging offense in Hope’s Pass.”

“She was a nigra, a murderess, and a whore. Ain’t no one gonna miss her.”

“I can think of at least two people who will,” I said as I cuffed his hands behind his back.

I led him into the sunshine. As we stepped onto D Street, I wasn’t surprised to see Ginny, standing alone in the dust, her Derringer out and pointed at Lewis.

“Go home, honey,” I said, feeling more weary than I’d ever felt in my life, hoping that Lewis wouldn’t realize the mistake he’d made.

But his face flushed an angry red. “Ruby,” he said in soft recognition. “Son of a bitch. You and Jubilee done this together.”

“Step aside, Will,” she said to me. “I don’t want my shot to go wild and hit you.”

“Ginny, honey, this isn’t right.”

Lewis gave me an odd sideways look.

“It’s right that he killed Jube?” she asked.

“He’s going to hang for that.”

“He’s gonna ruin our lives, Will.”

“What the hell’s she talking about?” Lewis asked me. “You got something with this woman?”

“She’s my wife,” I said softly.

“Tarnation, man, don’t you know what she’s done? She’s been passin’. She was one of our house niggers from the time she was old enough to carry.”

“Shut up!” Ginny waved the gun at him.

“She’s been lying to you,” he said in that sly voice. “All these years, making you think she’s something she’s not.”

“Move aside, Will,” she said again.

“She used you to make her greater than she was. And now you know what she is. A killer, an animal, no better than a snake.”

That frozen feeling was still with me. All of this felt like it was happening to someone else.

“Will.” Ginny sounded panicked. “I don’t care what you think of me. But what about Sam? The baby?”

Sam, with his gray, trusting eyes, and my daughter, whose black hair had more curl than I’d ever seen in a baby. Curly black hair and skin so white it made mine seem dark.

I reached into my pocket for the handcuff key. My hand was shaking. I wasn’t thinking. I was just acting.

I unlocked his cuffs and walked away, leaving her with her single-shot pistol alone with him and his knife.

***

She had left the children by themselves. The baby was crying in her crib, drool coming from her sore gums. Her diaper was wet. I changed it by rote, then cradled her against me and looked into her black, black eyes.

I could see it now, of course, now that I was looking. The curl of her hair, the darkness of her eyes, the twist of her features in a way that I had once thought particularly Ginny. Amazing that I’d missed it before.

Sam was tugging on me, his face splotchy. He’d been crying too, although, at three, he was too big a man to admit it. I crouched down and hugged him to me, and willed the numb feeling to go away.

I was afraid of what I’d find underneath it. Loathing for Ginny, for me. I’d always despised men who used their slave women, like my father had used his. I’d walked away from that life ten years before, wanting no part of it, content to sit out the war in the West and watch the casualties roll by.

I didn’t figure I’d have some of its victims in my own house.

Sam was a bright little boy, full of pluck and energy. He didn’t deserve half a life. And neither did the baby, her whole future ahead of her.

Maybe, on some level, I could understand what Ginny had done. And why she had to lie to me.

I could understand it, but I wasn’t sure I could ever forgive her.

***

She came home about a half hour later, her eyes haunted. The blood that spattered the bottom of her skirt told me she’d had to use Lewis’s knife to finish the job—her shot had only wounded him.

The baby was quiet. Sam was watching us from the doorway.

I led her into our bedroom, careful not to touch her, and closed the door.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“I left him on the street.” Her voice was low. “Someone’ll find him.”

“And come get me.”

She nodded. “But if you don’t make something of it, no one else will.”

She was right. No one would care, and everyone would have their own version of what happened. Some might even credit me.

In an odd way, they would be right. Because I wasn’t going to speak up. As Lewis had said, justice had been done.

“You want to tell me the truth now?” I asked. “I deserve to know.”

Ginny looked away, her expression sad. Then she closed her eyes, and took us both back to the past.

***

When she was sixteen, Lewis’s father visited her for the first time. When she was seventeen, she had his child. She had another child the next year, and the next, and when it became clear that she preferred motherhood to her duties, the children were sold as part of a package to a nearby plantation and she never saw them again.

She was pregnant with Sam when word of the Emancipation Proclamation hit. She stole the derringer, and waited, shooting Lewis’s father as he pressed down on her in the dark.

Jeanne heard the shot, and was the one who thought of taking the money, the silver, the rings. Together the women left, making their way north, helping each other survive.

Sam was born in New York, the first free child in Ginny’s family. It was there she realized that unless she was seen with Jeanne, everyone thought she and Sam were white.

She sold one of the spoons and left in the middle of the night for St. Louis, not telling Jeanne where she was going. She invented Russ Lysander and his untimely death, and received treatment beyond her dreams.

Everything went well, until Jeanne turned up in Hope’s Pass. She’d followed Ginny across country. Jeanne earned part of her living at Lucinda’s and supplemented it by blackmailing my wife.

Which was why every time I saw them near each other, they looked at each other with such hate.

***

Ginny’s voice had trailed to nearly nothing. Her gaze met mine, and I saw the pleading. But Lewis’s voice echoed in my mind.

She’d murdered two men. And she’d lied to me.

There was a knock on the door. I jumped, even though I’d expected it. In the next room, the baby started to wail.

“What do we do now?” Ginny asked.

“Will!” Travis yelled from the street. “Doc says we got another situation.”

The baby’s cries had grown piercing. Sam tapped on our door. “Mommy?” he said.

Ginny’s gaze met mine and held it. I always prided myself on doing the right and honorable thing.

Only this time, I had no idea what the right and honorable thing was.

“Will!” Travis yelled.

I could see fear in her face, fear greater than any I’d seen before. I sighed.

“Change your clothes,” I said, “and feed the children. I have no idea when I’ll be back.”

I pulled open the bedroom door. Sam launched himself at my leg, and held it so tight that he nearly cut off circulation. He would grow up slender like his uncle. He’d have the same gray eyes, the same deep voice.

I slipped my hand on his head, feeling his thin straight hair.

Ginny was watching us, her hands clasped together.

“And make sure you’re here when I get home,” I said. “I want to have dinner with my family tonight.”

Her breath caught. I could see her fighting to stay calm. “What happens next, Will?” she asked, her voice soft. “To us?”

I stroked Sam’s hair. We had only one choice. “We put the past behind us, Ginny, like all people who come West.”

Her smile was thin, but there was hope in her eyes. Maybe there was hope in mine as well.

“Will!” Travis yelled from below.

I nodded at her, kissed our son as I extracted him from my leg, and went downstairs to clean up Ginny’s mess.

Death on D Street

Copyright © by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Published by WMG Publishing

Cover and layout copyright ©  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.

Any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (“AI”) technologies is expressly prohibited. The author and publisher reserve all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

 

By popular demand – I wonder if other authors get so many demands, heh – here is the Cast of Characters. This is a basic version. You will have to wait until Maggie’s site, the app, or the Companion to Kair Toren, for the images version.

This thing is hyperlinked and should be spoiler free. Not every character is included. Some are meant to be discovered and others are too minor to mention.

Blanket permission to print and share on socials.

This Kingdom Cast of CharactersDownload

The post This Kingdom’s Cast of Characters first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Fell asleep reaching for mah phone.

I think you might have a problem, my dude.

Yeah, he thinks his pan is half full, but actually…

That’s a really weird metaphor, my friend.

It really is.

He’s going to be pissed when he wakes up and finds THE PHONE IS MINE.

 

So there is no sigl for clearing bruisings? Mending doesn’t apply an rebuild can only work on muscles, do all people that might get bruisings (like soliders) have basicly constant bruisings or do they get enhanced priorly, sothat there is no reason to think about healing bruisings?