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Polish publisher Vesper has revealed the cover for Godzina Wilka, their upcoming translation of The Wolf’s Hour, to be published in April 2025! The art is by Maciej Kamuda, and the translation is by Janusz Skowron.

The book has not been added to the Vesper website yet, but details can be found here.

Dive into Vanishing Treasures, by Katherine Rundell, exploring the delicate balance between cultural heritage and…

The post “Vanishing Treasures: A Bestiary of Extraordinary and Endangered Creatures” by Katherine Rundell appeared first on LitStack.

 

Our realm, splintered and broken, yearned to be united under a single ruler. The Witches may have won and put one of their own on the throne, but even they had suffered.

(page 1, The Queen's Blade by Evelyn Ward)
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Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, previously hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Just do the following: - Grab your current read - Open to a random page - Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!) - Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their  TBR Lists if they like your teasers!

The finale to John Gwynne’s Bloodsworn, The Fury of the Gods, brings the Norse epic to a grand conclusion. The conflagration of warriors, wolf-gods, dragon-gods, rat-gods, and other various and sundry supernatural entities comes to a head as the dragon god, Lik-Rifa, seeks to take over the world and expunge her sibling gods while Varg,…

 Yep.

 

 

 About:

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The Federation is finally ticking along as things start to come together. The Tauren war is over in the west, the Federation is growing steadily, and the economy is bright. There are dark clouds on the horizon however. The Spirits have returned with dire warnings of an ancient evil alliance brewing in the northern sectors.

Admiral Irons has his hands full with politics and the pirate war in Sigma Sector. They finally have a lead on the pirate capital, the battle moon known as Atlas XIV or El Dorado. Fleets and the Cadre are on the move to Sigma in preparation of the final assault there.

Pirate Empress Catherine the Great has been scheming and readying her titanic ship to flee to a new hiding spot. It is now a race to see if she can get away before the fleet finds her. But Admiral Irons is first and foremost an engineer. Engineers have a motto, when in doubt, use a bigger hammer. Well, Admiral Irons is the premier engineer and if he is good at anything it is that he is an expert on Lowering the Hammer.

Amazon:  Amazon

B&N: B&N

Crime reporter Atkins discovered Scrawny Pete at the scene of a murder-suicide. The hard-bitten reporter took to the cat, and the cat took to him.

Together they travel through the city on the police beat—until the day they come across another crime, one that Scrawny Pete understands.

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

 

Scrawny Pete By Kristine Kathryn Rusch

He found Scrawny Pete, flea-bitten, hair coming out in patches, and eyes like a baby’s, in a fifth floor walk-up, crouched beside two dead bodies. The cat wouldn’t come to anyone but him, and in a moment of weakness, he took the damn thing. The vet’d cleaned him up, put antibiotics on the scabs, gave Atkins some salve and some special food and sent him on his way.

A cat owner.

And not just any cat. Scrawny Pete was on his way to becoming a legend.

The dead bodies had been part of a domestic. Typical, in its way. Murder-suicide. Always seemed that the man shot the woman and ate the gun. Fifteen years on the crime beat for whichever daily tabloid paid him enough to write his five hundred words of wisdom showed him that there was nothing in the human existence that someone didn’t try to solve with a gun. In the mouth, out of the mouth, in the heart, in the stomach, it didn’t matter. In America, someone whipped out a gun and entire lives ended. A flash, an instant, leaving more heartbreak than any newspaper could cover.

As if it wanted to. Whoever said, “All happy families are alike, but all unhappy families are unhappy in their own ways,” had been more right than Atkins wanted to imagine.

The problem with Scrawny Pete, as Atkins soon learned, was that the damn cat was terrified of being alone. Surprisingly, loud noises didn’t bother him, and neither did the smell of blood, but his own company in the quiet of Atkins’s apartment drove the cat absolutely crazy. Atkins tried leaving the television on, and bringing home a kitten, but Scrawny Pete was intelligent enough to know that a TV wasn’t company, and he didn’t tolerate any furry companions in his fancy abode.

Somehow the damn cat talked Atkins into taking him everywhere. Atkins started wearing a great coat with a large pocket that Scrawny Pete—who was smaller than most six-month-old kittens—took to riding in. Atkins found that Pete could be smuggled anywhere, restaurants, hotels, even doctor’s offices. And once he started writing about Pete in his column, well, he didn’t have to smuggle the cat anywhere any more.

It was June 21st, one year to the day after he’d gotten Scrawny Pete, that he found himself taking an old Otis to the top floor of a scrungy apartment building on the lower East Side. The cops were already on the scene. Some rookie was standing outside the main door, arms crossed, unwilling to let in any comers even with press badges until he saw Scrawny Pete. Atkins mumbled as the Otis’s doors slid open on the fourteenth floor that if he’d known a cat was worth more than a press badge he’d’ve gotten the cat years ago.

Scrawny Pete had no answer. If anything, the cat seemed tenser than usual.

Pete was always unnaturally tense. Atkins attributed it to the poor critter’s upbringing by such obviously happy folk. He could only imagine how awful it had been. The walk-up hadn’t had any cat food. The only sign that a cat had even lived there were the claw marks on the living room sofa. Obviously the happy couple had let Scrawny Pete fend for his dinner in the hall with the other stray cats, and had let him the bulk of his life outside—which had probably been good for Scrawny Pete or he might have been the first to taste the gun, long before hubby decided the family needed a vacation in Never-Never-Land.

But in this hallway, which smelled of grease and garlic and Asian cooking, overlaid with filth and a bit of despair, Pete’s naturally tense body became a hard little wire. Atkins put a hand on Pete’s back, like he used to do when they first started traveling together, before he realized that nothing—not honking horns, not screaming people, not the breeze from a passing train—could spook Pete enough to make him leave the pocket. Pete’s security was Atkins, and that cat wasn’t ever going to let go.

Apartment 14A had a crooked metal sign and an open presswood door, the outside of which had once seen the backside of someone’s foot. The breaks in the wood weren’t new and they weren’t clean, and all they left was a thin layer of really cheap oak covering between the inhabitants—or former inhabitants as the case might be—and the rest of the world.

Atkins pushed his way inside, felt Pete turn into a statue against his side and start making little huffing noises. Two detectives stood inside, both in plainclothes, cheap off-the-rack suits that had seen better days. The ME stood over the bodies with the department’s camera, preserving the scene for posterity, although it was obvious what had happened.

Husband shot the wife before eating the gun. The air still had an acrid whiff from the double discharge. Atkins was surprised he could smell it over the stench of blood and voided bowels.

The detectives recognized him, showed him where to stand so that he wouldn’t violate the scene. Pete was still huffing, his fur rising on his back. Strange behavior. Stranger way still to spend their one-year anniversary.

Atkins stared at the couple. Young, by the looks of their hands. Poor, by the looks of the apartment. But not that poor, by the looks of their stuff. In fact, a bit upscale for a neighborhood like this.

“Slumming, Atkins?” one of the detectives asked.

“Heard the call,” he said, hand still on Pete. “What is it about this day, hm? It’s not Christmas. Not nothing at all. What makes people go off on this day?”

“What?” the detective said. “There been other calls today?”

Atkins shook his head. “A year ago today, I got Pete at a place just like this one. In fact…” His voice trailed off. He shuddered, something he hadn’t done at a crime scene in more than a decade.

“What?” the detective asked, but Atkins ignored him. Instead he crouched, put his hands up to his face as if he were forming a camera, and looked through the frame.

“Do bodies always fall like that in a murder-suicide?” he asked.

“Like what?” the detective asked.

“Side by side, twinned up like they’re in bed next to each other, only they’re on the floor.”

“Naw.” The answer came from the ME. He’d taken the last shot. “Usually, they are in bed. It’s only a few who do it in the middle of the living room. I think they had some kind of argument, he grabs the gun, waves it in her face, she thinks he ain’t gonna do nothing, maybe even dares him, he shoots, realizes what he’s done, then shoots himself.”

Sounded plausible.

Pete was making little sounds of distress. Atkins put his hand back in his pocket. Pete was shivering. In the whole past year, in all the strange situations, he’d never once felt Pete shiver. Not even in the middle of winter.

“Never figured you for one of them animal lovers who took his friggin pet everywhere,” the other detective said.

Atkins shrugged, pretended an indifference he didn’t really feel. “It gets readers.”

“Sure does,” the first detective said. “The wife reads your column now like you’re writing the adventures of Scrawny Pete. You should mention him every day.”

“Yeah,” Atkins said. “He sure has a place in a story like this one.”

“I don’t see no story here,” the ME said. “Sad to tell, but who really cares when some guy takes out himself and his wife. ‘Cept the friends and family, of course.”

Atkins looked at him. The ME was a skinny redhead with premature aging lines from frowning instead of too much sunlight. “No kids?” he asked.

“Not a one.”

“How common is that?”

The ME shrugged. “I’m not a walking book of statistics.”

“I mean, isn’t it usually long-marrieds, or newly separateds, or bad divorces who resort to this?”

“Can’t say.” The ME looked over his shoulder. But one of the detectives frowned.

“Where you going with this, Atkins?”

“Nowhere,” he said. “Just seems strange to me. The couple that I got Pete from, they were in this position, no kids, dead in the living room in a fifth floor walk-up not a lotta different from this.”

“The world’s weird, Atkins,” one of the detectives said. “Who’d’ve figured? It’s like you and that crazy cat.”

“Yeah,” Atkins said softly, not taking his hand off Pete. “Who’d’ve figured.”

***

It didn’t stop him from checking anyway. Superstition was sometimes a reporter’s best friend. He and Pete spent the afternoon digging through records, and what he found chilled him. The past five years, there’d been a murder-suicide on the same date. Same day, same pose, different precincts. No one recognized the scene. And because it was looked like a murder/suicide, no one did more than a cursory investigation. Did he shoot her? Yeah. Did he shoot himself? Yeah. End of story.

But not really.

Atkins called the detective in charge of the latest one, told him what he’d learned, and didn’t explain how he got his hunch, except to say that he remembered the anniversary of getting Pete.

Pete was still freaked. Atkins had learned, in the year he’d had Pete, that cats had memories, emotional memories, like people. The apartment drove him crazy; whenever one of the neighbors got to shouting, Pete dove under the couch. He sat in the corner like a terrified rabbit when Atkins wasn’t home, not moving at all, defecating and urinating in the spot where Atkins left him in the morning. He’d done that for a week before Atkins, who knew that Pete understood a litter box, tried taking Pete to work.

The rest, of course, was history.

The detective didn’t call back for two days. By then, Atkins was three columns away from the scene. He remembered it, of course. That night, Pete had slept like a baby in his arms, something he wouldn’t admit to anyone, barely admitted to himself, and the cat seemed spookier than usual. But life marched on and Atkins with it, turning in his five hundred words, crime beat, the most popular column in the city with or without mention of Scrawny Pete.

“Atkins,” the detective said.

“Yeah?”

“You got a story here. Want it? We wouldn’ta got it without you.”

Reporters lived for calls like that. Atkins was no different, even after fifteen years. He went to the precinct, which was gray and dirty and smelled like ancient coffee, just like every other precinct in the city, and listened as the detective explained, in excruciating detail, how they went over the crime scene, how they found things that didn’t exactly fit: a shoe mark in blood that didn’t belong to any of the cops; a handprint on the coffee table; fibers in the wounds that had nothing to do with either deceased.

The detective didn’t apologize. He knew that Atkins was a pro, Atkins understood how overworked they all were, how they liked to close cases, especially easy ones, like a murder/suicide, how hard sometimes serial killings were to see.

Luckily, or so the detective said, this one was easily solved. A neighbor—one Tobias Craig—heard the fighting, complained, complained again, finally decided to take matters into his own hands. Apparently he snapped every June 21st. Left a visible trail once they knew what to look for. Every apartment super with the June 21 murders remembered the guy complaining about the noise.

The cops had interviewed him at every scene and he’d always been the one who said the expected litany: It don’t surprise me, officers. They were fighting all the time.

Atkins knew better than to ask for a why, but he got it anyway: Apparently Craig’s name was all over the system, not as a criminal, but as a victim. Parents dead of a murder/suicide—a confirmed one—that happened in front of the children on June 21st, 1979. He’d been six at the time.

Atkins found the clippings, saw the blood-spattered children being led out of the apartment. In his imagination watched them watching their father pull out the gun like the ME had said, pull the trigger, kill his wife, then in sudden remorse, kill himself. He’d forgotten the children, sleeping in the next room, the children who’d crawled out of their shared bed to see what the noise was just in time to watch him eat his gun.

Scrawny Pete’d seen it of course. That explained the terrors, the fears of being left alone with neighbors who shouted and screamed. Was he their cat, the dead couple’s? Or had he originally been a stray who’d taken food from Craig? No telling, and certainly Pete wouldn’t say. Not in any way Atkins wanted to see anyway.

So he wrote the column, asked if it could go on more than 500 measly words, and because he rarely asked, and because his longer columns usually got national attention, sometimes awards, his editor said sure. Atkins wrote the story, mentioning Pete’s reaction to the smells, the repeated scene. Mentioning, only mentioning. And then he’d gone on to reflect on the way the system failed the victims and the way it created more victims and was it guns or the human race’s innate violence that caused a man to shoot his wife and then himself, to start a ball rolling that would leave five couples dead after some kind of terror at the hands of a crazy man who’d once been a blood-spattered six-year-old kid.

People didn’t remember the analysis or the arguments or the excellent prose, some of the best of his career. Nope. They remembered the bizarre nature of the story, and they remembered Pete. And over the years, it became the crime that Pete solved, and Scrawny Pete became a legend.

Atkins didn’t mind. Cats could become legends. Reporters shouldn’t. Reporters schlepped from scene to scene, observing, recording, trying to make sense out of one corner of the world. Sometimes he managed it, sometimes he didn’t. But he was the best at it, for a few years at least.

The years he had Scrawny Pete in his pocket.

 

____________________________________________

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

Scrawny Pete

Copyright © 2016 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
First published as an Amazon Short, June 2005
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and layout copyright © 2016 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © Jeffery Koh/Dreamstime

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

After a cataclysmic interstellar war that came very close to exterminating humanity, the Daybreak Republic has risen from the ashes and embarked upon a mission to unite hundreds of human colony worlds under its banner, in hopes of preventing a second and final conflict that will complete the destruction of the human race. But not everyone agrees that the empire’s ends justify the means.

Though a technicality, Lieutenant-Commander Leo Morningstar commanded the lone starship in the Yangtze Sector, but no more. The arrival of reinforcements brings a senior office who has no patience for jumped-up officers, and an axe to grind against Leo personally. Relieved of command, Leo finds himself serving under an old enemy and then assigned to an isolated war-torn world while his rival steals the glory Leo rightfully earned. They think they’ve gotten rid of him for good …

But that didn’t work out very well last time, did it?

Read a FREE SAMPLE, then download from the links here: Amazon US, UK, CAN, AUS, Books2Read.

It is Monday the 89th of January (or certainly feels like it) and if, like me, you need reasons to push through to the end of the month, I have them right here.

The dramatized adaptation of Magic Shifts will be released by Graphic Audio this Friday, on their website as well as on other third party retailers platforms (Audible, Chirp, Audiobooks.com etc).

Because the Horde is what? Beloved! I have 2 generous exclusive samples director Nora sent over just for us:

Why *does* Kate always hang out with weirdos? aka Luther in the hooooouse!

And car chases are a girl’s best friend. (Only if that girl is Dali)

For more, including the classic Apple + Bee moment and the heart-wrenching earring carrying scene, we’ll have to make it until Friday. Courage!

Nora and team are hard at work already on Magic Binds, unapologetically my favourite, so I preordered and can’t w*it for March. That means the main Kate series will be entirely adapted this year and we will potentially hear more about the dramatized fate of other books in Kate world.

I will also have more exciting announcements from Graphic Audio for you next week, if all goes well, but until then, the fun isn’t over!

Giveaway

The second volume of the Clean Sweep graphic novel is being released tomorrow by Andrews McMeel – this is the Tapas run comic book, turned into paperback and Kindle formats.

To celebrate, the publisher is running another Innkeeper sticker sheet giveaway for US-based readers, from now until February 2nd which can be accessed here – also includes an extensive list of retailers. Good luck all!

Disclaimers: This is not Sweep in Peace, a sequel to the Tapas episodes. It’s the second volume of Clean Sweep. The comic book has expanded the story and added new characters. Tomorrow’s date is the US release, please check your retailer of choice for international dates (Amazon, Bookshop.org, World of Books etc) – in the UK for example, we have to w*it until March.  

We have a lot of surprises coming, and we heard you about more quizzes, games and snippets each Friday. In the meantime, happy listening, reading and sticking!

The post Kate Exclusive Samples and Innkeeper Giveaways first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

The Alchemist of Aleppo bends the space-time continuum and embodies our fascination with what science…

The post Spotlight on “The Alchemist of Aleppo” by Marie K. Savage appeared first on LitStack.

I meant to do that.

Of course you did.

Yeah, every cat dreams of getting covered with water.

They do? Huh. Guess I need to revise me thinkages.

It’s been a whole month since I randomly shared my opinions on things I think How in the world have you made it through the start of this new year, without that????

So, I think that:

1) THE CITY OF MARBLE AND BLOOD IS TERRIFIC

If you follow me on Facebook – or even read my column here every Monday, you know I’ve been talking about my Black Gate buddy Howard Andrew Jones, who passed away earlier this month. Click on over to see what I had to say last week about a really great guy.

I had not yet read Howard’s most recent trilogy, the Chronicles of Hanuvar. Howard’s Arabian fantasy mystery short stories featuring Dabir and Asim have been my favorites of his work (even more so than the two novels featuring the duo).

But man – this first book in the trilogy is his best work. Incorporating several short stories previously published, it’s very episodic in nature, which I liked. They’re linked together, making up Hanuvar’s ongoing quest, and the format keeps things moving. There’s no padding here.

While I have Robert E. Howard and Fritz Lieber on my shelves, I’m more an epic fantasy fan, ala JRR Tolkien, Terry Brooks, David Eddings, and Robert Jordan. I feel like Howard’s trilogy is epic sword and sorcery – a hybrid of the two which would also include Glen Cook’s The Black Company. It contains the individual adventuring aspect of sword and sorcery (stakes are more focused on the hero, not nations or empires), with the epic story scope of high fantasy. Howard’s trilogy is Epic Sword and Sorcery.

I finished Lord of a Shattered Land, put it on the Shelf, and immediately sat down and began The City of Marble and Blood. And boy, does something big happen by page twenty-five!! The latter two books are in traditional novel form. So be it – I’m in.

2) D&D NOVELS ARE STILL ENJOYABLE

I used to own a bunch of the old D&D novels. Series’ such as Ravenloft, The Cleric Quintet, Dragon Lance, Forgotten Realms; dozens of them. I unloaded them during one of my periodic sell-offs over the years (I still have over 2,000 print books, but I’d love to have a lot of the ones which are gone. I still have the Gord the Rogue books, though!

I’ve written about The Temple of Elemental Evil and The Village of Hommlet more than once here at Black Gate. And right now, I’m listening to the audiobook of the ToEE. And it’s not bad.

If you’re looking for a quite D&D-like series, check out the Dhampir books by Rob and C.J. Hendee. They read a lot like a Dungeons and Dragons adventure.

3) JOHN MADDOX’ SPQR MYSTERIES ARE MY FAVES

I have now listened to the first ten (of thirteen) of these mystery novels set in Ancient Rome, and I’ve talked about them in What I’ve Been Listening To. I have enjoyed every single of one of these, and John Lee is a PERFECT match as narrator. I can’t imagine anyone else voicing Decius Caecilius Matellus the Younger. I talked about it a little bit, here.

The cover itself is blurry – that wasn’t me! 4) YOU SHOULD CHECK OUT QUINTILIAN TOO

So, if you like SPQR, and you’re looking for more in that vein, check out Michael Kurland’s The Trials of Qunitilain. I’m a fan of Kurland’s Professor Moriarty novels. The Trials of Quintilian contain three stories that use the real-life Marcus Fabius Quintilianus as the hero.

He was an orator, rhetorician, barrister and educator. Here, he’s also essentially a private eye, gathering evidence for the client he is representing as a lawyer. I like the mix of PI and law, set in Ancient Rome. I picked up the ebook at a real steal, and it’s a fun, quick read. More old world Roman mystery stuff for me, please!

5) TOTAL WAR: WARHAMMER II KEEPS DRAWING ME BACK

There are a few games I reinstall every so often (sometimes a couple years apart), dive deep into, then move on. This – and WarHammer I, because combining them lets me play any faction from either game – is far and away my favorite RTS strategy game (it’s properly a hybrid, I think).

But man, I can sink hours upon hours into this. Often having to go back to a prior save and try a different path. While frustrating, it’s still kind of fun to try and make it work out. The first 10 – 15 turns for any faction are always hard for me, and I have a lot of false starts. I don’t actually fight the battles; I auto-resolve them. I like the city and troop building, and the strategies and faction relations. The fantasy aspect of WH makes this far and away my favorite.

They REALLY need to buy the Tolkien license and do TW: Middle Earth. THAT would be fantastic!! I cut my teeth on TW: Rome, and I suspect any Total War game in your interest area (Attila the Hun, Brittania, Egypt – whatever) would work for you. I’m not into Warhammer, but I do like this game.

6) NO WRITING PROJECT IS EVER BEYOND RESUMPTION

I haven’t been writing much lately, beyond my weekly column here (Note to self – quit playing TW: Warhammer II, then!!).

But last week I dusted off a project I started in 2011, and hadn’t worked on for quite a few years, I’m certain. But some real-life downs put me in a frame of mind where it was exactly what I needed to dive into. So, I’m almost done with the first draft of a Companion/Study Guide to Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians. It’s my favorite book of the Bible, and I plan on honing this guide to the sharpness of an obsidian blade.

I had to dig this off a recovered hard drive, it was so dusty. And though I abandoned it over a decade ago, it is thriving right now. No project – even no idea – is ‘dead’ unless you deem it so. And sometimes, an old one just might save you in more ways than one.

7) ANIMAL CONTROL AVOIDS BEING TOO DUMB FUNNY

I only watched a couple episodes of Community, though I know about it. Star Joel McHale is the lead on Animal Control, which manages to stay on the side of being good dumb funny. It’s not clever dumb funny, like Galaxy Quest. But it’s not beyond stupid dumb funny, like Dumb and Dumber.

It’s not a thinking-heavy sitcom, but I like it pretty well. I am enjoying it more than Dennis Leary’s Going Dutch, which I haven’t given up on yet. However, Going Dutch doesn’t have much of any any depth to it, so we’ll see how long I can last.

8) I FAILED ON MY ANNUAL CHRISTMAS POST IDEA

Every Christmas (often Christmas Eve), I re-watch Humphrey Bogart’s ‘dark’ comedy, We’re No Angels. And every year, I observe that I really should write a Black Gate post on it. I’m 0 for every year on that. But hey – it’s a new year!!!

A terrific cast and light-hearted dark humor, it’s just about my favorite Christmas movie. Every time I see Peter Ustinov in this, I think that he would have made a good Dr. Watson back then. There was a modern remake (sort-of) with Robert DeNiro and Sean Penn. If that’s the only version you’ve seen, you really should go check out Bogie, Rathbone, and company.

9) I KINDA HAVE A NEW CHRISTMAS FAVE AS WELL

Though it’s certainly not ‘new’ anymore, Jingle All the Way is about my favorite modern Christmas movie. It’s a silly (but not too dumb comedy with Ah-nuld Schwarzenegger, Sinbad, and a deliciously creepy Phil Hartman.

I think I’ve added Red One alongside Jingle, after watching it this year. When a Rock movie works, I really enjoy it, and this is like a Marvel-lite Rock Christmas movie. And that’s exactly what I want.

10) I LIKE ONE-OFF CHRISTMAS EPISODES FOR BRITISH TV SHOWS

Some British mystery shows I watch, like The Cleaner, and Death in Paradise, air a new episode around Christmas day. I look forward to these now. I actually started a Death in Paradise re-watch after seeing the new Christmas episode (which featured ANOTHER cast change).

We’re talking 109 one-hour episodes, with multiple cast changes. We’re talking quite the investment. I’m almost through season five (of thirteen), and loving every episode. The ‘Christmas episode’ relit a fire. I wrote about the show some, here.

If you’ve seen episode one of season three (and you will absolutely know whether or not you have. A BIIIGGGG thing happened), I wrote an entire post on that one, earlier this month. Do NOT read it if you haven’t seen that episode. Trust me.

Prior Ten Things I Think I Think

Ten Things I Think I Think (December 2024)
Nine Things I Think I Think (October 2024)
Five More Things I Think: Marvel Edition (September 2024)
Ten Things I Think I Think: Marvel Edition ( September 2024)
Five Things I Think I Think (January 2024)
Seven Things I Think I Think (December 2023)
Talking Tolkien: TenThings I Think I Think (August 2023)
A (Black) Gat in the Hand: Ten Things I Think I think (August 2023)
5 More Things I Think (March 2023)
10 Things I Think I Think (March 2023)

Bob Byrne’s ‘A (Black) Gat in the Hand’ made its Black Gate debut in 2018 and has returned every summer since.

His ‘The Public Life of Sherlock Holmes’ column ran every Monday morning at Black Gate from March, 2014 through March, 2017. And he irregularly posts on Rex Stout’s gargantuan detective in ‘Nero Wolfe’s Brownstone.’ He is a member of the Praed Street Irregulars, founded www.SolarPons.com (the only website dedicated to the ‘Sherlock Holmes of Praed Street’).

He organized Black Gate’s award-nominated ‘Discovering Robert E. Howard’ series, as well as the award-winning ‘Hither Came Conan’ series. Which is now part of THE Definitive guide to Conan. He also organized 2023’s ‘Talking Tolkien.’

He has contributed stories to The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories — Parts III, IV, V, VI, XXI, and XXXIII.

He has written introductions for Steeger Books, and appeared in several magazines, including Black Mask, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, The Strand Magazine, and Sherlock Magazine.

Bonded in Death Series: In Death #60
on July 30, 2025

His passport read Giovanni Rossi. But decades ago, during the Urban Wars, he was part of a small, secret organization called The Twelve. Responding to an urgent summons from an old compatriot, he landed in New York and eased into the waiting car. And died within minutes…

Lieutenant Eve Dallas finds the Rossi case frustrating. She’s got an elderly victim who’d just arrived from Rome; a widow who knows nothing about why he’d left; an as-yet unidentifiable weapon; and zero results on facial recognition. But when she finds a connection to the Urban Wars of the 2020s, she thinks Summerset―fiercely loyal, if somewhat grouchy, major-domo and the man who’d rescued her husband from the Dublin streets―may know something from his stint as a medic in Europe back then.

When Summerset learns of the crime, his shock and grief are clear―because, as he eventually reveals, he himself was one of The Twelve. It’s not a part of his past he likes to revisit. But now he must―not only to assist Eve’s investigation, but because a cryptic message from the killer has boasted that others of The Twelve have also died. Summerset is one of those who remain―and the murderous mission is yet to be fully accomplished…

Goodreads
Pages: 400

Genres: Fiction / Crime, Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General, Fiction / Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural, Fiction / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths
Format: Audiobook
Source: NetGalley
ISBN: 9780349443362



Also in this series: Obsession in Death, Devoted in Death (In Death, #41), Down the Rabbit Hole (includes In Death, #41.5), Brotherhood in Death (In Death, #42), Purity in Death (In Death, #15), Apprentice in Death (In Death, #43), Secrets in Death (In Death, #45)


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Another great novel from J. D. Robb.  These books are one of a few series that I can enjoy hearing and not reading myself.  You will miss much of the story if you haven’t read the previous books.   The author usually writes books that may have a little back story but this one has a lot of links to previous books and you would need the previous book to solve the murder mystery.

Paperback editions of the first six Elric books (DAW Books, 1972 – 1977). Covers by Michael Whelan

It may not seem like it, but this winter has given fans of fantasy plenty to celebrate. Less than a month ago, Michael Moorcock turned 84, his most recent Elric novel turned three, and the latest reprint of his vaunted Eternal Champion series hit store shelves in the US. Thanks to a boatload of new collections, there is no better time to be a fan of the pale emperor. Or, for that matter, to look into his legacy.

Suffice to say that Moorcock’s legendary career has been full of incredible characters. His influence can be seen among the finest rogues of the Sword Coast and in tales spun in the far-flung wine sinks of Essos. Nowhere is that more noticeable than with his most famous creation, Elric of Melnibone. When his early stories made their way into the hands readers in the 60s and 70s, the impact would prove seismic. Today those same readers are academics, authors, and gamers happy to see Elric influence another generation.

[Click the images for Champion versions.]

“It stuck out from any other fantasy book I’d read,” Derik Petrey shared the moment Elric of Melnibone was brought up.

The Chair of Humanities at Sinclair Community College recalls that first encounter with the emperor of dragon isle vividly. Like so many other readers in the 80s, Moorcock’s style and characters proved as addictive Imrryr’s dream couches.

The Elric Saga, Volume 2: Stormbringer , an omnibus containing the novels
Stormbringer (1965), The Vanishing Tower (1977), The Bane of the Black Sword (1977),
and The Revenge of the Rose (1991). Saga Press, April 12, 2022. Cover by Michael Whelan

“He was really the first antihero that I’d read and could wrap my head around. There was this sense that ‘oh this person has all sorts of flaws.’ He’s addicted to drugs, longs to marry his cousin, and keep her from her brother,” Petrey remembered.

The years 1983-1984 would see him read Elric of Melnibone and The Sailor on the Seas of Fate. In an age where the works of JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis were the example other authors followed, Moorcock became a patron saint of literary rebels.

“He (Elric) did not have the values of a Tolkien-esque character. You have his dependency on a sword, a living weapon, and also this love-hate relationship with Arioch that was really uncommon.”

Sci-fi fans of Petrey’s vintage look around and see a landscape transformed by the pale swordsman. Other Eternal Champions were great characters, but to Petrey, neither Corum, Dorion Hawkmoon, or any of the others held a candle to Elric.

“It was very much conveyed to me that this was a non-human civilization. It’s this idea of how you communicate how different a society would be,” Petrey said. “There were very few science fiction writers that treated aliens as truly alien. You had Jack Vance, Larry Niven, and Moorcock.”

Elric’s modern-day revival speaks to the enduring power of Moorcock’s writing. Recent years have seen entirely new generations of readers take to the original White Wolf of Fantasy.

Von Bek: The Eternal Champion omnibus, containing The Warhound and the World’s Pain
and The City in the Autumn Stars (Saga Press, December 3, 2024). Cover by Tom Canty

Reprints Galore

It wasn’t so long ago that simply finding certain editions of the Elric saga were a challenge. The number of anthologies, collections, and iterations of his stories can be staggering. Untangling the publication history of Elric for this article left me bewildered at times. Without the recent wave of reprints, reading those stories would be just as much of a challenge.

That would change in 2022. Starting in Feb. of that year, Saga Press announced they would be releasing new collections of Moorcock’s work starting with the Kinslayer himself. Last December, fellow Eternal Champion Von Bek received the same loving treatment when The Warhound and The World’s Pain returned to bookshelves. The well-made collections have made the jobs of Booktubers peddling the proverbial Book of Elric that much easier.

“I think Elric’s sustained popularity over more than 60 years owes much to Moorcock’s transgressive bent. He upended, or amplified beyond convention, traditional tropes of speculative fiction, including the monomyth (the hero’s journey),” Bridger, from the Library Ladder YouTube channel, shared by email.

The Elric Saga: Citadel of Forgotten Myths (Saga Press, December 6, 2022). Cover by Bastien Lecouffe-Deharme

He is one of many helping introduce Elric and his fellow champions to readers online. His four Moorcock-specific videos alone have garnered over 160,000 views.

At just 12, he would begin his journey alongside Imrryr’s most famous citizen with the DAW paperback editions, with their beautiful Michael Whelan covers. Completing the first Thomas Covenant Trilogy —  Lord Foul’s Bane, The Illearth War, and The Power That Preserves — would serve as good preparation for Elric.

“Elric and Covenant seemed almost like two sides of the same coin. Both were moody, morally ambiguous, endowed with awesome powers they feared, and prone to occasional outbursts of primal, uncontrolled violence. But I found Elric less abrasive, easier to identify with, and more willing to take decisive action when situations called for it. They were significant departures from any heroic characters I’d encountered up to then,” Bridger explained.

The Eternal Champion Sequence: The Eternal Champion, Phoenix in Obsidian, and
The Dragon in the Sword (Titan Books, November 2014). Covers uncredited

Like many readers, Bridger would return to the classic character time and again. Moorcock’s remarkable ability to churn out one story after another helped keep Elric current and fresh.

“In Elric, Moorcock took many of those qualities to extremes relative to typical fantasy heroes. His moods are darker. His weaknesses more debilitating. His impulses more consequential. His betrayals and revenges more bloody. And the stakes are higher, as he strives to save not just one world, but an entire multiverse of them,” Bridger shared.

He sees Elric’s legacy across the genre and beyond. And it is a legacy not just limited to books. His influence can be seen in video games, on tabletops, big and small screens.

Elric and House of the Dragon‘s Daemon Targaryen. Art by Jan Duursema, from The Michael Moorcock Library Vol. 5: Elric The Vanishing Tower (Titan Comics, August 8, 2017). Daemon Targaryen photo by Ollie Upton.

“There are some obvious parallels between Elric and later albino characters in fantasy fiction such as R.A. Salvatore’s drow elf Drizzt, Andrei Sapkowski’s Geralt the Witcher, and several members of George R.R. Martin’s Targaryen family tree, with their special abilities and complicated personalities,” Bridger detailed, explaining that the albino trope was itself borrowed from Sexton Blake’s Monsieur Zenith.

Roland Deschain of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series and Tyrion Lannister from A Song of Ice and Fire are two other characters that remind Bridger of the Eternal Champion. For Petrey, its Death from The Sandman that reminds him most of Elric. Both see the industry as being much richer due to the author’s influence.

“There’s an authenticity in Moorcock’s work. He himself is an iconoclast, he loves taking conventions and smashing them and I think that’s refreshing every once in awhile,” the professor stated.

Michael Moorcock’s Elric Volume 5: The Necromancer, written by by Julien Blondel and illustrated by Valentin Sécher (Titan Comics, December 31, 2024).

A six-decade run doesn’t happen by accident. If Elric proves anything, it’s that with the pale prince of ruins Moorcock was able to capture the magic that continues to enchant lovers of the genre.

“These are characters that have their own lives. I don’t want to be like Elric but his stories help me imagine what living that life, at that time, and in those societies would be like,” Petrey said.

As all readers know, sometimes a book just doesn’t click. Maybe it’s just not what you expected—or worse, maybe it’s just not working for you at all. Granted, it doesn’t happen to me too often, but when it does, that’s when DNF reviews come in. I’ve found that it greatly helps me process my reading experience to articulate why a book didn’t work for me, not to mention they also serve as a way to share my honest opinions with other readers who might feel the same—or who might actually enjoy the book for the very reasons I didn’t.

Here are the latest books that didn’t quite hit the mark for me and that I ultimately decided to put aside (a couple of these were actually from the tail end of last year).

I received review copies from the publisher(s). This does not affect the contents of my reviews and all opinions are my own.

All the Hearts You Eat by Hailey Piper

Mogsy’s Rating: DNF

Genre: Horror

Series: Stand Alone

Publisher: Titan Books (October 15, 2024)

Length: 447 pages

From the start, this one felt off to me. The prose was overly flowery and purple, making the writing feel bloated with unnecessary words. It’s tough to explain, but the intro felt simultaneously drawn out and all over the place. It was also hard to care about the characters, and by the time I set the book down about a quarter of the way into the book, they still didn’t feel fully realized. Any message on solidarity and friendship was completely overshadowed by the book’s aimless structure. Simply put: too many POVs, too much chaos, and too much pointless rage made this one impossible to continue.

American Rapture by C.J. Leede

Mogsy’s Rating: DNF

Genre: Horror

Series: Stand Alone

Publisher: Nightfire (October 15, 2024)

Length: 384 pages

American Rapture had such an intriguing premise: as a new virus spreading across the country making the infected feral with lust, our protagonist braves the unknown to reunite with her family. Problem is, the author is not known for sublety. Really, she is not. Being over the top and shocking is part and parcel of the style and experience. But when you are dealing with such weighty topics like spiritual wounds, conflicted identities, and societal collapse, this treatment just feels so gratuitous and flippantly distasteful. This book didn’t feel like a story; the character felt more like Leede’s mouthpiece to deliver a one-sided and heavy-handed screed, and I abandoned ship early when I realized where things were headed.

Water Moon by Samantha Sotto Yambao

Mogsy’s Rating: DNF

Genre: Fantasy, Romance

Series: Stand Alone

Publisher: Del Rey (January 14, 2025)

Length: 384 pages

I really really wanted to like this book. That I didn’t DNF it until well after the 50% mark should tell you just how badly I tried, but ultimately it wasn’t to be. With all the comparisons to Studio Ghibli, I was originally all on board, but as any fan knows, their films are diverses in tone and not all of them resonate with everyone. Sadly, while Water Moon had the whimsy and mythological charm down pat, it fell short in the areas that matter most to me: character development and cohesive storytelling. Troubles began with the clunky and overwrought writing style, and further issues came to light when the plot made it more important to focus on the romance. It’s a shame because I wanted to be swept away by the magic but instead I was left disappointed, though Water Moon will undoubtedly be a favorite for many.

Dark Age (Embassy Home Entertainment, July 10, 1987)

My next watch-a-thon is a favorite genre: crocs and gators. Unfortunately, this means the pickings are a bit slim, as I’ve already seen most of them, but I’ve managed to dig up 15 so far (supplemented with a Gila Monster and a couple of Komodos), and I’m sure the intended list of 20 will materialize as streaming services start suggesting titles.

Dark Age (1987) YouTube

Croc or gator? A 25ft saltwater crocodile.

Real or faker? A lovely, animatronic behemoth.

Any good? A thoroughly decent offering from the Ozploitation market, Dark Age is far from a mindless bloodbath sprinkled with spring breakers, and instead does what most Australian horror does: provide thrills alongside a biting social commentary. The croc in question is Numunwari, considered a God by the local Aboriginal population, but the extremely unpleasant white folks just see it as a trophy for their walls. Doubly so after it kills several people (including a rather unsettling attack on a young child).

The only decent non-Aboriginal character is Steve Harris, a conservationist, played by John Jarrett (who would go on to sever spinal cords 18 years later in Wolf Creek). He strives to find a way to stop the croc without killing it, and so begin the saltwater shenanigans. It’s well made, speckled with nods to Jaws throughout, and apparently a favorite of Tarantino’s. Loved it –- off to a great start!

8/10

The Great Alligator (Medusa Distribuzione, November 1979) The Great Alligator (1979) YouTube

Croc or gator? Actually a crocodile.

Real or faker? A big ol’ chonky puppet.

Any good? Warning: being a late 70s Italian ‘shocker’, this film kicks off with a bit of animal cruelty (not on the level of of a Deodato film though) and plenty of bare norks.

That said, it’s an enjoyable romp, backed up with a funky bongo soundtrack, and starring Mel Ferrer and Barbara Bach (dubbed throughout, even though the film is in English). The film concerns another croc God, this time an African one (the film was actually shot in Sri Lanka and features wildlife stock footage from Borneo).

Like Dark Age, the film concerns itself with more than just an angry reptile; environmentalism, colonialism and capitalism are all thoroughly speared (literally). There’s a great deal of ‘white savior vs. the savages’ going on, but it’s not too ugly, and all the racists get a decent comeuppance. The giant croc itself is astonishingly tame, more of a pool floaty than a killing machine, but it does chew the shit out of a VW camper van, so I applaud its efforts. I had fun.

7/10

 

Killer Crocodile (Fulvia Film, July 30, 1989) and Saltwater: The Battle for Ramree Island (Creativ Studios, June 1, 2021)

Killer Crocodile (1989) Tubi

Croc or gator? Crocodile.

Real or faker? A hilarious puppet.

Any good? Another Italian production to join the plethora of Jaws rip-offs, and another similar plot. This time a group of peace-loving tree-huggers are in an unspecified locale (actually the Dominican Republic) to investigate a polluted river. The toxic waste is not only bad for fish but bad for humans, as it has mutated a croc into a canvas coated styrofoam puppet that eats everything it sees with its googly eyes.

Cue some more white saviors saving the dark-skinned locals, a corrupt baddie getting his comeuppance and Lee Van Cleef-Lite jumping on the back of the titular beast and surfing it under the waves. A bit of good gore, a lot of bad acting and a soundtrack that sounds like the producer’s uncle farting into a tuba. Solid euro-trash. I liked it.

6/10

Saltwater: The Battle for Ramree Island (2021) Prime

Croc or gator? Crocodile(s).

Real or faker? Stock footage and a hand puppet…

Any good? Burma, 1945. Stories are told of a Japanese base on the island of Ramree that was overrun by saltwater crocodiles, leaving only 20 men alive out of a total of 1000. It’s based on fact, but the numbers have been wildly exaggerated.

That said, it would make a really interesting film as told from the Japanese point of view. Instead, we get a low-budget snooze-fest that could only afford two Japanese actors after shelling out for its four principal cast members. An inept squad of British soldiers (including one from the 77th Indian Infantry Brigade) are on a secret mission. So secret that three of them don’t know why they are there.

This squad makes Dad’s Army look like the S.A.S. — terribly written, 2-dimensional cliches (the befuddled old sergeant, a racist private, the quiet one (actually called Private Pike) and a very nice Indian) — and they soon find themselves up to their chewed knees in crocs. Way too much talking, not enough chomping.

Don’t believe that tagline. Dull.

5/10

Supercroc (The Asylum, April 3, 2007) Supercroc (2007) Tubi

Croc or gator? Crocodile.

Real or faker? Terrible CG.

Any good? I’m dragged kicking and screaming back to the reality of low budget crap by this one from 2007. Horribly shot (all extreme close ups or unfocused wobbly-cam), Supercroc is about a less-than-super crocodile that has decided to lay some eggs and go on the rampage. The US military machine (a bunch of soldiers in a park) try to stop it and mostly get eaten.

It’s dull, full of mismatched military stock footage, and the CG is abysmal — case in point, the 50ft reptile slides into the water with nary a ripple. Not good.

3/10

Crazy Tsunami (Splendid Film, 2021) and Supergator (Rodeo Productions, 2007)

Crazy Tsunami (2021) YouTube

Croc or gator? Crocodile.

Real or faker? Combo CGI and floaty puppet.

Any good? A Chinese production, keeping their recent fondness for glossy monster movies on the boil, this one is obviously inspired by the brilliant Crawl and the equally fun Aussie shark flick, Bait. In it, a freak tsunami in Indonesia floods Chinatown, and leaves a group of survivors fending off an African crocodile, which was being transported to a private collection.

Throw in some unscrupulous building developers, and you have a recipe for extremely moist mayhem. It’s derivative and hokey, and yet I really enjoyed it. Might be my favorite so far.

7/10

Supergator (2007) YouTube

Croc or gator? Alligator. Sort of.

Real or faker? Rubbish CGI.

Any good? Nope. Hot on the heels of Dinocroc, Roger Corman wanted to make a sequel, but SyFy said no. So he made it anyway, tweaked the monster design, had a nice few weeks in Hawaii, and produced this bit of tripe.

Kelly McGillis is the big name in this one, and she suffers through a tired script, hokey acting and lousy effects. It’s hard to judge a film like this, I’m not watching it for plot or character development and I guess if I was a 15-yr-old horndog I could grade the knocker quota, but in the end all I can ask is: was I entertained?

No, I wasn’t.

4/10

Previous Murkey Movie surveys from Neil Baker include:

Prehistrionics
Jumping the Shark
Alien Overlords
Biggus Footus
I Like Big Bugs and I Cannot Lie
The Weird, Weird West
Warrior Women Watch-a-thon

Neil Baker’s last article for us was Prehistrionics, Part III. Neil spends his days watching dodgy movies, most of them terrible, in the hope that you might be inspired to watch them too. He is often asked why he doesn’t watch ‘proper’ films, and he honestly doesn’t have a good answer. He is an author, illustrator, outdoor educator and owner of April Moon Books (AprilMoonBooks.com).

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Chapter 4

 

Antigua

 

Admiral Irons replacement search for a new secretary of industry was off to a rocky start. Sandra’kall had recently resigned to join her family at the Nuevo B colony and be a member of the ruling cabinet there. He still thought she would have done better for her people in her previous position; however, she wanted to be closer to her people and her family so he couldn’t fault that decision. It was just unusual for a usually logical Centaurian to choose emotion over cold hard logic.

Of course, there might be something else involved he was not aware of. Not that it was any of his business apparently. He glanced at the candidates. Sprite had two dozen files from the literal thousands that had been initially generated. Even more had applied for the position once it had come out that the Centaurian was resigning.

He’d thought they’d be able to fill her post before her departure, but apparently, that hadn’t been the case. The first three candidates had not passed the vetting process and the fourth runner-up had some issues that had come out during the committee hearing with congress. It had been embarrassing enough for the candidate to withdraw.

Of course certain parties on the hill had gloated over that. He wasn’t certain why; it meant the post was vacant and the star nation as a whole had a problem. Not that they saw it that way of course. They saw it as scoring off of him and his administration. Reining him in.

Petty politics in other words.

<<V>>

Antigua

 

Jethro continued to deal with the pain of loss of Lil Red. Shanti continued to blame herself. Both had been to a therapist but it helped to talk to each other. “I was supposed to keep her safe,” she said.

Jethro shook his head. She sounded so … broken. Like it was her fault. It wasn’t; they both knew that. She hadn’t been home; it had been a freak crash during an air show that had killed their adopted daughter.

“You can’t be blamed for a freak accident! Murphy maybe, but not you love. It happened. We can’t wrap them in cotton and keep them safe forever.”

“You’d think she’d be safe at home! I should have insisted she stay with you.”

“It happened,” Jethro sighed. “It is something that … the rest of us will have to live with. I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you too,” she murmured back, kissing her fingertips and then holding them out to him. He smiled tenderly to her holographic image.

A blinking LED caught his attention. He knew it was time up. He reached out for a phantom caress of her cheek. She smiled tenderly and closed her eyes and seemed to rub into it.

“I won’t tell you to stay safe. I know you too well,” he said.

She chuffed.

“But watch your six and kick ass.”

“Yeah,” she said huskily. “We have to go.” She dashed a tear and then straightened up and nodded. “Kick some pirate ass. I love you.”

“I know and I will. And I love you too,” he said. “Thanks, Captain,” Jethro said as he looked up.

“You’re welcome, Chief. Terminating virtual chat,” Commander Enki replied.

<<V>>

Jethro prepped for work quietly. “Was that mom?” Baghera asked sleepily. He was the black panther male of the quartet. All four had a ways to go in the maturity department. A bit of that was because he hadn’t been around to be a father. He was trying to make up for lost time but it wasn’t easy this late in the game.

“Yeah, she had to go; sorry, you lot were asleep.”

“Was she here?” Bagheera asked, looking around in confusion. He sniffed the air, his brows knit still in confusion. “Wait, I don’t smell her.”

“No, it was a holo call. Brief,” Jethro explained patiently as he cleaned up the kitchen.

Bagheera blinked in confusion. “Oh,” he said.

“Red is …”

“They cremated her body and will ship it back as a diamond,” Jethro said quietly.

 Bagheera blinked again and then yawned. “Damn,” he muttered. “It is … is she really gone?” he asked and then ran a finger under his nose as he snuffled.

“I’m afraid so,” Jethro sighed softly. Some of the family were still struggling with the loss. Red had been their adopted daughter and an older sister/aunt/sitter to each of the litters. They were each dealing with the grief in their own way. The FBI as well as the Cadre had each offered a grief counselor to the family. So far he wasn’t aware of anyone taking them up on it.

The first litter were buried in their work. They were more mature and knew intellectually such things were bound to happen eventually. The sudden reaction was what caught them off guard.

“Mom should have left her here to be safe with us,” Bagheera muttered bitterly.

“Red was an adult; she wanted to be with your mom to help her out and so she wouldn’t feel so alone.” Jethro shook his head.

“Yeah? And it cost her her life!” Bagheera flared.

A corner of his father’s mind recognized anger as one of the stages of grief so he kept to reason. He didn’t want to provoke the fragile truce with his son or make the irrational anger turn towards him.

No, it wasn’t irrational, the anger was real. It was just adrift without a target as they all were, he reminded himself before he spoke.

“No, a freak accident did. She was at home safe. It could have happened here as easily as their or anywhere,” Jethro said, trying to keep his tone even. Bagheera glowered at him. “When fate chooses to snip your thread, it's a part of the circle of life.”

“Oh gah, not that shit again,” the smaller black panther said voice rich with disgust. He snorted harshly.

“It is what it is,” Jethro said with an ear flick of a shrug as he felt his fur stiffen. Bast shook her head on his HUD. He took it to indicate a lost cause. “Some things are just out of our control. It sucks. Trust me, I’ve felt it. I still feel it.”

He reached out to touch his son but his son turned away and headed into the bathroom. The door clicked shut with a sound of finality to the argument.

Jethro escaped to his commute to work while he could.

<<V>>

Jethro saw motion in the hallway near the floor as he walked through the new section of the base. His attention flickered from thinking about the list of things he had to do to prepare for the movement to curiosity. Bast rolled her eyes on his HUD and highlighted a familiar feline figure crouching in the shadows.

He chuffed softly in amusement and pretended to ignore her in passing. Ember had figured out how to cloak in order to try to sneak out of the crèche again. She was good, but she had been tagged with an IFF tag and her cloak was only good if she didn’t move. She didn’t have implants or an AI to manage her cloaks so everything ran on instinct.

He turned suddenly and swooped in to catch her and swing her off her feet. She growled in surprise as he held her with one arm under her armpits and the other under her bottom as he leaned over her and gave his invisible prey a cheek rub.

She mock growled and her ears went flat but he chuffed and purred. After a moment, she started to purr in response.

A tech saw him cheek rubbing something and holding it but whatever it was it was invisible. The human stopped and stared until Jethro tickled his prey. Ember growled and lost focus and faded into place in his arms giggling and squirming. “Stop!” she said in a high pitch giggly voice.

Jethro churred and laughed at her and hugged her tightly. The observer then blinked and puckered his lips and looked away. After a moment, he shook his head and walked off.

“So, what are you doing out and about, young lady?” Jethro teased. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your friends?”

“No nap,” she growled as he slung her up to his shoulder. She began to play with his ear in retaliation.

“Really? You don’t like to nap?”

“No,” she pouted as he walked to the crèche.

“Uh huh,” he said. “Do they know you are gone?” he asked in a light voice. She suddenly looked shy.

Bast rolled her virtual eyes and sent a text out to the crèche as well as Zuhura.

Just as she did a security alert came over the 1MC to look for a lost black kitten.

“I think they know you are missing. Your mommy is going to be upset,” Jethro warned.

Ember looked a little contrite but then flicked her ears.

Find out supposed to be in crèche. Snuck away in naptime.

Zuhura arrived outside the crèche. She was clearly exasperated with her wayward charge.

Jethro play fought to hand her over, eventually relenting with a mock pout. Ember giggled. The byplay lightened the mood.

“You aren’t supposed to leave the crèche without an adult, young lady,” Zuhura scolded.

“She’s getting good at being sneaky,” Jethro said. “She almost got past me,” he said. He shrewdly tickled her. “Almost,” he teased as she shrunk back and giggled and then growled and play swatted at him.

She might be playing but her eyes flashed, her ears went back and she started in with her trademark head cock that said she was ready to get feisty.

“Uh oh,” Zuhura laughed. “Now you’ve done it,” she chuffed. She pretended to hold her charge away from Jethro as Jethro pretended to box with her and then hold his arms out on either side and then move in to strike. She couldn’t look in both directions and growled ears flat.

Zuhura chuffed as her father used one hand to distract and the other to strike. The head cock came out again.

“I think they need to learn to wear this little lady out a bit more before naptime,” Jethro observed.

“No nap!” a certain kitten said, crossing her arms and instantly pouting.

“Yeah,” Zuhura said with a snort as she took the kitten into the crèche. “Thanks, dad.”

“Anytime,” he said with a wave to the kitten.

<<V>>

Far From the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy First published in 1874, Hardy’s Far From…

The post The Push and Pull of Desire in “Far From the Madding Crowd” Plus “The Past is Red” appeared first on LitStack.

Thanks again for the weekly fix of Drucraft! I assume that next week we will have some more on Motion Sigls? Waiting to see how how Calhoun can move so fast!
I hope that sales are still good for the new series? (PS: When is paperback of Book#2 due for release please?) Also I trust that edits are now ‘done’ and that you have started on Book #4 !

One of the most frequently used characterisations in fantasy is that of the outcast or outsider. In fact, I would say that for many fantasy readers this idea of not belonging is one of the genre’s key attractions. How many readers do you know that have been seen as outsiders for just wanting to read,…

Is it a serial? No. It’s going slow, and we are having to backtrack, so it is probably not suitable for serialization. However, people are really stressed. We are seeing an uptick in “My emotions are frayed right now, and the snippets are helping” messages.

The political ban is still in effect, so Mod R will be removing comments that mention politics. We are committed to keeping this blog a place where everyone can come to decompress, especially because spaces like these are in short supply right now. However, I wanted to address some of these emails. We see you, we understand that life is hard and you are struggling and stressed, and we are so sorry.

When the pandemic started, the economists warned that recovery would take 15 years. You can’t just hit pause on the world for months and not pay the price later. We did it to survive, but now we have to collectively try to claw our way back out of the pit it created. This is a very difficult process. It’s slow and painful, it affects every aspect of our life, and it makes everything so much harder.

I’m with you. I’m creatively discouraged and stressed. We’re going to take a financial hit later in the year due to unforeseen circumstances, and I’m not wild about that. One of my children is choosing to return to college to get her degree, because the opportunities she had previously evaporated. Gordon will likely need surgery. It’s easier to say what isn’t wrong with his shoulder – it’s not broken. I was on the phone for 2 hours trying to get a referral put through and I know my nerves are frayed, because I had to take a few minutes after that.

However, we are all going to keep going, because rolling over and giving up is not an option. So, for the foreseeable future, we are going to have something fun here on Friday. Something that will give you a break from the constant stress and daily grind. For now, it’s Hughday. Some Fridays, it might be something else.

If you have any fun ideas for quizzes, giveaways, or articles, please leave us a comment.

Chapter 1 Part 2

The depression gouged the forest floor, about forty feet long, twenty-five feet wide, and two feet deep. It was less of a pit and more of a hollow, vaguely rectangular, but without the defined corners or sheer walls that would point at a human with a shovel being involved. The edges of the hollow sloped slightly, as if some giant pressed their palm into the forest floor, and the ground at its bottom was bare and soft like a plowed field.

Hugh crouched on the edge and frowned. Around the shallow pit, a dozen Iron Dogs waited, holding their torches over it. The flickering lights played on bare bones arranged in the dirt. A lot of bones. He recognized femurs from at least two horses, wings from what might have been a griffon, and paws from a bear. A freakishly large bear, too.

The bones had been carefully arranged into a pattern. Here and there, the different femurs, radiuses, ribs, and vertebrae were bound together by copper wire and twine with little bone beads. This wasn’t a mass grave. This was something else. Something malignant, with a specific purpose.

He passed his hand over it, just in case. Nothing. With tech up, the bones were inert.

Hugh looked up, past the hollow, at the massive tree rising behind it, soaked in night shadows. An Iron Dog had thrust a torch into the ground by its roots and the glow of the fire illuminated a fragment of twine hanging from the bark, its end frayed. Someone had wrapped the same twine that secured the bones around the giant trunk and then sliced through it and ripped it off.

Must’ve been in a hurry.

He rose and glanced at Sharif, waiting on his left. The dark-haired scout master met his gaze. Yellow fire rolled over his irises.

“How old is the site?”

“Three days.”

The end of the most recent magic wave.

“Any scents?”

Sharif grimaced. “Wolfsbane.”

Damn. The sense of smell was the most acute and accurate of a werewolf’s senses.  They memorized thousands of human scents. Normally Sharif would’ve identified the gender, possibly the age, sometimes even a chronic illness, and if he’d met them before, a name. Wolfsbane nullified all of that. It rendered shapeshifters nose-blind, and it stuck around for days after the other scent trails faded.

“Nothing useful at all?” Hugh asked.

“Their wolfsbane is very potent, so there is that.”

And the best producer of potent wolfsbane was a mile to the south, watching baking shows in her turret.

“Could it be someone from Baile?”

Sharif shrugged. “It could be. We followed the wolfsbane to a clearing a hundred yards to the north. It ended there.”

“What do you mean, it ended?”

“The trail stopped.”

“So the magic user disappeared in the middle of our woods?”

“I cannot say. The trail ended.”

Teleportation was possible, but it was inherently rare and extremely risky, and the magic was down. Yet another thing that didn’t make sense.

“So we have a magic user,” Hugh said. “The wave caught them mid-whatever this is.  Something alarmed them, and they took off, leaving all their toys behind, and then disappeared a hundred yards north.”

“It was Tatter,” Sharif said. “That’s how Karen found this in the first place. She was following the pack, trying to map their hunting patterns.”

Tatter and Gold were the dominant breeding pair of a local dire wolf pack, and they were a massive pain in the ass. Tatter, a huge male with a torn right ear, clocked in at two hundred pounds. His mate was only slightly smaller, and she made up for it with viciousness and cunning. They led about sixteen wolves, making circles around the castle and the adjacent village by the lake. They were smart and patient, sending out strike teams to bring prey back, while the aging generation watched the pups. The livestock herders were having the devil of a time keeping them away. If it hadn’t been for the guard dogs, Baile’s herd would be half of what it was in early fall. He had had to heal two of the hounds just last week.

With magic down, whoever put this bone mandala together would have no chance against Tatter and his hunting pack. That explained why the magic user split. It didn’t explain what they were doing here or why.

“Tatter left a mark on a tree about ten yards out,” Sharif reported.

Didn’t touch the bones though.

“Is this some kind of witch ritual?” Stoyan murmured.

Baile was home to seven different covens. It was a good guess, but this bone arrangement gave off a different vibe.

Hugh nodded to the huge tree. “That’s an oak.”

Stoyan squinted at it. “Druids?”

“Probably.”

Pre-Shift Druidism was a folkloric speculation. A prevalent religion among ancient Celts and Gauls, Druidism relied on oral tradition, lost to time. What little was known about it came mostly from Roman records, written by biased invaders determined to conquer new territory. Historic druids revered trees, especially the oak, treated and induced diseases, composed poetry, and foretold the future by means of augury and sacrifice. That sacrifice wasn’t always chickens and rabbits. Sometimes they needed a little more juice.

Post-Shift, when magic became real, druidism, like other neo-pagan religions, returned with a vengeance. The modern practitioners patchworked it together from Julius Caesar’s journals, Taliesin’s poems, new age mysticism, and wishful thinking. Over the decades, the neo-druids codified their rites and holidays and set forth some fundamental philosophical tenets, but beyond that, the consensus on how to be a druid was rather shaky. Some of them waded neck-deep into the kind of evil shit that would get them exterminated if the public at large knew about it. He’d come across that kind of druidism before, and the experience was never pleasant. The dusk druids packed a lot of power. 

There were druids in Baile Castle, and their leader, Dugas, was one of Elara’s closest allies. She treated him like a surrogate father. On a scale from 1 to 10, when it came to dangerous opponents, Dugas was around 12. During the battle of Aberdine, the druid had stuck to support spells and then used his staff as a club–except for one time, when he was cornered by three armored soldiers and didn’t think anyone was looking. Hugh saw him tap his staff on the ground and then the three men in front of him vomited tree roots and died.

Dugas took care to appear less dangerous than he was. Hugh had no idea whether the man was a dusk druid, but if that was true, he wouldn’t be surprised. He had never seen him sacrifice anything; however, Stoyan and Lamar, his other centurion, had. Or almost had. Elara chased them off before the actual act, but the night she came to get him, they saw a line of cows painted in glyphs and Dugas with a knife.

He glanced at Stoyan. The centurion leaned closer.

“When you saw Dugas with the cows, what was he wearing?”

“A white robe.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Druids wore special robes for sacrificial rites. They were blood red. It could’ve meant something or nothing.

He didn’t know how territorial Dugas was, either. The overwhelming majority of druids felt that the way other druids used their magic was none of their business. If they knew that one of them was doing terrible shit, they wouldn’t prevent it, as long as it didn’t directly affect them.

This ritual site was about a mile from the castle. Too close for any kind of comfort. Either this was done by an outsider, who didn’t fear Dugas or was confident he wouldn’t care; or it was done by Dugas himself or with his blessing. Either way, whoever had done it didn’t want to be identified, otherwise there was no point in using wolfsbane.

If this was Dugas’s handiwork, he was trying to hide it.

It could be part of the darker side of Elara’s magic. Dugas could be doing something with her blessing and instruction to keep it from them.

Hugh still had no idea what she was. Her people called themselves the Departed – again, he didn’t know why – and most of the time they were friendly and straight-forward, going about their lives. But then he had seen a time when they acted together as one, their magic united into a frightening whole, and that power had an ancient bite.  The older the magic, the more power.

Hugh studied the bones again. If there was a choice between him and Dugas, he had no doubt Elara would choose the druid.

He could investigate it quietly, using just his Iron Dogs, or he could take it to Elara. If he took it to Elara, and this was something of hers that she wanted to protect, he would be putting his people at risk. But if it wasn’t and later she asked him why he found weird shit in the woods and didn’t tell her, he would have to admit it was because he didn’t trust her.

That would be the end, he realized. They would not come back from that.

She came to get him. She faced Roland for him.

Fuck it.

“Take the Polaroids,” Hugh ordered. “Sketch it, photograph it, and guard it. Nobody touches it while I’m gone.”

The Iron Dogs snapped to attention. “Yes, Preceptor.”

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