Authors

In reply to Benedict.

No choice but to wait it out.

https://kriswrites.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/04/Candid-Shots-Kickstarter-low-quality.mp4

We’re running a Kickstarter as of about five minutes ago. It features a brand-new crime novel that I hesitate to call historical, because part of the book is set now. I’m proud of that book, Candid Shots of the 1970s, but it also surprised me. I thought it was going to be a short story, but the characters took off with it, and told me a story that I did not expect. Yep, that’s how I spent my December holidays, listening to characters tell me about an afternoon on a Minnesota lake that turned into a massively traumatic experience by evening.

The second novel appeared under a different title. It was published in the 1990s, reprinted in the early part of this century, and got great reviews. The first editor also gave it an offensive title that I will not use here, even to tell you which novel it is. This one is a true historical, with a crime in the center. And it’s noir, so expect dark. We’re reissuing it with the original title, Consecrated Ground.

The final book in the Kickstarter is a collection of short stories, two of which are brand-new. There are some award nominees in the collection as well. I think you’ll all have a lot of fun with this one.

In addition, there’s a mix of workshops and other mystery short fiction collections. So you can find all sorts of reading.

The video above is for the Kickstarter itself, and gives you a good sampling of what’s in it.

Head on over. The Kickstarter will run until Thursday, April 16, but the sooner we hit our goal, the sooner we start on the stretch goals. Then you’ll get even more reading—and, if we get to the upper level of the Kickstarter, an online workshop that I put together last year. Here’s the link!

Hello, everybody. Mod R is taking a few days off, which are very deserved. The blog is now back in my incapable hands, muhahaha!

I owe you a tour write-up, which will be posted tomorrow. Thank you to everyone who came to see us! I will report on cities, hotels, funky travel, yarn, and delicious cookies. OMG, if you are the person who gave us the cookies, I must have the recipe.

Also, we have some admin that will be coming up: zoom dates, Maggie’s site, extras, art stuff, etc. For everyone who asked about the app I used: the app is still in beta, we need to fine tune it, and I promise once it’s done, you can have it,

Today I am here to let you know that Diamond Fire is out from Graphic Audio. I have some audio samples for you.

Sample 1. Sample 2. Sample 3.

Promo: I did it!

The post Diamond Fire GA is Out first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

After a vicious attack, Louisa wants her life back. She takes the first step in her new home, filled with art and mementos, high in the hills, on a beautiful dark night. A night that will take an ugly turn. A night no one ever anticipated.

“Hot Water” is free on this site for one week only. If you like this crime story, you might like my other crime stories. A Kickstarter for my latest crime novel, Candid Shots of the 1970s, will run from Tuesday, April 7, until Thursday, April 16. There you can get the new novel as well as Consecrated Ground, a novel that hasn’t seen print in 15 years, and a brand-new collection of short crime stories (although this one is not included). Click here to look at the Kickstarter.

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

Hot Water Kristine Kathryn Rusch

“You sure, honey?” Steve asked, hand on the brass doorknob. The foyer was dark and a bit too warm, carrying the day’s heat. “The Sandersons invited you too.”

Louisa brushed his curling hair out of his collar and straightened his suit jacket. “It’s okay,” she said, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. Steve wanted to include her, but this time she didn’t want to be included. She had been waiting for this night. “I’ve had a long week. I just want to be alone and relax.”

“All right.” He kissed her, almost missing her mouth, and pulled her close for a brief moment. “I’ll be back around midnight.”

She put her hand on top of his and pulled the oak door open. “No hurry. I’ll probably be asleep when you get here.”

He kissed her again, on the forehead this time, and walked out. She followed him onto the porch. Twilight had just settled in the valley, giving the trees a gray, shadowy edge. A cool breeze made the branches rustle. The frogs had started their evening chorus from the pond halfway down the driveway, and from overhead, a bird gave a good-bye chirp.

“Wish I were staying here with you,” Steve said. “It’s a great night.”

She smiled, but said nothing. She had been waiting for this evening alone for almost two weeks. She wanted nothing to spoil it. Steve squeezed her shoulder, then hurried down the wood stairs to the flagged path. They had only been in the house a few months, and it still needed work, but Louisa loved it.  If she strained, she could hear cars passing on the road over a mile away, but that was the only sound of civilization — except at midnight, when the distant whistle from the mill announced the arrival of third shift.

Steve hurried down the walk and opened the door on their car, a champagne-colored Porsche covered with dust from the gravel drive. He had been threatening to pave the driveway and to buy a truck, claiming that the Porsche was too expensive to suffer the nicks of tiny rocks churning beneath the wheels.

Someday he would decide the car was too expensive to drive.

The car roared to a start and made its way around the curving slope of the drive, through the trees. Louisa leaned against the wobbly wood railing and watched as the headlights grew smaller along the mile-long gravel drive.

No lights shone in the valley. The house just down the hill had been abandoned years ago. The three neighboring houses — the ones she could see sprawled on their individual twenty acres — had the clean look of a place with owners out of town. On Labor Day weekend, she could count on everyone being away.

She sighed and stretched, feeling the knots in her back pop. She couldn’t get more alone than this.

Still, she needed darkness. She slipped back inside and pulled the heavy door closed behind her. Then she shut off the porch light and the light illuminating the huge foyer.

Her hands were shaking.

The only way to conquer fear is to face it.  Her therapist’s voice echoed in her head. Roger wanted her to do this. He wanted her to take charge of her life. Now that you know why the fear exists, you can control it. It doesn’t have to control you.

Right.

She glanced at the stairs. Up there was her office, the safest place in the house. She could go there and grab a book, climb into the easy chair and while the hours away.

Or she could stay down here and face herself.

She walked to the kitchen, avoiding the bathroom and its mirror. The kitchen light was still on, illuminating the hand carved cookie jar she and Steve had bought on their honeymoon. Dishes dried in the rack, the long knife Steve had used to carve the beef resting on its side next to the plates.

Everything looked normal here. Everything was normal, except her. At least Steve had patience. He loved her. He had known even before they married that she would never take off her clothes for him, that she couldn’t stand to be naked in front of anyone. They made love in the dark with her nightgown pushed around her waist, his gentle fingers stroking her breasts through the fabric.

He loved her, but she could see in his eyes that sometimes he wanted more. Just once he wanted to see her, all of her, at the same time.

She flicked off the light switch over the phone. The fluorescent held their light for a moment, then went dark.  She walked into the breakfast nook and stared through the glass paned doors at the hot tub.

Even with the lights off, she could see it clearly, a big ungainly structure sitting in the middle of her backyard. A deck Steve had built circled it, with a rack to one side for their towels. He liked sitting nude in the water. He said it was one of the most sensual experiences in the world.

Her heart pounded in her throat. She hadn’t been this nervous since the first time she made a sales presentation nearly six years before. Roger had helped her overcome stage fright. Now he was helping her with this.

You need to face your fear, he said, each week. Next week, she wanted to go into his office and tell him she had.

She stepped back from the door and pulled her t-shirt off over her head. Her hair got caught in the neck, and for one suffocating moment, she couldn’t get free. She struggled, then pulled, willing to rip the shirt to free herself from the fabric. Finally, she was out, and she flung the shirt away from her.

It fluttered like a bird mid-flight, and landed gently on the sofa. Her body shook. She hadn’t been that trapped since (he grabbed her and threw her against the sand, the hot granules digging into her bare back. He wrapped his towel around her face and arms, pinning her in place—) No. She wouldn’t remember that. He had no place in this house. His memory, and the memory of his touch, were the things she was trying to get rid of.

She took a deep breath and made herself calm down. Then she slipped out of her shorts and panties, leaving them in a pool on the floor. She wrapped a towel around her waist, stepped into her thongs, and opened the back door.

Cool air caressed her skin, raising goose bumps. She loved the mountains. No matter how hot it was in the day, the nights were always comfortable, the breeze always fresh. She closed the door behind her and stood on the wooden back porch, letting the night woo her with its promise of secrecy.

She didn’t feel naked yet. The towel was enough protection. An owl hooted nearby, adding its voice to that of the frogs. At the base of the driveway, a car swooshed past, its sound little more than a reminder that other people lived in the world. The trees rustled around her as the wind caught the leaves.

Natural sounds. Safe sounds.

She took a deep breath and walked down the creaky wood stairs to the stone pathway Steve had built. The stones tilted to the left, down the hill, and she had to hold her arms out to maintain her balance.  The towel shifted precariously against her skin. She grabbed the top with one hand and nearly fell. Only Steve seemed able to walk across the stones without stumbling. She walked the rest of the way on the grass.

The tub made a low humming sound, so faint she only heard it when she was up close. Sometimes it clicked off, and she was left with complete silence.

Dew had formed on the tub’s plastic cover, leaving little trickles in the dust. The edge was cool to her fingers. She grabbed a side and pushed it back, not willing to take the entire cover off. She had tried to put the cover back on by herself once, and pulled a muscle in her back.

Steam rose off the surface of the water, and the biting scent of chlorine filled the air. Her heartbeat speeded up and her breath came in shallow gasps. Almost there. Almost.

The wooden stairs leading up to the deck were sturdier than the steps on the porch. Steve had built the deck out of cedar and the faint woodsy scent mingling with the chlorine made her think of him. She clung to that thought like the railing, maintaining her balance, giving her strength.

When she reached the top of the deck, she stopped, hands clutching the towel to her breasts.

The mountains across the valley were inky shadows against the dark horizon. No cars passed. Even the white glare from the mill was missing — it had shut down for the holiday. Occasional bursts of steam obscured her view like tiny clouds. Crickets had joined the frogs, and the breeze had an extra bite away from the house.

Alone. She was alone.

Carefully, she undid the knot holding the towel in place. The air kissed the sweat between her breasts and her body went rigid.

(He had smiled at first, friendly as she was, another nudist on a nude beach. The alcove didn’t seem private. Over the rocks, she could see her friends playing volleyball. But her screams mingled with the cry of seagulls, masked by their laughter, and no one found her until hours later, huddled in a small sunburned ball, nearly dehydrated from the sun.)

She had been wrong to go for heat. Heat would bring the memory back. Heat would make things worse.

Excuses. The memory was back, and would haunt her each time her skin was bare. Every morning before she got in the shower, she saw his face. She didn’t want to see his face any more.

Face it. Face your fear. Once you face it, no one will ever be able to hurt you again.

She hung the towel on the railing and immediately sat down at the edge of the tub, her feet in the water. The warmth made her toes ache, but she ignored it and slide inside, feeling covered by water, not quite as visible as she had been a moment before.

She didn’t move for a long time. Then she tilted her face toward the sky. She was doing it. She was sitting alone, under the stars, naked. Absolutely naked.

Free.

A tiny feeling of elation pushed aside her fear, and she breathed into it. Free.  She smiled and then stood. The chill tickled her heat-covered skin: she had never felt so sensual, so alive before. She ran her hands along her wet skin. He had had no right to touch her that way. Touch felt good.

It felt good.

And she was free.

***

She didn’t know how long she stood there, letting the breeze caress her in places her husband had never seen. The moon had moved across the sky, and wispy clouds appeared to the west.

Steve would be home sometime soon. And she would be waiting for him. Completely, gloriously nude.

She slipped back into the water and let its warmth relax her. Roger had been right. It had been so easy, but it had taken so long to get the courage. Even then, she knew. One false statement on Steve’s part, one wrong move, and she would have to do it all over again.

Unless she prepared herself. Unless she sat in the darkness and thought all the problems through. He would be startled, surprised to find her in the tub. He might comment on that. He might say her name softly, in a voice filled with awe. He might ask if she was okay.

A twig snapped. She stiffened, heart pounding. The sound had come from the front of the house. She swallowed, and listened closely. A faint rustle. Soft movements in the bramble.

Deer.

A week after they had bought the house, the tub was finally clean enough and warm enough to use. Steve took off his suit, looking glorious in the moonlight. She wore hers as she slipped into the water. They had held hands under water and stared at the stars for what seemed like hours before they heard something behind them.

She had tried to sit up, but Steve had held her still. “Deer,” he whispered. He put a finger to his mouth and turned carefully, without disturbing the water. Then he touched her shoulder and pointed. A doe stood just behind them, upwind, ears twitching. Finally she ignored them and began eating from the apple tree at the edge of the yard.

Deer.

Louisa made herself take a deep breath. Of course she was on edge. She would be until she got used to being without clothes again. Once she could be naked with strangers — at a nude beach, up in the hot springs, at hot tub parties when she worked in California — then it had all disappeared in the space of an afternoon, while she screamed, with hot granules of sand digging into her back.

She was safe now.

It was over.

She was free.

She leaned back in the water and rested her head on the tub’s plastic side. By the time Steve got home, her body would be shriveled and wrinkled. She smiled. Then he couldn’t judge it. Then he couldn’t decide that the woman he had married had one of the uglier bodies on the planet.

A light went on in the house.

Louisa sat up, water sloshing around her. Steve wasn’t home. She would have heard the car. She would have seenthe car, coming up the drive. No timers on the lights, because they felt no need for them. No one could see the house from the road. Sometimes they even went away and left the house unlocked.

Someone was inside.

A stranger was inside her house.

A man crossed the foyer. He was bigger than Steve and muscular. His shoulders, in shadow, looked like they could carry the world without dropping it. Another, smaller man followed him.

A light went on in the living room.

What were they doing? Waiting for her? No. The house was dark. They thought no one was home. They were looking for something. But they hadn’t brought a car, probably so that they wouldn’t caught on that circular driveway.  No car. She would have heard it. Something they could carry. Not the Dali in the living room nor the Degas in the den.

(Although they could cut the paintings out of the frame and roll them. Carrying tubes would be easy, even in the dark.)

The safe held extra money and her jewels, mostly her costume jewels. The real ones were in a safety deposit box in a bank downtown.

Except for the emerald. The antique emerald her grandmother had given her. The one the photographer for Smithsonian had photographed for the article they were doing on family heirlooms. The one that had been reproduced in papers all over the state.

It certainly wasn’t the most valuable jewel they had, but it was the most famous.

They must have been planning this for a long time. She thought she had heard a car earlier, down by the abandoned house. Steve had said she imagined it.

Steve was wrong.

Her heart pounded in her throat. They were in the living room. They didn’t know she was there. If she eased the lid back over the tub and crouched under it, she would have enough air to last for several hours.

But that might make too much noise. She was probably better if she didn’t move at all.

(Then they would find her and pull her out and hold her on the cedar boards, the wood digging into her naked back—)

No. She had to get away now. But her clothes were inside and Steve had the car.

Steve. What happened if he came home while they were in the living room. It would take them time. The safe was behind the heavy oak bookcases. They had to take the books off the cases, move the cases and figure out the combination.

(Mixed birthdays — her month, Steve’s day, the combination of their years: 6-10-56. Impossible to guess unless they knew. Unless they had a stethoscope like in the movies, a man who ran an emery board against his fingertips so that they would be sensitive—)

She was panicking, thinking nonsense instead of finding a way to save herself. The Holts lived half a mile down the drive. They rarely locked their house. She could go inside, use their phone, have the police catch the men in the act.

And she would be safe.

They didn’t know she was here. They wouldn’t know she had escaped.

Deep breath. Deep breath. Move quietly. Do not stir the water.

She moved her hand underneath the water, and braced herself against the seat.  A shadow fell across the living room window, but no one else moved in the foyer.  She brought her other hand out and grabbed the lid.

Water dripped, sending echoey pings through the yard.

Her heart rate increased, but she didn’t move. They couldn’t hear the pings. She couldn’t hear anyone in the hot tub unless the windows were open, and she kept them all closed.

She stood. The cold breeze raised goose bumps on her body —

And she froze. She couldn’t get out. They would see her. They would see all of her and —

She had to. She had to. It was the only way to save herself.

Maybe she could crawl back in. It wouldn’t take too much effort to pull the lid down and she would have enough air for hours. She would be safe there, and no one would see her. No one would notice that she was nude…

Another shadow moved across the living room window. She sank back into the hot water. In a minute, they would turn on the outside light, and see her. She wasn’t safe. Not here. Not now.

Face your fear, Roger had said.

If only he had known.

Her body was shaking so badly she was making little ripples in the water.  Out. She would only be naked for an instant. Long enough for her to grab her towel, wrap it around herself and get off the deck.

But to get to the driveway from here, she had to either go down a path beneath the living room or walk through six feet of brush. Snapping twigs and crackling branches. They would hear. They would find her.

She had to try.

She eased herself out of the water again, eyes closed, imagining Roger’s face, hearing his voice with its calm confidence. Face your fear, Louisa. That’s the only way it will disappear.

Her torso was out, breasts exposed to the night air. The breeze kissed the water droplets. Her shaking had grown.

Face your fear.

She braced her hands on the side of the tub, and pulled herself up until her buttocks rested on the lukewarm plastic. Then she slid back, feet still in the water, until the plastic turned to wood. The cedar of the deck. She reached over, grabbed the towel, and wrapped it around herself.

Then she opened her eyes.

A man stood in the kitchen, staring out the double paned doors. Staring at her.

She held back a scream, finally understanding how the doe had felt when she approached the apple tree. The man picked up a knife, and set it down, then opened the cupboards.

He hadn’t seen her.

He couldn’t see her. The kitchen light was on. He couldn’t see what was going on in the yard. In the darkness.

She pulled her legs out of the water, careful not to make a sound. With her right hand, she tied the towel in place. With her left, she grabbed her thongs and slid them on her wet feet. She glanced at the house and the path. Lights from the kitchen and the living room illuminated it. If someone looked out, he would see her, crouching by. Besides, going that way was the opposite direction. She had to go down. Away.

She climbed off the deck and paused for a moment, wondering if she should put the lid on. Too much time. And too much risk of noise. She had to get away. She had to disappear before they realized that under the towel she was —

She wouldn’t think about it.

The dry grass crunched beneath her feet. Each step sounded like a peal of thunder. She went around the large oak tree, using it for support as she slipped into the bushes.

Her towel caught on a thorn, nearly pulling it loose. She yanked, and the bush shook. She waited. Nothing changed inside the house.

She took a few more steps down. She could see the gravel, glinting in the moonlight. Up the driveway stood the carport with nothing in it. They had parked somewhere else. They had planned this.

They thought she was gone, with Steve, until midnight.

She let go of the oak tree and grabbed a blackberry bush, wincing as thorns bit into her palm. A few more feet and she would make it. A few more feet and she would run for her life.

A twig snapped beneath her thongs.

“Jesus!” a voice boomed from the house. “What was that?”

Another voice responded, and then the voices grew silent again. She huddled, knees against her chest. No doors opened. No one came down.

She was okay. As long as she didn’t step on anything else.

She made herself count to one hundred before moving again. She stayed low, letting the blackberry bushes protect her. Nothing snapped beneath her feet. She crossed the expanse of grass until she reached the gravel —

— which shuffled like an explosion against the silence of the night.

Another light went on in the house. She swallowed heavily. They would find her. They would find her and hold her —

She kicked off the thongs and ran down the side of the road, on the unmowed grass. Rocks pierced her bare feet, but she willed it not to hurt. It wasn’t going to hurt. It couldn’t hurt.

The back door opened.

” —told you I heard something.”

And the porch light went on.

“Good God. There’s someone here.”

“No. There’s no car —”

“Lid’s up. The damn tub’s steaming. And there’s footprints.”

She reached the fork in the driveway. Her bare foot landed on gravel and slid out from under her. She fell, gravel moving her forward. A grunt escaped her, and pain ran up her left side. Rocks had imbedded themselves in her legs and buttocks —

(like grains of sand)

— but she made herself stand up and keep running.

“Down there!”

The men crashed through the brambles. She ran downhill, gaining speed with each movement. One wrong step and she would fall on her face. Gravel flew behind her and her feet felt like lacerated sores.

“I’ll get the car. You see if you can spot him.”

Not the car. If they had the car, they would find her. But she had reached the bottom of the hill and the clearing. She only had a few more yards before she reached her neighbor’s house.

“Leave the damn car. It’s too far away. There’s nowhere he can go.”

Other footsteps followed her.  She rounded the corner, and vaulted the gate, losing her towel. She stopped, reached for it, but couldn’t grab it. The tall man was crashing down the road, looking even bigger in the moonlight. He saw her.

It was the towel or escape.

A whimper left her throat. She needed that towel, needed the cover, needed —

— the phone. The police. Help of some sort.

She took a deep breath and left the towel where it fell, ran up the dirt walk and onto the porch.

Please let the door be open. Please.

She grabbed the knob and yanked. The door opened, and she nearly stumbled backwards. She went inside and pulled it closed, locking it behind her.

The phone was on the kitchen counter. She had used it once before hers was installed. She grabbed it, thumbed the buttons, counted, and found 911.

It rang once.

“Nine-one-one, may I help you?”

“Yes. Men have broken into my house. They’ve chased me down to the neighbor’s. They’re coming up the walk now. I need someone out here as fast as possible.”

The doorknob rattled. She stepped back, fear making her entire body cold.

” —located at 6611 Aker Road?”

Her neighbor’s address. “Yes. He’s at the door. Can someone hurry?”

“There’s a car in your area.”

A face pressed against the glass of the sliding patio doors. Shit. She hadn’t checked the locks on any of the other doors. Even if the door was locked, all he had to do was break the glass.

“Please hurry,” she said. “Please.”

“Someone will be there as fast as possible, miss. In the meantime, stay on the line —”

She set the phone down and groped behind her. Damn. She should have paid more attention when she was down here. Knives on the sideboard? No. But she needed something. Anything.

She reached up and her hand brushed something metal above the stove. Skillets. Cast iron. Heavy. She pulled the biggest one down as he yanked the patio door open.

He held up her towel. “Forget something?”

She froze, seeing not him, but the man who had grabbed her on the beach. A big man, bigger than this one, smiling. She couldn’t see his face now, in the dark.  But he was probably smiling too.

Her breath was coming heavy, her chest heaving. She had to move. Had to. He had already seen her naked. He had already done the worst he could do. Help was on the way. All she had to do was hold him off until it arrived.

A tinny voice echoed from the phone. He came closer, shaking the towel. “Thought you were smart, didn’t you? Thought we would never find you. Wet feet leave footprints, miss.”

Her arms ached from holding the skillet. She backed up until the wood counter dug into her back. She was breathing through her mouth, the air whistling between her teeth.

“Scared, huh? You got nothing to be scared about. Not yet. Not till my partner gets here.”

He hadn’t seen the phone then. In this dark corner of the kitchen, he probably could barely see her at all. He came forward, waving the towel like a bull fighter waved a flag.

“Hope you’re pretty. I like pretty women.”

Pretty. He had said that before. On the beach. She could smell him, the sweaty oniony scent of an overweight man. He would touch her and this time, sand wouldn’t dig into her back. The counter would.

And she was naked, just like she had been the first time.

“Got you trapped,” he said. He reached out and she swung the skillet at him, catching him full on the side of the head. The metal rang. He grunted and fell against the counter. The towel landed on her feet, the soft weave tickling the skin. She kicked it aside. He moaned again, and reached for the counter to pull himself up. She brought the skillet down, harder this time, and he collapsed against the floor.

A voice was yelling, outside. A man’s voice. She held the skillet against her shoulder like a bat, and stalked to the door. The other man stood in the driveway, his body silhouetted in the moonlight. He glanced in all directions, unable to see her or his friend. He was shouting his companion’s name — a word she couldn’t quite catch.

And then she heard sirens.

He wouldn’t find her if she kept quiet. But she had to protect herself. She had to make sure the other one wouldn’t wake up. She walked back in the kitchen. He hadn’t moved. He huddled in a near-fetal position, one arm trapped under his head. She crouched over him, skillet poised, like a child about to smash a bug.

The tinny voice still spoke from the phone. Even though she couldn’t hear the words, the sound comforted her. Someone was there. Someone was listening. The sirens grew louder.  Flashing red and blue lights illuminated the kitchen. Something dark streaked the side of the counter. The man’s hair had matted against his skull. His breath was raspy, difficult, as if his nose were plugged.

The door behind her opened and a light came on. She stood and whirled at the same time, skillet clutched tightly in both hands.

A policeman stood there, hands out. “It’s okay, ma’am. I’m here to help.”

She didn’t move. He came across the carpet slowly, facing her as he walked. He knelt beside the man and touched his matted hair. His fingers came away bloody. Two other policemen came in the doorway.

“He’s breathing,” the first policeman said. “But we’ll need some help.”

One of the others went back out the door. The first policeman stood. “We caught the other man on the road. You’re safe now. That was some pretty quick thinking.”

Her arms trembled under the skillet’s weight. She didn’t want to let it go. It was her protection. He came closer, reaching for her.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

“Your husband’s outside,” said the other policeman. “We met him as we were turning into the driveway. He wants to see you.”

Steve? She felt as if she were surfacing from a very deep sleep. Everything had to be okay if Steve was there. She loosened her grip on the skillet, and the policeman took it away from her as if he was afraid she would use it.

“Come on,” he said gently. “You’re safe with us. Do you have anything…?”

For a moment, she didn’t know what he meant. Then she glanced back at the man on the floor. His left hand lay flat on the towel. She shook her head.

He nodded to the other policeman who went into the bedroom. He returned carrying a pink chenille bedspread. With one hand, he extended it. She took it, and wrapped it around herself, wondering at the need for it. Would it embarrass them if she went outside naked?

“You hurt?” the first policeman asked.

She shook her head.

“Your husband’s outside,” the second one repeated.

They wanted her out of the house. Away from the man. That was good. She didn’t want to be near him anymore. She had shown him. She had finally shown him that he couldn’t hurt her, that he had no more power over her.

The night air was colder than she remembered. Five squad cars had squeezed into the small lawn, one parked on the baby pool near the swing set. Uniformed men huddled outside, talking. Steve stood with them until he saw her.

“Jesus, honey.”

He came over and put his arms around her. She realized for the first time that she was trembling. He caressed her face, then stopped when he touched the bedspread. It had slipped so that it clung to her like a cape.

“You’re not wearing anything. Did he—?”

His voice broke. She knew what he saw. More months of therapy. More months of darkness, of hesitant touch.

“No,” she said.

He took his hands off her as if he had been burned. She stepped back into his arms, and leaned her head on his strong shoulder. “I mean,” she said, “that he didn’t touch me. He didn’t touch me at all.”

His body felt good against her bare skin, the rough cloth of his suit giving her comfort she didn’t know she needed. The bedspread fell, and as he reached for it, she stopped him. He finished the hug, clutching her tight, and then bent down.

“You need this,” he said and wrapped the spread around her.

She didn’t need it. Not like he thought. Not ever again. Roger had been right. She had faced the fear and conquered it.

And no one would ever be able to hurt her again.

Copyright © by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover design by WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © KrisCole/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.

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

 

No book is ever long enough for the Book Devouring Horde! House Andrews gifted us a little more.

This bonus scene is safe after Page 438, last scene of Chapter 40 of This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me

Lady Maggie.

Doran jogged up the steps to the curtain wall and passed through the keep tower’s wide-open gates. After the bright daylight, the interior was steeped in pleasantly cool shadows. Summer was coming and with it, Kair Toren’s heat. Not that the heat bothered him, but he missed the southern coast. The low hills of the Golden Valley ringed in terraced fields that curved like ribbons along the slopes. The turquoise waters of Ceter Lake, where the air smelled of flowers and blooming trees. The golden sand beaches, gently sloping into a warm ocean filled with bright fish flittering through the translucent depths.

Kair Toren had a rougher coast, the hills more rugged, the sea darker with a harsher surf. The city itself felt rougher too, unlike the idyllic white walls of Dilem. He’d been in this damn place for too long. He knew he was homesick, and she made it worse.

Doran passed through the tower and stepped out onto the terrace overlooking the Citadel Garden. A large table waited for him by the stone rail, offering a glittering glass pitcher of red wine, another of water, and two plain wooden cups. Merro Ridan sprawled in one of the two chairs, his mane of blond hair hanging loose, Doran’s formal breastplate resting on the ground next to him.

Ridan gave him a wave. The wine pitcher sitting on the table was a third empty.

Doran took the other chair and nodded at the wine. “Started early, I see.”

“It’s fucking hot, and your armor is heavy. Do you want me to pass out from the exhaustion?”

“Keep drinking and you might.”

Ridan rolled his eyes, picked up a jug of water and splashed some into his cup. “Better?”

“I’m looking out for you. Be grateful.”

“Oh, I always am.” Ridan took a long swig. “Are you going to tell me why I had to drop what I was doing and play dress up?”

“What were you doing?”

Ridan grimaced. “Having a chat with our Redeemer guest.”

Ah. That. “Anything?”

Ridan shook his head. “It’s a waste of time. I can apply pressure, but you can always tell when a man won’t break. We’re not getting anything out of that one. We can either cut his throat or cut him loose.”

Doran stretched his legs. Trying to gather information about the Order of the Redeemers had proved irritatingly difficult. He appreciated loyalty, expected and respected it, but fanatics grated on his nerves. The way Redeemers revered Silveren was unnatural. He might as well be one of the saints.

He couldn’t get a read on the man. Silveren was… slippery. He trailed the Second Prince like a morose shadow, avoiding attention, dodging conflicts, like he was made of smoke. Half of the time, you forgot he was in the room.

They had invited one of Silveren’s kardars over for a stay. He wasn’t a prisoner, but he’d been strongly encouraged to partake of their hospitality. The man proved savvy enough to understand what the invitation meant.

Like most Redeemers, he had a sordid past. In his former life, he’d been in charge of a fort, tasked with collecting taxes from the nearby domains, which he had embezzled. That by itself was enough of a crime, but he’d dipped into the garrison’s supplies, and when the raiders came, the fort fell. He’d barely escaped Sauven’s wrath and found a place in the Redeemer Tower.

As potential informants went, he seemed like a sure bet. Greedy. Opportunistic. Untroubled by honor. And yet nothing they’d offered him so far had moved him to break his loyalty to Silveren. He was steadfast.

Doran poured a splash of wine into his glass. Looking for informants wasn’t uncommon. Silveren and he were playing an old game, and they both knew the unspoken rules. Killing the Redeemer kardar would escalate things. There would be a time for that later. For now, he would keep it calm and civil.

“Cut him loose.”

Ridan nodded.

That’s what Doran had always liked about him. No matter the circumstances, Ridan always preferred an underhanded solution. Scheming came to him like breathing, and combined with a healthy appetite for violence, he made for a dangerous opponent. But he didn’t let his urges cloud his judgement. Ridan wasn’t conniving; he was shrewd and calculating, the kind of advisor who never lost sight of the big picture. They were rarely at odds.

Ridan studied him now. “Do you want me to try another one?”

Doran shook his head. “Not now. Silveren will be wary. We have time.”

Eventually, he would have to take the Redeemers on, but open warfare was never his first choice. He preferred to trap and contain, and in the case of an entire knight order, the most prudent course would be to remove them from the field. An expedition outside the borders, a long campaign somewhere far enough away, something to keep them busy…

Eventually an opportunity would present itself, and the old buzzard sitting on the throne trusted him enough to be swayed. At the right time, it wouldn’t take much. A word, a carefully planned encounter, and the Redeemers would be off, leaving him free to fight his private war.

“Well?” Ridan toasted him with a cup. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Who is she?”

Doran smiled at him. “I have found the one.”

Ridan blinked. “The one what?”

“The one I want.”

Ridan choked on his wine. “Will wonders never cease? Come on, give us more. Who is she? Which family?”

“I don’t know.”

Ridan set his cup down with some force. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I looked into her and found nothing. She’s hiding.”

Ridan’s eyes lit up. “She’s a mystery then. You never could resist a secret. What’s her name?”

“Maggie.”

Ridan frowned. “Odd name. Where is she from?”

“I don’t know. She speaks like she’s lived in Kair Toren all her life, with the best tutors and a proper education, but she isn’t from the city. If she was, she would know what I look like.”

“Of course she would. Perhaps she would have commissioned a drawing of you. Pinned to a wall above her bed so she could gaze upon it as she pleasured herself.”

Doran allowed himself a small smile.

“Is she even a noble? Can you at least tell that much?”

“She is. And from a prominent family.”

“Oh?”

“It’s the way she speaks. She looks you in the eye. She doesn’t fawn, preen, or second-guess herself.”

Ridan nodded. “She isn’t checking in her head whether her words align with her conduct lessons?”

“Yes. She was guarded but sure. Several days ago, I went to see her with Berengur, and she was exactly the same then.”

Ridan sighed. “Still looking for his long-lost brother?”

“Not anymore.”

Ridan glanced at him, surprised.

“She told him where Pelegrin has been, and why he chose to stay there.”

She had told Berengur a lot more than that. The way she’d spoken moved him. He’d kept turning her words over in his head on the way back to the Citadel.

“How would she know that?” Ridan demanded. “I’ve had people looking for Pelegrin for months. Nothing. Not a trace.”

“You said it yourself. She’s a mystery.”

“A mystery with access to a wide web of informants?” Ridan tapped his finger on the table for emphasis. “This worries me. Is she an imperial agent?”

“No.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“She doesn’t have the ruthlessness.” Doran recalled her limping and smiled again. “She is smart and sharp, but there is little pretense there. She’s genuine.”

Ridan groaned. “By the Aspects. She’s got her hooks in you. And what did this paragon of virtue ask in return for Pelegrin’s location?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s worse. She’s playing the long game. What did she want today?”

“She came to warn me. We have a man hunter.”

Ridan sat up straighter.

They had run across that type of predator in Dilem. It was a gruesome affair, savage enough for Doran to seek outside counsel. Fortunately, a priest of the Scholar in Dilem had made a study of man hunters. They were rare, afflicted with a particular sickness of the mind, often unable to distinguish between lust and murder. For them it was one and the same, and they chased the thrill of torture and death as if possessed. Sooner or later, they made mistakes and they got caught, but not before they’d reaped their bloody harvest.

“This one hunts knights,” Doran said.

“Shuhoven,” Ridan breathed. “Damn. I never liked that asshole, but he was good.”

“So is the hunter. He has magic, and it makes him faster. Eliarde is his next target.”

“According to your Lady Maggie?” Ridan leaned forward, no trace of humor on his face. “Let me guess, she warned you and asked for nothing in return? Does this not worry you? You have been baited, you have taken the hook, and now she will reel you in.”

“Don’t get ideas.”

“Let me kill her. It will be clean and quick. Think of what’s at stake. Of what we’ve worked for. Think of how high you’re aiming. Why would she show up now, when you are on the cusp of attaining your goals?”

Doran shook his head. “You’ll understand when you meet her. Merro, I mean it. No accidents. Not a hair on her head. She is mine.”

“Fuck me.” Ridan stared at him. “Of all the women you have had, why this one?”

He had enjoyed many women. Some were beautiful, some intelligent, ambitious, innocent, dangerous. But he’d never wanted to take any of them home. The game of seduction had grown stale ages ago, so much so that he could predict how things would end from the first conversation. Years had passed since any woman could hold his interest.

There was something about Maggie that pulled at him. They sat in the garden, talking, and he kept picturing her on the balcony in Ar-Vellen, with the sapphire blue sea behind her. He wanted to show the castle to her, to see her smile at him, to carry her off to his bed and have her until she was exhausted.

If she hadn’t left, he could’ve sat in that garden with her for hours. She was gone now, and the moment he had loaded her into a carriage, he’d realized he’d wanted her to stay. He would rather be talking to her now instead of Ridan, and it irked him that she wasn’t here.

He didn’t feel like explaining all of that, and Ridan wouldn’t understand it anyway.

“It is reason enough that I want her.”

Ridan slumped in his chair. “I swear, you will put me into an early grave. Have you communicated your interest?”

“I hinted.”

“And?”

“She ran away.”

Ridan threw his arms up. “At last, there is justice in this world. The one woman you finally want doesn’t want you. I’ve changed my mind. I like her. Just a bit. Not enough to keep me from killing her…”

“Merro,” Doran sank some command into his voice.

Ridan grinned at him. “I got it, I got it. Not a hair on her head. Can I at least look into her? Is that allowed?”

“Yes. Find out what you can. Be discreet.”

Ridan put a hand on his heart. “When have I ever been otherwise?”

“I want to know who she belongs to, and where she comes from. Tell me as soon as you have something.”

Ridan beamed at him. “As you will, my lord.”

The post Bonus Scene: Not A Hair On Her Head first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

I’m dreaming of my blankie…Eileen.

I think I begin to see why…

You stay away from Eileen!

Holy shit, dudes, it’s just a blanket.

I like pigs.

Weirdos.

I’m more of a towel man, myself…

I’m really sorry that you are having such a long wait for the Book#4 edits to come back. I can understand your frustration with the publisher and a nagging doubt that the suggested Edits may somehow impact on the story-line of Book #5!

I always imagined that there was a close relationship between publisher and author, with the story coming from the author and the publisher (maybe) advising on current popular demand & crosschecking for internal typos plus continuity. Is there no way you can nudge them into saying just what/why the delay is?

[Perhaps a stiff email/letter from Charles Ashford would do the trick?]

In reply to Jonathan.

Sales are fine, yes. And the book’s definitely coming out – the contract’s signed and the publication date is set for this November. They’re just being slow.

How frustrating! So sorry. Hopefully you’ll get the edits soon.

This just seems so strange. I thought sales on the new series were going well. I’m certainly planning on continuing to buy each book as it comes out! Is the publisher putting this on a back burner?

Technically, the first thing I finished reading was Anton Chekov’s The Seagull for my theatre history class. I’d read both the play and the short story the first time I was in college 100,000 years ago, and didn’t like them then. I decided to give the dang thing a chance again. Still didn’t like it, but I understand it now. Also, the prof mentioned in passing that we should read the play with Hamlet in mind. I did, and wow, that helps. It also explains why I don’t like The Seagull (besides, you know, the symbolism, the suicide, the unlikeable characters). Hamlet is my least favorite Shakespeare play. Reading a later play based on Hamlet does not make me like that story any better. (Sigh.) So yes, I’m not recommending it…

I am still reading a very long, very dense novel that I’m loving, but it blocked my easy reads of lighter fare for most of the month. I read a few other things that aren’t worth recommending and are, in fact, quite forgettable. 

So…here’s what I liked in March.

 

March, 2026

Abramovich, Seth, “The History of Mel Brooks, Part One,” The Hollywood Reporter, January 29, 2026. Full disclosure: I’m not the biggest Mel Brooks fan. His humor is too broad for me. Dean has tried to make me like Blazing Saddles as long as we’ve been together, and I just don’t. I saw it when it was released, I saw it with him when we were first together, and then later, he made me watch it again. The famous fart scene? Not funny to me. This is not my kind of humor. However, I do like some of his films. Young Frankenstein is a personal favorite as is Silent Movie (which no one ever mentions), particularly the scene with Marcel Marceau. I saw The Producers on Broadway because I adore Nathan Lane. We saw the show the very first week, scoring tickets through magic. And while I found it funny, I found it funny the way I usually find Mel Brooks’ material funny: I understood the joke and wished it would make me laugh.

That said, I admire the crap out of Mel Brooks. He’s 99 now, still creating, and still moving forward. This interview is all about risk and reward, about taking chances and about staying true to your vision. The introduction says this of Brooks’ work:

Across nearly a century, Brooks has repeatedly tested the limits of taste, commerce, politics and patience. He has offended studio executives, television censors, foreign governments and polite society at large, often all at once. He also has reshaped the grammar of American comedy, leaving behind a body of work that includes The Producers, Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, History of the World, Part 1, High Anxiety and Spaceballs. Several of those films were dismissed or misunderstood on arrival, only to be adored later. Others were instant detonations. All of them bear the same unmistakable fingerprint: an artist who believes that nothing is sacred except the laugh itself.

 Read this interview. It’s amazingly wonderful.

Armstrong, Kelley, Watcher in the Woods, Minotaur Books, 2019. This is the fourth Rockton novel and it does not stand alone. It starts shortly after the previous book ends. If I could have read something this dark before bed, I would have finished this book in one of those all-night marathon sessions. As it was, I read it when I could, and finished quickly. The unique setting and strong characters make both for good thrillers and fascinating reading. Start with City of the Lost and have fun.

Carter, Ally, Cross My Heart And Hope To Spy, Little, Brown, 2016 edition of a 2007 book. I love the Gallagher Girl Books. Set in a secret school for girls who are going to grow up to be spies, these books are delightfully adventurous. This time, Carter adds some rather mysterious teenage boys to the mix and a few teachers who might or might not be what they seem. This is my bedtime reading. It doesn’t usually keep me up (although the ending of this one did), but it is memorable and the characters are grand. (Btw, Books2Read malfunctions more than not for me, so you might have to find the book on your own.)

Carter, Ally, Don’t Judge a Girl by Her Cover, Little, Brown & Company, 2016 edition of a 2009 book. I blew through this book even though it’s my nighttime, don’t-stay-up-late read. Instead of one chapter, I probably read three or four per night, and then hurried through the ending because I just had to know. Carter introduces a Big Bad in this book that will factor into future books. (I know this because I’m deep in the next one.) I love the relationships the girls have with each other, and this school sounds like a great deal of fun. Books2Read malfunctioned again for me, so I don’t know if it’s the book or if it’s Books2Read (which seems to have gone downhill), but I was only able to get two links for you. If you prefer to shop elsewhere, you’ll have to look up the book on your own. Believe me, it’s worth the time.

Neville, Stuart, “Juror 8,” Ink and Daggers, edited by Maxim Jakubowski, Titan, 2023. I’m still working my way through this volume. It’s heavily noir, which I like mostly, but occasionally the stories have left me cold. Which is why I love this Stuart Neville piece. Yes, noir. Yes, dark. But the voice is marvelous and the characters so dang real. I have several Stuart Neville books on my TBR shelf and I avoid them because he is so dark. But maybe now I’m feeling up to them…

Pirandello, Luigi, Six Characters in Search of an Author, multiple publishers, first published in 1921. Well, I’m remarkably consistent. I loathed The Seagull when I read it as a twenty-year old, and I loved Six Characters back then. I love it now. It was a fun read for my theatre history class. The other students were baffled as hell by it, but I love metafiction and this is one of the first well known pieces of metafiction. It was fascinating to learn that Pirandello was friends with Mussolini. (It was also fascinating to hear the prof, who is as liberal as they come, try to justify that friendship.) The discussion was glossed over in class, but it got me thinking about the age-old argument—do you judge the author by what they do or what they’ve written. I know with Rowling, I will not support anything of hers, because she’s doing active ongoing harm at the moment. Reading an old Pirandello play, aware of all the things Mussolini would do after the two men got to know each other…well, I just want to avert my eyes. In other words, I have no justification for recommending a play from someone who was a fascist, and yet, here I am, doing it.

Start charging interest on missed sales due to delays on their part? *wink*

Seariously, it is rediculous but I guess you can use the time on book 5.

In reply to Sean.

My current guess is about 10.

How many books are anticipated for this series?

Maybe it’s an April Fool’s joke?

He doesn't know . . . yet.

You asked for an art roundup guide to the main players of Kair Toren.

We’ve put our best agent on the case. Please don’t tell her any spoilers in the comments.

Unless otherwise specified, all art will be available as bookmarks, vellum inserts, and other goodies in the merch store when it reopens in mid-April.

Happy Friday, and happy (re)reading This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me! If you haven’t grabbed your copy yet, you can find retail links here.

Sushi art by Jenn Munson

I am stelka.

Maggie calls me Soo’sshi.

I know secrets.

Also fish.

The fish men complain. They make signs about me.

This means I am thriving.

You want all the humans in one place. So you can understand them.

I already do.

But I will show you. Watch closely.

Maggie art by @luisapreissler for OwlCrate special edition

This is Maggie.

She did not wake.

I fixed it.

This one is bright.

I stay. I watch the dark places.

Now she is mine.

She has den. I added fish.

Den is better now.

We keep each other.

Solentine Dagarra art by @helena.illustrated

Would steal fish.

Sharp teeth inside smile.

This one kills clean.

No mess.

No noise.

Like biting the back of the neck.

Hands smell like metal and endings.

I would sit close.

But not that close.

Sun Margrave art by @helena.illustrated

This one stands.

Like stone that remembers.

Keeps pack from tearing one another apart.

Does not bend.

Does not break.

Teeth stop here.

If gone –

too much blood.

Clover art by @helena.illustrated

This one runs the den.

Counts. Fixes. Decides.

No teeth.

But all things move when she moves.

Even the tall dangerous ones.

She lives where food is.

Calls me vermin. I hiss.

Keeps everything in place.

Man from the Garden art by @helena.illustrated

Human from garden.

This one is quiet danger.

Like a hunter who already chose.

I do not like being chosen.

Pretty. Not safe.

Watching.

Would not nap near.

Would not share fish.

Would not bite first. Maybe second.

Sleepless Duke art by @luisapreissler for OwlCrate special edition

Humans should be simple.

This one is not.

He feels like story.

Stories bite.

This one is above hunters.

Above teeth.

This one is storm.

He burns bright.

Many fish. Many hiding places.

Doran Arvel art by @helena.illustrated

This one shines.

Like fresh meat in the sun.

Wants to be watched.

Always watches too.

Mostly Maggie.

Teeth still sharp.

Like trap.

I stole his fish. I go where I want.

Tasted like flowers.

For a better Stelka-to-human translation and a tour of Kair Toren locations (including the full map of the Kingdom of Rellas) you can revisit Ilona’s kingdom art reveal post here.

The post An Accurate Stelka Guide to the Humans of Kair Toren (Character Art Roundup) first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Emily has failed.

The world she knows is gone. The multiverse itself is becoming a playground of a mad god, a once-human monster so powerful that reality itself is breaking under his gaze and all timelines are collapsing into one. Existence as we know it is over. If the mad god is not stopped, the multiverse will simply cease to be. But how can one kill a god?

Spilt in two, trapped in her worst nightmare and frozen in a single moment of time, Emily is reality’s only hope. But as she hops from timeline to timeline, meeting strangers wearing familiar faces and travelling across worlds very different to the one she knows in a desperate bid to gather the knowledge and resources she needs to stop a god, she is pursued by a creature out of myth …

And a nightmare that has walked beside her from her very first day of magic.

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Conflicted.

Yes, Kit is not a very reliable texter and does avoid conversations about Ty especially with Ty's sister (unfortunate for him that Livvy can hassle him literally eternally if she feels like it) and when they meet again in TWP they haven't been texting for a while. They are fond of each other, though, in a familyish way.