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When Claire returns home from work she discovers her parents, lying in bed, murdered. While investigating the murder Bree Taggert uncovers family secrets and a shocking motive. 

Every now and then an author stumbles upon the magic sauce that makes a series great. Robyn Carr found it with Virgin River, Patricia Briggs with Mercy Thompson and Kendra Elliot nailed it with Mercy Kilpatrick. Bree Taggert is kind of like that. Melinda Leigh’s other series’ were good, even great, but Bree Taggert got everything right. 

And when you hit that sweet spot there is a lot of pressure to keep going. Robyn Carr kept going with Virgin River way past its best before date. I wonder if Patricia Briggs is also approaching that point with Mercy Thompson. And in some ways this book feels like that. It’s good. Every bit as good as some of her other books, but it also feels like maybe the series has run its course and maybe it’s time to explore new ideas. 

Overall, this book was good but not great. But there were opportunities in this book which were not explored and I hope Melinda Leigh planted those seeds to be explored in her next project. 

 

Buy The Devils

OFFICIAL AUTHOR BIO: Joe Abercrombie was born in Lancaster, England, studied psychology at Manchester University, and worked as an editor of documentaries and live music before his first book, The Blade Itself, was published in 2006. Two further installments of the First Law trilogy, Before They Are Hanged and Last Argument of Kings, followed, along with three standalone books set in the same world: Best Served Cold, The Heroes, and Red Country. He has also written the Shattered Sea trilogy for young adults, the Age of Madness trilogy for old adults, and Sharp Ends, a collection of short stories. He lives in Bath, England, with his wife and three children. The Devils is his thirteenth novel.

FORMAT/INFO: The Devils will be released by Tor Books on May 6th, 2025. It is 560 pages. It will be released in hardcover, ebook, and audiobook formats.

OVERVIEW/ANALYSIS: When Brother Diaz is summoned to the Sacred City, he's sure he is finally landing a prestigious position that will reflect his hard work and dedication. But instead of a noble, glorious assignment, he finds himself in charge of the Chapel of Holy Expediency, an arm of the wing the Church doesn't even officially acknowledge. Brother Diaz is now responsible for dangerous individuals, ranging from a blood-thirsty werewolf to an arrogant necromancer. Their current assignment: escort a lost princess across the continent and install her as the rightful empress of a neighboring empire. In their way: four dangerous cousins who want the princess eliminated so they can take the throne instead.

The Devils is another fantastic fantasy novel featuring that signature blend of Abercrombie: violence, crassness, and a host of memorable characters. Unsurprisingly, my favorite part of the story was the characters themselves. There are several POVs in this book, and every chapter felt like it had a distinctive voice. You could tell when it was a princess chapter versus a werewolf chapter versus a necromancer chapter. All these POV chapters provide insights into the characters themselves, which allows the readers to grapple with a real question: How dangerous are the members of the Chapel of Holy Expediency? Are they being unnecessarily prosecuted? Or has the Church accurately determined that these people are a clear and present danger to society if left unchecked? There is not a cookie cutter answer that applies to all of these characters, and it was intriguing to unpick their backstories and make my own judgement about them.

Speaking of the Church, let’s discuss the setting itself. The Devls is set in an alternate medieval Europe; while you’ll find references to familiar locations like England and Barcelona, you’ll also find the populace lives in fear of another invasion of cannibalistic elves. The Church is Christianity-adjacent, in that it worships one God, but they use different iconography, and their Savior is a woman, resulting in much of the upper Church leadership being women. All of this is in service of a VERY thinly veiled satirical critique of organized religion. It is a constant theme throughout the book, to the point of being slightly overdone.

The story itself was a blast to read. Our characters must journey from essentially the Vatican to Troy to return the lost princess to her throne. In their way are four royal cousins who want the throne for themselves, resulting in multiple attacks, traps, and attempts on the princess’s life. While individually, each fight is well done and distinctive, it did start to feel slightly repetitive by the end of this 500+ page book.

CONCLUSION: That doesn’t stop The Devils from having one heck of a gut punch as the story concludes. While the mission of this particular book, returning the princess to her throne, is wrapped up by the end, there are multiple tantalizing hooks dangling that foreshadow things to come. I myself cannot wait to see these characters come back and grapple with a new problem, and see how events from book one have (or haven’t changed) their outlooks. In short, The Devils is a fantastic opening for a trilogy that is sure to be thrilling and engaging journey.

 Cover Reveal: Special Delivery by Rex Burke

OFFICIAL BOOK BLURB: A dangerous mission. A second chance.

Actually, scratch that. No chance.

Dix’s career as a trooper in the Federation army is unblemished – until the day he disobeys a direct order and strikes an officer.

Now Dix has a choice. Face a life of hard labour that promises to be brutal and short. Or accept a mysterious invitation to join a black-ops mission in hostile terrain.

The plan sounds simple, if horribly dangerous. Fetch a fearsome weapon from a secret location and deliver it to a distant planet, whose population is under the chilling yoke of the Federation’s rival empire, the Axis. Do it without getting caught, or implicating the Federation, and Dix’s transgressions will be forgiven.

But the weapon turns out to be unlike anything he could have expected, and Dix’s troubles have only just begun.

'SAS Rogue Heroes' x 'Starship Troopers' – Special Delivery introduces a ragtag crew of misfits and malcontents on a mission with more holes than a blaster-riddled corpse. It’s a fluid, easy-reading, military-action Sci-Fi adventure, perfect for fans of Tanya Huff and John Scalzi.

Intriguing? Let's look at the cover, designed by: Chris Hudson

PREORDER your copy of Special Delivery here
OFFICIAL AUTHOR INFORMATION: Rex Burke is a SciFi writer based in North Yorkshire, UK.

When he was young, he read every one of those yellow-jacketed Victor Gollancz hardbacks in his local library. He’s sure there are still thrilling SciFi adventures to be told – even if he has to write them himself.

When he’s not writing, he travels – one way or another, he’ll get to the stars, even if it’s just as stardust when his own story is done.

Website: https://rexburke.com/

Contact: rex@rexburke.com

BlueSky: @rexburke.bsky.social

Let's hear from the author about how he came up with the idea from the book:

"Ideas for books come to me in all sorts of ways – the first germ of what became Orphan Planet was a disastrous camping trip one of my sons went on; The Wrong Stop came out of a lifetime spent travelling around Europe on trains, and wondering about the people I met on board. 

And sometimes a single thought is enough, and on one such train, early last  year, two fully formed sentences popped into my head, unbidden. Here they are:

†'Their unit, OneSquad, had been fighting hard all day across difficult terrain. The planet was a squelching, crater-filled shithole, and Dix was covered in mud – at least, he hoped it was mud – but orders were orders.'

Those two sentences begin the book that is Special Delivery, which will be published in April. 

I never set out to write a hard-edged Sci-Fi story about space troopers on a secret mission, but that's what my next book is – though you should be reassured that it's also full of banter, laughs, scrapes and mysteries. A traditional Rex Burke book, in fact, but this time set entirely in space, and with added fights, guns, blood, intrigue and betrayal."

Despite my best efforts, I finally managed to make a cardigan. I bought this really cute yarn last year.

This is Rainbows and Airwaves from Bad Sheep Yarn. It is a gorgeous yarn, so I wanted to make a fun cardigan with it. I usually make stuff for the kids, but I wanted something for myself and all the colors made me happy. I tried knitting it first, but for some reason the stockinette came out very yellow and underwhelming. Then I tried knitting a textured stitch, but I still didn’t like it.

One of the interesting things about Bad Sheep Yarn is that the skeins are remarkably consistent. They look just like that and one skein is very similar to the other. This is quality dying – love it – but it also causes the yarn to pool a bit. So this was unraveled twice.

I finally settled on a heavily textured crochet stitch alternating skeins with each row.

This is a row id hdc followed by another row of 2 hdc, a double crochet around the post in the previous row, 4 hdc. It helped a bit with the pooling. The sleeves are hdc just for fun. I finished it with knitted rib because at the time my hand hurt too much and the rotation of the crochet hook was not fun.

And here it is, ta-da!

It still pooled a little, because the yarn is just that consistent, but I kind of love it more this way.

It is basically done. It just needs pockets. I love it!

While we are on the subject, thank you so much for all of the yarn recommendations. I ordered samples and will report on success or failure.

The post A Happy Cardigan first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

In reply to Alicia White.

So it was! It got buried with so much other information I didn’t see it.

In reply to Kevin.

I think he said something about the new book’s title back in January.

In reply to Bill.

Well I guess on Friday we are getting a title announcement!

Here are 7 Author Shoutouts for this week. Find your favorite author or discover an…

The post 7 Author Shoutouts | Authors We Love To Recommend appeared first on LitStack.

Eight years ago, in the wake of the 2016 election, I penned a piece for Black Gate that I called “Reading for the End of the World”, in which I listed a dozen books I thought ideal for helping us get through the four years of turmoil and uncertainty that loomed ahead. I wrote it, posted it, and moved on with my life, little suspecting that coping with that particular cultural earthquake was not a one-time job like getting a vasectomy, but would instead turn out to be an onerous recurring chore like mowing the lawn or doing the laundry.

Well, if He did it again, I suppose I should too. Therefore, once again, “In the spirit of the incipient panic, withered expectations, and rampant paranoia that seem to dominate our current national life, I offer twelve books to get you through the next four years (however long they may actually last): a reading list for the New Normal.” (Groundhog Day is a movie, not a book; that’s why it’s not here.) In 2017 I hoped that the books I discussed would provide some much-needed insight or diversion, and that’s my hope for these twelve additional volumes. Some things have changed after the passage of eight years, however, so now I suppose I should also state that these books were neither written nor selected with the help of A.I. (Of course, that just begs the larger question — how do you know that “Thomas Parker” is a real person? Short answer: you don’t. Then again, I don’t know if any of you are real people, either.)

1. All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren, 1946

Generally considered the greatest American political novel (though Robert Penn Warren denied that he had any explicit political intent in writing it), All the King’s Men follows the rise and fall of Willie Stark, who begins as an idealistic backcountry lawyer and ends as the extraordinarily powerful and ruthless governor of his state. That state is Louisiana, and Willie Stark bears more than a coincidental resemblance to the real-life governor of Louisiana from 1928 to 1932, Huey Long, who maintained an iron grip on the state even after he left the Baton Rouge statehouse to become a United States Senator and presidential aspirant. Long’s career ended with his assassination in 1935, just as Willie Stark’s life is also cut short by an assassin’s bullet. However, the book is more than just a political roman à clef, more than an incisive portrait of an unscrupulous demagogue or a warning about the dangers such a person can pose for a democracy; fundamentally, it’s meditation on the mysterious conjunctions of character and history, and an examination of the myriad ways personal (and often petty) passions mesh in unforeseen and unpredictable ways, powering the huge, seemingly impersonal processes we all find ourselves caught up in.  All the King’s Men (which has been filmed twice, first in 1949, winning Broderick Crawford a Best Actor Oscar for his Category 5 portrayal of Willie Stark, and less successfully in 2006, this time with Sean Penn in the lead role) is a book which will always have something to say to those who want to gain some measure of understanding (if not tranquility) by taking a step back and viewing the storm from a distance.

2. Stayin’ Alive: The 1970’s and the Last Days of the Working Class by Jefferson Cowie, 2010

Stayin’ Alive (the irony of the title becomes increasingly apparent through the course of the book) sheds a bright light on our current condition by chronicling how “The social and political spaces for the collective concerns of working people — the majority of the citizenry — disappeared from American civic life when the nation moved from manufacturing to finance, from troubled hope to jaded ennui, from the compromises and constraints of industrial pluralism to the jungle of the marketplace.” The progression of the key players — labor leaders like Jimmy Hoffa and George Meany and politicians like Hubert Humphrey, Robert and Edward Kennedy, Richard Nixon, George McGovern, George Wallace, Jimmy Carter, and Ronald Reagan — illustrates the shift from a working class that defined itself by its material conditions (wages, benefits, working conditions, freedom to unionize) to one that defined itself by positions on so-called “cultural” issues (busing, abortion, “patriotism” loosely defined.) Cowie also has time to look at television, movies and music, from Bruce Springsteen’s album Born to Run, with its message that working class life can’t be transformed but only escaped, to the film Dog Day Afternoon, which says that even escape is impossible. The book’s analysis is brilliant and persuasive, and though Cowie tries to hold out some hope for the future, the picture painted is a bleak one, depicting as it does a landscape of diminished economic opportunity, truncated rights, and withered hope — pretty much the world we live in today, which is a direct result of the 70’s, a decade by the end of which “working people would possess less place and meaningful identity within civic life than at any time since the industrial revolution.”

3.Singular Travels, Campaigns and Adventures of Baron Munchausen by R.E. Raspe and Others, 1948

Think carefully before you answer — who is the greatest liar in history? You’re right, of course — it’s Baron Munchausen! In the picaresque novel by Rudolph Erich Raspe, first published in 1785, the nobleman is a nonstop raconteur, spinning stories of his adventures and exploits as a military man and world traveler. Such memoirs were fairly common in the eighteenth century, but few ex-soldiers ever (successfully!) wrestled a forty-foot crocodile, visited the moon by climbing up a beanstalk, rode a flying cannonball over enemy lines, or got swallowed by a great fish while bathing in the Mediterranean (Munchausen freed himself by dancing the hornpipe in the creature’s stomach, which caused it to thrash about and head for the surface, thus attracting the attention of a ship, which harpooned it, hauled it on board, and began cutting it up. “As soon as I perceived a glimmering of light I called out lustily to be released from a situation in which I was now almost suffocated. It is impossible for me to do justice to the degree and kind of astonishment which sat upon every countenance at hearing a human voice issue from a fish, but more so at seeing a naked man walk upright out of his body: in short, gentlemen, I told them the whole story, as I have told you, whilst amazement struck them dumb.”) The actual Baron Munchausen, who fought for Russia in various campaigns against the Turks, spent his retirement entertaining people by telling tall tales about his exploits. Raspe heard some of these yarns and put them into his book along with other outrageous lies of his own invention, which infuriated and humiliated the real Baron, who was driven into seclusion by the ridicule of all Europe. To think that sheer embarrassment could make someone retire from public life; 1785 was a long time ago, was it not? (If you want to read these wildly entertaining adventures, make sure you get an edition that has the original illustrations by Gustave Doré; they are just as funny and delightful as the Baron’s fabulations.)

4. The Iron Dream by Norman Spinrad, 1972

Alternate-history stories come in many varieties, from The Man in the High Castle to Bring the Jubilee to Pavane to Harry Turtledove’s infinitely expanding oeuvre, but few of them are as audacious and original as Norman Spinrad’s foray into the genre, The Iron Dream. The inside-cover blurb lets you know what you’re in for: “Let Adolf Hitler transport you to a far-future Earth, where only FEREC JAGGAR and his mighty weapon, the Steel Commander, stand between the remnants of true humanity and annihilation at the hands of the totally evil Dominators and the mindless mutant hordes they completely control.” That pretty much sums up the plot of the novel (which, once you get past the book’s cover, actually turns out to be titled Lord of the Swastika), and the alternate-history aspect is taken care of by an “About the Author” note at the beginning of the book and an “Afterword to the Second Edition” at the end, purportedly written in 1959 by a New York University academic named Homer Whipple. The bio tells us that after serving in the Great War and briefly dabbling in “radical politics”, Adolf Hitler emigrated to New York in 1919, where he first became a successful science fiction illustrator (for Amazing, no less) and then a science fiction writer himself, the author of such classics as Savior from Space, The Thousand Year Rule, The Master Race, and Tomorrow the World. In the afterword, Whipple chronicles Hitler’s literary career up until his death in 1953, afterwards analyzing Lord of the Swastika and finding in its fetishistic imagery the source of the book’s lasting appeal to hardcore science fiction fans, who awarded Hitler a posthumous Hugo in 1954… so what we have here is not a novel about an alternate history — it’s a novel from an alternate history. How is Lord of the Swastika? (Spinrad reportedly wanted the book to be published under that title, with only Hitler’s name on the cover, but was stymied by his publisher.) Well, based on my own reading about Der Führer (primarily the Bullock and Kershaw biographies, Speer’s memoirs, and Richard Evans’ history of the Third Reich), Spinrad is disquietingly successful at transmogrifying Hitler’s pathological obsessions and rigid, paranoid worldview into pulp science fiction, and one of the most remarkable things about the book is its uncomfortably pointed demonstration of how perfectly the themes and devices of pulp sf suit a violent, authoritarian imagination. In any case, being locked up inside Adolf’s head, even for satirical purposes, isn’t all that enjoyable, and well before the book ends, distaste begins to outweigh novelty, and you’re eager for the “author” to… well, blow his brains out. Spinrad may have been just a little too clever, and The Iron Dream might be one of those books that would be twice as effective at half the length. Still, it’s quite a ride, and I can’t think of another novel like it.

5. Spider Kiss by Harlan Ellison, 1961

Harlan Ellison was one of our best short story writers, but he produced only a few genuine novels. Among that handful, though, is one of his best works, his rock-and-roll novel Spider Kiss (which was originally published by Gold Medal — the mark of quality! — as Rockabilly). Country boy Luther Sellars has an abundance of musical ability and a limitless desire to push, claw, and gouge his way to the top, a vicious, elemental drive unmediated by any trace of scruple. After changing his name to Stag Preston, he succeeds in climbing to the pinnacle of pop music success, becoming the idol of millions. Stag’s unholy combination of ferocious ambition, demonic talent, and unbridled appetite (especially his sexual one) finally lead to his downfall, and after his scandalous excesses (which include some genuine and serious crimes) send him careening to the bottom, he ends his days playing is a sleazy strip joint, far from the big money and the bright lights, mercifully forgotten. Ellison clearly knew the great 1957 Elia Kazan film A Face in the Crowd, in which Andy Griffith excels as Larry “Lonesome” Rhodes, a folksy entertainer whose good old boy demeanor conceals a very nasty streak and who plays out a rise-and-fall story very similar to Stag’s. Stag is, if anything, even worse than Rhodes, and the book is a riveting portrait of a driven and near-sociopathic personality. Ellison later retrofitted many elements of Stag’s character and story onto his script for the 1966 film The Oscar (in which the amoral user is an actor named Frank Fane), a movie so godawful it’s divine.

6. 85 Days: The Last Campaign of Robert Kennedy by Jules Whitcover, 1969

We’ve gotten used to some wild presidential elections over the last decade and a half, but few campaigns in American history were as chaotic, divisive, and ultimately tragic as the one all the way back in 1968. When President Lyndon Johnson announced that he was not going to run for re-election, Robert Kennedy at first publicly said that he wasn’t going to seek the nomination himself, a decision that went against all of his political instincts. It galled him to leave the field to Hubert Humphrey (Johnson’s vice-president and a man likely to continue LBJ’s war policies) and the upstart anti-war candidate Eugene McCarthy, but when McCarthy’s surprising early success showed the potential strength of an anti-Vietnam War candidate, Kennedy threw his hat into the ring. A frantic campaign followed, with RFK scrambling to put together an organization, enter primaries, and make up an enormous amount of lost ground. Along the way, Kennedy earned the animus of McCarthy (for stealing his thunder — and his young, anti-war voters) and Johnson (for opposing his policies), made Kennedy history by losing one primary (Oregon), gained some momentum by winning others (South Dakota, Nebraska), and was called on to help the country weather the shock of the Martin Luther King jr. assassination, a bare eight weeks before his own death at the hands of Sirhan Sirhan on the night he won his greatest victory in California — all in eighty-five days (three weeks less than Vice President Harris had in her own truncated campaign). Whitcover’s book is a definitive account of one of the most dramatic political contests in our history, a kind of combat-photographer snapshot taken at a moment when the country seemed hurtling toward the apocalypse — and not for the last time.

7. The Last Policeman Trilogy (The Last Policeman, Countdown City, World of Trouble) by Ben H. Winters, 2012-2014

If you think things are bad now, take heart — they could be worse. The world could be ending literally rather than metaphorically; there could be a ginormous asteroid on a collision course with earth that will extinguish human civilization on impact, which is the situation faced by Hank Palace at the beginning of The Last Policeman trilogy. The first volume, The Last Policeman, begins with the asteroid (named “Maia”) still six months away and the chances of impact rising but still less than one hundred percent. Before the end of the book, doom has become a mathematical certainty and Palace and everyone else on earth are faced with the Big Question — what do you do when everything is coming to an end? You keep doing your job, of course; it’s that or go crazy in one of a thousand different ways. There’s no shortage of people going that route, but Palace chooses the first option; despite knowing how ultimately futile his efforts are, he continues to get up every morning and show up for work as a Concord, New Hampshire police detective, spending his dwindling stock of days trying to keep his small part of the world from falling to pieces. Through the course of the three books, Palace investigates murders (in a world where the innocent and the guilty alike are about to experience maximum punishment) and a strange disappearance (in a world where increasing numbers of people are walking away from the rubble that’s all that’s left of pre-Maia society) and most personally, trying to find his troubled sister Nico, who has vanished into the chaos; he has some things to settle with her before the end. What does any of it matter? Well, Winters has said the theme of the trilogy is, “Why does anybody do anything?” Each volume (almost each chapter in each volume, in fact) is more involving than the one that preceded it (increasing tension is built into the premise) and aside from being a gripping read, the series really does prompt reflection on the meaning of human actions when the actors are faced with unavoidable death — which we all are, asteroid or no asteroid.

8. 1876 by Gore Vidal, 1976

Electoral chicanery is as old as the republic itself, and who better to describe perhaps the greatest example of it in our history than Gore Vidal, America’s premier historical novelist? In this, the third novel in his six-volume Narratives of Empire series (following Burr and Lincoln in internal chronology), Vidal fictionalizes the centennial election of 1876, when the presidency was stolen from the Democratic candidate Samuel Tilden (remember him? Of course you don’t!) by the Republican Rutherford B. Hayes, or at least by his faction. Post-Civil War bitterness (the tactic of “waving the bloody shirt” to brand all Democrats as crypto-Confederate traitors reached new heights during the contest) led to outrageous underhandedness and outright fraud across multiple states. In South Carolina, for example, 101 percent of all eligible voters voted (take that, electoral apathy!) and many of the things that we’ve become drearily familiar with reared their ugly heads, such as disputed electors, confusing or deceptive ballot designs, and rancorous squabbles about the counting and certifying of electoral votes. With Inauguration Day approaching and the results a snarl beyond untangling, Congress headed off increasing financial and political chaos (to say nothing of threats of violence — Hayes’ home was shot at shortly after Election Day) by creating a special bipartisan electoral commission to reach some kind of resolution, with the result that the Republican candidate became the nineteenth President of the United States… by one electoral vote. (Tilden’s consolation prize was winning the popular vote; I’m sure that kept him warm at night.) All of Vidal’s virtues are on display here; no one depicted drawing-room politics (or any other kind, for that matter) with more elegant irony or acerbic wit. This Jamesian comedy of manners has the kind of effortless style that makes it easy to miss the cold-steel scalpel in the author’s hand, and he uses the knife to mercilessly dissect the corruptions and hypocrisies of Hayes’ and Tilden’s time, and, by implication, our own.

9. The Autumn of the Patriarch by Gabriel García Márquez, 1975

In The Autumn of the Patriarch Gabriel García Márquez uses the techniques of magical realism that he employed in One Hundred Years of Solitude to portray the life and (maybe) death of the archetypal figure of a military tyrant or Caudillo, embodied in a nameless Caribbean dictator. Instead of using the tools of objective realism to depict the surface of his dictator’s reign, García Márquez employs symbol, metaphor and dream to place us in the lightless mind of his radically isolated protagonist. The book (the English translation is by Gregory Rabassa, who also did the magnificent translation of One Hundred Years of Solitude) is not for the faint of heart — it has one sentence that’s fifty pages long. Most of the novel consists of a stream of consciousness that runs so deep you can easily drown in it, but the method yields dividends that couldn’t have been gained in any other way; in one extraordinary, hallucinatory scene, in his greed and callousness the monomaniacal “General of the Universe” (his official title) sells off the Caribbean Sea to the Americans who keep his regime propped up; the Gringos send helicopters to fly off huge sections of the Sea, which has been cut up into numbered squares, leaving only a desiccated, sea-bottom desert behind. The book exuberantly chronicles the General’s flagrant excesses — political, military, familial, financial, rhetorical, sexual — but García Márquez’s greatest triumph is that his art moves us beyond mere externals, imprisoning us in the free-floating abattoir that must have been the mind of a Somoza, a Stalin, a Franco, a Mao.

10. Advise and Consent by Allen Drury, 1959

Though the current confirmation battles roiling the Hallowed Halls of the Capitol may seem especially contentious and nasty, the process of getting even a mildly questionable nominee through the Senate has always been a bloodsport. If you doubt that, just read Allen Drury’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, Advise and Consent. (The title comes from Article II, Section 2, of the Constitution, which gives the President the power to appoint various federal officers and officials with the “Advice and Consent of the Senate.”) When liberal golden boy Robert Leffingwell is nominated by the president for Secretary of State, the confirmation process is expected to go smoothly, and it does — until a witness surfaces with evidence that Leffingwell had once been a communist (a charge that the nominee has unequivocally denied under oath). Those in favor of Leffingwell (a group that still includes the president) and those opposed to him begin to frantically maneuver for advantage, working night and day to discredit whatever evidence and witnesses are presented by the other side. Before the drama’s end, the president himself will be involved in blackmailing Utah Senator Brig Anderson, who has proof that Leffingwell’s testimony was a lie. Anderson had a homosexual encounter in his past, and the prospect of that incident becoming public knowledge drives him to commit suicide in his Senate office (a plausible outcome in 1959 — and something very much like it had actually happened in 1954). In the wake of this tragedy, the evidence against Leffingwell gets out, along with the president’s role in its suppression, with the result that the nomination goes down to a decisive defeat. Allen Drury (whom Richard Nixon believed to be secretly gay himself) was a seasoned Washington reporter who knew all the back-room details of how the sausage was made, and after over sixty years, Advise and Consent still deserves its reputation as one of the greatest of American political novels. Drury must have agreed — he wrote five more books carrying the story and characters forward into a shrewdly speculative political future. Otto Preminger directed an excellent film version in 1962, with Henry Fonda as the flawed nominee and Charles Laughton (in his final role) as Senator Seab Cooley, Leffingwell’s most intractable opponent.

11. The Loneliest Campaign: The Truman Victory of 1948 by Irwin Ross, 1968

Everyone loves an incredible comeback staged by a tenacious underdog, right? Well, um… maybe not everybody. But if you crave a candidate wielding a pugnacious (and sometimes profane) campaigning style to present himself as a battler for the common man against out-of-touch elites, if you delight in baffling and egregious polling errors, if you yearn to see a complacent national press stunned by an unexpected outcome that they find simply incomprehensible, then have I got a story for you! No, not that one; it’s not necessary to look back just a month or two, because our grandparents (or great-grandparents!) saw it first back in 1948, when Harry Truman, unanimously written off by the media as a comically inept buffoon, came roaring from behind to defeat supposed shoo-in Thomas E. Dewey for the presidency. Truman, the low-class ward-heeler, the Missouri machine politician who was tapped for vice-president when Franklin D. Roosevelt decided to jettison his previous running mate, the increasingly problematic Henry Wallace, became president when FDR died three months into his fourth term. Shackled by foreign policy problems and an unstable economy, Truman (often derided as “His Accidency”) ended his slightly-shortened first term with near-historically low approval ratings. Good thing polls are never wrong. Dewey, brimming with confidence, decided that it wasn’t necessary to win the presidency; he just had to be careful not to lose it. He therefore confined himself to bland, noncommittal statements that were so general as to be essentially meaningless. The Louisville Carrier-Journal mercilessly (but accurately) said that Dewey’s major speeches “can be boiled down to these historic four sentences: Agriculture is important. Our rivers are full of fish. You cannot have freedom without liberty. Our future lies ahead.” Truman, meanwhile, fought his way off the ropes with a no-holds-barred, bare-knuckle exuberance that, fairly or not, laid all of the country’s ills squarely at the feet of Dewey’s Republican Party. When the dust settled, Harry Truman had won one of the unlikeliest second terms in American history, though it’s probably dropped from first place to second in that regard. The Loneliest Campaign is an engaging look at one of the most colorful presidential contests ever, and the book’s conclusion, written in 1968 about the election of 1948, is just as valuable today: “In the end, the most salutary consequence of 1948 was probably a renewed awareness of the contingent quality of events, of the unpredictability of both leadership in a democracy and of the choices that voters make in the privacy of the voting booth. Not for a long time afterward were politicians likely to take the American voter for granted.” We can hope that recent events have provided a much-needed refresher course in that uncomfortable truth.

12. The Road by Cormac McCarthy, 2006

What do you do when nothing is left of all that you and those who went before you have built but charred rubble and blackened ashes? You hold on tightly to the one most precious to you and make your way through whatever lies ahead one day at a time, trying to keep alive a spark of belief that one day, things will get better. In Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel, a father and a son (we never learn their names; in this place names are needless encumbrances, relics of a dead past) painfully make their way through a shattered world, looking for somewhere they can rest and find peace, knowing that such a place almost certainly doesn’t exist. We don’t know what happened to the world and neither do they. What does it matter? The only reality is trying to keep their bodies and souls alive in a world implacably inimical to both. Most of the devices of the standard post-apocalyptic story are here, images and incidents that have become familiar (even shopworn) through their use in countless books, movies and television shows: searching for uncontaminated water or a slightly better piece of clothing, picking through dead buildings for canned food, exchanging a word or two with other scarecrow-like wayfarers, the dazed, the dead-eyed, the demented, and hiding from other creatures that were once human but that the universal catastrophe has rendered nothing but feral beasts without mercy or compassion. As they push their shopping-cart (their most precious possession, bearing the few pitiful belongings that are everything they own) through this hellscape, “carrying the fire” (an image for preserving and protecting the human that recurs through much of McCarthy’s work), the vision is almost unendurable in its pitiless extremity — but only almost. It is true that no blows are softened, but we are kept going by two things: the bleached beauty of McCarthy’s extraordinary prose and the desperate love of the father and son, who are, quite literally, all the world to each other. Along the way, we get things no other writer could have given us, like the scene where the pair briefly take refuge in a well-stocked underground bunker that they discover, where the father gives his child a drink, a draught from a world and a life that have vanished forever — Coca-Cola. The father’s delight at his son’s stunned amazement at this drink that seems almost alive, followed immediately by his sadness at knowing that his boy will never taste it again, are emotionally overwhelming, as is the book as a whole. The Road will make you weep; it will make your heart ache unbearably before breaking it in pieces, but this bleak journey ends with the fire still burning; at the end, against all odds, the father has passed the flame on by saving his son, and when you finish this remarkable novel, you will feel that light and heat burning anew in yourself.

Of the twelve books I’ve listed here, only The Loneliest Campaign is currently out of print, but it’s relatively easy to find used on Ebay or from other sources; the other books are all readily available in physical or electronic formats.

So, (again repeating my words of eight years ago), “there you have it: a dozen histories, actual and alternate, maps of action or aids to contemplation, to help you get through all the days of farce and folly that lay ahead, as we do our best to cope with the real history that we’re all trapped in.”

Oh, one more thing — I’m damn sure not doing this again in 2028 (or, God help us, 2032)!

Thomas Parker is a native Southern Californian and a lifelong science fiction, fantasy, and mystery fan. When not corrupting the next generation as a fourth grade teacher, he collects Roger Corman movies, Silver Age comic books, Ace doubles, and despairing looks from his wife. His last article for us was Say It Ain’t So

 

Wolf Games (Granite Lake Wolves #3)by Vivian Arend
What is it about:

After seven years of total denial, Maggie Raynor s body and her inner wolf are in full revolt. Weak and shaky, she literally falls into the very large and capable arms of the Granite Lake Beta, Erik Costanov. The last thing she wants is a mate, particularly when just looking at another wolf scares her to death. And one as big and sexy as Erik? Really bad idea, no matter what her libido says.
Erik expected to meet Maggie in Whitehorse to escort her to the home of her sister, his pack s Omega. Sheer chance puts him in the right place at the right time to catch her, but the realization that hits him with the force of a full body shot is no accident. She s his mate. An even bigger shock? She wants no part of him not until she resolves her issues.
She ll have to work fast, because they re both selected to represent the pack during the premier sporting event for wolves in the north. Not only will she have to work as a team with Erik, she ll have to face down her fear of wolves. Let the Games begin."
What did Voodoo Bride think of it:This is the third story in the Granite Lake Wolves series and so far my favourite! It's got all the thing that I liked in the first two stories and more. Where in the first two stories the romance won out over the action storyline, here it's a perfect balance and the characters are even more defined than in the earlier stories. There's also more interaction with other characters and that makes the world that Arend build even more lifelike. All in all I can't wait for the last story in this series.
Thoughts on rereading:I still love this story the most out of the Granite Lake Wolf series. There's just something about big, strong, but gentle men that I can't resist. And I really like learning about the bigger world that's painted in this story. I'd also forgotten about TJ, who is a really fun character, and gets his own romance in book 4. Time to dig up my print version of book 3 & 4, as the ebook version of book 4 is probably on my old ereader.
Why should you read it:Romance, action and one big, hunky werewolf!

I notice that “A Judgement of Powers” is due out (according to Amazon) on the 4th November. Is this set in stone as I was rather hoping that, as this book was almost finalised a month ago, you might be able to release it early October when the others in the series came out?

From Page to Screen, The Godfather Aced Percy Jackson and the Olympians From Lightning to…

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Rachel Aaron lives in Colorado with her family. She has graduated from University of Georgia with a B.A. in English Literature. She has been an avid reader since her childhood and now has an ever-growing collection to show for it. She loves gaming, Manga comics & reality TV police shows. She also posts regularly on her blog about publishing, books and several other intriguing things.
Find Rachel online: website
By a Silver Thread links: Amazon, Goodreads
ESMAY
Monsters, magic and mayhem abound in By A Silver Thread, a fast-paced urban fantasy romp that practically bleeds with action, trauma and emotional turmoil. Somehow, Aaron manages to put a refreshing spin on the familiar fairy changeling lore, resulting in a uniquely twisted story that is both bloody dark and bloody fun all at the same time.

After falling in love with Rachel Aaron’s writing in the Tear Down Heaven series, I was beyond excited to jump into the interconnected DFZ world for more urban fantasy fun. That said, I was a bit nervous when SPFBOX forced me to start with By A Silver Thread instead of with the Heartstrikers series in in-world chronological order, but I should never have worried.

Within just a few chapters, I felt very immersed in this near-future magical Detroit setting (especially with the backdrop of Halloween), and I never felt like I was missing context from the previous series. Moreover, Lola quickly proved to be a very compelling protagonist as a shape-shifting changeling monster, even if she felt a bit younger than her 27 years. I really liked exploring her intense inner conflict and heavy trauma, and the ticking time clock element due to her rapidly decreasing stash of pills that helped subdue her fairy monster nature added such an addictive air of urgency and looming dread to the narrative.

At the same time, I do think the breakneck pacing of By A Silver Thread ended up hindering my personal enjoyment a bit, as we never fully got to appreciate all the cool world building or just take a moment to breathe and sit in everyone’s tumultuous feelings. While I was never bored, my emotional investment was unfortunately about as thin as a thread, and I really found myself wanting more depth from this intriguing cast of side characters, be they the loveable goodies or deliciously hateable baddies.

The enigmatic Rider was the only character who really stood out to me, and I loved seeing him and Lola (trauma) bond throughout this wild adventure. There is no denying that their unexpected romance developed quite quickly and felt rather rushed, but at least their tender scenes together made me feel some feels, so I welcomed it with open arms.

While most of the big twists and revelations in By A Silver Thread weren’t as shocking or surprising to me as they seemed to be to Lola herself, I did quite like the potential this ending showed for the characters’ journeys in the rest of the series. I will definitely be back to explore the unique DFZ world further, even if it might be in a different series first, and I would highly recommend this action-packed urban fantasy adventure if you want an easy, engaging read that you can effortlessly breeze through in just a few sittings.

ŁUKASZ

Rachel Aaron kicks off her DFZ Changeling trilogy with By A Silver Thread, a fast-paced urban fantasy set in her ever-evolving Detroit Free Zone. It’s a solid start, full of cool magic, intriguing lore, and a likable main character. To me it doesn’t quite hit the heights of her best work, but for the sake of the competition I shouldn't compare it to Rachel's books I read and loved, but as a single entry.

The story follows Lola, a faery changeling trapped under the thumb of her blood mage master, Victor. Bound by magic and dependent on his pills to keep her human form intact, she’s left scrambling when Victor vanishes. Without the pills, she risks dissolving into nothing—and worse, taking her sister down with her (now, the sisterhood is not typical and it's best to understand it by reading the book). We get a tense, fast-moving mystery as Lola races to survive, solve Victor’s disappearance, and confront her own monstrous nature.

Lola is a great protagonist, likable and relatable, and I think Aaron has written her well. I appreciated her struggle to maintain her humanity despite years of abuse, and her rebellious spirit. Her shapeshifting abilities, which depend on belief to hold their form, are creative and cleverly tied to her story. However, her characterization can feel a bit surface-level at times—her growth is satisfying but predictable, and she doesn’t quite stay in your mind the way some of Aaron’s past leads do.

The world-building is, as always, a highlight. Aaron’s DFZ feels alive, and the addition of faery lore fits the setting. Longtime fans will appreciate the nods to her previous series, while new readers should still find the story accessible, though they might miss some of the nuance.

That said, the book stumbles a bit in its pacing. The tension builds well thanks to the countdown mechanic with Lola’s pills, but the plot can feel a little rushed, and some supporting characters—like the enigmatic Black Rider—don’t get enough space to shine.

Overall, By A Silver Thread is an entertaining, if slightly uneven, start to the series It’s not Aaron’s strongest work, but with its creative magic and heartfelt moments, it’s well worth a read for fans of the DFZ or urban fantasy in general. A solid 7.5/10-good, but not unforgettable.

MIHIR

Rachel Aaron’s books are like a soothing balm to my soul, they are full of fun scenarios, charismatic characters, incredible magic systems and plots which are ingenious to say the least. Since Rachel first introduced us to the DFZ world nearly nine years ago, I along with a ton of other readers were hooked on to the crazy, multi-genre story. Plus dragons just make everything epic and that was indeed the case here as well.
Since the completion of the Heartstrikers saga, Rachel had written a sequel trilogy that was more grounded but fun nonetheless. But this time around Rachel while taking another trip back, is going a little more in-depth into the lore of the world. So begins By A Silver Thread, the first book in the DFZ Changeling trilogy and we are yet again brought in to the world of the DFZ to explore another angle and a different type of magic. This book is set nearly five years after the events of The D.F.Z. trilogy and immediately in the beginning; the readers are introduced to Lola, a faery changeling that was exchanged with a human child.
By A Silver Thread introduces a DFZ world wherein human magic is now on the upswing thanks to the events of the Heartstrikers saga & DFZ trilogy. This book is set twenty five years after the events of Last Dragon Standing & five years after Night Shift Dragons, Lola is a changeling with some really cool powers but in thrall to an evil blood mage named Victor Conrath. He keeps her on a short leash with his blood that allows her to maintain her human form as otherwise she will revert to being a literal monster (a state which she abhors). She is also linked by a magical silver thread, which encircles her left wrist and is magically connected to the human girl whom she replaced (whom she calls and believes to be her real sister).
The main plot starts with the abrupt disappearance of her blood mage master and her frantic search for him as she has only a few pills remaining to keep herself human. Lola is forced to figure who truly is behind her master’s disappearance while desperately trying to keep herself from dissipating without the support of his Blood Magic. By A Silver Thread does something masterful with its subject matter as it’s about Lola’s will to survive and not become what she absolutely is terrified of. However, the main genius of the story lies within the fact that it introduces Faeries and Fae magic to the world of the DFZ. It also is done in such an elegant manner that it does not break any magical rules and the history that has been set up by the preceding eight titles that have been released so far. This was truly amazing from a reader’s perspective and a tip of the hat to the author for keeping her world mythos precise.
The main gist of the story is all about mysteries. Who or what is Lola exactly, who has kidnapped or killed her master? What will happen to her when she runs out of her pills? Who are the Fae and what is their eventual aim? All of this and more is gloriously revealed in this new trilogy opener and once again we are charmingly brought back in to the world of DFZ. Lola as a main character is such a fascinating one and she’s probably the first non-human protagonist  that Rachel Aaron has focused upon (Yes I’m aware she has a novel set in space under her Rachel Bach pseudonym and technically Devi is a human from a different planet). But what sets Lola apart is that she’s a magical thing who isn’t supposed to exist. She however does and adopts a human form in honour of her lost sister. She’s empathetic and strong under a lot of duress. She has been psychologically abused by her master and yet he has been unable to strip her of kindness and humanity. This was such a refreshing thing to read and while Rachel has written optimistic characters before. Lola here seems to be a special case based on all that she has endured.
A plus about this book was the villain and I have to hand it to the author. She has created a very detestable character, possibly the worst one she has written so far amidst the 24 titles she has released. That’s something special as usually Rachel Aaron almost always makes her villains not entirely evil to a hilt. But here we finally get a proper, horrid person whom everyone can rightfully hate.
Another cool aspect of the story was the rapid plot pace and the tension that was strewn throughout. The author did a cool reverse countdown with the chapters about the remaining pills that Lola had. I really liked it as it reminded me a lot of Jeffrey Deaver’s thrillers wherein there’s a similar countdown that ratchets up the plot tension. Lastly the ending is a proper emotional one. I distinctly connected with Lola’s struggles and I wish for her to succeed. However the stakes are deeply against her. I can’t wait to see in the sequels what happens and how it all unfolds. There are also some cute nods and messages about the previous stories’ characters and they are there for the fans to enjoy.
By A Silver Thread is a superb return to the world of the DFZ. This is a heroic story that is in parts heartwarming, in parts mysterious and just a fantastic read all the way. I know at this point, it’s hard for me to keep coming up with superlatives for Rachel Aaron’s books but trust me, this is the start of a special story. Grab a copy now and join me in finding out why Lola deserves all of your attention and love.
OFFICIAL SPFBO SCORE

 

“You…you know?”“Not in as many words. He has not said it to me.” She broke off a piece of bread on her plate and fiddled with it idly.

(page 99, The Unseelie Throne by Kathryn Ann Kingsley)
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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!

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Good afterevenmorn, Readers!

Language is fun. The way words can mean more than one thing, depending on where the stress is placed, or its location in a sentence, and where that sentence lies within the tale. It is a playground. A song devising its own music. A melody murmured that can delight not just the eyes, but the ears. How many have paused a read simply to revel in the words just read? To read and reread a sentence? To bask in the brilliance of a cleverly turned phrase?

Image by Лариса Мозговая from Pixabay

Yet so many decry the joy in that play. Brevity, they proclaim, is king. Only he shall rule the pages, painted words slinking away beneath his stern gaze. That is good writing. The only good writing.

In truth, he is but a soldier, which, like his fellows, when craftily deployed becomes a part of a larger song. The short notes like bombs, delivered with precision to inspire fear, or awe. To drag at the breath, stealing it away. To raise the pulse; a rapid fire of words – rat-tattat-tat!

Ah! But the exhaustion of battle needs reprieve. Across the trenched-scarred fields where fearful clouds of pale green gas linger still, hugging the ground as a jealous devotee, there must be some tenderness. Some beauty. Some gentle caress that reveals a painted sky, a lone flower refusing to bow before the fire, to linger ever so longingly on a lover’s heart.

These, too, deserve their time to shine. To dance in the light. Frivolous! come the cries. Pointless! Indulgent! Foolish! What purpose could frills and silks fill that isn’t achieved with more utilitarian cloth?

Beauty, my loves. Beauty is the point. To paint with words. To make poetry of prose. To fill the pages with images that transcend description. To make the words felt instead of merely read. To revel in the wonder of words, and the music they can make if we indulge them ever so slightly. For, before they were written, they were said; every syllable deliberately placed to please, to create a rhythm, to dance with the flames beside which they were uttered.

There is no crime in returning to that fire, though the words reach an audience of naught but one. In reclaiming that dance. In revealing the beauty of words and the myriad of ways they can be put together.

Play, my dears. Play is the point. What fun to toy with meaning and expectation, to weave and weft! To delight in triplets trickling from tickled tongues. To find the fun; to splash in the sun-dappled stream of language and chase the meanings swimming lazily beneath the surface. For language can be such a joy if we let it, if we break free from the tyranny of Brevity for its own sake.

There is no sin in letting the words play. In delighting at their twisting, joyous clamour. To dance with them their strange magical rites.

So many tangled tales have been met with distaste from one, only to be adored by another. Many a phrase has stopped an artist in their tracks, struck by the beauty, only to be scorned by the scholar.

In truth, there is no proper way to present prose. Dance or do not. Play or do not. Let the tyrant Brevity reign over the page, or place him back down into the ranks to work in concert with his fellows, or abandon him altogether. It is all correct. It is all true. It is all right.

But turn not away from the colour purple because some fool said you must. Like Brevity, it has its place and its purpose, even if that purpose is simply to be frivolous, existing for nothing else but the music it makes.

Or maybe even to inflate a word count. Ahem.

Alright, I’m done playing now. Mostly. Though I’ve been terribly tongue-in-cheek with this post, the sentiment is true. I do love reading books where the author has permitted themselves to revel in the language they use; when it’s clear that they’re going not for strict adherence to the rules and order, but to create an image, to paint, to evoke an emotion.

Yes, learn the rules. Of course.

And then smash them to pieces.

Is it possible to mess it up? Yes. Perhaps it doesn’t quite work. But that’s the wonderful thing about words. They’re much like painting in oils. You can massage the colours, work them across the canvas until they form the pleasing shapes you were aiming for. Or simply scrape teh canvas clean and start again. But don’t be so afraid of messing it up that you never attempt to paint at all. Take the time to play with words. Have fun.

Know that there will be a reader who will love your “purple” prose. It will likely be me, since I love how wonderful and musical language can be.

What about you? What writing styles do you like? There are no wrong answers in this case, only differing opinions. And I love hearing them!

When S.M. Carrière isn’t brutally killing your favorite characters, she spends her time teaching martial arts, live streaming video games, and cuddling her cat. In other words, she spends her time teaching others to kill, streaming her digital kills, and a cuddling furry murderer. Her most recent titles include Daughters of Britain, Skylark and Human. Her serial The New Haven Incident is free and goes up every Friday on her blog.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Rachel Aaron lives in Colorado with her family. She has graduated from University of Georgia with a B.A. in English Literature. She has been an avid reader since her childhood and now has an ever-growing collection to show for it. She loves gaming, Manga comics & reality TV police shows. She also posts regularly on her blog about publishing, books and several other intriguing things.
Find Rachel online: website
By a Silver Thread links: Amazon, Goodreads
Thank you for agreeing to this interview. Before we start, tell us a little about yourself.
Absolutely! I’m Rachel Aaron for most of my titles, but I also write Science Fiction under Rachel Bach. I got my start as a writer with my debut Fantasy novel, The Spirit Thief, published by Orbit Books in 2010. It’s a fun, fast paced romp about a wizard thief and it’s still one of my favorite stories I’ve ever written. After eight books with Orbit, I decided to try my hand at self publishing with my cyberpunk/Urban Fantasy mashup novel Nice Dragons Finish Last about dragons in a futuristic magical Detroit. It was an amazing experience and I’ve been self publishing ever since!
Do you have a day job? If so, what is it?
Nope, I’ve been writing full time since 2012. I keep waiting for the day I have to get a real job again, but so far so good!
Who are some of your favorite writers, and why is their work important to you?
If we’re talking about authors that heavily influenced me as a writer, it’s gotta be the books I stole from my mom’s bookshelf. We’re talking Peter S. Beagle, C.S. Lewis, Ursula LeGuin, Elizabeth Moon, Marion Zimmer Bradley, and of course Tolkien. (My mom is a giant LOTR fan). More recently, I’ve absolutely fallen in love with T. Kingfisher and Naomi Novik. Those ladies write some beautiful books!
What do you like most about the act of writing?
The pure joy of creation. I call myself a method actor writer because I get totally swept up in my stories. That feeling of being in a different world where I get to be god is the reason I do this. I’m one of those writers who can’t help but write. Even if no one wanted to read my stuff, I’d still have to write it because I can’t not write. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m going to be doing this until I die.
Can you lead us through your creative process? What works and doesn’t work for you? How long do you need to finish a book?
You’re not going to like this answer, but it really is different for every story. I’ve written first drafts in as little as 13 days and as long as 16 months. Every story is its own unique world of problems. Sometimes I know exactly what I’m doing and the whole thing comes out right on the first try. Other times I have to keep failing forward until I flop over the finish line by dint of sheer determination. I always make a plan, but no plan survives the first encounter with the enemy, so I just do my best and keep bashing my way forward until the book is good. (It HAS to be good. Rule #1 of publishing: books can be late for six months but they’re bad forever. NEVER put out something you’re not proud of to meet a deadline.)
What made you decide to self-publish By A Silver Thread as opposed to traditional publishing?
It’s kind of mercenary, but the money. I loved working with Orbit Books, but I’ve got a family to support and self publishing pays authors way better than publishing contracts do. I’m also a control freak who loves handling her own business and marketing decisions, so it was a natural fit for me. I also like that I can make my titles cheaper for readers while still earning a decent living. I know I hate paying $13.99 for an ebook, and making sure my books are never in that position is a big part of why I publish independently.
What’s your favorite and least favorite parts of self-publishing?
Favorite: having total control. Least favorite: having total control.
Every screw up is my fault and there’s no one else to do the work. There’s a lot of days when I hate having to wear every hat, but I also love it when I get to pick exactly the right cover I want for the title. It all balances out!
Why did you enter SPFBO?
Because Mihir at Fantasy Book Critic told me to! He’s been reviewing my books since the very beginning. He’s amazing and always knows what’s cool. I’ve never gone wrong taking his advice, and since I’m here in the finals, I’d say his streak has held true. Thank you, Mihir, for encouraging me to enter!!
How would you describe the plot of By A Silver Thread if you had to do so in just one or two sentences?
A fairy changeling must break free of her abusive father figure and use her shapeshifting magic and knowledge of the dangerous fairy courts to save her lost sister in a magical future version of Detroit.
What was your initial inspiration for By A Silver Thread? How long have you been working on it? Has it evolved from its original idea?
I actually came up with Lola’s story long before the DFZ was a thing. I actually wrote the first version of her book back when I was still working on my Orbit titles, but I could never get the story to work and eventually abandoned the project. Then, over a decade later, I was brainstorming up new ideas for the DFZ when I realized I hadn’t written a story about a blood mage yet. The idea was first mentioned by Marci in Nice Dragons Finish Last, but I’d never gotten a chance to do anything with it. Since I’d originally stolen the idea from Victor in that abandoned novel, though, this got me thinking about Lola again and the whole series just snapped together like it was meant to be!
This is why you never throw away old novels. You never know when those words will come back to be useful!
What genre does it belong to?
Definitely Urban Fantasy, but the genre has been so invaded by Paranormal Romance that most people get confused when I tell them I don’t write about werewolves and vampires. It really is an Urban Fantasy, though, because there’s dragons and the city itself is a speaking character.
If you had to describe it in 3 adjectives, which would you choose?
Fast, dark, and fun. I typically write lighter stuff, but you can’t write about abusive blood mages without getting a little dark, so I went where the story took me. It still has a happy ending, though. Real life has too much suffering already to write tragedies.
Is it part of the series or a standalone? If series, how many books have you planned for it?
By a Silver Thread is the first in the DFZ Changeling trilogy, which is a (completed!) stand alone series set in the same city as my Heartstrikers and DFZ books. All the series share a setting and sometimes characters do cameos, but they’re all designed to be read independently in any order.
Who are the key players in this story? Could you introduce us to By A Silver Thread’s protagonists/antagonists?
The heart and soul of By a Silver Thread is Lola, our changeling main character, but the mover and the shaker is Victor, her blood mage master, primary antagonist, and all around nasty customer. Their battle is as much an emotional fight as a literal one, and I had a really fun time writing a downtrodden, underestimated girl finding her power and taking a swing at an arrogant, emotionally abusive asshole. The whole process was very cathartic and I really enjoyed it.
I also loved writing the Black Rider, Lola’s sometimes ally, sometimes enemy. He was a fun pile of problems to tackle.
Does your book feature a magic/magic system? If yes, can you describe it?
I can’t really describe it without spoilers or making this interview 100,000 words long, but I will say that I’m a writer who’s also a gamer. If you value consistent, carefully designed magical systems where even the heroes have to follow the rules and be clever rather than just power-batteling it out, I’m your author!
Have you written the book with a particular audience in mind?
I write every book for myself. I’m always my first customer because I’m the only reader I can totally understand. Fortunately for me, I’m a giant nerd who likes fast-paced, dramatic stories with charming characters, creative twists, and plenty of dragons, which is a great space to write books in!
What’s new or unique about your book that we don’t see much in speculative fiction these days?
Honestly, I’d say genre blending and being unpredictable. With so many books on the market, we’re seeing the rise of a lot of titles that are very firmly in the ruts of their genres. There’s nothing wrong with that--I also love a perfectly executed Epic Fantasy that hits all my favorite topes--but sometimes you find the best experiences off the beaten path.
If you’re looking for a new story with characters and plot twists you haven’t already read a hundred times, that’s where my books shine. Nothing I’ve ever written fits neatly on a shelf. They’re all these crazy genre-blending fusion stories, so if you’re the sort of reader who likes to try new things, I hope you’ll give my stories a go. If nothing else, I promise it’ll be a hell of a ride!
Cover art is always an important factor in book sales. Can you tell us about the idea behind the cover of By A Silver Thread and the artist?
Doing my own covers is one of the best parts of being an indie. I was actually a graphic designer before I became a writer and I’ve always loved art. I spend a lot more than other indies on my cover images precisely because I want them to be art. I want covers that are also paintings because I know I pick up books with amazing covers.
Basically, if my book is going to be judged by its cover, I want to make sure I’m always making the best impression possible, which is why I’ve been working with Luisa Preissler for years. She’s an amazing artist and a consummate professional who’s worked with big publishers for years. She’s also a genuinely lovely person who reads my books, listens to all my harebrained concepts, and turns them into amazing covers. It’s my honor to be part of her portfolio!
What are you currently working on that readers might be interested in learning more about, and when can we expect to see it released?
Right now I’m 3 books into a totally new Urban Fantasy series about demons teaming up with a witch to fight a guerilla war against a very unpleasant Heaven in modern-day Seattle. The first book is Hell for Hire and it’s got the best cover I think Luisa’s made for me yet! It’ll be five books in total with book 3 coming out in March. If you like Urban Fantasy action, sword fights, and wild, inventive magic, you should definitely give it a try!
Thank you for taking the time to answer all the questions. In closing, do you have any parting thoughts or comments you would like to share with our readers?
Just thank you for reading/listening to my work. You’re all the reason I’ve gotten to work the best job in the world for the last fifteen years. It is my honor and pleasure to get to write for you, and I really hope you enjoy the stories!

A.G (Angela) Slatter’s Sourdough Universe offer readers a doorway into a gothic, haunted world of witches, vampires, and a unique folklore. The series is largely set up that any of the books can provide an entry point, such is the case with The Crimson Road. This tale centers on Violet Zennor, who has inherited a…

I received a review copy from the publisher. This does not affect the contents of my review and all opinions are my own.

Cold as Hell by Kelley Armstrong

Mogsy’s Rating (Overall): 4.5 of 5 stars

Genre: Mystery, Thriller

Series: Book 3 of Haven’s Rock

Publisher: Macmillan Audio (February 18, 2025)

Length: 10 hrs and 6 mins

Author Information: Website | Twitter

Narrator: Therese Plummer

Kelley Armstrong returns to the remote wilderness of Haven’s Rock in Cold as Hell, the third installment of her new mystery series spun off and set in the same world as her Rockton books. Ever since they helped launch another sanctuary town in the Yukon after the old one fell apart, a lot has happened to Detective Casey Duncan and her husband Sheriff Eric Dalton. Armed with a more holistic vision for their new home, their goals include being a lot more selective in the people they take in, as well as upholding their pledge to keep the existing residents safe.

That said, trouble always seems to have a way of finding Haven’s Rock, as isolated as it is. One night, a woman returning home from the local bar is attacked in the woods by an unidentified assailant, barely managing to escape. A tox screen afterwards also reveals that she had been drugged by a powerful sleeping aid, which presumably was in her spiked drink. Aware that all prescription drugs going in and out of town are strictly controlled, Casey knows this will be the ideal point to begin her investigation. There are only a limited number of suspects, after all.

However, with the harsh winter season upon them, Casey and Dalton know that time is not on their side. Not to mention, they are also expecting the birth of their first child any day now. Far from civilization, it’s clear that one bad storm could wreak havoc on their lives, both professional and private. And sure enough, when a sudden and violent blizzard rolls in, whiteout conditions not only prevent Casey from flying out for obstetrics care, but they also give the unknown culprit a perfect opportunity to claim another victim. This time, he or she is successful, and the body of a woman is found in the forest the next day with signs of forcible abduction and torture. There’s a predator on the loose in Haven’s Rock, and Casey must follow the clues to catch the killer before her due date—or before another life is lost.

Haven’s Rock—and before that, Rockton—is one of my favorite fictional settings, which might not be surprising with my fondness for icy, lonely places in books. Kelley Armstrong has always had a knack for making the Yukon wilds feel immersive for readers, emphasizing both its vastness and seclusion. Despite all the work Casey, Dalton, and their friends have put into setting it up, the town is still in its infancy. Not all rules or safety nets are in place yet, and in some ways, the leadership is making it all up as they go along. When you consider how they are also at the mercy of the elements, uncertainty and instability become villains in their own right, even as our protagonists work to hunt down the literal bad guys.

In terms of characterization, Casey remains an impressive leading woman. We’re up to ten books starring her, and I think it’s safe to say her strength and resourcefulness are pretty well established by now. Still, Cold as Hell features a new role for Casey as expectant mother, and along with that comes all the physical and emotional vulnerabilities being eight to ninth months pregnant. Granted, impending parenthood seems exacerbate the worst and most annoying aspects of our protagonists—for instance, Casey’s lack of self-preservation, or Dalton’s overbearing protectiveness—though to be fair, both seem to acknowledge and own up to them.

Still, the murder mystery plot was perhaps the most surprising. As I’ve noted in my reviews for the previous books, the remote setting is a double-edged sword, on the one hand satisfying the requirement for a locked room mystery, but on the other making it difficult to introduce new characters in subsequent books without making it too obvious who the killer is. Starting over with a new town with new people fixed this somewhat, but as the Haven’s Rock series grows, I was worried we would start running into the same problem again. Thankfully, we haven’t reached this point yet, with Cold as Hell being able to keep readers guessing, even throwing in a couple twists I didn’t see coming. Plus, combining the tensions involved in the investigation with the unpredictability of Casey’s pregnancy simply raised the stakes even higher.

At the end of the day, this was another winner in Kelley Armstrong’s growing collection of mystery thrillers, and another solid novel starring Casey Duncan and Eric Dalton. Ultimately, I don’t know if there will be another installment to the Haven’s Rock series, which is a testament to how satisfied I was with the ending in Cold as Hell, though obviously I would be all for spending more time with these characters. I have to say, this was probably my favorite book since the early Rockton days. As for the audiobook, narrator Therese Plummer once again delivered a splendid performance. If you are looking for gripping mystery with an atmospheric setting, compelling characters, and a touch of survivalist tension, this is a fantastic series to dive into.

Paige Racette envisioned the perfect man over and over in her romance novels.

But when Josiah Wells starts using those novels as a blueprint for the way to romance her, she finds the attention creepy, not attractive.

When Wells escalates, adding violence to his role-playing, Paige realizes she must escape the perfect man. But she might find help from someone unexpected—someone a little more flawed, a little less perfect. 

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

 

The Perfect Man By Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Paige Racette stared at herself in the full-length mirror, hands on hips. Golden cap of blond hair expertly curled, narrow chin, high cheekbones, china blue eyes, and a little too much of a figure—thanks to the fact she spent most of her day on her butt and sometimes (usually!) forgetting to exercise. The black cocktail dress with its swirling party skirt hid most of the excess, and the glittering beads around the collar brought attention to her face, always and forever her best asset.

Even with the extra pounds, she was not blind date material. Never had been. Until she quit her day job at the television station, she’d had to turn men away. Ironic that once she became a best-selling romance writer, she couldn’t get a date to save her life. Part of the problem was that after she quit, she moved to San Francisco where she’d always wanted to live. She bought a Queen Anne in an old, exclusive neighborhood, set up her office in the bay windows of the second floor, and decided she was in heaven.

Little did she realize that working at home would isolate her, and being in a new city would isolate her more. It had taken her a year to make friends—mostly women, whom she met at the gym not too far from her home.

She saw interesting men, but didn’t speak to them. She was still a small town girl at heart, one who was afraid of the kind of men who lurked in the big city, who believed that the only way to meet the right man was after getting to know him through mutual interests—or mutual friends.

In fact, she wouldn’t have agreed to this blind date if a friend hadn’t convinced her. Sally Myer was her racquetball partner and general confidant who seemed to know everyone in this city. She’d finally tired of Paige’s complaining and set her up.

Paige slid on her high heels. Who’d ever thought she’d get this desperate? And then she sighed. She wasn’t desperate. She was lonely.

And surely, there was no shame in that.

***

Sally had picked the time and location, and had told Paige to dress up. Sally wasn’t going to introduce them. She felt that would be tacky and make the first meeting uncomfortable. She asked Paige for a photograph to give to the blind date—one Josiah Wells—and then told Paige that he would find her.

The location was an upscale restaurant near the Opera House. It was The Place To Go at the moment—famous chef, famous food, and one of those bars that looked like it had come out of a movie set—large and open where Anyone Who Was Someone could see and be seen.

Paige arrived five minutes early, habitually prompt even when she didn’t want to be. She adjusted the white pashmina shawl she’d wrapped around her bare shoulders and scanned the bar before she went in.

It was all black and chrome, with black tinted mirrors and huge black vases filled with calla lilies separating the booths. The bar itself was black marble and behind it, bottles of liquor pressed against an untinted mirror, making the place look even bigger than it was.

She had only been here once before, with her Hollywood agent and a movie producer who was interested in her second novel. He didn’t buy it—the rights went to another studio for high six figures—but he had bought her some of her most memorable meals in the City by the Bay.

She sat at the bar and ordered a Chardonnay which she didn’t plan on touching—she wanted to keep her wits about her this night. Even with Sally’s recommendation, Paige didn’t trust a man she had never met before. She’d heard too many bad stories.

Of course, all the ones she’d written were about people who saw each other across a crowded room and knew at once that they were soul mates. She had never experienced love at first sight (and sometimes she joked to her editor that it was lust at first sight) but she was still hopeful enough to believe in it.

She took the cool glass of Chardonnay that the bartender handed her and swiveled slightly in her chair so that she would be in profile, not looking anxious, but visible enough to be recognizable. And as she did, she saw a man enter the bar.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that shimmered like silk. He wore a white scarf around his neck—which on him looked like the perfect fashion accent—and a red rose in his lapel. His dark hair was expertly styled away from his chiseled features, and she felt her breath catch.

Lust at first sight. It was all she could do to keep from grinning at herself.

He appeared to be looking for someone. Finally, his gaze settled on her, and he smiled.

Something about that smile didn’t quite fit on his face. It was too personal. And then she shook the feeling away. She didn’t want to be on a blind date—that was all. She had been fantasizing, the way she did when she was thinking of her books, and she was simply caught off guard. No man was as perfect as her heroes. No man could be, not and still be human.

Although this man looked perfect. His rugged features were exactly like ones she had described in her novels.

He crossed the room, the smile remaining, hand extended. “Paige Racette? I’m Josiah Wells.”

His voice was high and a bit nasal. She took his hand, and found the palm warm and moist.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, removing her hand as quickly as possible.

He wore tinted blue contacts, and the swirling lenses made his eyes seem shiny, a little too intense. In fact, everything about him was a little too intense. He leaned too close, and he seemed too eager. Perhaps he was just as nervous as she was.

“I have reservations here if you don’t mind,” he said.

“No, that’s fine.”

He extended his arm—the perfect gentleman—and she took the elbow in her hand, trying to remember the last time a man had done that for her. Her father maybe, when they went to the father-daughter dinner at her church back when she was in high school. And not one man since.

Although all the men in her books did it. When she wrote about it, the gesture seemed to have an old-fashioned elegance. In real life, it made her feel awkward.

He led her through the bar, placing one hand possessively over hers. This exact scene had happened in her first novel, Beneath a Lover’s Moon. Fabian Garret and Skye Michaels had met, exchanged a few words, and were suddenly walking together like lovers. And Skye had thrilled to Fabian’s touch.

Paige wished Josiah Wells’s fingers weren’t so clammy.

He led them to the maître d’, gave his name, and let the maître d’ lead them to a table near the back. See and Be Seen. Apparently they weren’t important enough.

“I asked for a little privacy,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She didn’t. She had never liked the display aspect of this restaurant anyway.

The table was in a secluded corner. Two candles burned on silver candlesticks and the table was strewn with miniature carnations. A magnum of champagne cooled in a silver bucket, and she didn’t have to look at the label to know that it was Dom Perignon.

The hair on the back of her neck rose. This was just like another scene in Beneath a Lover’s Moon.

Josiah smiled down at her and she made herself smile at him. Maybe he thought her books were a blueprint to romancing her. She would have said so not five minutes before.

He pulled out her chair, and she sat, letting her shawl drape around her. As Josiah sat across from her, the maître d’ handed her the leather bound menu and she was startled to realize it had no prices on it. A lady’s menu. She hadn’t seen one of those in years. The last time she had eaten here had been lunch, not dinner, and she had remembered the prices on the menu from that meal. They had nearly made her choke on her water.

A waiter poured the champagne and left discretely, just like the maître d’ did. Josiah was watching her, his gaze intense.

She knew she had to say something. She was going to say how nice this was but she couldn’t get the lie through her lips. Instead she said as warmly as she could, “You’ve read my books.”

If anything, his gaze brightened. “I adore your books.”

She made herself smile. She had been hoping he would say no, that Sally had been helping him all along. Instead, the look in his eyes made her want to push her chair even farther from the table. She had seen that look a hundred times at book signings: the too-eager fan who would easily monopolize all of her time at the expense of everyone else in line; the person who believed that his connection with the author—someone he hadn’t met—was so personal that she felt the connection too.

“I didn’t realize that Sally told you I wrote.”

“She didn’t have to. When I found out that she knew you, I asked her for an introduction.”

An introduction at a party would have done nicely, where Paige could smile at him, listen for a polite moment, and then ease away. But Sally hadn’t known Paige that long, and didn’t understand the difficulties a writer sometimes faced. Writers rarely got recognized in person—it wasn’t their faces that were famous after all but their names—but when it happened, it could become as unpleasant as it was for athletes or movie stars.

“She didn’t tell me you were familiar with my work,” Paige said, ducking her head behind the menu.

“I asked her not to. I wanted this to be a surprise.” He was leaning forward, his manicured hand outstretched.

She looked at his fingers, curled against the linen tablecloth, carefully avoiding the miniature carnations, and wondered if his skin was still clammy.

“Since you know what I do,” she continued in that too-polite voice she couldn’t seem to shake, “why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“Oh,” he said, “there isn’t much to tell.”

And then he proceeded to describe his work with a software company. She only half listened, staring at the menu, wondering if there was an easy—and polite—way to leave this meal, knowing there was not. She would make the best of it, and call Sally the next morning, warning her not to do this ever again.

“Your books,” he was saying, “made me realize that women looked at men the way that men looked at women. I started to exercise and dress appropriately and I…”

She looked over the menu at him, noting the suit again. It must have been silk, and he wore it the way her heroes wore theirs. Right down to the scarf, and the rose in the lapel. The red rose, a symbol of true love from her third novel, Without Your Love.

That shiver ran through her again.

This time he noticed. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she lied. “I’m just fine.”

***

Somehow she made it through the meal, feeling her skin crawl as he used phrases from her books, imitated the gestures of her heroes, and presumed an intimacy with her that he didn’t have. She tried to keep the conversation light and impersonal, but it was a battle that she really didn’t win.

Just before the dessert course, she excused herself and went to the ladies room. After she came out, she asked the maître d’ to call her a cab, and then to signal her when it arrived. He smiled knowingly. Apparently he had seen dates end like this all too often.

She took her leave from Josiah just after they finished their coffees, thanking him profusely for a memorable evening. And then she escaped into the night, thankful that she had been careful when making plans. He didn’t have her phone number and address. As she slipped into the cracked backseat of the cab, she promised herself that on the next blind date—if there was another blind date—she would make it drinks only. Not dinner. Never again.

***

The next day, she and Sally met for lattes at an overpriced touristy café on the Wharf. It was their usual spot—a place where they could watch crowds and not be overheard when they decided to gossip.

“How did you meet him?” Paige asked as she adjusted her wrought iron café chair.

“Fundraisers, mostly,” Sally said. She was a petite redhead with freckles that she didn’t try to hide. From a distance, they made her look as if she were still in her twenties. “He was pretty active in local politics for a while.”

“Was?”

She shrugged. “I guess he got too busy. I ran into him in Tower Records a few weeks ago, and we got to talking. That’s what made me think of you.”

“What did?”

Sally smiled. “He was holding one of your books, and I thought, he’s wealthy. You’re wealthy. He was complaining about how isolating his work was and so were you.”

“Isolating? He works for a software company.”

“Worked,” Sally said. “He’s a consultant now, and only when he needs to be. I think he just manages his investments, mostly.”

Paige frowned. Had she heard him wrong then? She wasn’t paying much attention, not after she had seen the carnations and champagne.

Sally was watching her closely. “I take it things didn’t go well.”

“He’s just not my type.”

“Rich? Good-looking? Good God, girl, what is your type?”

Paige smiled. “He’s a fan.”

“So? Wouldn’t that be more appealing?”

Maybe it should have been. Maybe she had over-reacted. She had psyched herself out a number of time about the strange men in the big city. Maybe her overactive imagination—the one that created all the stories that had made her wealthy—had finally betrayed her.

“No,” Paige said. “Actually, it’s less appealing. I sort of feel like he has photos of me naked and has studied them up close.”

“I didn’t think books were that personal. I mean, you write romance. That’s fantasy, right? Make-believe?”

Paige’s smile was thin. It was make-believe. But make-believe on any level had a bit of truth to it, even when little children were creating scenarios with Barbie dolls.

“I just don’t think we were compatible,” Paige said. “I’m sorry.”

Sally shrugged again. “No skin off my nose. You’re the one who doesn’t get out much. Have you ever thought of going to those singles dinners? They’re supposed to be a pretty good place to meet people…”

Paige let the advice slip off her, knowing that she probably wouldn’t discuss her love life—or lack of it—with Sally again. Paige had been right in the first place: she simply didn’t have the right attitude to be a good blind date. There was probably nothing wrong with Josiah Wells. He had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to make sure she had a good time, and she had snuck off as soon as she could.

And if she couldn’t be satisfied with a good-looking wealthy man who was trying to please her, then she wouldn’t be satisfied with any other blind date either. She had to go back to that which she knew worked. She had to go about her life normally, and hope that someday, an interesting guy would cross her path.

“…even go to AA to find dates. I mean, that’s a little crass, don’t you think?”

Paige looked at Sally, and realized she hadn’t heard most of Sally’s monologue. “You know what? Let’s forget about men. It’s a brand-new century and I have a great life. Why do we both seem to think that a man will somehow improve that?”

Sally studied her for a moment. “You know what I think? I think you’ve spent so much time making up the perfect man that no flesh-and-blood guy will measure up.”

And then she changed the subject, just like Paige had asked.

***

As Paige drove home, she found herself wondering if Sally was right. After all, Paige hadn’t dated anyone since she quit her job. And that was when she really spent most of her time immersed in imaginary romance. Her conscious brain knew that the men she made up were too perfect to be real. But did her subconscious? Was that what was preventing her from talking to men she’d seen at the opera or the theater? Was all this big city fear she’d been thinking about simply a way of preventing herself from remembering that men were as human—and as imperfect—as she was?

She almost had herself convinced as she parked her new VW Bug on the hill in front of her house. She set the emergency brake and then got out, grabbing her purse as she did.

She had a lot of work to do, and she had wasted most of the day obsessing about her unsatisfying blind date. It was time to return to work—a romantic suspense novel set on a cruise ship. She had done a mountain of research for the book—including two cruises—one to Hawaii in the winter, and another to Alaska in the summer. The Alaska trip was the one she had decided to use, and she had spent part of the spring in Juneau.

By the time she had reached the front porch, she was already thinking of the next scene she had to write. It was a description of Juneau, a city that was perfect for her purposes because there was only two ways out of it: by air or by sea. The roads ended just outside of town. The mountains hemmed everything in, trapping people, good and bad, hero and villain, within their steep walls.

She was so lost in her imagination that she nearly tripped over the basket sitting on her porch.

She bent down to look at it. Wrapped in colored cellophane, it was nearly as large as she was, and was filled with flowers, chocolates, wine and two crystal wine goblets. In the very center was a photo in a heart-shaped gold frame. She peered at it through the wrapping and then recoiled.

It was a picture of her and Josiah at dinner the night before, looking, from the outside, like a very happy couple.

Obviously he had hired someone to take the picture. Someone who had watched them the entire evening, and waited for the right moment to snap the shot. That was unsettling. And so was the fact that Josiah had found her house. She was unlisted in the phonebook, and on public records, she used her first name—Giacinta—with no middle initial. And although her last name was unusual, there were at least five other Racettes listed. Had Josiah sent a basket to every one of them, hoping that he’d find the right one and she’d call him?

Or had he had her followed?

The thought made her look over her shoulder. Maybe there was someone on the street now, watching her, wondering how she would react to this gift.

She didn’t want to bring it inside, but she felt like she had no choice. She suddenly felt quite exposed on the porch.

She picked up the basket by its beribboned handle and unlocked her door. Then she stepped inside, closed the door as her security firm had instructed her, and punched in her code. Her hands were shaking.

On impulse, she reset the perimeter alarm. She hadn’t done that since she moved in, had thought it a silly precaution.

It didn’t seem that silly any more.

She set the basket on the deacons bench she had near the front door. Then she fumbled through the ribbon to find the card which she knew had to be there.

Her name was on the envelope in calligraphed script, but the message inside was typed on the delivery service’s card.

 

Two hearts, perfectly meshed.

Two lives, perfectly twined.

Is it luck that we have found each other?

Or does Fate divine a way for perfect matches to meet?

 

Those were her words. The stilted words of Quinn Ralston, the hero of her sixth novel, a man who finally learned to free the poetry locked in his soul.

“God,” she whispered, so creeped out that her hands felt dirty just from touching the card. She picked up the basket and carried it to the back of the house, setting it in the entryway where she kept her bundled newspapers.

She supposed most women would keep the chocolates, flowers, and wine even if they didn’t like the man who sent them. But she wasn’t most women. And the photograph bothered her more than she could say.

She locked the interior door, then went to the kitchen and scrubbed her hands until they were raw.

***

Somehow she managed to escape to the Juneau of her imagination, working furiously in her upstairs office, getting nearly fifteen pages done before dinner. Uncharacteristically, she closed the drapes, hiding the city view she had paid so much for. She didn’t want anyone looking in.

She was cooking herself a taco salad out of Bite-sized Tostitos and bagged shredded lettuce when the phone rang, startling her. She went to answer it, and then some instinct convinced her not to. Instead, she went to her answering machine and turned up the sound.

“Paige? If you’re there, please pick up. It’s Josiah.” He paused and she held her breath. She hadn’t given him this number. And Sally had said that morning that she hadn’t given Paige’s unlisted number to anyone. “Well, um, you’re probably working and can’t hear this.”

A shiver ran through her. He knew she was home, then? Or was he guessing.

“I just wanted to find out of you got my present. I have tickets to tomorrow night’s presentation of La Bohème. I know how much you love opera and this one in particular. They’re box seats. Hard to get. And perfect, just like you. Call me back.” He rattled off his phone number and then hung up.

She stared at the machine, with its blinking red light. She hadn’t discussed the opera with him. She hadn’t discussed the opera with Sally either, after she found out that Sally hated “all that screeching.” Sally wouldn’t know La Bohème from Don Giovanni, and she certainly wouldn’t remember either well enough to mention to someone else.

Well, maybe Paige’s problem was that she had been polite to him the night before. Maybe she should have left. She’d had this problem in the past—mostly in college. She’d always tried to be polite to men who were interested in her, even if she wasn’t interested in return. But sometimes, politeness merely encouraged them. Sometimes she had to be harsh just to send them away.

Harsh or polite, she really didn’t want to talk to Josiah ever again. She would ignore the call, and hope that he would forget her. Most men understood a lack of response. They knew it for the brush-off it was.

If he managed to run into her, she would just apologize and give him the You’re Very Nice I’m Sure You’ll Meet Someone Special Someday speech. That one worked every time.

Somehow, having a plan calmed her. She finished cooking the beef for her taco salad and took it to the butcher block table in the center of her kitchen. There she opened the latest copy of Publisher’s Weekly and read it while she ate.

***

During the next week, she got fifteen bouquets of flowers, each one an arrangement described in her books. Her plan wasn’t working. She hadn’t run into Josiah, but she didn’t answer his phone calls. He didn’t seem to understand the brush off. He would call two or three times a day to leave messages on her machine, and once an hour, he would call and hang up. Sometimes she found herself standing over the Caller ID box, fists clenched.

All of this made work impossible. When the phone rang, she listened for his voice. When it wasn’t him, she scrambled to pick up, her concentration broken.

In addition to the bouquets, he had taken to sending her cards and writing her long e-mails, sometimes mimicking the language of the men in her novels.

Finally, she called Sally and explained what was going on.

“I’m sorry,” Sally said. “I had no idea he was like this.”

Paige sighed heavily. She was beginning to feel trapped in the house. “You started this. What do you recommend?”

“I don’t know,” Sally said. “I’d offer to call him, but I don’t think he’ll listen to me. This sounds sick.”

“Yeah,” Paige said. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Maybe you should go to the police.”

Paige felt cold. The police. If she went to them, it would be an acknowledgement that this had become serious.

“Maybe,” she said, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to.

***

Looking back on it, she realized she might have continued enduring if it weren’t for the incident at the grocery store. She had been leaving the house, always wondering if someone was watching her, and then deciding that she was being just a bit too paranoid. But the fact that Josiah showed up in the grocery store a few moments after she arrived, pushing no grocery cart and dressed exactly like Maximilian D. Lake from Love at 37,000 Feet was no coincidence.

He wore a new brown leather bomber jacket, aviation sunglasses, khakis and a white scarf. When he saw her in the produce aisle, he whipped the sunglasses off with an affected air.

“Paige, darling! I’ve been worried about you.” His eyes were even more intense that she remembered, and this time they were green, just like Maximilian Lake’s.

“Josiah,” she said, amazed at how calm she sounded. Her heart was pounding and her stomach was churning. He had her trapped—her cart was between the tomato and asparagus aisles. Behind her, the water jets, set to mist the produce every five minutes, kicked on.

“You have no idea how concerned I’ve been,” he said, taking a step closer. She backed toward the onions. “When a person lives alone, works alone, and doesn’t answer her phone, well, anything could be wrong.”

Was that a threat? She couldn’t tell. She made herself smile at him. “There’s no need to worry about me. There are people checking on me all the time.”

“Really?” He raised a single eyebrow, something she’d often described in her novels, but never actually seen in person. He probably knew that no one came to her house without an invitation. He seemed to know everything else.

She gripped the handle on her shopping cart firmly. “I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been wanting to tell you something.”

His face lit up, a look that would have been attractive if it weren’t so needy. “You have?”

She nodded. Now was the time, her best and only chance. She pushed the cart forward just a little, so that he had to move aside. He seemed to think she was doing it to get closer to him. She was doing it so that she’d be able to get away.

“I really appreciate all the trouble you went to for dinner,” she said. “It was one of the most memorable—”

“Our entire life could be like that,” he said quickly. “An adventure every day, just like your books.”

She had to concentrate to keep that smile on her face. “Writers write about adventure, Josiah, because we really don’t want to go out and experience it ourselves.”

He laughed. It sounded forced. “I’m sure Papa Hemingway is spinning in his grave. You are such a kidder, Paige.”

“I’m not kidding,” she said. “You’re a very nice man, Josiah, but—”

“A nice man?” He took a step toward her, his face suddenly red. “A nice man? The only men who get described that way in your books are the losers, the ones the heroine wants to let down easy.”

She let the words hang between them for a moment. And then she said, “I’m sorry.”

He stared at her as if she had hit him. She pushed the cart passed him, resisting the impulse to run. She was rounding the corner into the meat aisle when she heard him say, “You bitch!”

Her hands started trembling then, and she couldn’t read her list. But she had to. He wouldn’t run her out of here. Then he’d realize just how scared she was.

He was coming up behind her. “You can’t do this, Paige. You know how good we are together. You know.”

She turned around, leaned against her cart and prayed silently for strength. “Josiah, we had one date, and it wasn’t very good. Now please, leave me alone.”

A store employee was watching from the corner of the aisle. The butcher had looked up through the window in the back.

Josiah grabbed her wrist so hard that she could feel his fingers digging into her skin. “I’ll make you remember. I’ll make you—”

“Are you all right, miss?” The store employee had stepped to her side.

“No,” she said. “He’s hurting me.”

“This is none of your business,” Josiah said. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“I don’t know him,” Paige said.

The employee had taken Josiah’s arm. Other employees were coming from various parts of the store. He must have given them a signal. Some of the customers were gathering too.

“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” the employee said.

“You have no right.”

“We have every right, sir,” the employee said. “Now let the lady go.”

Josiah stared at him for a moment, then at the other customers. Store security had joined them.

“Paige,” Josiah said, “tell them how much you love me. Tell them that we were meant to be together.”

“I don’t know you,” she said, and this time her words seemed to get through. He let go of her arm and allowed the employee to pull him away.

She collapsed against her cart in relief, and the store manager, a middle-aged man with a nice face, asked her if she needed to sit down. She nodded. He led her to the back of the store, past the cans that were being recycled and the gray refrigeration units to a tiny office filled with red signs about customer service.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” The manager pulled over a metal folding chair and helped her into it. Then he sat behind the desk. “It seemed like he was harassing you. Who is he?”

“I don’t really know.” She was still shaking. “A friend set us up on a blind date, and he hasn’t left me alone since.”

“Some friend,” the manager said. His phone beeped, and he answered it. He spoke for a moment, his words soft. She didn’t listen. She was staring at her wrist. Josiah’s fingers had left marks.

Then the manager hung up. “He’s gone. Our man took his license number and he’s been forbidden to come into the store again. That’s all we can do.”

“Thank you,” she said.

The manager frowned. He was looking at her bruised wrist as well. “You know guys like him don’t back down.”

“I’m beginning to realize that,” she said.

***

And that was how she found herself parking her grocery-stuffed car in front of the local precinct. It was a gray cinderblock building built in the late 1960s with reinforced windows and a steel door. Somehow it did not inspire confidence.

She went inside anyway. The front hallway was narrow, and obviously redesigned. A steel door stood to her right and to her left was a window made of bullet-proof glass. Behind it sat a man in a police uniform.

She stepped up to the window. He finished typing something into a computer before speaking to her. “What?”

“I’d like to file a complaint.”

“I’ll buzz you in. Take the second door to your right. Someone there’ll help you.”

“Thanks,” she said, but her voice was lost in the electronic buzz that filled the narrow hallway. She opened the door and found herself in the original corridor, filled with blond wood and doors with windows. Very sixties, very unsafe. She shook her head slightly, opened the second door, and stepped inside.

She entered a large room filled with desks. It smelled of burned coffee and mold. Most of the desks were empty, although on most of them, the desk lamps were on, revealing piles of papers and files. Black phones as old as the building sat on each desk, and she was startled to see that typewriters outnumbered computers.

There were only a handful of people in the room, most of them bent over their files, looking frustrated. A man with salt and pepper hair was carrying a cup of coffee back to his desk. He didn’t look like any sort of police detective she’d imagined. He was squarely built and seemed rather ordinary.

When he saw her, he said, “Help you?”

“I want to file a complaint.”

“Come with me.” His deep voice was cracked and hoarse, as if he had been shouting all day.

He led her to a small desk in the center of the room. Most of the desks were pushed together facing each other, but this one stood alone. And it had a computer, screen showing the SFPD logo.

“I’m Detective Conover. How can I help you, Miss…?”

“Paige Racette.” Her voice sounded small in the large room.

He kicked a scarred wooden chair toward her. “What’s your complaint?”

She sat down slowly, her heart pounding. “I’m being harassed.”

“Harassed?”

“Stalked.”

He looked at her straight on, then, and she thought she saw a world-weariness in his brown eyes. His entire face was rumpled, like a coat that had been balled up and left in the bottom of a closet. It wasn’t a handsome face by any definition, but it had a comfortable quality, a trustworthy quality, that was built into the lines.

“Tell me about it,” he said.

So she did. She started with the blind date, talked about how strange Josiah was, and how he wouldn’t leave her alone.

“And he was taking things out of my novels like I would appreciate it. It really upset me.”

“Novels?” It was the first time Conover had interrupted her.

She nodded. “I write romances.”

“And are you published?”

The question startled her. Usually when she mentioned her name people recognized it. They always recognized it after she said she wrote romances.

“Yes,” she said.

“So you were hoisted on your own petard, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You write about your sexual fantasies for a living, and then complain when someone is trying to take you up on it.” He said that so deadpan, so seriously, that for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

“It’s not like that,” she said.

“Oh? It’s advertising, lady.”

She was shaking again. She had known this was a bad idea. Why would she expect sympathy from the police? “So since Donald Westlake writes about thieves, he shouldn’t complain if he gets robbed? Or Stephen King shouldn’t be upset if someone breaks his ankle with a sledgehammer?”

“Touchy,” the detective said, but she noticed a twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been there before.

She actually counted to ten, silently, before responding. She hadn’t done that since she was a little girl. Then she said, as calmly as she could, “You baited me on purpose.”

He grinned—and it smoothed out the care lines in his face, enhancing the twinkle in his eye and, for a moment, making him breathlessly attractive.

“There are a lot of celebrities in this town, Ms. Racette. It’s hard for the lesser ones to get noticed. Sometimes they’ll stage some sort of crime for publicity’s sake. And really, what would be better than a romance writer being romanced by a fan who was using the structure of her books to do it?”

She wasn’t sure what she objected to the most, being called a minor celebrity, being branded as a publicity hound, or finding this outrageous man attractive, even for a moment.

“I don’t like attention,” she said slowly. “If I liked attention, I would have chosen a different career. I hate book signings and television interviews, and I certainly don’t want a word of this mess breathed to the press.”

“So far so good,” he said. She couldn’t tell if he believed her, still. But she was amusing him. And that really pissed her off.

She held up her wrist. “He did this.”

The smile left Conover’s face. He took her hand gently in his own and extended it, examining the bruises as if they were clues. “When?”

“About an hour ago. At San Francisco Produce.” She flushed saying the name of the grocery store. It was upscale and trendy, precisely the place a “celebrity” would shop.

But Conover didn’t seem to notice. “You didn’t tell me about the attack.”

“I was getting to it when you interrupted me,” she said. “I’ve been getting calls from him—a dozen or more a day. Flowers, presents, letters and e-mails. I’m unlisted and I never gave him my phone number or my address. I have a private e-mail address, not the one my publisher hands out, and that’s the one he’s using. And then he followed me to the grocery store and got angry when the store security asked him to leave.”

Conover eased her hand onto his desk, then leaned back in his chair. His touch had been gentle, and she missed it.

“You had a date with him—”

“A blind date. We met at the restaurant, and a friend handled the details. And no, she didn’t give him the information either.”

“—so,” Conover said, as if she hadn’t spoken, “I assume you know his name.”

“Josiah Wells.”

Conover wrote it down. Then he sighed. It looked like he was gathering himself. “You have a stalker, Ms. Racette.”

“I know.”

“And while stalking is illegal under California law, the law is damned inadequate. I’ll get the video camera tape from the store, and if it backs you up, I’ll arrest Wells. You’ll be willing to press charges?”

“Yes,” she said.

“That’s a start.” Conover’s world-weary eyes met hers. “but I have to be honest. Usually these guys get out on bail. You’ll need a lawyer to get an injunction against him, and your guy will probably ignore it. Even if he gets sent up for a few years, he’ll come back and haunt you. They always do.”

Her shaking started again. “So what can I do?”

“Your job isn’t tied to the community. You can move.”

Move? She felt cold. “I have a house.” A life. This was her dream city. “I don’t want to move.”

“No one does, but it’s usually the only thing that works.”

“I don’t want to run away,” she said. “If I do that, then he’ll be controlling my life. I’d be giving in. I’d be a victim.”

Conover stared at her for a long moment. “Tell you what. I’ll build the strongest case I can. That might give you a few years. By then, you might be willing to go somewhere new.”

She nodded, stood. “I’ll bring everything in tomorrow.”

“I’d like to pick it up, if you don’t mind. See where he left it, whether he’s got a hidey hole near the house. How about I come to you in a couple of hours?”

“Okay,” she said.

“You got a peephole?”

“Yeah.”

“Use it. I’ll knock.”

She nodded. Then felt her shoulders relax slightly, more than they had for two weeks. Finally, she had an ally. It meant more to her than she had realized it would. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “Let’s wait until this is all over.”

All over. She tried to concentrate on the words and not the tone. Because Detective Conover really didn’t sound all that optimistic.

***

The biggest bouquet waited for her on the front porch. She could see it from the street, and any hope that the meeting with Conover aroused disappeared. She knew without getting out of the car what the bouquet would be: calla lilies, tiger lilies and Easter lilies, mixed with greens and lilies of the valley. It was a bouquet Marybeth Campbell was designing the day she met Robert Newman in All My Kisses, a bouquet he said was both romantic and sad. (Not to mention expensive: the flowers weren’t in season at the same time.)

She left the bouquet on the porch without reading the card. Conover would be there soon and he could take the whole mess away. She certainly didn’t want to look at it.

After all this, she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to see flowers again.

When she got inside, she found twenty-three messages on her machine, all from Josiah, all apologies, although they got angrier and angrier as she didn’t answer. He must have thought she had come straight home. What a surprise he would have when he realized that she had gone to the police.

She rubbed her wrist, noting the soreness and cursing him under her breath. In addition to the bruises, her wrist was slightly swollen and she wondered if he hadn’t managed to sprain it. Just her luck. He would damage her arm, which she needed to write. She got an ice pack out of the freezer and applied it, sitting at the kitchen table and staring at nothing.

Move. Give up, give in, all because she was feeling lonely and wanted to go on a date. All because she wanted a little flattery, a nice evening, to meet someone safe who could be—if nothing else—a friend.

How big a mistake had that been?

Big enough, she was beginning to realize, to cost her everything she held dear.

***

That night, after dinner, she baked herself a chocolate cake and covered it with marshmallow frosting. It was her grandmother’s recipe—comfort food that Paige normally never allowed herself. This time, though, she would eat the whole thing and not worry about calories or how bad it looked. Who would know?

She made some coffee and was sitting down to a large piece, when someone knocked on her door.

She got up and walked to the door, feeling oddly vulnerable. If it was Josiah, he would only be a piece of wood away from her. That was too close. It was all too close now.

She peered through the peephole, just like she promised Conover she would, and she let out a small sigh of relief. He was shifting from foot to foot, looking down at the bouquet she had forgotten she had left there.

She deactivated the security system, then unlocked the three deadbolts and the chain lock she had installed since this nightmare began. Conover shoved the bouquet forward with his foot.

“Looks like your friend left another calling card.”

“He’s not my friend,” she said softly, peering over Conover’s shoulder. “And he left more than that.”

Conover’s glance was worried. What did he imagine?

“Phone calls,” she said. “Almost two dozen. I haven’t checked my e-mail.”

“This guy’s farther along than I thought.” Conover pushed the bouquet all the way inside with his foot, then closed the door, and locked it. As he did, she reset the perimeter alarm.

Conover slipped on a pair of gloves and picked up the bouquet.

“You could have done that outside,” she said.

“Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction,” Conover said. “He has to know we don’t respect what he’s doing. Where can I look at this?”

“Kitchen,” she said, pointing the way.

He started toward it, then stopped, sniffing. “What smells so good?”

“Chocolate cake. You want some?”

“I thought you wrote.”

“Doesn’t stop me from baking on occasion.”

He glanced at her, his dark eyes quizzical. “This hardly seems the time to be baking.”

She shrugged. “I could drink instead.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “Yes, I guess you could.”

He carried the bouquet into the kitchen and set it on a chair. Then he dug through the flowers to find the card.

It was a different picture of their date. The photograph looked professional, almost artistic, done in black and white, using the light from the candles to illuminate her face. At first glance, she seemed entranced with Josiah. But when she looked closely, she could see the discomfort on her face.

“You didn’t like him much,” Conover said.

“He was creepy from the start, but in subtle hard-to-explain ways.”

“Why didn’t you leave?”

“I was raised to be polite. I had no idea he was crazy.”

Conover grunted at that. He opened the card. The handwriting inside was the same as all the others.

 

My future and your future are the same. You are my heart and soul. Without you, I am nothing.

—Josiah

 

She closed her eyes, felt that fluttery fear rise in her again. “There’ll be a ring somewhere in that bouquet.”

“How do you know?” Conover asked.

She opened her eyes. “Go look at the last page of All My Kisses. Robert sends a forgive-me bouquet and in it, he puts a diamond engagement ring.”

“This bouquet?”

“No. Josiah already used that one. I guess he thought this one is more spectacular.”

Conover dug, and then whistled. There, among the stems, was a black velvet ring box. He opened it. A large diamond glittered against a circle of sapphires in a white gold setting.

“Jesus,” he said. “I could retire on this thing.”

“I always thought that was a gaudy ring,” Paige said, her voice shaking. “But it fit the characters.”

“Not to your taste?”

“No.” She sighed and sank back into her chair. “Just because I write about it doesn’t mean I want it to happen to me.”

“I think you made that clear in the precinct today.” He put the ring box back where he found it, returned the card to its envelope and set the flowers on the floor. “Mind if I have some of that cake?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She got up and cut him a piece of cake, then poured some coffee.

When she turned around, he was grinning.

“What did I do?” she asked.

“You weren’t kidding about polite,” he said. “I didn’t come here for a tea party, and you could have said no.”

She froze in place. “Was this another of your tests? To see if I was really that polite?”

“I wish I were that smart.” He took the plate from her hand. “I was getting knocked out by the smell. My mother used to make this cake. It always was my favorite.”

“With marshmallow frosting?”

“And that spritz of melted chocolate on top, just like you have here.” He set the plate down and took the coffee from her hand. “Although in those days, I would have preferred a large glass of milk.”

“I have some—”

“Sit.” If anything, his grin had gotten bigger. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but what the hell did you need with a blind date?”

There was admiration in his eyes—real admiration, not the sick kind she’d seen from Josiah. She used her fork to cut a bite of cake. “I was lonely. I don’t get out much, and I thought, what could it hurt?”

He shook his head. That weary look had returned to his face. She liked its rumpled quality, the way that he seemed to be able to take the weight of the world onto himself and still stand up. “What a way to get disillusioned.”

“Because I’m a romance writer?”

“Because you’re a person.”

They ate the cake in silence after that, then he gripped his coffee mug and leaned back in the chair.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’d forgotten that little taste of childhood.”

“There’s more.”

“Maybe later.” And there was no smile on his face any more, no enjoyment. “I have to tell you a few things.”

She pushed her own plate away.

“I looked up Josiah Wells. He’s got a sheet.”

She grabbed her own coffee cup. It was warm and comforting. “Let me guess. The political conferences he stopped going to.”

Conover frowned at her. “What conferences?”

“Here in San Francisco. He was active in local politics. That’s how my friend Sally met him.”

“And he stopped?”

“Rather suddenly. I thought, after all this started, that maybe—”

“I’ll check into it,” Conover said with a determination she hadn’t heard from him before. “His sheet’s from San Diego.”

“I thought he was from here.”

Conover shook his head. “He’s not a dot-com millionaire. He made his money on a software system back in the early nineties, before everyone was into this business. Sold his interest for 30 million dollars and some stock, which has since risen in value. About ten times what it was.”

Her mouth had gone dry. Josiah Wells had lied to both her and Sally. “Somehow I suspect this is important.”

“Yeah.” Conover took a sip of coffee. “He stalked a woman in San Diego.”

“Oh, God.” The news gave her a little too much relief. She had been feeling alone. But she didn’t want anyone else to be experiencing the same thing she was.

“He killed her.”

“What?” Paige froze.

“When she resisted him, he shot her and killed her.” Conover’s soft gaze was on her now, measuring. All her relief had vanished. She was suddenly more terrified than she had ever been.

“You know it was him?”

“I read the file. They faxed it to me this afternoon. All of it. They had him one hundred percent. DNA matches, semen matches—”

She winced, knowing what that meant.

“—the fibers from his home on her clothing, and a list of stalking complaints and injunctions that went on for pages.”

The cake sat like a lump in her stomach. “Then why isn’t he in prison?”

“Money,” Conover said. “His attorneys so out-classed the DA’s office that by the end of the trial, they could have convinced the jury that the judge had done it.”

“Oh, my god,” Paige said.

“The same things that happened to you happened to her,” Conover said. “Only with her those things took about two years. With you it’s taking two weeks.”

“Because he feels like he knows me from my books?”

Conover shook his head. “She was a TV business reporter who had done an interview with him. He would have felt like he knew her too.”

“What then?” Somehow having the answer to all of that would make her feel better—or maybe she was just lying to herself.

“These guys are like alcoholics. If you take a guy through AA, and keep him sober for a year, then give him a drink, he won’t rebuild his drinking career from scratch. He’ll start at precisely the point he left off.”

She had to swallow hard to keep the cake down. “You think she wasn’t the only one.”

“Yeah. I suspect if we look hard enough, we’ll find a trail of women, each representing a point in the escalation of his sickness.”

“You can arrest him, right?”

“Yes.” Conover spoke softly. “But only on what he’s done. Not on what he might do. And I don’t think we’ll be any more successful at holding him than the San Diego DA.”

Paige ran her hand over the butcher block table. “I have to leave, don’t I?”

“Yeah.” Conover’s voice got even softer. He put a hand on hers. She looked at him. It wasn’t world-weariness in his eyes. It was sadness. Sadness from all the things he’d seen, all the things he couldn’t change.

“I’m from a small town,” she said. “I don’t want to bring him there.”

“Is there anywhere else you can go? Somewhere he wouldn’t think of?”

“New York,” she said. “I have friends I can stay with for a few weeks.”

“This’ll take longer than a few weeks. You might not be able to come back.”

“I know. But that’ll give me time to find a place to live.” Her voice broke on that last. This had been her dream city, her dream home. How quickly that vanished.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Me, too.”

***

He decided to stay without her asking him. He said he wanted to sift through the evidence, listen to the phone messages, and read the e-mail. She printed off all of it while she bought plane tickets on-line. Then she e-mailed her agent and told her that she was coming to the City.

Already she was talking like the New Yorker she was going to be.

Her flight left at 8 a.m. She spent half the night packing and unpacking, uncertain about what she would need, what she should leave behind. The only thing she was certain about was that she would need her laptop, and she spent an hour loading her files onto it. She was writing down the names of some moving and packing services when Conover stopped her.

“We leave everything as is,” he said. “We don’t want him to get too suspicious too soon.”

“Why don’t you arrest him now?” she asked. “Don’t you have enough?”

Something flashed across his face, so quickly she almost didn’t catch it.

“What?” she asked. “What is it?”

He closed his eyes. If anything, that made his face look even more rumpled. “I issued a warrant for his arrest before I came here. We haven’t found him yet.”

“Oh, God.” Paige slipped into her favorite chair. One of many things she would have to leave behind, one of many things she might never see again because of Josiah Wells.

“We have people watching his house, watching yours, and a few other places he’s known to hang out,” Conover said. “We’ll get him soon enough.”

She nodded, trying to look reassured, even though she wasn’t.

***

About 3 a.m., Conover looked at her suitcases sitting in the middle of the dining room floor. “I’ll have to ship those to you. No sense tipping him off if he’s watching this place.”

“I thought you said—”

“I did. But we need to be careful. One duffel. The rest can wait.”

“My laptop,” she said. “I need that too.”

He sighed. “All right. The laptop and the biggest purse you have. Nothing more.”

A few hours earlier, she might have argued with him. But a few hours earlier, she hadn’t yet gone numb.

“I need some sleep,” she said.

“I’ll wake you,” he said, “when it’s time to go.”

***

He drove her to the airport in his car. It was an old bathtub Porsche—with the early seventies bucket seats that were nearly impossible to get into.

“She’s not pretty any more,” he said as he tucked Paige’s laptop behind the seat, “but she can move.”

They left at 5, not so much as to miss traffic, but hoping that Wells wouldn’t be paying attention at that hour. Conover also kept checking his rearview mirror, and a few times he executed some odd maneuvers.

“We being followed?” she asked finally.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “But I’m being cautious.”

His words hung between them. She watched the scenery go by, houses after houses after houses filled with people who went about their ordinary lives, not worrying about stalkers or death or losing everything.

“This isn’t normal for you, is it?” she asked after a moment.

“Being cautious?” he said. “Of course it is.”

“No.” Paige spoke softly. “Taking care of someone like this.”

He seemed even more intent on the road than he had been. “All cases are different.”

“Really?”

He turned to her, opened his mouth, and then closed it again, sighing. “Josiah Wells is a predator.”

“I know,” she said.

“We have to do what we can to catch him.” His tone was odd. She frowned. Was that an apology for something she didn’t understand? Or an explanation for his attentiveness?

Maybe it was both.

He turned onto the road leading to San Francisco International Airport. The traffic seemed even thicker here, through all the construction and the dust. It seemed like they were constantly remodeling the place. Somehow he made it through the confusing signs to Short Term Parking. He found a space, parked, and then grabbed her laptop from the back.

“You’re coming in?” she asked.

“I want to see you get on that plane.” He seemed oddly determined.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” he said and got out of the car.

San Francisco International Airport was an old airport, built right on the bay. The airport had been trying to modernize for years. The new parts were grafted on like artificial limbs.

Paige took a deep breath, grabbed her stuffed oversized purse, and let Conover lead her inside. She supposed they looked like any couple as they went through the automatic doors, stopping to examine the signs above them pointing to the proper airline. Conover was watching the other passengers. Paige was checking out the lines.

She had bought herself a first class ticket—spending more money than she had spent for her very first car. But she was leaving everything behind. The last thing she wanted was to be crammed into couch next to a howling baby and an underpaid, stressed businessman.

She hurried to the first class line, relieved that it was short. Conover stayed beside her, frowning as he watched the people flow past. He seemed both disappointed and alert. He was expecting something. But what?

Paige stepped to the ticket counter, gave her name, showed her identification, answered the silly security questions, and got her E-ticket with the gate number written on the front.

“You’ve got an hour and a half,” Conover said as she left the ticket counter. “Let’s get breakfast.”

His hand rested possessively on her elbow, and he pulled her close as he spoke. She glanced at him, but he still wasn’t watching her.

“I have to make a stop first,” she said.

He nodded.

They walked past the arrival and departure monitors, past the newspaper vending machines and toward the nearest restrooms. This part of the San Francisco airport still had a seventies security design. Instead of a bank of x-ray machines and metal detectors blocking entry into the main part of the terminal, there was nothing. The security measures were in front of each gate: you couldn’t enter without going past a security checkpoint. So different from New York, where you couldn’t even walk into some areas without a ticket. Conover would have no trouble remaining beside her until it was time for her to take off.

She went into the ladies room, leaving Conover near the departure monitors outside. The line was long—several flights had just arrived—but Paige didn’t mind. This was the first time she had a moment to herself since Conover had arrived the night before.

It seemed like weeks ago.

She was going to be sorry to say good-bye to him at the gate. In that short period of time, she had come to rely on him more than she wanted to admit. He made her feel safe for the first time since she had met Josiah Wells.

As she exited the ladies room, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her sideways. She felt something poke against her back.

“Think you could leave me?”

Wells. She shook her arm, trying to get away, but he clamped harder.

“Scream,” he said, “and I will hurt you.”

“You can’t hurt me,” she said. “You can’t have weapons in an airport.”

“You can bring a gun into an airport,” he said softly, right in her ear. “You just can’t take it through security.”

She felt cold then. He was as crazy as Conover said, then. And as dangerous.

“Josiah.” She spoke loudly, hoping that Conover could hear her. She didn’t see him anywhere. “I’m going to New York on business. When I come back, we can start planning the wedding.”

Wells was silent for a moment. He didn’t move at all. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his body go rigid. “You’re playing with me.”

“No,” she said, letting her voice work for her, hoping it sounded convincing. She kept scanning the crowd, but Conover was gone. “I got your ring last night. I decided I needed to settle a few things in New York before I told you I’d say yes.”

Wells put his chin on her shoulder. His breath blew against her hair. “You’re not wearing the ring.”

“It didn’t fit.” she said. “But I have it with me. I was going to have it sized in New York.”

“Let me see it,” he said.

“You’ll have to let me dig into my purse.”

She wasn’t sure he’d believe her. Then, after a moment, he let her go. She brought up her purse, pretended to rummage through it, and took a step toward the ladies room door, praying her plan would work.

He was frowning. He looked like any other businessman in the airport, his suit neat and well-tailored, his trench coat long and expensive, marred only by the way he held his hand in the pocket.

She waited just a split second, until there were a lot of people around from another arriving plane, and then she screamed, “He’s got a gun!” and ran toward the ladies room.

Only she didn’t make it. She was tackled from behind, and went sprawling across the faded carpet. A gunshot echoed around her, and people started screaming, running. The body on top of hers prevented her from moving, and for a moment, she thought whoever had hit her had been shot.

Then she felt arms around her, dragging her toward the departure monitors.

“You little fool,” Conover said in her ear. “I had this under control.”

He pushed her against the base of the monitor, then turned around. Half the people around Wells had remained, and two of them had him in their grasp, while another was handcuffing him. Plainclothes airport police officers. More airport police were hurrying to the spot from the front door.

Passengers were still screaming and running out of the airport. Airline personnel were crouched behind their desks. Paige looked to see whether anyone was shot, but she didn’t see anyone lying injured anywhere.

Her breathing was shallow, and she suddenly realized how terrified she had been. “What do you mean, under control? This doesn’t look under control to me.”

Security had Wells against the wall and were searching him for more weapons. One of the uniformed airport police had pulled Wells’ head back and was yelling at him. Some of the passengers, realizing the threat was over, were drifting back toward the action.

Conover kept one hand on her, holding her in place. With the other, he pulled out his cell phone. He hit the speed-dial and put the small phone against his ear.

“Wait a minute!” Paige said.

He turned away slightly, as if he didn’t want to speak to her. Then he said into the phone, “Frank, do me a favor. Call the news media—everyone you can think of. Tell them something just happened at the airport…. No. I’m not going through official channels. That’s why I called you. Keep my name out of it and get them here.”

He hung up and glanced at Paige. She had never felt so many emotions in her life. Anger, adrenaline, confusion. Then she saw security lead Wells away.

Conover took her arm and helped her up. “What’s going on?” she asked again.

“Outside,” he said, and pushed her through the crowd. After a moment, she remembered to check for her laptop. He had it, and somehow she had retained her purse. They reached the front sidewalk only to find it a confusion of milling people—some still terrified from the shots, others just arriving and trying to drop off their luggage. Cabs honked and nearly missed each other. Buses were backing up as the crowd spilled into the street.

“Oh, this is so much better,” she said.

He moved her down the sidewalk toward another terminal. The crowd thinned here.

“What the hell was that?” she asked. “Where were you? How did he get past you?”

“He didn’t get past me,” Conover said softly.

She felt the blood leave her face. “You set me up? I was bait?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“Oh, really? He was supposed to drag me onto the nearest flight? Or shoot me?”

“I didn’t know he had a gun,” Conover said. “He was ballsier than I expected. And he wouldn’t have taken you from San Francisco.”

“You know this how? Because you’re psychic?”

“No, he wanted to control you. He couldn’t control you on a plane. I had security waiting outside. A few plainclothes had been around us since we arrived. He was supposed to grab you, but you weren’t supposed to try to get away.”

“Nice if you would have told me that.”

He shook his head slightly. “Most people wouldn’t have fought him. Most people would have cooperated.”

“Most people would have appreciated an explanation!” Her voice rose and a few stray passengers looked her direction. She made herself take a deep breath before she went on. “You knew he was going to be here. You knew it and didn’t tell me.”

“I guessed,” he said.

“What did you do, tip him off?”

“No,” Conover said softly. “You did.”

“I did? I didn’t talk to him.”

“You booked your e-ticket on-line.” His face was close to hers, his voice as soft as possible in all the noise. “He’d hacked into your system weeks ago. That’s how he found your address and your phone number. Your public e-mail comes into the same computer as all your other e-mail. He’s been following your every move ever since.”

“Software genius,” she muttered, shaking her head. She should have seen that.

Conover nodded. Across the way, reporters started converging on the building, cameras hefted on shoulders, running toward the doors. Conover shielded her, but she knew they would want to talk to her.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” she asked again.

“I thought you’d be too obvious then, and he wouldn’t try for you. I didn’t expect you to be so cool under pressure. Telling him about the ring, pretending you were interested, was smart.”

One of the reporters was working the crowd. People were turning toward the camera.

“Where were you?” she asked. “I looked for you.”

“I was behind you all the time.”

“So if he took me outside…?”

“I would have followed.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me not to get the ticket on line?”

“The ticket was a gift,” Conover said. “I didn’t realize you were going to do it that way. You told me when you finished. His file from the previous case mentioned how he had used the internet to spy on his first victim. He was obviously doing that with you.”

“But the airport, how did they know?”

“I called ahead, said that I was coming in, expecting a difficult passenger. I faxed his photo from your place while you were asleep. I asked them to wait until I got him outside, unless he did something threatening.”

She frowned. More reporters were approaching. These looked like print media. No cameras, but lots of determination. “You could have waited and caught him at home.”

“I could have,” Conover said. “But this is better.”

She turned to him, remembering the feel of the gun against her back, the screaming passengers, the explosive sound when the gun went off. “Someone could have been killed.”

“I didn’t expect a gun,” Conover said. “And I didn’t think he’d be rash enough to use it in an airport.”

“But he did,” she said.

“And it’s going to help us.” Conover watched another set of reporters run into the building. “First, his assault on you in an airport makes it a federal case. The gun adds to the case, and all the witnesses make it even better. Then there is the fact that airports are filled with security cameras. There’s bound to be tape on this.”

She frowned, trying to take herself out of this, trying to listen like a writer instead of a potential victim.

“And then,” Conover said, “he attacked you. You’re nationally known. It’ll be big news. Our DA might have lost a stalking case against Wells, but the feds aren’t going to let a guy who went nuts in an airport walk, no matter how much money he has.”

“You set him up,” she said. “If this had failed—”

“At the very least, I would have been fired,” Conover said. “But it wouldn’t have failed. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you. I didn’t let anything happen to you.”

“But you took such a risk.” She raised her head toward his. “Why?”

He put a finger under her chin, and for a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.

“Because you didn’t want to leave San Francisco,” he said softly.

“I get to stay home?” she asked.

He smiled, and let his finger drop. “Yeah.”

He stared at her uncertainly, as if he were afraid she was going to yell at him again. But she felt a relief so powerful that it completely overwhelmed her.

She threw her arms around him. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his arms wrapped around her and pulled her close.

“I don’t even know your first name,” she whispered.

“Pete,” he said, burying his face in her hair.

“Pete.” She tested it. “It suits you.”

“I’d ask if I could call you,” he said, “but I’m not real good on dates.”

That pulled a reluctant laugh from her. “Obviously I’m not either. But I make a mean chocolate cake.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Let’s go finish it.”

“Don’t we have to talk to the press?”

“For a moment.” He pulled back just enough to smile at her. “And then I get to take you home.”

“Where I get to stay.” She couldn’t convey how much this meant to her. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “My pleasure.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling his strength, feeling the comfort. It didn’t matter how he looked or whether he knew La Bohème from Don Giovanni. All that mattered was how he made her feel.

Safe. Appreciated. And maybe even loved.

 

____________________________________________

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

The Perfect Man

Copyright © 2017 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
First published in Murder Most Romantic, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Denise Little, Cumberland House Press, 2001
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and Layout copyright © 2017 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © George Mayer/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.

If you liked roleplaying computer games in the early 2000s, you knew that Bioware was synonymous with cool games. The studio started out as a Canadian game developer and made some awesome things. Baldur’s Gate. Mass Effect. Dragon Age. Eventually they were bought by EA and went downhill. Apparently, the latest Dragon Age, Veilguard, sold 50% below its targets, and EA gutted the studio with massive layoffs.

But I digress. At some point one of the Bioware’s developers, Mike Laidlaw, who was the creative director of the Dragon Age series, left, got together with some ex-Ubisoft developers and founded Yellow Brick Games. Their first title is out now and I bought it.

The Story

There once was a magic city where the weavers, magicians, created wondrous archons. Things went horribly wrong, a bloody war broke out, and the city sealed itself and the lands around it from the rest of the world. Now the few remaining weavers are despised, and they drift from settlement to settlement.

Our heroine is a new addition to a weaver caravan, a band of magic experts that include a smith, an atelier, and an alchemist among others. This particular caravan is heading straight for the city to surveil the barrier.

Things go horribly wrong once again, and the caravan ends up trapped within the barrier. They must now explore this new land.

This game gives you that unforgettable feeling of being dropped into a very good fantasy book. It’s weird. It has a feeling that is entirely its own. It’s the difference between Oblivion, which felt generic, and Skyrim, which had its own strange atmosphere. Eternal Strands has a vibe.

Launch Trailer (linked for the email readers.)

First things first: the game is gorgeous.

My merry band of companions.

Relaxing moment in camp with the caravan’s quartermaster and whatever that owl bear critter is.

Oh noes.

So great story, great graphics, how is the combat?

You know how in some games, you can occasionally get somewhere high and drop a rock on your enemy and you feel super accomplished? Or when you set some flammable barrels that have no business lying around the battlefield on fire? Okay, the whole game is like that. Except there are no random barrels. It’s mostly explosive plants.

Gameplay Trailer (linked for the email readers.)

Everything is climbable.

First, you can climb anything. Everything. Tree? Yes. Weird obelisk sticking out of the ground? Yes. Mountain cliff? Yes.

You have your sword and a bow and all that, but you also start out with two magic powers called strands: ice and telekinesis. You are a weaver, after all. Ice makes ice, self explanatory. It slows down enemies, puts out fires, and it will damage you if you stand on it. Telekinesis lets you pick up things and yeet them. (To yeet (slang) means to throw something with a lot of force disregarding the consequences.)

Everything is yeetable, if it’s not too heavy.

So, if you suck at combat games, like yours truly, this opens up a whole new world of possibilities.

Here is how my gaming session went:

Me, mumbling to myself: Can I yeet this rock? Can I yeet that rock at this monster? Oh I missed, and the rock hit the tree, and now the tree broke? Can I yeet the tree? Ha! Can yeet the monster? Ha! Do I have anything else to yeet…

Gordon: What is your obsession with yeeting things?

Me: You do not understand this game.

You can freeze the enemy, yeet them at a mountain wall, drop a steel-rich rock on them, the rock will break, and then you can collect all the materials from the rock and the fallen enemy. I found a cave with ice, and since I do not have any fire powers and there were no explosive plants around, I bombarded the ice outgrowths within the cave with rocks, until I broke all of them, and then the ice melted, and I went in to get the treasure.

Everything is valuable.

The crafting system is so interesting. It breaks all crafting materials into 4 broad groups: forged, carved, woven, and tanned. So basically ore, stone, fabric, and leather. You can make weapons and armor, and every item requires a set number of resources. So if the armor requires 6 tanned resources, you can either put basic leather in, or dense akala fur, which better, or another resource that is even better, and what you slot in there changes the bonuses and stats.

And it changes the color of the armor.

Dragon Age Inquisition, I see you! You remember when you would add one random piece of weird leather to your Inquisition outfit because you wanted the straps on the armor to be white or something? Hehe.

If you have a surplus of low level resources, you can turn them into camp supplies, which allow you to upgrade the caravan crafting stations. The inventory management is limited to materials. You are not going to be carrying a bunch of armor and weapons in your bag. It’s more mission based, meaning you equip yourself and head out.

I haven’t made it very far, because I have to work, but I did manage to beat the first boss on the first try, despite my gaming shortcomings, and I have made it to the Zone #2. But I’ve only played for four hours. My take on it right now – there is no grind. Like none. You’re not going up the levels, the progression is gear based, and it is all about exploring and finding weird loot stashed somewhere behind a rock, and looking for creative ways to nuke your enemies. There is much more that I could prattle on about – the weather, the day and night cycle, etc, etc.

So what are the negatives?

Well, no character creation, and while there is branching dialogue, I’m not sure the responses affect the story over all, but it does add the RPG flavor.

For some reason this game hasn’t been promoted as much as some others. I know the Avowed is coming, I’ve known about it for months, and this just popped out of nowhere. But now you also know it exists. There is a free demo on Steam that walks you through the prologue. The tutorial is very handholdy, but once you make it through, the game lets go and you are freeeee!

Have fun and let me know if you like it.

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