Authors

Prologue (Five Years Before Now)

Hans tried, desperately, to hide his resentment as he made his way to the schoolhouse.

It was a rule that all children had to have at least two days in school per week, at least until they came of age, and no one made any exceptions for peasants, apprentices and others who had no realistic hope of earning the grades they needed to join the civil service or become one of the king’s warlocks. Hans had tried his hardest, but he’d never managed to cast so much as a simple spell, let alone master the basics of reading, writing, and a hundred other skills one needed to rise in the world. He’d been lucky his uncle had agreed to take him on as an apprentice – there was always room for a new apprentice at a blacksmith’s forge – and going to school now felt like a sick joke, a waste of time when he could be learning the trade. But the law was the law. The last family that refused to send their children to school had been taken away and no one had ever laid eyes on them again, driving the lesson home.

The schoolhouse was a towering building of red brick, a waste of resources that could have built a dozen private houses, something the village desperately needed. It was easily large enough to house the hundreds of schoolchildren, from eight to sixteen, shambling towards the gates, their movements making it clear they wanted to be somewhere – anywhere – else. He frowned as he saw the handful of horses outside, their caparisons marked with the king’s livery, then hastily lowered his eyes when he saw the young woman standing behind them, her gaze flickering over the children as they walked past her and into the school. It was rare to see a young woman in a position of authority, which meant she was almost certainly a powerful sorceress as well as being of noble blood. Hans felt an odd little prickle as her eyes passed over his body, a faint sense of unease running through him. He half expected to find himself turning into a frog. But instead, he walked into the school and directly to the assembly hall. It was disturbingly quiet.

Hans felt cold, despite the warm air. It was normally rowdy, despite the best efforts of the headmaster and his teachers: friends chattering away loudly, bullies harassing their victims, swots trying desperately to finish their homework before the teachers collected their jotters and discovered they hadn’t actually finished their assigned work. The headmaster himself normally stood on the podium, dressed in robes Hans couldn’t have afforded if he worked every hour of every day for five years, prattling away about honour, glory, and the duty each and every citizen, from the highest to the lowest, owed to King Frederick VIII of Garstang, their lord and supreme master. Now, he was standing at the corner of the room, speaking to a handful of newcomers in the king’s livery. Hans had no idea who they were, but they had to be important. The headmaster normally expected everyone to bow and scrape to him. Now … he was the one doing the bowing and scraping.

Serves him right, Hans thought. It was impossible to respect the headmaster, no matter his rank. The man didn’t work for a living, he merely bossed around others while lording it over those who actually did. Now he knows how it feels to be ground under.

The lines of students normally kept shifting, as toughs pushed the weaker kids to the front while inching towards the rear. Hans was a past master at getting to the rear himself, relying on his greater strength to ensure he wasn’t close enough to be singled out by the headmaster and branded a disgrace before the entire school, but now the lines were barely moving and he found himself right at the front. A chill ran down his spine as the remaining students hurried into the chamber, including a handful of known troublemakers. They too were forced to the front. Hans would have found it amusing, if he hadn’t been so exposed himself. The headmaster always singled out one student for punishment and he was in the danger zone. And neither his father nor his uncle would be likely to listen to him if he insisted he’d been picked at random …

A newcomer, dressed in noble robes, walked onto the stage and stood in front of the gathered students. Hans heard the rear doors shutting with a bang, a grim reminder they were trapped … and that anyone who was late would wind up in very hot water indeed. The nobleman’s eyes surveyed the room, his gaze managing to convey the impression he’d seen more impressive specimens staggering out of the local alehouse every night, making their way home to a furious wife. Or perhaps lying on the sawdust, sleeping it off.

“Young men,” he said. His voice was quiet yet firm, echoing around the chamber in a manner that owed much to magic. No one spoke, not even the handful of troublemakers at the back. “You are here to be tested for a very special kind of magic. If you possess it, you will be honoured beyond the dreams of this” – his voice took on a hint of disdain – “quiet provincial town. If not, you will return to your quiet provincial lives.”

Hans felt a hot flash of irritation. He’d been tested on his magic, they’d all been tested, and he had little. If any. The handful of students who showed real aptitude for magic had been taken away a long time ago, their families paid the king’s coin and told their children would return as adult magicians, if they returned at all. He had no idea why the nobleman was wasting their time – probably because he could – but it was a waste of time. He had never managed a single spell.

He wanted to say it out loud, to ask why they were wasting his time, but he didn’t dare.

The nobleman drew a spellcaster from his belt. Hans felt a sudden lassitude fall over his mind, a sense that he should remain still – his brain switched off – until he was released from the spell. He stumbled a moment later, the spell letting him go. Raw anger boiled through him as he stared at the nobleman, trying to keep the sheer resentment off his face. It was bad enough that noblemen galloped through the cornfields, trampling the crop underfoot, or insisted the merchants overlooked their debts, but to steal his free will … his blood boiled. It took all the willpower he had not to clench his fists. Showing any kind of hostility to a nobleman, however well deserved, was a flogging offense. Or worse.

“Interesting,” the nobleman said. “Come forward.”

Hans tried to keep his feelings out of his voice and failed. “Why …?”

The nobleman snorted. “Look behind you.”

Hans turned … and stared. The other students were just standing there, their faces as blank as their minds. A chill ran down his spine as he stared at Rodolfo, a boy who never shut up, and Martina, a girl so pretty nearly every young man in town was trying to court her. They were both just … still, as if someone had somehow turned them off. He turned back and stared at the nobleman, who was studying him with a cold expression.

It was hard to speak, harder still to speak clearly. “What … what just happened?”

“The enchantment I used has little effect on those with a certain talent,” the nobleman said, as if Hans should already have known it. “You shrugged it off, which means you have the talent.”

He stepped off the podium and walked to the door. “Come.”

Hans stared after him, eyes flickering around the room in horror. Everyone was still. Even the headmaster was standing there, his face as blank as his students. The rest of the noblemen were gone already …

“I …” Hans swallowed and started again. “What’ll happen to them?”

“The spell will wear off,” the nobleman said, dismissively. “They’ll be fine.”

He reached the door and motioned for Hans to follow. Hans forced his legs into motion and staggered after him, feeling as if the world had just turned upside down. A carriage was already waiting outside, the door gaping open. He stopped as he realised he was being taken away, just like the rest of the magically-powerful students …

“Get in,” the nobleman ordered.

“My family,” Hans said, desperately. “And my master … ah, my uncle …”

“They will be informed, and rewarded for raising you,” the nobleman said. “Get in.”

Hans briefly considered running, but it would do him no good. There was no cover, nothing he could use to hide, and even if he did manage to get away the aristocrats could track him down easily. He’d have to hide within the forest and that would end badly. He barely knew how to take care of himself, and if the nobles posted a reward the bandits and outlaws would probably help track him down.

He scrambled into the carriage, trying not to marvel at the sheer luxury of the interior. He’d never ridden in anything like it before. The nobleman joined him, shutting the door and sitting down as the carriage rattled into life. Hans stared out the window as the vehicle picked up speed, the streets slowly giving way to croplands and grazing fields. He’d never been more than a couple of miles from his hometown. Now, he had the feeling he was never going to see his family again.

“Tell me about yourself,” the nobleman said.

Hans felt his temper flare. The words slipped out before he could stop himself. “Why should I tell anything to a man who hasn’t even introduced himself?”

The nobleman’s face twisted, like the headmaster’s when he found himself confronted with a student he didn’t dare punish. Hans took heart from it, even though he knew taunting a nobleman was asking for trouble. If his talent was so rare they were resorting to testing students in their quiet provincial town, as the nobleman had referred to his hometown, it was unlikely they were going to kill him on the spot.

“I am Court Graf,” the nobleman said, finally. “Mage Commander of the Royal Magic Corps.”

Hans kept his face under tight control, hiding his relief as best he could. He’d heard of the Royal Magic Corps, everyone had. They served the king and the king alone … he wondered, numbly, why they’d come for him? He didn’t have a single spell to his name. The sorcerers and mages of the Royal Magic Corps were supposed to be able to turn entire armies into toads with a wave of their hands, but he couldn’t even summon a tiny flame to light the forge or a gust of wind to cool a newly-forged blade.

He leaned forward. “Why me? I can’t cast any spells.”

Graf smiled, rather coldly. “Believe it or not, young man, that is precisely the point.”

“I don’t understand,” Hans said. It felt like a dream – or a nightmare. “Why me?”

“Don’t worry,” Graf assured him. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

Chapter One: Adam

Caithness was burning.

I watched, from what I devoutly hoped was a safe distance, as the advancing army ground towards the city. The darkness hid nothing, not from me. It was a force out of the darkest depths of history, a mechanical nightmare that hadn’t been seen since the days of the Thousand Year Empire, a force – I feared – we might not be able to stop. Small tripods – scouting machines – darted forward, moving with a combination of eerie grace and speed that chilled me to the bone, their mounted spellcasters hurling fireballs and lightning bolts at possible threats or whatever else caught their pilot’s eye. Larger tripods and crawling machines followed at a slower pace, their struts tearing up the road from the border to the city; flyers shot overhead, raining down death and destruction on the dour grey stone. Caithness wasn’t a wooden town, thank the Ancients, but it was only a matter of time until she was utterly devastated. The walls and buildings had never been designed to stand up to such a horde.

“Pinch me,” Caroline muttered, from behind me. “It’s a dream.”

I reached out and pinched her arm, hard enough to hurt. Her face twisted in pain, an instant before she pinched me back. The stab of agony failed to wake me from my slumber … I told myself not to be silly, no matter how easy it would have been to pretend it was nothing more than a nightmare. I had wondered, in my school days, how many of the stories of the Thousand Year Empire had been exaggerated over the centuries, how many of the wonders of that age had been made up of whole cloth. I knew, now, that the stories had been – if anything – understatements. The rolling army approaching the city appeared utterly unstoppable. I swallowed, hard, as I saw balls of light arcing into the air, flying over the walls and coming down within the city itself. They vanished out of sight, giant fireballs rising into the air a second later … I felt the ground rumble beneath my feet, the giant thunder crack reaching my ears and racketing onwards. If I felt bad here, I dreaded to think what it must feel like in the city. The population was caught in a nightmare.

“Stay here … no, go to the campsite,” I muttered. The army was nearing the fortress now and we needed to know what happened when the mechanical nightmare encountered fixed defences. “If I don’t come back, get back to Kirkhaven and send a message south.”

Caroline shot me a sharp look. “They’re more likely to underestimate me.”

“The king might listen to you,” I reminded her. “Let me go.”

Caroline scowled, then conceded the point with a nod. Technically, we were in disgrace. We’d failed to seize the flying city and then we’d fumbled our mission to Kirkhaven Hall. I’d done my best to take all the blame, which might just let Caroline convince him of the sheer magnitude of the impending disaster. The fortress would have dispatched a rider south, I was sure, and if the commander was on his toes he’d have ordered a handful of observers to watch from a safe distance, but the early reports might not be believed. Hell, I wasn’t sure if our reports of the incident at Kirkhaven had been believed either.

I turned away, muttering a handful of obscurification spells to hide myself as I slipped through the night. It wasn’t easy to pick my way through the rough landscape surrounding the town, even with the best night vision spells the sorcerous researchers had been able to devise, but I stayed low and kept walking. The night sky was alarmingly clear and I found myself beseeching the Ancients for rain. The enemy had timed their offensive well, I conceded sourly. It never seemed to stop raining at times, along the border, but tonight was as clear as any invader could wish. I hoped that would change, as I hid myself in the shadows and watched a scout machine striding past. It was hard to tell if the pilot missed me or if he simply didn’t care. A lone man, no matter how dangerous, was no threat to his machine.

I took a risk and leaned forward, studying the tripod as it strode into the distance. I’d thought the entire army was composed of Objects of Power, a remarkable and seemingly impossible feat, yet up close I had my doubts. The flying city I’d seen in the Eternal City had been a single machine, and the meksects that tended to its innards were almost animalistic, but the tripod was crude, as if someone had bolted one piece of machinery to another. I sucked in my breath as it moved inwards, recalling just how difficult it was to make such a device without having it decay into rust and ruin almost at once. The plans for forging war machines hadn’t been lost, but the techniques had.

Caitlyn Aguirre managed to figure it out, I reminded myself, but could she churn out so many war machines so quickly?

I didn’t believe it. Forgery wasn’t my strong suit, but even a team of dedicated Zeros would take weeks to forge a single war machine, let alone a whole army of them. There weren’t that many Zeros! The government had tried to test everyone who showed signs of little or no magic, ever since they’d realised what was missing from the ancient documents, but only two had been discovered, at least within the borders of Tintagel. I couldn’t believe Garstang had found so many, not when our neighbours were so backwards. They barely tolerated female mages and their aristocracy made ours look like saints. It was difficult to believe they’d even found one, let alone that they’d been able to convince the poor bastard to work for them. But they’d clearly succeeded …

The thought haunted me as I slipped down to the closest vantage point. Fortress Caithness towered over the North Wall, a giant structure bristling with heavy spellcasters and other weapons of war. It was a strange combination of magical and mundane devices, capable of dominating the roads and blocking any advance from the north; the walls were hardened, protected by wards so powerful they should have been able to shrug off any assault, ensuring the fortress would remain intact even if the city itself fell to force or treachery. The planners had been certain the fortress would survive, deep in the enemy rear, giving the troops inside a chance to harass their supply lines. I’d seen those plans myself and they’d looked solid. But right now, it was clear they’d been based on false assumptions.

I forced myself to watch as the giant tripods opened fire, their spellcasters unleashing wave after wave of raw magic into the fortress. Wards capable of deflecting almost any threat shuddered under the impact, the charmed walls turning black as the enchantments started to waver and break. The fortress returned fire, their spellcasters lashing out at the enemy vehicles; I felt a flicker of relief as one tripod staggered and fell, only to lose even that as the rest started to dance around. They were hard to hit, I realised numbly, and armoured to the point that even a handful of hits weren’t enough to bring them down. The crawling machines stayed to the rear, half-hidden in hollows, and opened fire, their projectiles rising up and falling on top of the fortress. The noise was unbearable. Even from my distance, I could feel the air prickling with raw discordant magic. It was too much.

Aim for their legs, I thought, as more magic tore through the air. Try and take them out …

A low rumbling battered my ears as the fortress started to crumble, its wards shattering one by one. The charmed walls fell quickly, waves of magical balefire seething through the spellcaster ports and wiping out their crews … normally, balefire was easy to counter if you knew the right spells, but the defenders had too many other things to worry about. Something exploded, blowing out a chunk of the wall and opening a gash in the remaining defences. I cursed as I saw the soldiers advancing from behind the war machines, hurling themselves into the remnants of the fortress. Others were heading into the city itself. I kicked myself for not having seen them earlier. They’d been hidden within the shadows, my eyes drawn to the light.

The defending fire died away. I cursed. The kingdom hadn’t lost a major fortress for hundreds of years. Now … I hoped the defenders had the sense to abandon their posts, flee into the city, and change their military tunics into something a little more civilian. Garstang was bound by treaty to deal honourably with prisoners, but the sheer force they’d unleashed against Caithness showed a frightening lack of concern for civilian casualties. Even if they hadn’t been deliberately targeting civilians, I couldn’t imagine they hadn’t killed hundreds … perhaps thousands. The recent events at Kirkhaven had sent thousands of refugees fleeing in all directions and some had gone to Caithness, only to discover they’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire. I hoped they’d have the chance to get out before the city was sealed off for good.

I watched for a few moments longer, then turned and hurried away, circumventing the city as I made my way back to the vantage point. Hundreds of people were fleeing, some heading down the king’s road to Templeton. I shuddered at the thought of the coming nightmare, when the enemy force made it down to the city. Templeton was heavily defended, if only because it was the key to roads leading to Shallot and Tintagel City. If the enemy took control, they’d be able to cut off the entire set of northern provinces from the kingdom … or keep advancing, aiming to crush Shallot before we could produce war machines of our own. I cursed again as I saw the refuges, most dressed in nightclothes with a handful of cloaks thrown over their garb. They didn’t look remotely ready for the rain and the cold. Some might find shelter, in nearby towns and hamlets, but others would walk into the bog and drown before they realised they’d killed themselves. There was nothing I could do to help them, not now. I knew my duty.

Damn you, I thought. Caithness had fallen, but the fires were still burning brightly. How many people have you killed?

Something flickered, in the darkness. A faint sheet of light … a ghostly form, barely humanoid. Ice crawled down my spine. I’d hoped the ghosts that had plagued Kirkhaven were gone, their unquiet voices stilled by the release of the soul trapped within the bog, but they were still there … harmless now, we thought, but some of the ghosts we’d seen earlier had been very dangerous indeed. I gave the ghost a wide berth, keeping my eyes on it. The lack of any eyes looking back at me was oddly disconcerting. I made a mental note to add the ghost’s presence to the report, although I had no idea what my superiors would make of it. They had a full-scale invasion to worry about.

The darkness seemed to fall again as I kept walking, picking my way down the rough stony path. Caithness had fallen behind the hills, but a grim orange-red glow lit up the air. The dour city woke with the dawn and went to sleep with the dusk, unlike many others, and there were no streetlights to assist drinkers making their way home or make life difficult for footpads. Now … the city was burning. I shuddered helplessly.

Caroline relaxed, slightly, as she saw me. I filled her in as we packed up and headed to Kirkhaven Hall, wondering if we should split up. There was strength in numbers and it was rare for King’s Men to be sent out on missions alone, without at least some back-up, but there was no way we could stand up to even one tripod. Not until we figured out how to beat them … my heart sank as I recalled just how few primitive nations had managed to slow the Empire’s invaders down for more than a few hours. The Empire had talked about a mission to civilise the natives, and to its credit it had brought the benefits of modern magic, but their invasion would have been utterly world-ending for the locals even if it did work out in the long run. It was hard to imagine the local leadership wouldn’t have been rounded up and slaughtered, the local magicians invited to add their blood to the Empire’s great families, the local merchants shoved aside … Garstang wouldn’t be even that civilised. They’d wanted a gateway to the sea for centuries and if they took ours …

“The fortress will have sent messengers south,” Caroline muttered. “Right?”

I nodded, although I had no way to be sure. The enemy could have sneaked horsemen into the empty lands behind Caithness, with orders to kill any messengers and dispel vapour spells. It was hard to keep word from spreading, but it wouldn’t cost the enemy very much and the rewards would be more than worth it. The longer the gap between the invasion and the king hearing about it, the longer it would be before reinforcements started heading north. Worse, perhaps. The reinforcements would have no idea what they’d be facing, when the invaders regrouped and continued their march south. Templeton might fall as easily as Caithness.

The skies darkened. I breathed a sigh of relief as the rain started to fall, hoping and praying it would quench the fires as well as slow enemy movements. The tripods were massive, but I could imagine their pilots steering them into a bog and discovering – too late – that they’d doomed themselves. If there was any bottom to the bogs, it had never been discovered. The thought of a tripod slowly sinking made me smile, although I feared it wouldn’t happen. The enemy had had years to plan the invasion. It was likely they’d had more than enough time to get their hands on local maps.

I cursed as the rain kept falling, the water drenching our clothes and leaving us looking and feeling like drowned rats. Kirkhaven Town was still half-buried in the mud and sinking fast … I was so tired it took me far too long to realise that the landslide had damned the river, leaving the water lapping at the homes and shops that had once made up a small and yet thriving community. We turned west and made our way up to Kirkhaven Hall. The Mistress of Kirkhaven – Isabella Rubén – might be able to help us. If she was there …

“She’s gone to the city to get help and attend her brother’s wedding,” Sandy told us. She looked like a drowned rat herself, running around trying to attend to the hundreds of refugees who’d been crammed into Kirkhaven Hall. “What’s the hurry?”

I told her. Kirkhaven was off the beaten path, the combination of mountains and sound-quenching bogs ensuring no one would hear the invasion as it swept over Caithness and headed south. It took hours to drive from the village to the city normally – now, the ancients alone knew – and most of the villages preferred to pretend the world outside their borders simply didn’t exist. I had seen it before, over the last couple of years, but it was still difficult to believe. It really shouldn’t have surprised me. I’d grown up in Shallot, gateway to the kingdom – and the world. My childhood had been filled with tales of bold explorers who had sailed the seven seas, learning about the world in the wake of the Empire’s fall; I’d known, from birth, that there was something bigger out there, a chance to become someone powerful and significant. The villagers didn’t have that, not in any real sense. There was no point of dreaming of foreign lands when they would never get to travel, let alone see the world.

But now the world has come calling, I thought, numbly. It’s only a matter of time before the invaders find Kirkhaven.

I shoved the thought aside. “Callam went with her?”

“Yes,” Sandy said. A confusing flicker of emotions darted across her face, gone before I could quite pin them down. Sandy had been Isabella’s dorm monitor, a post that would have been difficult even if Isabella hadn’t managed to compromise herself so thoroughly, and then she’d been Callam’s teacher. I felt a stab of sympathy. I’d been a dorm monitor myself and it wasn’t easy to keep some of the aristo brats in line. “They were planning to be back shortly, but …”

“If they do come back, tell them to return to Shallot at once,” I ordered. Isabella was just another sorceress, but Callam was a Zero. He could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. “And we need to borrow your horses.”

Thunder rumbled, in the distance. I hoped it was thunder.

Sandy scowled. “And what should we do, if Garstang attacks the estate?”

I swallowed. It should have been unlikely. Kirkhaven was just another tiny village, so small that calling it a village was an exaggeration. But Isabella had turned the estate into a productive enterprise and Callam, of course, was worth far more than his weight in gold. We might have lucked out, I reflected sourly, that she’d had to go south for the wedding. The enemy had excellent reason to attack Kirkhaven as soon as possible. They’d find it tricky to send more than a small force, but the estate was practically defenceless.

“Keep your heads down, try to avoid attracting attention,” I ordered, finally. It was unlikely the villagers would be harmed. Garstang would need them to feed and supply its forces. “The king will send his army north soon enough.”

But I hoped, as we prepared to ride south, that I was wrong. The world had changed. The invasion was proof nothing would ever be the same …

And if the army wasn’t ready for what it faced, it would be the end.

Here’s something really fun…at least for me. I’ve been doing a lot of teaching lately, working with student manuscripts. And it doesn’t seem to matter how experienced the writers are, some of them are having trouble putting in all five senses. In particular, the senses of smell and taste.

I have a quick and easy solution to that, as I explain in the video below.

I have a lot of quick solutions to long-term craft problems that writers struggle with. I’m doing to do an entire series of these workshops. Here’s a bit more on the series itself.

I hope you’ll join me with this workshop. You can sign up for the first one right here.

I have a few updates for you all on various matters. First, I didn’t post a DOGE Supernatural story this last Friday because I was pushing to finish revisions on Galadon. I had to give that all my spare time and attention. There will be another episode later this week, though. In relation to that, […]

So many of you backed our latest Kickstarter, which was for my first three fantasy novels. We did a full rebrand, and are introducing the books to a new audience. Your help with the Kickstarter made that easy.

Thank you!!!!

Now you can return to your regularly scheduled Saturday evening…

I am guessing that if Stephen could get hooked up with the right people, he could make a bunch of crappy sigils for the entire purpose of selling them to be recycled.

Czech rights to Robert McCammon’s Swan Song and Boy’s Life have been acquired by Czech Republic publisher OneHotBooks.

Ukrainian publisher Zhorzh has acquired the Uktrainian rights to Robert McCammon’s Mister Slaughter, The Providence Rider, and The Listener. Zhorzh previously acquired the rights to Boy’s Life, Swan Song, Speaks the Nightbird, and The Queen of Bedlam. Their translation of Boy’s Life will be released in May.

Zhorzh on Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/ZhorzhClub
Zhorzh on Instagram – https://www.instagram.com/zhorzhclub/

 

Elara bent over the map, spread over the table. The herb patch… The berry bushes… The maples on the north side…

A presence tugged on her. She raised her head. Hugh stood in the doorway.

Alive. Uninjured.

 She let out a mental breath and straightened. “You’re back.”

“I am.” His voice held no bravado.  He sounded, not subdued exactly, but quietly resigned. She braced herself.

“Casualties?” she asked.

“None on our side. Something smells amazing.”

“I made chicken for dinner.”

He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Is it for me?”

“Yes.  You did come back safely.”

“Can it wait?” he asked. “I need your help.”

“Of course.”  What was going on with him?

He invited her out with a sweep of his hand. She left the room, and they went down the hallway side by side.  The Keep was quiet. Soft afternoon light spilled through the windows, drawing long rectangles on the hallway floor.

“What happened in Aberdine?” she asked.

“Falcon blocked our approach.  We had some words and then Bale decorated the road with Falcon’s brains. The rest of the mercs cleared off.”

He still sounded off.

“Is this going to come back to bite us?” she asked.

“Possibly.  The second half of the company is enroute to Aberdine. The woman who is leading it could prove difficult.  It depends on whether she decides to make an issue out of Falcon’s death or if she assumes command and takes what’s left of them somewhere else. If I were her, I’d count my blessings, but some people lack common sense.”

They reached the staircase and started down the steps.

“And if she decides to attack?”

“I’ll crush her.”

There was no force in his voice.  He said it so matter of fact, as if he were talking about taking out the trash.

“Hugh?”

“Yes?”

“What’s wrong?”

He looked straight ahead.

“About ten years ago we came across a corpse town in the Laurentian Uplands in Ontario. Men, women, kids, all dead, rotting in the street.”  

His tone was flat and weary.

“We found one survivor. A skinny kid about fifteen or so. Someone nailed him to a tree.”

Nailed?

“He should’ve died but he was too stubborn to let go. We took him with us.”

“What happened to town?”

“He never told us. He barely talked. Once we fed him enough for his legs to support his weight, I asked him what he wanted to do. He said he wanted to get stronger.”

Hugh sighed. “Some people are born swordsmen. It’s not something you can teach or train. The kid picked up the sword, and he was gone. He’d wake up in the morning and train until he passed out in the evening with a sword in his bed. Bale’s berserkers had adopted him. They all used to watch out for him, because he forgot to eat. He wasn’t the strongest or the most skilled, but he was fast, and he had the killer instinct. When he faced an opponent, the world disappeared. Nothing else existed.”

He fell silent.

“Was he as good as you?” she prompted.

“Almost. With magic down, he’d be a problem for me. Possibly even for Daniels.”

He brought up Kate.  That usually meant he’d gone into a dark place. Roland’s biological daughter was the reason for his exile. They had a long and tangled history, none of it good. Hugh had done horrible things while under Roland’s control and they plagued his soul festering there until they ruptured into open sores. Kate was a wound that never healed.

“How long was he with you?” she asked.

“Eight years,” Hugh said. “We had a winter base near Wichita Falls in north Texas. Pretty country down there.  Mild winter, lakes, rivers. We’d come back to it year after year when not on mission. One day he came to me and said he wanted out. He met a girl and decided he was done being a Dog.”

“But he loved being a swordsman?”

Hugh shook his head. “It wasn’t love. More like compulsion. It consumed him, and when he was with her, he could put it away. She freed him of it.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I let him go. It was his second chance at life. He could be whatever he wanted to be. Everyone was happy for him.”

A cold unease washed over her. “Did you find him in Aberdine?”

“I did. I found him in that shithole of a camp. With people who didn’t deserve him and treated him like an attack dog. Those assholes couldn’t even be bothered with basic shit like guards and patrols. Elara, we just rode right in there. It was dirty and disorganized, a fucking disgrace. And those shitheads thought they could hold a town for ransom, and we would just let them.”

He was disgusted by all of it. The mercenaries had no idea how lucky they were. He could have just wiped them all out, and his face told her he had considered it. They probably deserved it.

“How the fuck did he end up there?” Hugh stopped. “He left with enough money to last him for five years. It should have been enough to take her anywhere and do whatever they wanted. Should I have kept him?”

“He wasn’t yours to keep,” she said gently. “You saved him, you trained him, and then you let him go. The rest was up to him.”

He gave her a dark look. “And he fucked it up.”

On the scales of Hugh’s life, with so much guilt and darkness piled up on one side, this young swordsman must have been a counterweight. Someone Hugh saved. Proof that he wasn’t irredeemable, that the Iron Dogs stood for more than slaughter and destruction. Even while under Roland’s influence, with his life going up in flames, Hugh had let him go. He was a remarkable asset, but his future happiness mattered, and Hugh released him.

Now that happiness lay in ruins. Seeing that broke something in Hugh. She could feel him retreating deeper inside himself, in the place where Hugh faded, and Roland’s warlord took the front line. The memory of a burning maelstrom with fangs she once saw in his soul scalded her. She had to keep him with her, anchored in here and now no matter what it took.

“If you’d kept him against his will, he could have died,” she told him. “You said yourself that Roland wrecked everything you built. As good as he was, he would be near the top of the execution list. At least he’s alive.”

“There’s that.”

“What happened to the girl?”

“I’ll show you.”

They’d reached the third floor. A trace of magic tugged on her. It came from the left, from the direction of the guest suite where they put potentially troublesome visitors. It felt sharp, almost spiky, like a cocklebur bristling with hooked needles. It pulsed in a subdued rhythm, active but muted.

She sped up. They marched down the hallway to the door. Hugh knocked and pushed the door open, not bothering to wait for an invitation.

A young woman with long dark hair lay on the bed. The burr of magic wrapped around her, fused with her body, strangled her vitality, growing from it like a parasite. Her eyes were shut, her skin was pallid, and patches of fuzzy dark growth, rippling with black, red, and purple, marked her exposed arms and neck. It looked like someone had scooped a toxic bacterial colony from some giant petri dish, smeared it all over her, and it took root.

A man in his mid-twenties sat in the chair by bed. He looked up at their approach and his eyes were full of grief.

The magic burr pulsed with power.

“A curse.” The word fell from Elara’s lips. She had never seen one like that.

“Can it be undone?” Hugh asked her.

“I don’t know. But we will try.”

The post Wednesday, Thursday, Hughday… Chapter 5: Part 1 first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

The last thing the hyper-advanced Human Confederation expected to encounter on Darius – a far distant and long lost colony world – was actual magic, sorcerers and magicians and other inexplicable feats that the most advanced technology could not duplicate. Determined to discover the source of the mystery, the Confederation dispatched a survey team to Darius and eventually discovered that the human settlers had tapped into the Darius Machine, an inexplicable piece of alien technology that granted supernatural powers to those capable of calling upon its aid. The Darius Machine was accidentally destroyed, seemingly rendering the former godlike humans powerless, but leaving behind a number of children with strange and often frightening powers of their own.

That was seventeen years ago.

Since then, the Darius Children have been raised on Clarke, an isolated world where they can be studied as well as protected from the remainder of the human race. Their powers appear simplistic and yet very dangerous, provoking fear as well as awe in their teachers; their attempts to expand their abilities, and bring others into their mental network, threaten the very fabric of reality itself. As they start to demand the right to leave their homeworld, a sociopath strikes and kidnaps one of the Children, intending to sell her to the highest bidder. Another Child must go in pursuit …

And hidden in the shadows, an unseen manipulator lays the seeds of a galaxy-wide conflagration.

Purchase from the links HERE or BOOKS2READ!

Thanks again for the weekly Drucraft update. As always very useful and thought provoking. I’m wondering if Stephen would need a room to construct his own well or if it is just a piece of private open space, as I don’t think that essentia is constrained by walls and such? On the other hand he knows, at this stage, where a lot of natural, hidden wells can be found so he may be happy to use those locations.

Hum, perhaps he isn’t thinking at all about this anyway as he (currently) doesn’t have a lot of high power sygls to convert!

I hope that work on Book#4 is progressing well and that the sales of Books#1 & #2 continue to live up to expectations. Sadly, for me, A Judgement of Powers still seems a long way from publication. Six months to go!

The Magic Binds full cast dramatized adaptation will be released on Tuesday, March 25th. The preorder is available on the Graphic Audio website, as well as on Audible and all the other usual third party retailers.

Of course, we got sample goodies!

What do you mean, ‘do I need cake right now‘? Kate. Beloved. We ALL need cake right now.

The three Queens guarding the line of Shinar – this Mishmar scene always gives me Canada goose bumps.

There is a third official sample on the preorder page I linked above: Kate and Curran visiting Roman about their wedding. Wedding planner shenanigans: engaged!

The next GA Ilona Andrews releases are:

Burn for Me, Hidden Legacy 1 on April 25th. You can also find find it for preorder on Audible etc.

Magic Triumphs, Kate Daniels 10 on May 20th – there is an update to the date here, it was previously set to come out on May 2nd, but the script is just too epic and Nora never lets a project be just good when she can make it amazing. A spoonful of sugar, intense editing, sound design and lots of loving work makes the final battles and psychotic ancient dragons go down! Ehhh, you know what I mean. Neig wishes. Preorder should go live on third party retailers sometime next week.

I’ve seen some concerned comments wondering how much content will be abridged from Magic Triumphs and Burn for Me because the length of the traditional audiobooks and the length of the dramatized adaptation always appear to have several hours of difference.

Having pored over both scripts, I’m happy to confirm the answer is: virtually nothing was cut! Those were in fact Nora’s first words to me when we started discussing Magic Triumphs, and who can blame her? Certainly not us hehe.

The differences in duration come mainly from the fact that animated dialogue has a different rhythm than a single narrator reading. Dramatized battle scenes, for example, rely a lot more on dynamic back and forth and the majority of GA actors are really embodying the snappy deadpan Ilona and Gordon wrote for their characters. Renee Raudman has her own signature cadence, which is the favourite of so many, but I know a lot of readers prefer to increase the speed of traditional audio.

Audio effects and interpretation can also supplant certain descriptive passages and action tags, with no difference to content. We can hear that the actor is laughing while delivering the line, or that the birds are singing while a conversation is taking place, the narrator doesn’t have to specify it to us.

You can read more about the adaptation process in previous interviews with members of the Graphic Audio team here and here.

I have covered in more detail how to buy and the accessibility of the GA app in this post, which you can also supplement with the Graphic Audio Help FAQ on their website.

The post Magic Binds Samples from Graphic Audio first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

The audiobook pre-order is now available for the seventh novel in the Dragon's Breath Series, Cast by Flames. It will release soon on March 25th. Click on this post for retailer links!

The only choice is surrender. In my world, magic and danger go hand-in-hand. It has from my earliest memory. Magic was currency, and if you have it, you have power. I was shaped by some of the most influential Druids into a lethal weapon. Their weapon. Until the night they betray me—and I wind up...

The post New Release – Blood Skye appeared first on Donna Grant.

Mod R presented me with a list of questions. Let us get to it.

When will the preorder be availlable?

We don’t know. Well, that was easy. The usual MO is to wait until the cover is done because people tend to preorder in higher numbers once the cover is up. Maybe having the cover is proof that the book exists?

When will the cover be available?

We don’t know that either. I’m knocking these out of the park today.

Can you make Tor publish it faster?

Hahahaha. No.

Will there be opportunities for signed books or bookplates?

Absolutely.

Will there be a e-book and audio version or just print?

There will be all the things. Tor is fully behind this release. So here is how this book sold: it went to several publishers on Thursday and on Friday morning Tor came back with an offer so impressive, that our agent called for an emergency zoom meeting to discuss it. They read it that evening, and they really wanted this book. So there will be everything: ebook, print, audio. The whole kaboodle. We’ve discussed maps and extras.

Will there be special editions/ hardcovers/ book boxes, since it’s Tor? We want all the special editions (Fairyloot, Broken Binding, Forbidden Planet and Illumicrate mentioned specifically) 

We don’t know. But our personal feeling is that yes, there likely will be special editions. We are working on some extra scenes, deleted scenes, and so on.

Can you share a cover artist at least? Are you using Luisa Preissler?

We don’t know who the cover artist is. No idea. It probably will not be an object cover, simply because there have been so many of them that it’s hard to come up with a new distinct image. The direction is more toward illustrative rather than graphic. And that’s all I can say.

A note about Luisa Preissler: Luisa recently changed her creative direction. She is taking a break from covers and is working on landscapes instead. She now paints beautiful gouache art. Here is that story in Luisa’s own words and images, and here is how her first gallery went.

(She is teaching a class on her Patreon and I really want to take it. I haven’t yet, because I paint very, very badly. Like hilariously badly. Only my singing is worse.)

So although Hugh 1’s cover is in desperate need of a makeover and we would love her to do both Hugh 1 and 2, we are not sure that she will have an opening in her schedule. We will definitely bring it up, but we might have to go in the new direction.

And now you know why sometimes we do things other than sequels to the beloved series. Artists, writers, and musicians don’t usually stay in one lane. Creativity is a layered, branching expression of one’s inner self. As we go through life, the direction of creativity changes because we are affected by events that happen to us and the world around us. It is the natural evolution of us as human beings.

Will it be translated into French/ German/ Spanish etc?

Probably. Let me tell you a little bit about foreign rights so you will have a cool industry insight.

Twice a year, the publishing world gets together at two major book fairs: London and Frankfurt. The Frankfurt one is held in Germany and it is the largest book fair based on the sheer number of publishers who attend. It usually happens in October. London Book Fair, which is almost as large, is happening this week, March 11-13. It is held in London, to no one’s surprise, and both our agency and Tor will have a presence.

These are not reader-centric events, but rather events where publishers and agents from all over the world get together and talk about upcoming projects and sell and buy foreign (to them) rights.

While we don’t expect to have offers from foreign publishers, because the final edit was just turned in and hasn’t been accepted yet, This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me, and this was so long to type, let’s call it This Kingdom for short, This Kingdom will be “a topic of conversation.” At least that’s what our agent told us.

To sum up: yes, we expect interest from foreign publishers and we will let you know what is happening with that when we know something ourselves.

Does that mean you are going to London?

No, London Book Fair is not for the authors. But we would love to go to London. And Ireland.

Why are you using comps to announce the book?

We are not. Tor is using comps to announce the book. Comps are mostly for industry insiders to let them quickly identify what the book is about. For some reason, you guys are really concentrating on them, but it is a minor detail.

Will the series be called Maggie the Undying?

Yes. We all loved Maggie as a title, but unfortunately it’s really hard to go to book 2 with it. Something has to beat out the Undying. And then you end up with Maggie the Undaunted or something equally silly.

Is it a series or a standalone?

It is definitely not a standalone. The original plan was for three. The caveat here is that Book 1 ended up being enormous, so Book 2 will likely be equally so, and we may pack the story into two books instead of three. But for now, three is where it is.

Are the 808 pages Word pages or formatted pages and what will be the final length of the book?

So if you take Magic Bites and Magic Burns and put them together, that will be about the right thickness. Typical KD was 90-95K, because the publisher wanted it that way, and this is around 180K.

Is there romance or isn’t there? How spicy is it?

It has strong romantic elements, meaning that you can yank romance out of the book and it would be still make sense. Like Kate books – you can remove Kate and Curran’s relationship and they will still make sense. The romance is slow burn. You will just have to read it.

So is this a twist on the concept from Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint?

Oh good question. Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint is a manhwa, a Korean comic, and a webnovel.

The manhwa is available on Webtoon and the official translation of the webnovel might have been up for preorder some time recently. Not sure about that one.

ORV throws the reader into his favorite book as a character. He starts tugging at strings and influencing events. This is a common trope used by a lot of portal (isekai) manhwa and anime.

The variation on that is being thrown into a video game. If you are in the market for an anime with that theme, there are so many, but I want to mention two here just for fun. First, My Next Life as a Villainess: All Routes Lead to Doom! The heroine ends up stuck as a villainess in the dating video game with hilarious results. Vegetables! All the vegetables ever.

The trailer, which is below, doesn’t do it justice. This anime is available on Crunchyroll. Although the trailer is subbed, the anime is dubbed and the dub is pretty good. (Link for newsletter readers.)

Once you watch that, there is this gem in Hidive.

From Bureaucrat to Villainess: Dad’s Been Reincarnated! has the exact same premise, but he is a middle aged dad, which leads to ridiculous moments, such as him telling another girl that her presence in the magical academy could mean only one thing – her parents love her very much and they want her to succeed.

But back to the Omniscient Reader, yes, This Kingdom has the similar premise of a reader being thrown into a book and changing events as they unfold. But Omniscient Reader is structured like a LitRPG, meaning it has a video-game like narrative. The character goes through a sequence of escalating fights with emphasis on classes and skills. It has more in common with Solo Leveling than Maggie.

(That genre is super fun. In fact, we are working on a very derivative novella in that genre on and off in our spare time because it’s been nagging at me and Gordon suggested that we need to download it onto page and out of my brain.)

This Kingdom has zero LitRPG elements. It is all about political intrigue and fantasy kingdoms, which is where the GOT comparison comes from. There are no defined classes or skills, there is no system window, etc. There are heists and murders and to quote Maggie, “Deadly swordmasters, thieves prowling through moonlit streets, dark magicians, ruthless nobles, hideous monsters…” It’s is meant to be an archetypical fantasy.

So a little bit different. A better comp would be the Lout of Count’s Family, which is available on Tapas. Highly recommend. And now we have it in novel form, available on Amazon and presumably everywhere else. Tada!

Lout of Count’s Family

I haven’t read the novel, but the manhwa is awesome. He is the best dragon dad ever.

Since Maggie is getting sprayed edges, is there any news for a Kate hardcover/sprayed edges, uniform box set release?

We don’t know anything about sprayed edges or where they will go or what they will look like. We first saw it on Tor’s announcement.

We’ve brought up the possibility of reissuing KD in hardcover to Ace, which originally published that series. They are not interested in pursuing that at this time. As much as we all love Kate, it’s an older series.

How are you feeling about all of this?

Cautiously excited. For me there is a little bit of a disconnect, because in my head Maggie was a small weird book, and now This Kingdom reads like a medieval thriller. The book has grown bigger and more vivid. But despite the many editorial passes – or maybe because of them – I love the story. I love the world. I love Maggie and her fierce fandom heart. We both hope you will enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.

The post All the Questions first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Caitlin Carter seeks purpose. She needs to, or so her counselors at the VA keep telling her. Find a reason to live. Forget the past.

The past haunts her, especially because she lives in her old hometown. The place where the trouble started.

Until she finds exploring her past might help her find a future…just not the way she expects.

A powerful story about veterans and the traumas they continue to face even at home.

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

 

Rehab By Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Not quite homeless. That’s how she described herself to herself. Not quite homeless but not quite home, either.

Caitlin Carter started her walk back from her appointment at the VA. The stately old building had been at the edge of mansion row for more than forty years, as the neighborhood slowly slipped into decline.

She barely saw it any more. She grew up only a few blocks away, and the mansions had never really been at their peak—not in her lifetime.

She wore two stocking caps over her skull, one pulled down almost to her eyebrows, and two pairs of gloves over her hands, which she still stuck in her pockets. One of the many gifts of her desert tours was a broken internal thermometer—light cold seemed too cold, harsh cold seemed warm, deadly cold felt welcoming—and she made sure she dressed like the sensible Midwestern girl she had been, back before she decided to chuck it all for the sake of some excitement or (oh, hell, let’s be honest) to tell her law-and-order father to go fuck himself.

So many issues, so little time. At least that was what she joked with the shrink the last time she heard, “I’m afraid our time is up.” Yeah, she always just got started, and then the time was up, and she was sent into the cold, literally, at least this winter.

No matter what she did, she couldn’t get her parents out of her mind. She’d moved back in with them six months ago—not in her old bedroom because that belonged to some other girl. A girl who graduated high school, smiled wide, dressed in pink, and had totally dorky boyfriends. A girl with trophies on her shelf from volleyball tournaments, certificates from math contests framed over her bed, and one rather nasty juvie file in a shadow box below a shattered mirror.

Yeah, that girl had issues.

The woman has more.

She lived in the grandmother apartment over her parents’ garage. One bedroom, half kitchen, tiny bathroom, ugly living area. The smell of exhaust filled the place every time her father moved the car.

She found the smell of exhaust comforting.

She needed comforting, because the apartment wasn’t. Her parents weren’t either. Her mother couldn’t meet her eyes, even now, and her father, for all his talk of wasted potential, still mentioned that one night, the joyride, the anger, the accident, leading to what would’ve been a couple of felonies had she been one week older, or had Michael actually died of his injuries.

Caitlin had told her father she hadn’t known Michael had put a gun in her glove box and carried a knife inside his boot. She claimed she hadn’t known about the weapons till she and Michael had ripped off the liquor store that failed to serve them, and sped off, crashing through the windows of a car dealership not half a block away.

Not the worst thing that happened to her, by far.

The thing her father blamed, though. Technically, he hadn’t paid off the judge, but she knew there was a tit-for-tat, probably dealing with secrets. Her father loved secrets, knew where the bodies were buried, liked to haul out the skeletons when he needed them.

And he’d needed them that night, when he traded her years in a juvie facility and/or some prison somewhere for mandatory military service. Sounded like punishment to her at the time.

Life-saving, turned out.

She carefully picked her way across the ice-covered street, to the unshoveled sidewalks of mansion row. Her breath fanned out around her like exhaust from the engines of a dozen jeeps.

It had taken nearly a year to work her way up the VA’s waiting list. Counselors—especially those dealing with the psychological problems—were in high demand.

Her problems had started long before she joined up, got exacerbated by her tours. If it weren’t for the nightmares—the screaming, pound-her-fist-through-the-wall nightmares—she probably wouldn’t have signed up for counseling in the first place.

Thrown out of three separate apartments at the far end of town. License restricted for driving drunk, which limited her choices—especially here, where the phrase “bus service” was an oxymoron and public transportation meant taking a tourist trolley that circled the downtown.

She had to move close to the VA because if she missed one appointment, just one, she got knocked down to the bottom of the waiting list again, and much as she hated the shrink talk and the sharing and the crappy way she felt when the sessions were over, she hated not having someone to talk to—really talk to—worse.

So she walked, every day, even when it was ten below, like today. No matter what her mother said, Caitlin didn’t wear a ski mask over her face—that would bring back flashbacks to high school and the rebellion and the power-high she got from pulling cash from some stupid clerk’s till. (Okay, so she had known about the gun, but she’d only told the shrink that last week. It’d been her gun (which she stole from another kid’s locker), and Michael had been too injured to ever contradict her—at least when it counted, during the so-called court case, the judgment that sent her on the path that led to this icy sidewalk, this everyday walk.)

She tucked her chin inside the parka, letting the fake fur caress her face. Whenever she felt the fake fur, she knew she was okay—not too cold—because if she were too cold, she’d feel nothing at all.

Time to walk back to the undecorated apartment and wait until she had to show up for one of her three five-hour shifts at the nearby coffee shop, the only place that would hire vets and let them be around people. Didn’t matter that most of the customers were also vets. Didn’t matter that she rarely said more than “That’ll be $2.50” and “Here’s your change, sir.” At least she got out of the house.

Or so she said to herself.

She saved the mansion for the way back. She loved the mansion. She had loved it since she was a child.

She used to walk down this stately old boulevard near her parents’ house, and imagine living in the mansions. Back then, they were apartments, mostly, although some were still single-family dwellings. All had fallen on hard times, or so everyone thought.

But even harder times had been on the horizon.

Now most of the mansions were boarded up, with plywood over the windows and doors. Her favorite was on the corner of two boulevards, and it seemed to take up half the block. When she was a kid, an old lady lived there, alone. Sometimes Caitlin saw the old lady, tottering her way to the really fancy car that she left parked in the driveway.

But mostly, Caitlin wondered how one person could live in such a large place. It had three stories, plus an attic and a basement and the biggest garage Caitlin had ever seen.

She used to hoist herself up on top of the stone fence and peer into the yard, imagining what it would be like to own the house. Then the old lady called the cops on her, and Caitlin never climbed the fence again.

She had forgotten about the place until she lost her last apartment, and walked to her parents’ house when the VA admitted it couldn’t help her if she didn’t help herself. They said she needed meaning in her life. She needed purpose. They meant she had to get treatment for her anxiety and PTSD and all-around out-of-control behavior.

But she took it as the one final wake-up call.

Because as she walked those four blocks to her parents’ house to beg for a place to stay, she kept looking at the ruined homes on the dying boulevard and thinking how easy it would be to slip inside one, and squat for a few days, a few months, and no one would ever be the wiser.

That was her backup plan if her parents officially threw her out. When she arrived at her parents’ to beg for her old room back, her mother had made that thin-lipped disapproving grimace that always made Caitlin’s stomach queasy, but her father had just stared at her. He’d had something in his gaze she’d never seen before.

“Yeah,” he’d said. “We’ll fix up the apartment over the garage.”

She could have taken that badly—that they didn’t want her inside their house. But Caitlin had a sense that her father understood what it took for her to ask, and, even weirder, had understood what she needed. What she needed was a place of her own where no one would bother her, and yet, a place where someone kept an eye out for her.

She offered to pay rent, and he told her to bank the money instead. And somehow, that conversation had left her more shaken than any conversation she’d ever had with him—including the angry ones over her terrible behavior in her seventeenth year.

That walk, though—that walk through the mansions, in the long-dead, formerly rich area of town—that walk was the moment when she labeled herself almost-homeless, when she knew she had only a hairsbreadth between being someone with a glimmer of a future and being someone who only had a past.

Every day since, she’d used the mansion as a measuring stick: Was she better? Had she moved forward?

And every day, she had no answer at all.

She stood outside on this cold, cold afternoon and stared at the mansion, with its wrap-around porch, columns, and gabled attic. When she first came on these regular walks, she wondered what the neighbors thought of her staring at the place, and then she realized there were no neighbors.

The neighborhood was as empty as some of the bombed-out places she had patrolled in Fallujah. Someone had lived here once, but no one did now.

No one cared.

The storm the night before had dumped nearly two feet of snow on the neighborhood. No one had shoveled sidewalks, because no one cared. A plow had gone through and tossed even more snow on the sidewalk. There was no real path, only an icy trail of footprints that she had made at the beginning of the winter.

She frowned at the mansion. If she stared at it, and let her eyes blur, it looked no different than it had when the old lady had lived there.

But if Caitlin really looked at it, she realized the house was falling apart, like every other place on this block.

And the snow the night before would only make things worse.

She slipped through the broken gate. No one had shoveled the mansion’s sidewalk either. The only way she had known there was a sidewalk was from memory, the way the brick walk went from the stone fence to the matching stone steps that eased the journey up the small knoll the mansion rested on.

Her boots crunched on the snow’s hard surface, breaking through to a layer of ice beneath. The door ahead looked dark and foreboding, and, unlike the rest of the building’s façade, had no snow plastered against it.

If she were in an old movie, her breath might have come shallowly and she might’ve felt some trepidation. But she knew, she knew, no snipers sat in the windows, no family waited with guns in hand, no insurgent had planted a bomb beneath the stairs.

Maybe she would have worried about such things six months before, but she’d had six months to wrap her brain around the reality of now, not the memory of then, and no matter how bad it might get inside a mansion in her hometown, it would be nothing compared with what she’d seen.

What she’d done.

That last thought made her heart flutter just a bit. She took a deep breath of air so cold that it burned going into her lungs.

She made herself focus on her destination, and as she did so, she realized that the door was partially open. Snow had piled against it, making sure it would never close.

Open all winter, the mansion’s decay would accelerate. No one would come here and check—not the city historical division which was trying to sell the place, not the police, not the imaginary neighbors. No one would notice this; no one would understand it.

No one except her.

She continued forward, up another, smaller flight of stairs, and then crossed the pristine layer of snow to the house itself.

She had never stepped on the porch, not in years of dreaming about it. Up close, the porch looked dangerous. In the places where the snow did not blanket the surface, she saw rotted wood and broken beams.

The mansion’s stone exterior needed some kind of grout or something—whatever they put between the stones—and the door wasn’t open, so much as it wasn’t really intact.

Ah hell, she might as well be honest with herself: The door was shattered, and the snow that accumulated near the opening was as deep as the snow around the building.

Even though she had stared at the thing for months, she hadn’t realized that it had been snowing inside since winter began.

She put her hand on one of the stone columns that made the mansion look so stately.

She pushed past the broken door, stepped over the biggest mound of snow, and felt her heart sink as she saw how deep the snow had piled inside.

The house was as cold inside as it was out, but the air didn’t have the fresh crispness of the outdoors. It smelled faintly sour, and she knew, if the inside were any warmer, that sour smell would grow into something overpowering.

Still, she felt almost like a child as she stepped inside the foyer. To her right was the receiving room. It still had its dark wood wainscoting, but someone had painted the area between the end of the wainscoting and the crown molding a bright pink. She winced when she saw it, and when she saw the cracked and ruined fireplace (as if someone had gone after it with a bat), and the toppled radiator.

Each room she walked through had damage—a rotted floor, dented plaster and lathe, missing light fixtures. The kitchen had no appliances. It looked like they—and the sink—had been ripped from the wall. A large stain near the water pipe where the sink had been made her think that water had flowed steadily since the sink was gone—until a deep freeze froze the pipes.

She didn’t want to think about that damage—or any of the damage she couldn’t really see.

Still, here and there, she saw traces of love. This house had been grand once, and then when it was no longer grand, someone had still cared for it enough to keep its character.

The damage didn’t look fresh, but it didn’t look decades old either. The house had good bones beneath all the garbage and the destruction.

She ventured to the back staircase. Part of it threaded down into a basement, and she just couldn’t bring herself to go there, not on the coldest day of the year so far. But upstairs—she had always wanted to see upstairs.

The staircase twisted upward, working its way around two corners. It opened in a narrow hallway, and she realized with a bit of a shock that this house actually had a servant’s wing. Two small bedrooms separated by the tiniest jack-and-jill bathroom she’d ever seen convinced her of that. The bathroom was 1950s vintage, and looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in at least forty years.

The door to the hallway was closed. She pushed it open, the squeal echoing in the emptiness. Her heart started pounding now.

She recognized the feeling. A sense that she didn’t belong, combined with experience from a dozen (maybe a hundred) entries into seemingly empty buildings, only to have someone jump out at her, or a hand clutch her arm, holding her back just in time to save her from danger.

She was slipping, slipping into memory. She recognized the feeling, and she caught herself. She didn’t dare leave this place—this frigid and empty house, a building she had always wanted to visit.

It wasn’t dangerous here.

It was just broken.

Rather like her.

Amazing how broken could seem dangerous when viewed in the wrong light.

She took a deep breath and made herself walk forward. Two medium-sized bedrooms. A remodeled bathroom with a claw foot tub and a glassed-in shower added at least thirty years before.

The stained glass window over the toilet made her realize that nothing had been broken or stolen up here. Apparently the thieves from downstairs hadn’t ventured up this high.

She let out a small sigh, then continued on, to what had to be the master suite. Rays of thin winter light penetrated the hallway. The sour stench seemed stronger here, probably because this level was just a tiny bit warmer.

She stepped into the bedroom—and stopped.

A camp stove, blankets, a sleeping bag, some books, all scattered near the fireplace. Half burned wood rested against the fireplace’s brick wall.

And next to it all, a person wrapped in blankets.

Or what was left of a person.

She had seen enough death to know that death had come and gone from this room at least a week ago, maybe more.

She swallowed hard, looked at the little camping area, saw that whoever this had been had managed to clear the fireplace, but either the flue was closed or there was a block in the chimney, because soot covered too much of the area around the body.

A pitcher, with ice along the rim, sat beside the fireplace. Her heart twisted.

He—and it had been a he—had put out the fire rather than burn the house down. Respect, to the bitter end.

She crouched before him, saw the dog tags first, maybe because she had looked for the dog tags first. His face was too ruined for her to tell what he looked like, but if he tried to live here and he was a vet, she had a hunch she had seen him before.

He had stolen her idea of living in one of the mansions so that he could be close to the VA, only he hadn’t thought it through. Sleeping in one of these old places was fine in summer and maybe okay in early fall, but on days like this, the house needed more than a single fireplace, and if that wasn’t working, well…

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She rocked back on her heels and stood.

She wasn’t feeling cold any more, but it wasn’t her broken thermostat. She’d learned how to cope with death. Four tours, and death no longer bothered her.

The means of death, that sometimes did. The roadside bomb (God, the truck flew. She should have warned them. Should. Have…), the single shot from a great distance (Look at the sniper nest. Been up there days. She should have scoped the area. Should. Have…), the child with the knife (Big enough to be a young adult. She should have thought that through. Should. Have…)

She wiped a gloved hand over her face, felt the fabric against her skin. No frostbite, not yet. But soon if she wasn’t careful.

She had to call this in to someone. And what would she say?

The truth. She’d learned that too, over there.

The truth was the only defense and the only explanation. No matter how ugly things got.

She stood, her knees cracking.

He—whoever he was—had tried to make a home here, and no one had even known he was around. The neighborhood was empty because everyone thought it dangerous. Her parents had warned her not to walk through it, as if they had no idea what she had seen in her short life. And then she realized/remembered/understood. They did have no idea.

No one had any idea.

Except the folks at the VA. Who told her that she had to give herself a chance. To step forward, do the right thing. And they had said earlier this afternoon, the right thing was to take care of herself.

Right now, though, in this moment, the right thing was to let someone know about him.

To bring him home—since he hadn’t been halfway homeless. He’d been all the way homeless.

She was nearly down the stairs before she remembered where she was, and when she was. She had a phone in her pocket. She didn’t have to keep radio silence.

She gave herself a rueful smile, tapped 911, and reported the body. Then she sat on the stairs and waited.

***

Three people in the ambulance, two cops in the squad, no sirens. They photographed the scene, removed the body, asked if she knew who he was.

She had to say no, but she asked them to keep her informed.

“If he doesn’t have people,” she said. “I’ll pay for him, make sure he’s buried with honors. Tell whoever needs to know.”

She didn’t have a business card, so she made sure the cops took her information, and one of the ambulance drivers did too.

Only as an afterthought did one of the cops ask her why she had been here.

She was about to launch into the open-door explanation, the curious-about-this-place-since-childhood story, when the words caught in her throat.

“Just a feeling,” she said. “I just had a feeling.”

She wasn’t sure that was right, but she wasn’t sure it was wrong either. She had had a feeling.

If she’d had a premonition, she would’ve liked to think that she would have arrived before he froze to death.

But she had proven to herself time and time again in the desert that she had no premonitions, that she never saw the future, that she barely saw the warning signs.

And this was a big warning sign. Alone, in the dark, freezing, with enough respect not to light a fire for fear of destroying part of an already-hurting 110-year-old house.

Respect and loneliness. A man with a past and no future.

A man no one remembered or knew.

A man no one had even seen.

The cops left last, apparently not caring that she was inside a house she didn’t own.

No one cared about this place.

Except her.

She loved it. The man who died had cared about it too—enough to gamble his life on saving it.

She turned around, looked at the gloom, the dust motes floating in the twilight air.

She had no idea what a house like this needed. She didn’t know how to repair plaster or how to fix the missing stones out front. She’d never pounded a board into a porch or painted a wall above beautiful wood.

But she had shoveled snow for her entire life. She could start there.

And she had savings too. A lot of it, thanks to her father and his no-rent policy.

No one liked this neighborhood. It wasn’t dying. It had died a long time ago, and no one had cared.

But this house was still alive, barely clinging to life. With no future, only a past.

Unless someone helped it.

She was shaking—not from cold, but from excitement.

She needed a shovel. She needed some plywood. She needed to go to the city and make some promises that she intended to keep.

She would learn how to fix the house, no matter how long it took. She would promise to live here afterward—like that little old lady from her childhood.

Caitlin would learn how a single person could survive in a house this big.

After she glued it back together.

Repairing the damage and becoming presentable, slowly, by focusing on each tiny section.

Like the snow in the foyer. The chill in the air.

A little love and elbow grease might not make the house a showplace again, but they would ease the house back to life.

Ease her back to life.

One missing piece at a time.

 

___________________________________________

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

Rehab

Copyright © 2020 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and layout copyright © 2020 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © sorokopud/Depositphotos

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.

 

After a weekend of excitement and prayers for p*tience to last us until the release of This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me, it’s time to return to our Iron Dogs.

Since House Andrews gifted us with chapters from the first draft of Hugh 2, I thought we should test our memory of where it all began! And if it should happen to prompt us into rereads, we will gladly walk into the fray, like the fearless Devouring Horde that we are.

Disclaimer 1: The newsletter doesn’t like the quiz plugin and sends it out in code. If you read this in email form and want to take the test, click here to come directly to the website.

Disclaimer 2: Please remember, this is just for fun. The Preceptor doesn’t grant or revoke privileges based on your score. If you think a bad result will real-life upset you, please don’t take the quiz. We’ll see you later in the week with more fun and treats.

98

What Iron and which Magic?

Iron and Magic gave us battle, betrayal, redemption, and a marriage of convenience so hot it practically melted the page. But how well do we really remember Hugh’s journey from Roland’s warlord to Elara’s yearning husband and fortress co-owner? Sharpen your swords (and your wits) and see if you can conquer this quiz like Hugh conquers… well, everything.

1 / 11

How did Roland ensure Hugh recovered after Colchis?

Fed him hippogriff bone broth for 3 months. Surrounded him with rhododendrons (Hugh's favourite flower) for 3 months inside a dream of Shinar's water gardens Put him inside a phoenix egg for 3 months. Recited poetry to Hugh for 3 months. "Hugh d’Ambray is your designated nomenclature / A towering warlord, ruthless by nature...."

2 / 11

Who is part of Hugh's closest Iron Dogs entourage at the end of Iron and Magic?

Stoyan, Felix, Lamar, Bale, Rene Stoyan, Lamar, Bale, Sam Stoyan, Lamar, Bale, Felix and Cedric Stoyan, Lamar, Bradwick, Jimothy and Johnaford

3 / 11

What is Bucky?

A crossbreed of Percheron and Andalusian A big, mean sonovabitch that nobody wants Bucky is a unicorn, which makes Hugh a sparkly unicorn princess! This is my truth and I will not be denied it! All of the above

4 / 11

What creatures attacked at Elara and Hugh's wedding?

Mrogs and their handlers Shifters Tikbalangs The humans from Asheville

5 / 11

What did Elara say to Roland when she went to get Hugh back?

TAKE YOUR STINKING PAWS OFF MY PRECEPTOR HE IS MINE, WIZARD ON WEDNESDAYS WE WEAR PINK, FETCH YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE, NIMROD THE GREY

6 / 11

What is the name of the Departed's castle?

Château What If Arundel Baile Harper's House of Horrors

7 / 11

What do her people call Elara?

The Ice Harpy Shawty (with them apple bottom jeans, boots without fur, the whole club averted their eyes, for she was not dark but beautiful as the dawn, an obelisk that absorbs the cold of the stars and Harbinger of the Final Hour) The Lady/ The White Lady Preceptorix of the Metal Puppies

8 / 11

What was Elara supposed to do in exchange for Hugh saving Aberdine?

Eat a whole chicken Be the hero, for once Guard his pipes. It's what the cool kids are calling it these days, I guess... Make crêpes Suzette

9 / 11

Who planned to poison the Departed's well with cholera?

Raphael Medrano Luther, our favourite mage against the machine Senator Victor Skolnik The Remaining

10 / 11

What was in the Iron Dogs' barrels?

Garlic chip cookies made by Roland himself A bacterial strain from the Alaskan permafrost Holy water blessed by Transylvanian priests A venom that was specifically developed against the Immortus Pathogen

11 / 11

What is discovered about the mrogs in Iron and Magic?

That their real name is the yeddimur That they attack settlements at Neig's order That they travel through time from the Holy Roman Empire II - Electric Boogaloo That the mrogs and their handlers depend on their commanding officer LinkedIn Facebook Twitter VKontakte

div#ays-quiz-container-9 * { box-sizing: border-box; } /* Styles for Internet Explorer start */ #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 { } /* Styles for Quiz container */ #ays-quiz-container-9{ min-height: 350px; width:400px; background-color:#fff; background-position:center center;border-radius:0px 0px 0px 0px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px rgba(0,0,0,0.4);border: none;} /* Styles for Navigation bar */ #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-9 { width: 100%;border-radius:0px 0px 0px 0px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px rgba(0,0,0,0.4);border: none;} #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-9 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item a.ays_questions_nav_question { color: #000; border-color: #000; background-color: #fff; } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-9 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item.ays-quiz-questions-nav-item-active a.ays_questions_nav_question { box-shadow: inset 0 0 5px #000, 0 0 5px #000; } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-9 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item.ays-quiz-questions-nav-item-answered a.ays_questions_nav_question { color: #fff; border-color: #fff; background-color: #000; } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-9 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item a.ays_questions_nav_question.ays_quiz_correct_answer { color: rgba(39, 174, 96, 1); border-color: rgba(39, 174, 96, 1); background-color: rgba(39, 174, 96, 0.4); } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-9 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item a.ays_questions_nav_question.ays_quiz_wrong_answer { color: rgba(243, 134, 129, 1); border-color: rgba(243, 134, 129, 1); background-color: rgba(243, 134, 129, 0.4); } /* Styles for questions */ #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 div.step { min-height: 350px; } /* Styles for text inside quiz container */ #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-start-page *:not(input), #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays_question_hint, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container label[for^="ays-answer-"], #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container p, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-fs-title, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-fs-subtitle, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .logged_in_message, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-quiz-limitation-count-of-takers, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-quiz-limitation-count-of-takers *, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays_score_message, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays_message{ color: #000; outline: none; } /* Quiz title / transformation */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-fs-title{ text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 21px; text-align: center; text-shadow: none; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-quiz-password-message-box, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-quiz-question-note-message-box, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_question, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_question *:not([class^='enlighter']) { color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 textarea, #ays-quiz-container-9 input::first-letter, #ays-quiz-container-9 select::first-letter, #ays-quiz-container-9 option::first-letter { color: initial !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 p::first-letter:not(.ays_no_questions_message) { color: #000 !important; background-color: transparent !important; font-size: inherit !important; font-weight: inherit !important; float: none !important; line-height: inherit !important; margin: 0 !important; padding: 0 !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-container, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field * { font-size: 15px !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-fs-subtitle p { text-align: center ; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_question p { font-size: 16px; text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_question { text-align: center ; margin-bottom: 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_question pre { max-width: 100%; white-space: break-spaces; } div#ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-questions-container .ays-field, div#ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-questions-container .ays-field input~label[for^='ays-answer-'], div#ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-questions-container .ays-modern-dark-question *, div#ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-questions-container .ays_quiz_question, div#ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-questions-container .ays_quiz_question *{ word-break: break-word; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-quiz-timer p { font-size: 16px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 section.ays_quiz_redirection_timer_container hr, #ays-quiz-container-9 section.ays_quiz_timer_container hr { margin: 0; } #ays-quiz-container-9 section.ays_quiz_timer_container.ays_quiz_timer_red_warning .ays-quiz-timer { color: red; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_thank_you_fs p { text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form input[type='text'], #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form input[type='url'], #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form input[type='number'], #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form input[type='email'], #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form input[type='tel'], #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form textarea, #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form select, #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form option { color: initial !important; outline: none; margin-left: 0; background-image: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form input[type='checkbox'] { margin: 0 10px; outline: initial; -webkit-appearance: auto; -moz-appearance: auto; position: initial; width: initial; height: initial; border: initial; background: initial; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .information_form input[type='checkbox']::after { content: none; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .wrong_answer_text{ color:#ff4d4d; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .right_answer_text{ color:#33cc33; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .right_answer_text p { font-size:16px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .wrong_answer_text p { font-size:16px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_questtion_explanation p { font-size:16px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_cb_and_a, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_cb_and_a * { color: rgb(0,0,0); text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-9 iframe { /*min-height: 350px;*/ } #ays-quiz-container-9 label.ays_for_checkbox, #ays-quiz-container-9 span.ays_checkbox_for_span { color: initial !important; display: block; } /* Quiz textarea height */ #ays-quiz-container-9 textarea { height: 100px; min-height: 100px; } /* Quiz rate and passed users count */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quizn_ancnoxneri_qanak, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_rete_avg{ color:#fff; background-color:#000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-questions-container > .ays_quizn_ancnoxneri_qanak { padding: 5px 20px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 div.for_quiz_rate.ui.star.rating .icon { color: rgba(0,0,0,0.35); } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_rete_avg div.for_quiz_rate_avg.ui.star.rating .icon { color: rgba(255,255,255,0.5); } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_rete .ays-quiz-rate-link-box .ays-quiz-rate-link { color: #000; } /* Loaders */ #ays-quiz-container-9 div.lds-spinner, #ays-quiz-container-9 div.lds-spinner2 { color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 div.lds-spinner div:after, #ays-quiz-container-9 div.lds-spinner2 div:after { background-color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .lds-circle, #ays-quiz-container-9 .lds-facebook div, #ays-quiz-container-9 .lds-ellipsis div{ background: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .lds-ripple div{ border-color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .lds-dual-ring::after, #ays-quiz-container-9 .lds-hourglass::after{ border-color: #000 transparent #000 transparent; } /* Stars */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ui.rating .icon, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ui.rating .icon:before { font-family: Rating !important; } /* Progress bars */ #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .ays-progress { border-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.8); } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .ays-progress-bg { background-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.3); } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-progress-value { color: #000; text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-progress-bar { background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-question-counter .ays-live-bar-wrap { direction:ltr !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-live-bar-fill{ color: #000; border-bottom: 2px solid rgba(0,0,0,0.8); text-shadow: 0px 0px 5px #fff; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-live-bar-fill.ays-live-fourth, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-live-bar-fill.ays-live-third, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-live-bar-fill.ays-live-second { text-shadow: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-live-bar-percent{ display:none; } /* Music, Sound */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_music_sound { color:rgb(0,0,0); } /* Dropdown questions scroll bar */ #ays-quiz-container-9 blockquote { border-left-color: #000 !important; } /* Quiz Password */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-start-page > input[id^='ays_quiz_password_val_'], #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-quiz-password-toggle-visibility-box { width: 100%; margin: 0 auto; } /* Question hint */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_question_hint_container .ays_question_hint_text { background-color:#fff; box-shadow: 0 0 15px 3px rgba(0,0,0,0.6); max-width: 270px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_question_hint_container .ays_question_hint_text p { max-width: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_questions_hint_max_width_class { max-width: 80%; } /* Information form */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-form-title{ color:rgb(0,0,0); } /* Quiz timer */ #ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays-quiz-redirection-timer, #ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays-quiz-timer{ color: #000; text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays-quiz-timer.ays-quiz-message-before-timer:before { font-weight: 500; } /* Quiz buttons */ #ays-quiz-container-9 input#ays-submit, #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button, div#ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button.ays_restart_button { background-color: #27AE60; color:#333; font-size: 17px; padding: 10px 20px; border-radius: 3px; white-space: nowrap; letter-spacing: 0; box-shadow: unset; white-space: normal; word-break: break-word; } #ays-quiz-container-9 input#ays-submit, #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 input.action-button { } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 a[class~=ajax_add_to_cart]{ background-color: #fff; color:#333; padding: 10px 5px; font-size: 14px; border-radius: 3px; white-space: nowrap; border: 1px solid #333; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button.ays_check_answer { padding: 5px 10px; font-size: 17px !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button.ays_download_certificate { white-space: nowrap; padding: 5px 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button.ays_arrow { color:#333!important; white-space: nowrap; padding: 5px 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 input#ays-submit:hover, #ays-quiz-container-9 input#ays-submit:focus, #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button:hover, #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button:focus { box-shadow: 0 0 0 2px #333; background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_restart_button { color: #333; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_restart_button_p { display: flex; justify-content: center; flex-wrap: wrap; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_buttons_div { justify-content: center; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .step:first-of-type .ays_buttons_div { justify-content: center !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 input[type='button'], #ays-quiz-container-9 input[type='submit'] { color: #333 !important; outline: none; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 i.ays_early_finish.action-button[disabled]:hover, #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 i.ays_early_finish.action-button[disabled]:focus, #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 i.ays_early_finish.action-button[disabled], #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 i.ays_arrow.action-button[disabled]:hover, #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 i.ays_arrow.action-button[disabled]:focus, #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 i.ays_arrow.action-button[disabled] { color: #aaa !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_finish.action-button{ margin: 10px 5px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-share-btn.ays-share-btn-branded { color: #fff; } /* Question answers */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field { border-color: #444; border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; box-shadow: none;flex-direction: row-reverse; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-quiz-answers .ays-field:hover{ opacity: 1; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .ays-field label.ays_answer_caption[for^='ays-answer-'] { z-index: 1; position:initial;bottom:0;} #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .ays-field input~label[for^='ays-answer-'] { padding: 5px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .ays-field { margin-bottom: 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .ays-field.ays_grid_view_item { width: calc(50% - 5px); } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .ays-field.ays_grid_view_item:nth-child(odd) { margin-right: 5px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .ays-field input:checked+label:before { border-color: #27AE60; background: #27AE60; background-clip: content-box; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-quiz-answers div.ays-text-right-answer { color: #000; } /* Answer maximum length of a text field */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_question_text_message{ color: #000; text-align: left; font-size: 12px; } div#ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays_quiz_question_text_error_message { color: #ff0000; } /* Questions answer image */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-answer-image { width:15em; height:150px; object-fit: cover; } /* Questions answer right/wrong icons */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field input~label.answered.correct:after{ content: url('http://ilona-andrews.com/wp-content/plugins/quiz-maker/public/images/correct.png'); } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field input~label.answered.wrong:after{ content: url('http://ilona-andrews.com/wp-content/plugins/quiz-maker/public/images/wrong.png'); } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field label.answered:last-of-type:after{ height: auto; left: 10px;top: 10px;} /* Dropdown questions */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-container--default .select2-search--dropdown .select2-search__field:focus, #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-container--default .select2-search--dropdown .select2-search__field { outline: unset; padding: 0.75rem; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single { border-bottom: 2px solid #27AE60; background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__placeholder, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__arrow { color: #d8519f; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered, #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-container--default .select2-results__option--highlighted[aria-selected] { background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .selection, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .dropdown-wrapper, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered .select2-selection__placeholder, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__arrow, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__arrow b[role='presentation'] { font-size: 16px !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-container--default .select2-results__option { padding: 6px; } /* Dropdown questions scroll bar */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar { width: 7px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar-track { background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0.35); } #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb { transition: .3s ease-in-out; background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0.55); } #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb:hover { transition: .3s ease-in-out; background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0.85); } /* WooCommerce product */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-woo-block { background-color: rgba(39,174,96,0.8); } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-woo-product-block h4.ays-woo-product-title > a { color: #000; } /* Audio / Video */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .mejs-container .mejs-time{ box-sizing: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .mejs-container .mejs-time-rail { padding-top: 15px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .mejs-container .mejs-mediaelement video { margin: 0; } /* Limitation */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-quiz-limitation-count-of-takers { padding: 50px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block span.ays-show-res-toggle.ays-res-toggle-show, #ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block span.ays-show-res-toggle.ays-res-toggle-hide{ color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle { border: 1px solid #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle { border: 1px solid #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle:after{ background: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_elegant_dark div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle:after, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_rect_dark div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle:after{ background: #000; } /* Hestia theme (Version: 3.0.16) | Start */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .mejs-container .mejs-inner .mejs-controls .mejs-button > button:hover, #ays-quiz-container-9 .mejs-container .mejs-inner .mejs-controls .mejs-button > button { box-shadow: unset; background-color: transparent; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .mejs-container .mejs-inner .mejs-controls .mejs-button > button { margin: 10px 6px; } /* Hestia theme (Version: 3.0.16) | End */ /* Go theme (Version: 1.4.3) | Start */ #ays-quiz-container-9 label[for^='ays-answer']:before, #ays-quiz-container-9 label[for^='ays-answer']:before { -webkit-mask-image: unset; mask-image: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field input:checked+label.answered:before, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field input:checked+label.answered:before { background-color: #27AE60 !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.correct:before, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.correct:before { background-color: #27ae60 !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.wrong:before, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.wrong:before { background-color: #cc3700 !important; } /* Go theme (Version: 1.4.3) | End */ #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_results fieldset.ays_fieldset .ays_quiz_question .wp-video { width: 100% !important; max-width: 100%; } /* Classic Dark / Classic Light */ /* Dropdown questions right/wrong styles */ #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_dark .correct_div, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_light .correct_div{ border-color: green !important; opacity: 1 !important; background-color: rgba(39,174,96,0.4) !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_dark .correct_div .selected-field, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_light .correct_div .selected-field { padding: 0px 10px 0px 10px; color: green !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_dark .wrong_div, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_light .wrong_div{ border-color: red !important; opacity: 1 !important; background-color: rgba(243,134,129,0.4) !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field.checked_answer_div.wrong_div input:checked~label, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field.checked_answer_div.wrong_div input:checked~label { background-color: rgba(243,134,129,0.4) !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_question_result .ays-field .ays_quiz_hide_correct_answer:after{ content: '' !important; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-quiz-close-full-screen { fill: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-quiz-open-full-screen { fill: #000; } @media screen and (max-width: 768px){ #ays-quiz-container-9{ max-width: 100%; } div#ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_modern_light .step, div#ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_modern_dark .step { padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important; } div#ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_modern_light div.step[data-question-id], div#ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_modern_dark div.step[data-question-id] { background-size: cover !important; background-position: center center !important; } div#ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_modern_light .ays-abs-fs:not(.ays-start-page):not(.ays-end-page), div#ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_modern_dark .ays-abs-fs:not(.ays-start-page):not(.ays-end-page) { width: 100%; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays_quiz_question p { font-size: 16px; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .select2-container, #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field * { font-size: 15px !important; } div#ays-quiz-container-9 input#ays-submit, div#ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button, div#ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button.ays_restart_button { font-size: 17px; } div#ays-quiz-container-9 div.ays-questions-container div.ays-woo-block { width: 100%; } /* Quiz title / mobile font size */ div#ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-fs-title { font-size: 21px; } } /* Custom css styles */ /* RTL direction styles */ #ays-quiz-container-9 p { margin: 0.625em; } #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field.checked_answer_div input:checked~label { background-color: rgba(39,174,96,0.6); } #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_light .enable_correction .ays-field.checked_answer_div input:checked+label, #ays-quiz-container-9.ays_quiz_classic_dark .enable_correction .ays-field.checked_answer_div input:checked+label { background-color: transparent; } #ays-quiz-container-9.ays-quiz-container.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-questions-container .ays-field:hover label[for^='ays-answer-'], #ays-quiz-container-9 .ays-field:hover{ background: rgba(39,174,96,0.8); color: #fff; transition: all .3s; } #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button:hover, #ays-quiz-container-9 #ays_finish_quiz_9 .action-button:focus { box-shadow: 0 0 0 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.5), 0 0 0 3px #333; background: #27AE60; } if(typeof aysQuizOptions === 'undefined'){ var aysQuizOptions = []; } aysQuizOptions['9'] = '{"quiz_version":"8.7.4","core_version":"6.7.2","php_version":"8.2.27","color":"#27AE60","bg_color":"#fff","text_color":"#000","height":350,"width":400,"enable_logged_users":"off","information_form":"disable","form_name":"off","form_email":"off","form_phone":"off","image_width":"","image_height":"","enable_correction":"off","enable_progress_bar":"off","enable_questions_result":"off","randomize_questions":"on","randomize_answers":"off","enable_questions_counter":"on","enable_restriction_pass":"off","enable_restriction_pass_users":"off","restriction_pass_message":"","restriction_pass_users_message":"","user_role":[],"ays_users_search":[],"custom_css":"","limit_users":"off","limitation_message":"","redirect_url":"","redirection_delay":0,"answers_view":"list","enable_rtl_direction":"off","enable_logged_users_message":"","questions_count":"","enable_question_bank":"off","enable_live_progress_bar":"off","enable_percent_view":"off","enable_average_statistical":"off","enable_next_button":"off","enable_previous_button":"off","enable_arrows":"off","timer_text":"","quiz_theme":"classic_light","enable_social_buttons":"on","final_result_text":"","enable_pass_count":"on","hide_score":"on","rate_form_title":"","box_shadow_color":"#000","quiz_border_radius":"0","quiz_bg_image":"","quiz_border_width":"1","quiz_border_style":"solid","quiz_border_color":"#000","quiz_loader":"default","quest_animation":"shake","enable_bg_music":"off","quiz_bg_music":"","answers_font_size":15,"show_create_date":"off","show_author":"off","enable_early_finish":"off","answers_rw_texts":"disable","disable_store_data":"off","enable_background_gradient":"off","background_gradient_color_1":"#000","background_gradient_color_2":"#fff","quiz_gradient_direction":"vertical","redirect_after_submit":"off","submit_redirect_url":"","submit_redirect_delay":"0","progress_bar_style":"first","enable_exit_button":"off","exit_redirect_url":"","image_sizing":"cover","quiz_bg_image_position":"center center","custom_class":"","enable_social_links":"off","social_links":{"linkedin_link":"","facebook_link":"","twitter_link":"","vkontakte_link":"","instagram_link":"","youtube_link":""},"show_quiz_title":"on","show_quiz_desc":"on","show_login_form":"off","mobile_max_width":"","limit_users_by":"ip","explanation_time":"4","enable_clear_answer":"off","show_category":"off","show_question_category":"off","answers_padding":"5","answers_border":"on","answers_border_width":"1","answers_border_style":"solid","answers_border_color":"#444","ans_img_height":"150","ans_img_caption_style":"outside","ans_img_caption_position":"bottom","answers_box_shadow":"off","answers_box_shadow_color":"#000","show_answers_caption":"on","answers_margin":10,"ans_right_wrong_icon":"default","display_score":"by_percentage","enable_rw_asnwers_sounds":"off","quiz_bg_img_in_finish_page":"off","finish_after_wrong_answer":"off","after_timer_text":"","enable_enter_key":"on","show_rate_after_rate":"on","buttons_text_color":"#333","buttons_position":"center","buttons_size":"medium","buttons_font_size":"17","buttons_width":"","buttons_left_right_padding":"20","buttons_top_bottom_padding":"10","buttons_border_radius":"3","enable_audio_autoplay":"off","enable_leave_page":"on","show_only_wrong_answer":"off","pass_score":0,"pass_score_message":"<h4 style=\"text-align: center;\">Congratulations!<\/h4>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">You passed the quiz!<\/p>","fail_score_message":"<h4 style=\"text-align: center;\">Oops!<\/h4>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">You have not passed the quiz!\r\nTry again!<\/p>","answers_object_fit":"cover","quiz_max_pass_count":1,"question_font_size":16,"quiz_width_by_percentage_px":"pixels","questions_hint_icon_or_text":"default","questions_hint_value":"","enable_early_finsh_comfirm_box":"on","hide_correct_answers":"off","quiz_loader_text_value":"","show_information_form":"on","show_questions_explanation":"disable","enable_questions_ordering_by_cat":"off","enable_send_mail_to_user_by_pass_score":"off","enable_send_mail_to_admin_by_pass_score":"off","show_questions_numbering":"none","show_answers_numbering":"none","quiz_loader_custom_gif":"","disable_hover_effect":"off","quiz_loader_custom_gif_width":100,"quiz_title_transformation":"uppercase","quiz_image_width_by_percentage_px":"pixels","quiz_image_height":"","quiz_bg_img_on_start_page":"off","quiz_box_shadow_x_offset":0,"quiz_box_shadow_y_offset":0,"quiz_box_shadow_z_offset":15,"quiz_question_text_alignment":"center","quiz_arrow_type":"default","quiz_show_wrong_answers_first":"off","quiz_display_all_questions":"off","quiz_timer_red_warning":"off","quiz_schedule_timezone":"UTC-6","questions_hint_button_value":"","quiz_tackers_message":"This quiz is expired!","quiz_enable_linkedin_share_button":"on","quiz_enable_facebook_share_button":"on","quiz_enable_twitter_share_button":"on","quiz_enable_vkontakte_share_button":"on","quiz_make_responses_anonymous":"off","quiz_make_all_review_link":"off","quiz_message_before_timer":"","quiz_password_message":"","enable_see_result_confirm_box":"off","display_fields_labels":"off","quiz_enable_password_visibility":"off","question_mobile_font_size":16,"answers_mobile_font_size":15,"social_buttons_heading":"","social_links_heading":"","quiz_enable_question_category_description":"off","quiz_message_before_redirect_timer":"","buttons_mobile_font_size":17,"quiz_answer_box_shadow_x_offset":0,"quiz_answer_box_shadow_y_offset":0,"quiz_answer_box_shadow_z_offset":10,"quiz_enable_title_text_shadow":"off","quiz_title_text_shadow_color":"#333","right_answers_font_size":16,"wrong_answers_font_size":16,"quest_explanation_font_size":16,"quiz_waiting_time":"off","quiz_title_text_shadow_x_offset":2,"quiz_title_text_shadow_y_offset":2,"quiz_title_text_shadow_z_offset":2,"quiz_show_only_wrong_answers":"off","quiz_title_font_size":21,"quiz_title_mobile_font_size":21,"quiz_password_width":"","quiz_review_placeholder_text":"","quiz_make_review_required":"off","quiz_enable_results_toggle":"off","question_count_per_page":null,"question_count_per_page_number":"","mail_message":"","enable_certificate":"off","enable_certificate_without_send":"off","certificate_pass":"0","form_title":"","certificate_title":"<span style=\"font-size: 50px; font-weight: bold;\">Certificate of Completion<\/span>","certificate_body":"<span style=\"font-size: 25px;\"><i>This is to certify that<\/i><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 30px;\"><b>%%user_name%%<\/b><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 25px;\"><i>has completed the quiz<\/i><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 30px;\">\"%%quiz_name%%\"<\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 20px;\">with a score of <b>%%score%%<\/b><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 25px;\"><i>dated<\/i><\/span>\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 30px;\">%%current_date%%<\/span>","mailchimp_list":"","enable_mailchimp":"off","enable_double_opt_in":"off","active_date_check":"off","activeInterval":"2025-03-10 08:49:33","deactiveInterval":"2025-03-10 08:49:33","active_date_message":"The quiz has expired!","active_date_pre_start_message":"The quiz will be available soon!","checkbox_score_by":"on","calculate_score":"by_correctness","send_results_user":"off","send_interval_msg":"off","question_bank_type":"general","questions_bank_cat_count":{"1":""},"enable_tackers_count":"off","tackers_count":"","send_results_admin":"on","send_interval_msg_to_admin":"off","show_interval_message":"on","allow_collecting_logged_in_users_data":"off","quiz_pass_score":"0","send_certificate_to_admin":"off","certificate_image":"","certificate_frame":"default","certificate_orientation":"l","make_questions_required":"off","enable_password":"off","password_quiz":"","mail_message_admin":"","send_mail_to_site_admin":"on","generate_password":"general","generated_passwords":{"created_passwords":[],"active_passwords":[],"used_passwords":[]},"display_score_by":"by_percentage","show_schedule_timer":"off","show_timer_type":"countdown","progress_live_bar_style":"default","enable_full_screen_mode":"off","enable_navigation_bar":"off","hide_limit_attempts_notice":"off","turn_on_extra_security_check":"on","enable_top_keywords":"off","assign_keywords":[{"assign_top_keyword":"A","assign_top_keyword_text":""},{"assign_top_keyword":"B","assign_top_keyword_text":""},{"assign_top_keyword":"C","assign_top_keyword_text":""},{"assign_top_keyword":"D","assign_top_keyword_text":""}],"quiz_enable_coupon":"off","quiz_coupons_array":{"quiz_active_coupons":[],"quiz_inactive_coupons":[]},"apply_points_to_keywords":"off","limit_attempts_count_by_user_role":"","enable_autostart":"off","paypal_amount":null,"paypal_currency":null,"paypal_message":"","enable_stripe":"off","stripe_amount":"","stripe_currency":"","stripe_message":"You need to pay to pass this quiz.","payment_type":"prepay","enable_monitor":"off","monitor_list":"","active_camp_list":"","enable_slack":"off","slack_conversation":"","active_camp_automation":"","enable_active_camp":"off","enable_zapier":"off","enable_google_sheets":"off","spreadsheet_id":"","google_sheet_custom_fields":[],"quiz_attributes":null,"quiz_attributes_active_order":null,"quiz_attributes_passive_order":["ays_form_name","ays_form_email","ays_form_phone"],"required_fields":null,"enable_timer":"off","timer":100,"enable_quiz_rate":"off","enable_rate_avg":"off","enable_box_shadow":"on","enable_border":"off","quiz_timer_in_title":"off","enable_rate_comments":"off","enable_restart_button":"off","autofill_user_data":"off","enable_copy_protection":"off","enable_paypal":"off","ays_enable_restriction_pass":"off","ays_enable_restriction_pass_users":"off","result_text":null,"enable_result":"off","enable_mad_mimi":"off","mad_mimi_list":"","enable_convertKit":"off","convertKit_form_id":"","enable_getResponse":"off","getResponse_list":"","submit_redirect_after":"","rw_answers_sounds":false,"id":"9","title":"What Iron and which Magic?","description":"Iron and Magic gave us battle, betrayal, redemption, and a marriage of convenience so hot it practically melted the page. But how well do we really remember Hugh\u2019s journey from Roland\u2019s warlord to Elara\u2019s yearning husband and fortress co-owner? Sharpen your swords (and your wits) and see if you can conquer this quiz like Hugh conquers\u2026 well, everything.","quiz_image":"https:\/\/ilona-andrews.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/Hugh-Header.jpg","quiz_category_id":"1","question_ids":"77,76,75,74,73,72,71,70,69,68,67","ordering":"9","published":"1","intervals":"[{\"interval_min\":\"0\",\"interval_max\":\"50\",\"interval_text\":\"Somewhere, Landon Nez is cackling. He sent vampires to swap your copy of Iron and Magic with the April Fools prank Warlord\\u2019s Price.\\r\\n No matter, once an Iron Dog, always an Iron Dog! Rally, regroup, and retake the battlefield. After all, if Hugh taught us anything, it\\u2019s that redemption is possible.\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2015\\\/04\\\/Warlords-Price.jpg\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"A\"},{\"interval_min\":\"51\",\"interval_max\":\"100\",\"interval_text\":\"Congratulations, Warlord!\\r\\nYour knowledge of magic waves, unicorns, castles, and preceptor romances is truly unmatched. \\r\\nYou can take a victory lap around your stronghold, and you don't even have to put down that cow!\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/03\\\/Iron-and-Magic-AS.jpg\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"B\"}]","author_id":"4477","post_id":null,"create_date":"2025-03-04 10:12:01","quiz_url":"","is_user_logged_in":false,"quiz_animation_top":100,"quiz_enable_animation_top":"on","store_all_not_finished_results":false}';

The post The Iron and Magic Trivia Quiz first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

I’z super high!

You’re what now?

Cut him some slack, his brain cell is out visiting the fruit flies.

I’z high!

I can’t believe this is the family that adopted me…

Featuring a whole new Schooled in Magic novella!

Have you ever wanted to go to magic school? To cast spells and brew potions and fly on broomsticks and – perhaps – battle threats both common and supernatural? Come with us into worlds of magic, where students become magicians and teachers do everything in their power to ensure the kids survive long enough to graduate. Welcome to … Fantastic Schools.

Meet the students preparing for magical war, learning how to wield sorcerous weapons or fantastic talents in defence of the world; meet the magicians testing their abilities in worlds touched by the fantastic and the supernatural, or the magicians completing their final exams – or going to war, learning on the job as the darkness moves ever-closer to home. Meet the students who think they have all the time in the world, and the ones who discover that their training has suddenly become all too real.

The glory of war awaits them, in these pages, but so too does the price …

Purchase from: Amazon US, Amazon UK, Amazon CAN, Amazon AU.

And check out the latest call for submissions here!

The Federation has endured for hundreds of years, but as corruption and decadence wear away the core of human unity, rogue admirals rise in rebellion. As the Federation struggles for survival, two officers, an old Admiral and a newly-minted Lieutenant, may be all that stands between the Federation and destruction.

Book One: Barbarians At The Gates (now on KU)

Book Two: The Shadow of Cincinnatus

Book Three: The Barbarian Bride

The weather elementals are not happy with High Wizard Elron at DOGE Supernatural, and they've retaliated with a tornado at one of his manufacturing plants. What kind of revenge will he enact for what they've done?

A few days ago, when the edits for This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me just landed in our inboxes, I made this candle with the idea that once this, final content edit was done, I would ceremoniously light it.

In all fairness, the candle looked prettier in my head, but I don’t normally make candles.

Well, guess what?

That’s right, the edits are done.

Here is the candle, burning in the study. Hopefully it will smell lovely.

The edit has been sent off and I’m going to take a couple of days to recover.

The post The Candle Is Lit… first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.