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Portia Meadows runs one of the few pet stores that sells familiars to the magical. Familiars—delicate, moody creatures—keep magic clean and pure. To lose a familiar means losing magic. And on a bright afternoon, Portia’s assistant discovers that something essential has disappeared, threatening not just the magical within the store, but throughout the world.

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

 

The Poop Thief By Kristine Kathryn Rusch

“Okay, this is just weird.”

The voice came from the back of the store. It belonged to my Tuesday/Thursday assistant, Carmen. High school student, daughter of two mages, Carmen had no real talent herself, but she was earnest, and she loved creatures, and I loved her enthusiasm.

“I mean it, Miss Meadows, this is weird.”

Oddly enough, weird is not a word people often use in Enchantment Place. Employees expect weird. Customers demand it. What’s weird here is normal everywhere else—or so I thought until that Tuesday in late May.

“Miss Meadows….”

“Hold on, Carmen,” I said. “I’m with a client.”

The client was a repeat whom I did not like. I’m duty bound at Familiar Faces to provide mages with the proper familiars—the ones that will help them augment their talents and help them remain on the right path (doing no harm, avoiding evil, remaining true to the cause, all that crap). I do my best, but some people try my patience.

People like Zhakeline Jones. She was a zaftig woman who wore flowing green scarves, carried a cigarette in a cigarette holder, and called everyone “darling.” Even me.

I called her Jackie, and ignored the “It’s Zhakeline, dahling.” Actually, it was Jacqueline back when we were in high school and then only from the teachers. The rest of us called her Jackie, and her friends—what few she had—called her Jack.

Whenever she came in, I cringed. I knew the store would smell like cigarettes and Emerude perfume for days afterwards. I didn’t let her smoke in here—Enchantment Place, for all its oddities, was regulated by the City of Chicago and the City of Chicago had banned smoking in all public places—but that didn’t stop the smell from radiating off her.

Most of my creatures vacated the front of the store when she arrived. Only the lioness remained at my feet, curled around my ankles as if I were a tree and Zhakeline was her prey. A few of the mice looked down on Zhakeline from a shelf (sitting next to the books on specialty cheeses that I’d ordered just for them), and a couple of the birds sat like fat and sassy gargoyles in the room’s corners.

Nothing wanted to go home with Zhakeline, and I didn’t blame them. She’d brought back the last three familiars because the creatures had the audacity to sneeze when they entered her house (and silly me, I had thought that cobras couldn’t sneeze, but apparently they do—especially when they don’t want to stay in a place where the air is purple). We were going to have to find her something appropriate and tolerant, something I was beginning to believe impossible to do.

On the wall beside me, lights shimmered from all over the spectrum, then Carmen appeared. Actually, she’d stepped through the portal from the back room to the shop’s front, but I’d specifically designed the magical effect to impress the civilians.

Sometimes it impressed me.

Carmen was a slender girl who hadn’t yet grown into her looks. One day, her dramatic bone structure would accent her African heritage. But right now, it made her look like someone had glued an adult’s cheekbones onto a child’s face.

“Miss Meadows, really, my parents say you shouldn’t ignore a magical problem and I think this is a magical problem, even though I don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty certain, and I’m sorry to bother you, but jeez, I think you have to look at this.”

All spoken in a breathless rush, with her gaze on Zhakeline instead of on me.

Zhakeline smiled sympathetically and waved a hand in dismissal. Bangles that had been stuck to her skin loosened and clanked discordantly.

“This hasn’t really been working, Portia.” Zhakeline said with a tilt of the head. She probably meant that as sympathy too. “I’ve been thinking of going to that London store—what do they call it?”

“The Olde Familiar.” I spoke with enough sarcasm to sound disapproving. Actually, my heart was pounding. I would love it if Zhakeline went elsewhere. Then the unhappy familiar—whoever the poor creature might be—wouldn’t be my responsibility.

“Yes, the Olde Familiar.” She smiled and put that cigarette holder between her teeth. She bit the damn thing like a feral F.D.R. “I think that would be best, don’t you?”

I couldn’t say yes, because I wasn’t supposed to turn down mage business and I could get reported. But I didn’t want to say no because I would love to lose Zhakeline’s business.

So I said, “You might try that store in Johannesburg too, Unfamiliar Familiars. You can see all kinds of exotics. But remember, importing can be a problem.”

“I’m sure you’ll help with that,” she said.

“Legally I can’t. But you’re always welcome here if their wares don’t work out.”

The mice chittered above me, probably at the word “wares.” They weren’t wares and they weren’t animals. They were sentient beings with magic of their own, subject only to the whims of the magical gods when it came to pairings.

The whims of the magical gods and Zhakeline’s eccentricities.

“I’ll do that,” she said. Then she turned to Carmen. “I hope you settle your weirdness, darling. And for the record, your parents are right. The sooner you focus on a magical problem, the less trouble it can be.”

With that, she swept out of the store. Two chimpanzees crawled through the cat doors on either side of the portal holding identical cans of Febreze.

“No,” I said. “The last time you did that we had to vacate the premises. Or don’t you remember?”

They sighed in unison and vanished into the back. I didn’t blame them. The smell was awful. But Febreze interacted with the Emerude, leading me to believe that what Zhakeline wore wasn’t the stuff sold over the counter, but something she mixed on her own.

Without a familiar, which was probably why the stupid stuff lingered for days.

“Miss Meadows.” Carmen tugged on my sleeve. “Please?”

I waved an arm so that the store fans turned on high. I also uttered an incantation for fresh ocean breezes. (I’d learned not to ask for wind off Lake Michigan; that nearly chilled us out of the store one afternoon). Then I followed Carmen into the back.

Walking through the portal is a bit disconcerting, especially the first time you do it. You are walking into another dimension. I explain to civilian friends that the back room is my Tardis. Those friends who don’t watch Doctor Who look at me like I’m crazy; the rest laugh and nod.

My back room should be a windowless 10×20 storage area. Instead, it’s the size of Madison Square Garden. Or two Madison Square Gardens. Or three, depending on what I need.

Most of my wannabe familiars live here, most of them in their own personal habitats. The habitats have a maximum requirement, all mandated by the mage gods and tailored to a particular species. Each bee has a football-sized habitat; each tiger has about a half an acre. Most creatures may not be housed with others of their kind, unless they’re a socially needy type like herding dogs or alpha male cats. The creatures have to learn how to live with their mage counterparts—not always an easy thing to do—and its best not to let them interact too much with other members of their species.

Theoretically, I get the creatures after they complete five years of familiar training (and yes, you’re right; very few familiars live their normal lifespan. Insects get what to them seems like millions of years and dogs get an extra two decades; only elephants, parrots, and a few other exceptionally long-lived species live a normal span).

That day, I had too many monkeys of various varieties, one parrot return who’d managed to learn every foul word in every language known to man (and I mean that) during his aborted tenure with his new owner, several large predatory cats, twenty-seven butterflies, five gazelle, sixteen North American deer, eight white wolves, one black bear, one grizzly return, one-hundred domestic cats, five-hundred-sixty-five dogs, and dozens of other creatures I generally forgot when I made a mental list.

Not every animal was for sale. Some were flawed returns—meaning they couldn’t remember spells or they misquoted incantations or they weren’t temperamentally suited to such a high-stress job. Some were whim returns, brought back by the mage who either bought on a whim or returned on a whim. And the rest were protest returns. These creatures left their mage in protest, either of their treatment or their living conditions.

All three of Zhakeline’s returns had been protest returns although she tried to pass the first off as a flaw return and the other two as whim returns. It gets hard for a mage after a few rejections. Eventually she gets a reputation as a familiarly challenged individual, and might never get a magical companion.

And if she goes without for too long, she’ll have her powers suspended until she goes through some kind of rehab.

Fortunately, that’s never my decision. I’d seen too many mages fight to save their powers just before a suspension: I never want all that angry magic directed at me.

Carmen was standing on the edge of the habitats. They extended as far as the eye could see. My high school assistants didn’t tend the habitats the way that civilian high school assistants would tend cages at, say, a vet’s office. Instead, they made sure that the attendants that I hired from various parts of the globe (at great expense) actually did their jobs.

Each attendant had to log in stats: food consumed, creature health readings, and how often each habitat was entered, inspected, and cleaned. Then they’d log in the video footage for the past day—after inspecting it, of course, for magical incursions, failed spells, or escape attempts.

Carmen had called up our stats on the clear computer screen I’d overlaid over the habitat viewing area. She zoomed in on one stat—product for resale.

I frowned at the numbers. They were broken down by category. The whim returns and most of the protest returns were listed, of course, along with byproduct—methane from the cows (to be used in various potions); shed peacock feathers (for quills); and honey from the bees that had convinced the mage gods to make them hive familiars, not individual familiars.

Those bees only went to special clients—those who could prove they weren’t allergic and who could handle several personality types all speaking through their fearless leader, the sluggish queen.

“See?” Carmen asked, waving a hand at the numbers. “This week’s just weird.”

I didn’t see. But I didn’t have as much experience with the numbers as she did. And, truth be told, I didn’t think her powers were in spell-casting. I believed they were in numerology—not as powerful a magic, but a useful one.

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling dense, like I often did when staring at rows of facts and figures. “What am I supposed to see?”

She poked her finger at one of the columns. The lighted numbers vanished, then reappeared in red.

“Available fertilizer,” she said. “See?”

I stared at the category. Available Fertilizer. Our biggest seller because we undercut the competition, mostly so we could get rid of the crap quickly and easily.

“There’s no number there,” I said.

“Zero is a number,” Carmen said with dripping disdain that only a teenager could muster.

“E…yeah…okay.” I knew I was stammering, but the big honking nothingness made no sense. “The assistants haven’t been cleaning the habitats?”

She pressed the screen, drawing down the earlier statistics. Cleanings had gone on as usual.

“So what happened to the fertilizer?”

“I have no idea where the fertilizer went,” she said. “I’m not even sure it came out of the cages. I mean, habitats.”

I had planned to give her a tour of the back, but I hadn’t yet. So she always made the “cages/habitat” mistake, something she’d never say if she actually saw the piece of the Serengeti plain that Fiona, the lioness who liked to sleep under my cash register and Roy, the lion who supposedly headed her pride, had conjured up to remind themselves of home.

Cleaning the habitats was a major job, especially for the larger animals, and usually required extra labor. Entire families came in for an hour or two a night to clean grizzly’s mountainside, especially during blackberry season.

I moved Carmen aside, pressed some keys only visible to me, and looked at several of the previous day’s vids in fast motion. Habitat cleaning happened in all of them.

Habitat cleaners weren’t required to log in what they cleaned unless the item was marketable which poop generally was. Animal poop that is. There’s never a big market for insect poop.

Animal poop (ground up into a product called Familiar Fertilizer) had a wide variety of uses. Mages bought it for their herb gardens. In addition to being the Miracle Grow of the magical world, it also made sure that wolf’s bane and all the other herbal ingredients of a really good potion, magical spell, or “natural” remedy was extra-powerful. Some mages vowed that anything fertilized with familiar poop could be safely sold with a money-back guarantee—especially (oddly enough) love spells.

“Must be a computer glitch,” I said and stabbed a few more buttons.

“Let me.” Carmen got to the correct screens quicker, without me even asking. She knew I wanted to check all that basic stuff—how many pounds of poop got ground into fertilizer at the nearby processing plant, how many pounds of fertilizer got shipped, and how many of our magical feed-and-seed brethren paid for shipments that arrived this week.

Each category had a big fat zero in the poundage column.

“I don’t like this,” I said. “You just noticed this?”

I tried to keep the accusation out of my voice. It wasn’t her job to keep track of my shipments and my various product lines. She was a high school student working two days a week part-time after school.

I was the person in charge.

“I was going over the manifests like you taught,” she said. “I let you know the minute I saw it.”

Which was—I checked the digital readout on the see-through computer screen—half an hour ago, one hour after Carmen arrived.

Pretty dang fast, considering.

“I mean, everything was fine on Thursday.”

Thursday. The last day she worked.

My lunch—an indulgent slice of Chicago pan-style pizza—turned into a gelatinous ball in my stomach. “Can you quickly check the previous four days?”

“Already on it.” She pressed a few keys.

I watched numbers flash in front of my eyes—too quickly for my number-challenged brain to follow. I could have spelled the whole thing, looked for patterns, but I had Carmen. She was better than any magical incantation.

“Wow,” she said after a few minutes. “Those animals haven’t pooped since Friday.”

The gelatinous ball became concrete. I reached for the screen to look at health history, then stopped. A few of those creatures would have died if they hadn’t pooped in three days. Some internal systems were less efficiently designed than others.

Still, I had her double-check the health records just to make sure.

“Okay,” she said after looking at health records from Thursday to Tuesday. “So they all have normal bowel readings. What does this mean?”

“It means that your parents are right,” I said.

“Huh?” She looked at me sideways, all teenager again. She hated hearing that Mom and Dad were right.

“Magical problems become bigger when they are allowed to fester.”

“This is a magical problem?” she asked.

“The worst,” I said.

She continued to stare at me in confusion, so I clarified.

“We have a poop thief.”

***

You find poop thieves throughout magical literature. Heck, you even find them in fairy tales.

Of course, they’re never called poop thieves. They’re “tricksters” who steal their victims’ “essence.” They’re evil wizards who rob their enemies of their “life force.”

Most scholars believe that these references are to sperm, which simply tells me that magical scholarship has been dominated too long by males. (Those inept male scholars don’t seem to be able to read either; a lot of the victims are women who are, of course, spermless creatures one and all.)

The scholars are right in that “life force” and “essence” are often composed of bodily fluids. Some (female) scholars have assumed that this essence is blood, but blood is a lot harder to obtain than the simplest of bodily fluids—pee.

Pee, though, is like all other water. It seeps into the ground. It’s difficult to get unless someone pees into a cup or a bottle or a box. (Or unless you’ve magicked the chamber pot—and there are a few of those stories as well [Those Brothers Grimm didn’t like the chamber pot stories, and so kept them out of the official compilation.])

Poop, on the other hand…

Poop, actually, on either hand is a lot easier to obtain.

Poop, like pee, blood, and yes, sperm, is a life essence. Even in its nonmagical form it has magical powers. It gets discarded only to be spread on a fallow field. The nutrients in the waste material break down, enriching the soil which is often used to grow plants—plants which later become food. The food nourishes the person who eats it. The person’s body processes the food into energy and vitamins and all sorts of other good stuff, and the leftovers become waste yet again.

Most of the non-magical have no idea the power held in a single turd.

Hell, most of the magical didn’t either.

But the ones who did, well, they were all damn dangerous.

And I’d already lost too much time.

***

It seemed odd to call Mall Security at a time like this, but that was the first thing I did. Mine wasn’t the only store with magical creatures.

If someone was stealing from me, then maybe he was stealing from the pet store down the way, the organ grinder monkey show just outside the food court, and the various holiday setups with their real Easter bunnies and Christmas reindeer and Halloween bats. Not to mention all the working familiars accompanying every single mage who walked into the place.

I let Carmen talk to Security. She was young enough and naïve enough to think they were sexy. She had no idea that most of them were failed magical enforcers or inept warlocks who’d been demoted from city-wide security patrol to Enchantment Place.

I stayed in the back room, bending a few rules because this was an emergency. Anyone who took that much poop had a plan. A big plan—or a need for a lot of power.

At first, I figured this thief simply wanted the magical support of a familiar without actually getting a familiar. Magical crime blotters were full of minor poop thieves who stole rather than get a new familiar of their own. They’d mine someone else’s familiar, using the poop as a tool with which to obtain the magic, and no one would notice until that familiar got sick from putting out too much magical energy.

Maybe what we had here was a more sophisticated version of the neighborhood poop snatcher.

Which made Zhakeline a prime suspect.

But Zhakeline’s magic had always been shaky at best, even when she had a familiar. That was why she looked so exotic and had so many affectations.

She had to appeal to the civilians who think we’re all weird. She mostly sold her small magic services to them. If she predicted the future and was wrong or if she made a love potion that didn’t work, the civilian would simply shrug and think to himself Ah, well, magic doesn’t really work after all.

But the magical, we know when someone can’t perform all of the spells in the year-one playbook. Zhakeline barely passed year one (charity on the part of the instructor) and shouldn’t have passed from that point on. But that happened during the years when telling a kid that she had failed was tantamount to murdering her (or so the parents thought) and Zhakeline got pushed from instructor to instructor without learning anything.

Which was one of the many reasons I didn’t want to give her another familiar.

And that was beside the point.

The point was that Zhakeline, and mages like her—the ones who needed the magical power of familiar poop—didn’t have the ability to conduct a theft on this massive scale, at least not alone.

And even if they tried, they’d be better off going to the back yard of a mage with a canine familiar. There was always a constant poop supply, and it provided enough power—consistent power (from the same source)—so that the thief might become a slightly less inept mage, for a while, anyway.

Next I investigated my assistants. Most had no magical powers of their own, but had come from magical families. They knew that magic existed—and not in that hopeful I wish it were so way that a civilian had, but in a this is a business way that led them to peripheral jobs in the magical field.

They worked hard, most had a love of animals, insects or reptiles, and they often had a specialty—whether it was cooking the right kind of pet food or calming a petulant hyena.

I couldn’t believe any of the assistants would be doing something like this because they would have to be working for someone else.

The nonmagical don’t gain magic just by wishing on a powerful piece of poop.

I scanned records and employment histories. I scanned bank accounts (yes, that’s illegal, but remember—emergency. A few rules needed to be bent), cash stashes and (embarrassingly) the last 48 hours of their lives. (Which, viewed at the speed of an hour per every ten seconds, looked like silent movies watched at double fast-forward.)

I saw nothing suspicious. And believe me, I knew what to look for.

Although I wished I didn’t.

***

You see, I got this job, not because I have a particular affinity with animals or I’m altruistic and love pairing the right mage with the right familiar.

I got it because I have experience.

I know how to look for mages heading dark or mages who should retire or mages who mistreat their magic (and hence their familiars). I know how to take care of these mages quietly, efficiently, and with a minimum of fuss.

It didn’t used to be this way. In the past, places like Familiar Faces existed on side streets and had just a handful of creatures, few of them exotic. Only in the last few years have the mega stores come into existence at high-end malls like Enchantment Place.

And even though we’re supervised by the rules of the mage gods like all other familiar stores, we’re run and subsidized by Homeland Security—Magical Branch.

(Not everyone knows there’s a Homeland Security—Magical Branch, including the so-called “head” of Homeland Security. Hell, I even doubt the president knows. Why tell the person who’s going to be out in four or eight years one of the world’s most important secrets. Knowing this crew, they’d probably try to co-opt the Magical Branch into something dark. Better to keep quiet and protect us all.

(Which I do. Most of the time.)

My job here is to watch for exactly this kind of incursion. Technically, I’m supposed to report it, and then wait for the guys with badges to show up.

But I didn’t wait for the guys with badges. I doubted we would have time.

(And, truth be told, I did want the glory. I was demoted to this position [you guessed that already, right?] for asking too many questions and for the classic corporate mistake, proving that the boss was an idiot in front of his employees. I’m a government employee and as such can’t be fired without lots and lots of red tape [even in the magical world], so I was sent here, to Chicago where I grew up, to Enchantment Place where I have to put up with the likes of Zhakeline with a smile and a shrug and a rather pointed [and sometimes magically directed] suggestion.)

I toyed with rewinding time in all of the habitats—another no-no, but it would have been protected under the Patriot Act, like most no-nos these days. But rewinding time takes time, time I didn’t really want to waste looking at creatures moping in their personal space.

Instead, I did some old-fashioned police work.

I went back out front where Carmen was still flirting with some generic security guard (and the mice were leaning over so far to watch that I was afraid one of them would fall down the poor man’s ill-fitting shirt) and beckoned the lioness, Fiona.

She frowned at me, then rose slowly, stretched in that boneless way common to all cats, and padded through the portal ahead of me.

When I got back to the back, she was sitting on her haunches and cleaning her ears, as if she had meant to join me all along.

“We have a poop thief,” I said, “and I think you know who it is.”

She methodically washed her left ear, then she started to lick her left paw in preparation for cleaning her right ear.

“Fiona,” I said, “if I don’t solve this, something bad will happen. You might not get a home of any kind and none of the other familiars will be of use to anyone. You might all have to be put down.”

I usually don’t use euphemisms, and Fiona knew it. But she didn’t know the reason that I used it this time.

I couldn’t face killing all these wannabe familiars. And it would be my job to do so. I’d get blamed for the theft(s), and I’d have to put down the creatures affected. It was the only way to negate the power of their poop.

She put her newly cleaned paw down on the concrete floor. “You couldn’t ‘put us down.’” She used great sarcasm on the phrase. “It would set the magical world back more than a hundred years. There wouldn’t be enough of us to help your precious mages perform their silly little spells.”

“Which might be the point of this attack,” I said. “So tell me what you saw the last few days.”

And why you never said a word, I almost added, but didn’t.

“I’m not supposed to tell you anything. I’m not even supposed to talk with you.”

Technically true. Familiars are only supposed to talk to their personal mages. But I get to hear and every one of them speak when they come into the store to make sure they really are familiars and not just plain old unmagical creatures looking for a free hand-out.

But Fiona had spoken to me before, mostly sarcastic comments about the store patrons. I’d tried pairing her up with a few, but she always had an under-the-breath comment that convinced me she and that mage wouldn’t be a good match.

“I haven’t seen anything,” she said.

“What have you heard, then?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “The system is working just fine.”

That sarcasm again, which lead me to believe she was leaving out a detail or two deliberately, hoping I would catch it.

Damn lions. They’re just giant cats. They toy with everything.

And at that moment, Fiona was toying with me.

“But something’s bothering you,” I said.

“Not me so much.” She picked up that clean right paw, turned it over, and examined the claws. “Roy.”

Roy was the lion to her lioness. He wasn’t head of the pride because there was no pride. We knew better than to get an entire pride of lions into that small habitat. No one would ever be able to see their individual natures—and no mage was tough enough to get that many catly familiars.

“What’s bothering Roy?” I asked.

“Ask him.”

“Fiona…”

She nibbled on one of the claws, then set her paw down again. “There was—oh, let me see if I can find the phrase in your language—an overpowering scent of ammonia.”

“Ammonia?”

“And a very bright light.”

“An explosion?” I asked. Fertilizer mixed with the right chemicals, including ammonia, created the same thing in both the magical and the non-magical world.

A bomb.

Only the magical bomb made of this kind of fertilizer didn’t just destroy lives and property, it also cut through dimensions.

“It’s not an explosion yet,” she said. “He claims he has a sixth sense about things. Or did he say he can see the future? I forget exactly. But it was something like that.”

“Or maybe he just knows something,” I snapped.

“Or maybe he just knows something.” She sounded bored. “He does say that because he’s king of the jungle, the wannabes tell him things.”

Which was the most annoying thing about Roy. He really believed that king of the jungle crap. Too much Kipling as a cub—or maybe too many viewings of the Lion King.

“I should really send you back to the habitat until this is resolved,” I said to Fiona.

She hacked like she had a hairball, a sound she (sort of) learned from me. She thought it was the equivalent of my very Chicago, very dismissive “ach.”

“I’d rather be out front, watching the floor show,” she said.

And I sent her back out there because I had a soft spot for Fiona. Technically, I don’t need a familiar. I have more than a thousand of them.

But if I did need one, I’d pick Fiona.

She knew it and she played on it all the damn time.

I waited until she was through that little curtain of light before I stepped through the hidden door into the habitat area.

It was always surprisingly quiet inside the habitat area. The first time I went in, I expected chirping birds and chittering monkeys and barking dogs—a cacophony of creature voices expressing displeasure or loneliness or sheer cussedness.

Instead, the area was so quiet that I could hear myself breathe.

It also had no smell—unless you counted that dry scent of air conditioning. The animal smells—from the pungent odor of penguins to the rancid scent of coyote—existed only in the individual habitat.

Just like the noises did.

If I went through the membrane on my left (and only I could go through those membranes—or someone I had approved, like the assistants), I would find myself in a cold dark cave that smelled of rodent and musty water. If I looked up, I’d see the twenty-seven bats currently in inventory.

We were always understocked on bats. Mages, particularly young ones raised in Goth culture, wanted bats first, wolves second, and cats a distant third. I’d given up trying to tell those kids to get some imagination.

I’d given up trying to tell the kids anything.

If I went through the membrane on my right, I’d slide on polar ice. Here the ice caps weren’t melting. Here, my six polar bears happily fished and scampered and did all those things polar bears do—except that they didn’t attack me. They didn’t even bare their fangs at me.

I stopped between the two membranes and frowned. Whoever took the poop hadn’t taken it from inside the habitats. It was simply too dangerous for the unapproved guest.

Hell, it was often dangerous for the assistants. I’d had more than one assistant mauled by a creature that didn’t like the way he was looking at it.

And the poop was not registered as collected either. So whoever had taken it had spelled it out between gathering and delivery into the outside system.

I walked between dozens of habitats, trying to ignore the curious faces watching me.

I did feel for the wannabes. They were like children in an old-fashioned orphans’ home. They hoped that someone would come to adopt them. They prayed that someone would come to adopt them. They were afraid that someone had come to adopt them.

And the only way they would know was if I brought them out of the habitat to the front of the store. (Except in the case of the dangerous exotics or the biting/stinging insects. In those cases, the mage had to enter the habitat without fear. That rarely happened either.)

Finally I got to the Serengeti Plain.

Or what passed for it in Roy and Fiona’s habitat. It was kind of an amalgam of the best parts of a lion’s world minus the worst part. Lots of water, lots of space to run, lots of space to hide. A great deal of sunshine and never, ever any rain.

I slipped through the membrane and, because of my past experience, paused.

The first step into Roy’s world was overwhelming. The heat (about twenty degrees higher than I ever liked, even in the summer), the smell (giant cat mixed with dry grass and rotting meat from the latest kill), and the sunlight (so bright that my best sunglasses were no match for it—and as usual, I had forgotten any sunglasses) all made for a heady first step into this habitat.

More than one assistant had been so disoriented by the first step that Roy was able to tackle, stand on, and threaten the assistant in the first few seconds. After you’ve had several hundred pounds of lion standing on your chest, with his face inches from yours—so close you could see the pieces of raw meat still hanging from his fangs—you’d never want to go back into that habitat either.

Unless you’re me, of course. I expected Roy to scare me that first time.

I didn’t expect him to catch me off guard.

So when he did, I congratulated him, told him he was quite impressive, and warned him that if he hurt a human he’d never graduate from wannabe to familiar.

And from that point on, he never jumped on me again.

But he always snuck up on me.

On this day, he wrapped his giant mouth around my calf. His teeth scraped against my skin, his hot breath moist and redolent of cat vomit. He’d been eating grass again. We were going to have change his diet.

“Hey, Roy,” I said. “I hear you have a sixth sense.”

He tightened his jaw just enough that the edges of those sharp teeth would leave dents in my flesh—not quite bites, not quite bruises—for days. Then he licked the injured area—probably an apology, or maybe just a taste for salt (I was instant sweat any time I came into this place).

Finally, he circled around me and climbed a nearby rock so that he would tower over me. If I weren’t so used to his power games, he’d make me nervous.

“It’s not a sixth sense,” he said in an upper-class British accent. That accent had startled me when we were introduced. “So much as a finely honed sense of the possible.”

“I see,” I said, because I wasn’t sure how to respond. I hadn’t even been certain he would talk to me, and he’d done so almost immediately.

Which led me to believe the king of the jungle was more terrified than he wanted to admit.

“You realize I am only speaking to you,” he said with an uncanny ability to read my mind (or maybe it was just that finely honed sense of what I might possibly be thinking), “because great evil is afoot, and I have no magical counterpart with which to fight it.”

I almost said, It’s not your job to fight it, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to insult the poor beast. Instead, I said, “That’s precisely why I’m here. I figured you know what was going on.”

“Bosh,” he said. “Fiona told you. She has a thing for you, you know.”

“A thing?” I asked.

“She wants to be your familiar.” He opened his mouth in a cat-grin. “She doesn’t understand—or perhaps she doesn’t believe—that you have hundreds of us and as such do not need her.”

I nodded because I wasn’t sure what else to do. And because I was already thirsty. I’d forgotten not just my sunglasses but my bottle of water as well.

“Well,” I said, “you do know what’s happening, right?”

“Oh, bomb-making, dimension hopping, familiar murder—all the various possibilities.” He laid down and crossed his front paws as if none of that bothered him. “And just you here because you seem to believe that you can save the world all by your own small self.”

“With the help of your finely honed sense of the possible.”

“That too.” He tilted his massive head and looked at me through those slanted brown eyes.

My heart rate increased. Occasionally I still did feel like prey around him.

“Well?” I asked.

“Have you ever thought that your culprit isn’t human?”

“No,” I said. “Demons don’t care about familiars. Only mages do.”

“Really.” He extended the word as if it were four. “Humans generally ignore scat, don’t they?”

“Generally,” I said. “We try not to think about it.”

“And yet those of us in the animal kingdom find within it a wealth of information.”

“Yes,” I said. “But the amount of power it would take to complete this spell tends to rule out anything that isn’t human.”

He made the same hairball sound that Fiona did. They were closer than they liked to admit.

“You humans are such speciest creatures. It doesn’t help that the mage gods allow you the choices and we have to wait until you make them. It leads me to believe that the mage gods are human—or were, at one point.”

I wasn’t there to discuss religion. “You’re telling me, then, that your finely honed sense of the possible leads you to the conclusion that a familiar has done this.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“A creature then. A magical creature of some kind.”

He slitted his eyes, the feline equivalent of yes.

“But you have no evidence,” I said.

“I have plenty of evidence. Consider the timeline. It took you forever to discover this theft, and yet no bomb has exploded. No one has made threats, and no mage has suddenly gained unwarranted power.”

“That’s not evidence. That’s supposition.”

He lifted his majestic head. “Is it?”

“So who do you suppose has stolen the poop—and why?”

He rested his head on his paws and continued to stare at me. “That’s for you to work out.”

“In other words, you don’t know.”

“That’s correct. I don’t really know.”

“But you’re not worried.”

“Why should I worry? From my perspective, removing the scat is a prudent thing to do.”

I hadn’t expected him to say that. “What do you mean?”

He heaved a heavy, smelly sigh. “I’m a cat who lives in the wild. Think it through.”

Then he jumped and I cringed as he headed right toward me. He landed beside me, chuckled and vanished through the tall grass.

He’d gotten me again. He loved that. He’d probably been planning to jump near me through the entire conversation, his back feet tucked beneath him and poised, even though his front half looked relaxed.

He wasn’t going to give me any more. He felt he didn’t need to.

Cats in the wild.

Cat poop in the wild.

Hell, cat poop in the house. Cats were all the same.

They buried their poop so no one could track them.

The problem wasn’t the poop thief.

The poop thief was protecting the wannabes from something else. Something that tracked through scat.

Something that wasn’t human.

I swore and bolted out of the habitat.

I needed my research computer, and I needed it now.

***

Very few things targeted familiars—or perhaps I should say very few non-human things. And I’d never heard of anything that targeted wannabes, because a wannabe’s power, while considerable, wasn’t really honed.

Wannabes were, for lack of a better term, the virgins of the familiar world.

And nothing targeted virgins (not even those stupid civilian terrorists. They got virgins as a reward).

So when I got out of the habitat, I had the computer search for strange creatures or things that targeted virgins. I got nothing.

Except the search engine, asking me a pointed electronic question:

Do you mean things that prefer virgins?

And I, on a frustrated whim, typed yes.

What I got was unicorns. Unicorns preferred virgins. In fact, unicorns would only appear to virgins. In fact, unicorns drew their magic from virgins.

But the magic was pure and sweet and hearts and flowers and Hello Kitty and anything else treacly that you could think of.

Except if the unicorn had become rabid.

I clicked on the link, found several scholarly articles on rabies in unicorns. Rabid unicorns were slightly crazed. But more than that, they had no powers because no virgin (no matter how stupid) was going to go near a horse-sized creature that shouted obscenities and foamed at the mouth.

That was stage one of the rabies. Unlike rabies in non-magical creatures, rabies in unicorns (and centaurs and minotaurs and any other magical animal) manifested in temporary insanity, followed by darkness and pure evil.

The craziness, in other words, went away, leaving nastiness in its wake.

Minotaurs, centaurs, and other such creatures attacked each other. They stole from the nearest mage—or enthralled him, stealing his magic before they killed him.

But unicorns…

Unicorns still needed virgins.

And the only solution was to steal the powers of wannabe familiars.

Provided, of course, that the unicorn could find them.

And unicorns, like most other animals, hunted by scat.

***

I wish I could say I got my giant unicorn-killing musket out of mothballs and carried it through an enchanted forest, hunting a brilliant yet evil unicorn that wanted to devour the untamed magic of wannabe familiars.

I wish I could say I was the one who shot that unicorn with a bullet of pure silver and then got photographed with one foot on its side and the other on the ground, leaning on my musket like hunters of old.

I wish I could say I was the one who cut off its horn, then snapped the thing in half, watching the dark magic dissipate as if it never was.

But I can’t.

Technically, I’m not allowed to leave the store.

So I had to call in the Homeland Security—Magical Branch anyway. I could have called the local mage police, but I wasn’t sure where this unicorn was operating, and HS-MB had contacts worldwide.

They found four rabid unicorns all in the same forest, somewhere in Russia, along with a few rabid squirrels (probably the source of the infection) and a rabid magical faun that was going around murdering all the bears for sport.

The unicorns died along with the squirrels and that faun. The poop reappeared in my computer system, and went back through the normal channels. That week, we made double our money on magical fertilizer, which was good since we’d made none the week before.

All seemed right with the magical world.

Except one thing.

I dragged Fiona to her habitat so I could confront both her and Roy.

They usually didn’t spend much time together. They blamed it on not really having a pride, but I knew the problem was Fiona. She hated having to hunt for him, then watch him eat the best parts.

She hated most things about feline life and once muttered, as yet another well adjusted young mage took a domestic cat as her familiar, that she wished she were small and cute and cuddly.

She had to fetch Roy. He wasn’t going to come. He hadn’t even attacked me as I entered the habitat—probably because Fiona was with me.

I waited as he climbed to the top of his rock, then assumed the same position he’d been in before he jumped at me. Only this time I was prepared. I had my sunglasses and my water bottle.

I also stood a few feet to the right of my previous position, a place he couldn’t get to from the top of that rock.

Fiona sat at the base of the rock, beneath the outcropping, in the only stretch of shade in this part of the plain.

“You want to tell me how you did it?” I asked when Roy finally got comfortable. He sent me an annoyed look when he realized that I had stationed myself outside of his range. “You knew that there was a rabid unicorn after wannabes, and you somehow got the entire group at Familiar Faces to cooperate with you, all without leaving your habitat.”

Then I looked at Fiona. She had left the habitat. She left it every single day.

The tip of her tail twitched, and she tilted her head ever so slightly, her eyes twinkling. But she said nothing.

Roy preened. He licked a paw, then wiped his face. Finally he looked at me, the hairs of his mane in place, looking as majestic as a lion should.

“I am king of the jungle,” he said.

This is a plain, I wanted to point out, but I didn’t for fear of silencing him. Instead I said, “Yet some of the other familiars don’t live in habitats like yours. The snakes, for example.”

He yawned. “The unicorn wasn’t after them.”

“But the animals?” I asked.

He closed his great mouth, then leaned his head downward, so that his gaze met mine. “The Russian Blues are refugees. You didn’t know that, did you?”

I got two domestic cats—purebred Russian Blues. Most purebred cats aren’t familiars—they have the magic bred out of them with all the other mixed genes—but these Blues were amazing. And pretty. And not that willing to talk, even when they knew it was the price of gaining a mage.

“Refugees?” I said. “They were adopted before?”

“Their mages murdered by the new secret police for being terrorists. I thought you checked all of this out.”

I tried to, but I never could. Animal histories weren’t always that easy to find.

“They’d heard rumors about something rabid getting into an enchanted forest somewhere in deepest darkest Russia. Then some young familiars—what you call wannabes—withered and died as their powers were sucked from them over a period of months.”

He tilted his head, as if I could finish his thought.

And I could.

“So the Blues suspected unicorns,” I said.

“There were always rumors of unicorns in that forest,” he said, “but of course, none of us had ever seen them. For normal unicorns, you need virginal humans. None of us had encountered abnormal unicorns before.”

I did the math. The Blues had arrived last Thursday, which was the last day Carmen had worked before Tuesday, when she discovered the problem.

“You went into protect mode immediately,” I said.

“It is my pride, whether you admit it or not.”

I didn’t admit it, but I understood how he thought so. He needed a tribe to rule, so he invented one.

“I still don’t understand what happened. You don’t have the magic to make other animals’ poop disappear.”

“But they do,” he said.

“I know that.” I tried not to sound annoyed. He was toying with me again. I hated being a victim of cat playfulness.

“So how did you tell them what to do?”

He opened his mouth slightly, in that cat-grin of his. Then he got up, shook his mane, and walked back down the rock. He vanished in the tall grass, disappearing against its brownness as if he had never been.

“He could tell me,” I said.

“No, he can’t.” Fiona hadn’t moved.

I let out a small sigh. He hadn’t been toying with me. She had.

“You did it,” I said.

“Me and the bees,” she said. “They’re creating quite a little communications network with those hive minds of theirs. They send little scouts into the other habitats every single time you go from one to the other. The ants too. You really should be more careful.”

I felt a little frisson of worry. I had had no idea. I didn’t want the bees to get delusions of grandeur. I already had to deal with Roy.

“You told them to spread the word.”

She nodded.

“And you told them how the animals could hide their poop.”

She inclined her head as regally—more regally—than Roy ever could.

“Why?” I asked. “You had no guarantee of a threat.”

“This is the biggest gathering of the Hopeful on the globe,” she said. “Of course we are a target.”

She was right. I sighed, took a sip from my water bottle, and frowned. This entire event had opened my eyes to a lot of scary possibilities, things I had never considered.

We were going to have to rethink the way we handled waste. We were going to have to protect the poop somehow, and I didn’t want to consult HS-MB about that. They’d have to hold hearings, and the wrong someone could be sitting in.

I didn’t want us to become a magical terrorism target, nor did I want us to be a target for every rabid unicorn in the world.

I would have to set up the systems myself.

“You need me,” Fiona said, “whether you like it or not. You can’t have pretend familiars. You need a real one.”

She was making a pitch. Cats never did that. Or they only did so if they believed something was important.

“Why here?” I asked. “I’ve found you some pretty spectacular possible mage partners, and you’ve turned them down.”

She wrapped her tail around her paws and stared at me. For a moment, I thought she wasn’t going to answer.

Then she said, “This is my pride. Roy might think it his, but he’s a typical lion. He thinks he’s in charge, when I do all the work.”

She raised her chin. That tuft of hair that all lionesses had beneath looked more like a mane in the shade than it ever had. It made her look regal.

“Well,” she added, “I’m not a typical lioness, content to hunt for her man and to feel happy when he fathers a litter of kittens on her only to run them out when they threaten his little kingdom. I don’t want children. And I want to eat first.”

“You can do that with other mages,” I said.

“But I won’t have a pride. Don’t you see? I’m the one who spoke to the Blues. I’m the one who keeps track of those silly mice—even though I want to eat them—and I’m the one who calms the elephant whenever she has the vapors. No one credits me for it, of course, but it’s time they should.”

No one, meaning me. I hadn’t noticed, and Fiona was bitter. Or maybe she just felt that I wasn’t holding up my end of the bargain.

“Besides,” she said, “it’s hot in here. Can we go back to the air conditioning?”

I laughed and stepped out of the habitat. She followed.

“I’ll petition the mage gods,” I said.

“I already did.” She was walking beside me as we headed toward the front room. “They said yes. I put their response under the cash register.”

We went through the portal. The mice were having a party on top of the cheese books. One of the snakes was dancing too, trying to come out of its basket like a charmed snake from the movies. The dance was a bit pathetic, since the snake was the wrong kind. It was the tiniest of my garden snakes.

They all stopped when they saw me. I looked toward the mall’s interior. The customer door was closed and locked and the main lights were off. The closed sign sat in the window.

Carmen had gone home long ago.

I went to the cash register and felt underneath it. Some dust, some old gum—and yes, a response from the mage gods, dated months ago.

“You took a long time to tell me this,” I said to Fiona.

She wrapped herself around the counter. “You should clean more.”

Come to think of it, a few months before was when she really started muttering her protests out loud. In English. She was doing everything felinely possible except blurting it out that she was now my familiar.

I had never heard of a familiar picking a mage.

Although that wasn’t really true. The familiars always made their preferences known. I knew how to read the signs. For everyone, it seemed, but me.

“Do you regret this?” Fiona asked quietly.

“Hell, no,” I said. “Your brilliance averted a major international incident and saved the lives of hundreds of familiars.”

“Don’t you think that makes me deserving of some salmon?”

I almost said I think that makes you deserving of anything you damn well please, and then I remembered that I was talking to a cat. A large, independent-minded, magical cat, but a cat all the same.

“Salmon it is,” I said and snapped a finger. A plate appeared with the thickest, juiciest salmon steak I could conjure.

I set it down next to her.

“Next time,” she said, “you’re taking me out.”

“Restaurants don’t allow animals,” I said. “At least, not in Chicago.”

“I wasn’t talking about a restaurant,” she said. “I meant a salmon fishery or perhaps one of those spawning grounds in the wild. I heard there’s a species of lion who hunts those grounds.”

“Sea lions,” I said. “You’re not related.”

She chuckled, then wrapped her tail around my legs, nearly knocking me over. Affection from my lioness.

From my familiar.

However I had expected my day to end, it hadn’t been like this.

Carmen was right. This day had been weird.

But good.

“So are you going to promise to take me to a fishery after the next time I save lives?” Fiona asked.

“I suppose,” I said, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

Fiona licked her lips and closed her eyes. The mice started dancing all over again, and chimpanzees came out of the back to see what the commotion was.

After a weird day, a normal night.

And I found, to my surprise, that I preferred normal to weird.

Maybe I was getting soft.

Maybe I was getting older.

Or maybe I had just realized that I was a mage with a familiar, a powerful smart familiar, one I could appreciate.

One who would keep me and my animals safe.

One who would rule her pride with efficiency and not a little playfulness.

I could live with that.

I had a hunch she could too.

 

___________________________________________

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

The Poop Thief

Copyright © 2016 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
First published in Enchantment Place, edited by Denise Little, Daw Books, 2008
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and layout copyright © 2016 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © Kodo34/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.

Flex.

The stream didn’t glow. I stared at it some more, but I was getting only clear water. It flowed from a gap in the rock, forming a narrow but deep current that ran across a massive cavern.

Chomp, chomp…

“Will you please quit doing that?”

Bear raised her bloody muzzle from the stalker’s body and gave me a puzzled look.

“I mean it.”

She licked her lips.

We’d been moving through the tunnels for hours. I lost count of how many stalkers we’d killed. We ran across two silverfish bug things and killed them too. This latest trio of two females and a male died a couple hundred feet into the passageway and I carried the largest body to the stream.

Bear had developed a disturbing liking for stalker meat. Every time we had a fight, and I got distracted, she chomped on bodies like they were premium dog food. She tried to eat the bugs too, but they must’ve tasted foul because she took a bite and never went back for seconds. I had stuck to candy so far, but the Kit-Kat bar was a distant memory. We had run out of water hours ago.

I looked at the stream again. Bear padded next to me, looked at the water, and whined. She’d tried to drink already but I stopped her.

In a perfect world, I would have boiled the water, but I didn’t have any way to make a fire. And even if I could, my plastic hard hat was the only vessel we had. It would melt. Well, I could probably boil water in a canteen… It was moot anyway. I didn’t have a lighter or any fuel. What I had was two empty canteens and a very thirsty dog, who was currently dancing on the bank in anticipation.

 Fuck it.

I nodded at the stream. “Go get it.”

The shepherd bounded to the bank and began lapping up the water, splashing it all over the place.

“Is any of that actually getting into your mouth?”

Bear paused to give me a look and went back to drinking.

I scooted upstream and dipped my hands into the breach water. The stalker blood faded a little. I scrubbed my fingers. There was dark grime under my fingernails, and I shuddered to think what kind of bacteria was breeding there.

I cleaned my hands as best I could, cupped them, and brought some water to my mouth. It tasted clean and cold. Thank god for small favors.

I filled both canteens, filled my hat, and poured it over my coveralls, trying to wash the dried blood from the neoprene. It took forever.  Finally, I straightened. Bear lay next to the water, twitching her left ear.

“We drank, we showered, it’s time for a feast.”

I walked over to the stalker’s corpse, crouched, shifted my sword into a knife, and paused. Bear had been eating them along the way every chance she got, and so far she didn’t have any shivers.

Mmm, raw alien meat.

I didn’t have any choice. If we had found some plants or fruits that were safe, I would have eaten that, but the caves offered mostly fungi. They were conveniently glowing and hellishly poisonous.

“Stalker. It’s what’s for dinner.”

Bear panted.

I stabbed the stalker and gutted it. I was never a hunter. The only skinning I had ever done was limited to removing the skin from chicken thighs from the grocery store. Getting the pelt off took a while. Finally, I cut a ham free and tossed it to Bear.  The shepherd chomped on it.

I carved a paper-thin slice from the other leg and sniffed it. It smelled kind of gamey. Disgusting. It smelled disgusting. Back home, I bought a special composite cutting board just for raw chicken, because I could put it through the dishwasher. All of my wooden cutting boards were scrubbed after each use, and all of my meat was cooked to the correct temperature. I owned three cooking thermometers.

This meat was raw. Not rare. Just raw.

“Tacos would be so nice right now. Or shepherd’s pie. I make really good shepherd’s pie, with creamy mashed potatoes and a crust of melted cheese on top.”

Bear chewed on the stalker ham.

“You know what my favorite dessert is? Sometimes, when life’s too hard, I go to Dairy Queen and get a Turtle Pecan Cluster Blizzard. It has pecans and little bits of chocolate. I don’t really like pecans, and I’m not much of a chocoholic, but there is something about that Blizzard. I could so use one right now.”

My stomach was begging for calories. I’d been hiking for days by now and between the hikes I’d been fighting for my life. My body kept healing my wounds, and all that regeneration had to have a caloric cost.

I was starving. Everything ached. If I flexed right now, the meat would be bright red. I had to eat, or I would become someone else’s dinner. I couldn’t afford weakness.

I surrendered to my fate and bit into the thin slice.

No flash of pain. No broken glass. It tasted vile and it stank, but it was meat. I was squatting by the river in a breach and eating raw meat. I’d gone completely feral.

I would make it out of this cave, and then I would never think of this again.

I chewed the meat and tried to think of something else. Luckily for me, I had plenty to ponder.

When we crossed the stone bridge out of that small cave, I sensed something. It was far in the distance, hidden behind countless cave walls and solid stone, a cluster of… something. I couldn’t quite describe it. It felt almost like a hot magnet. It pulled on me, but not in a pleasant way. It was more like a psychic ache, like a splinter that got stuck in my awareness and now throbbed.

The stalkers and other creatures had kept me busy, so I mostly noted it and kept moving. But right now, with no distractions, it nagged on me. It could’ve been anything, but the most plausible explanation was usually the right one.

I’d become aware of the anchor.

Most of the gate divers never felt the anchor. That awareness usually came with extraordinary power particular to top tier Talents. Not all the top tier guildmembers could feel the anchor, but everyone who felt it was in the upper slice of the talent pool.

I leaned over the stream and tried to look at my reflection. I couldn’t really see myself.  The light was too diffused. My arms and legs didn’t look that different, but then I was wearing coveralls.

I would have to find a reflective surface somewhere. I didn’t want to dwell on it. As long as I still looked enough like myself to be recognized, I would be fine.

The bigger problem was the anchor. It was closer now than when we started. We were walking toward it. I didn’t want to go toward the anchor. I wanted to go toward the gate and the exit. But right now, I didn’t have much choice. Even if I wanted to backtrack, I couldn’t. We had threaded the labyrinth of the tunnels like a needle, and I didn’t remember the way back.

The assault team had taken a route to the anchor that led away from the mining site. In theory, if I found the anchor chamber, I could try to find that route and use it to reach the gate. However, the closer you go to the anchor, the more difficult the fights became.

I had two choices: to wander aimlessly in these caves or to head for the anchor. Even if I failed to find the route the first assault team had taken, eventually Cold Chaos would send in the second-strike team. Joining up with them would be too dangerous. Cold Chaos wanted me dead. But I could either retrace their steps or follow them to the gate, staying out of sight. I’d gotten very good at moving quietly.

The anchor was the only logical choice. I would have to chance it. At least I had a direction now.

Fifteen minutes later, Bear departed to poop in the corner by some rocks and came back.

“Good to go?”

The dog waved her tail.

Maybe we could take a breather…

The cave wall by Bear’s poop moved.

“Come!” I barked.

Bear ran over to me.

The wall trembled and broke apart, cascading to the floor.

I jumped over the stream. Bear leaped with me. We cleared fifteen feet and landed on the other bank.

Chunks of the wall streamed to the stalker carcass. I flexed. Bugs, about a foot across, with a chitin carapace that perfectly mimicked the stone.

I backed away.

The bug whirlpool broke open, revealing a bare skeleton. Not a shred of flesh remained. If we had fallen asleep here…

“I fucking hate this place. Come on Bear. Before the cave piranha bugs eat us too.”

I headed into the gloom, my loyal dog trotting at my side.

The post The Inheritance: Chapter 7 Part 2 first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

From the award-winning author of Birth, comes Access by Rebecca Grant, a journey into the…

The post Spotlight on “Access” by Rebecca Grant appeared first on LitStack.

If you stop skritching, I will kill you. Also, if you don’t.

Oooh, catch 22 FTW!

I like skritches and wouldn’t kill anyone.

Samesies. Not, that anyone ever skritches me.

Dramatic Purple Performance Piece! What? Did I miss something?

I’ve become quite bad at updating, and I’ve added a prompt in my diary to write something at the end of every month.

This is a catchup, so what has happened this year?

The Long Way Home

The fourth book of the series, Don’t Stop Now, has been finished and edited and is sitting on the Amazon servers collecting pre-orders.

https://mybook.to/TLWH4-DSN

This takes the intrepid crew of the Dark Phoenix (formerly the Acid Penguin) into the heart of the Inner Worlds. Those star systems aren’t as rich and stable as Jan and Bjorn expected, and the best flow of commerce is all against their direction of travel.

But they find one good turn deserves…

Ah. Not quite. Well, it would be difficult to say they get an easy good turn back, but life does become very shady and interesting for a while.

And then they’re in the depths of the Inner Worlds, where evil and corruption sink into the very fabric of star systems.

Warning, this book ends on a cliffhanger. Mwah ha ha ha!

I did write half of this on the newsletter, so followers there will recognize the early episodes. I’m not using the newsletter for TLWH any more. It made great sense at the time, but I can’t juggle so much these days.

There are a couple more books in this series to complete the arc of returning to Calloway and saving their colony (and rescuing that lost colony too).

I’ve also bundled the first 3 books together into a boxset. Link below.

https://mybook.to/TLWH-Boxset1

Amber Farrell – Paranormal PI – Bite Back

Well, I’m making progress with #9, but summer is here, and the delay in completing TLWH4 means that BB9 is slipping from Q3 to Q4 this year. As ever, there are a tangle of threads to weave into order and the pace has to be kept up.

Amber and Bian have the initial meeting of the new Assembly to host in Denver, which itself is full of problems for both of them, but Amber also has to persuade the Were Confederation to attend, and she can’t simply ignore the war with Basilikos while the Assembly sits. Nor can she refuse to assist as Emergence seeps into the highest levels of government, not forgetting there’s the investigation of who exactly was behind the whole of Matlal’s undercover operation in the States … who gave the orders for her to be treated like a lab rat by the late Colonel Peterson? Who could be so high in the administration of the Department of Defence that they could authorize that?

And all the while, her friends are increasingly worried about her: her state of mind, and her soul itself.

Bite Back 9 is my highest writing priority this year. Big and twisty, folks.

In the background, I’ve also bundled all 8 books together in a boxset. There are readers out there who don’t want individual books, even long ones, they want LOTS and LOTS of words. It just so happens that the 8 major novels amount to over a million words, so that should keep them happy. If you know of any ‘whale readers’, here’s the link

https://mybook.to/BB-Boxset1-8

There are at least 2 more books in the Bite Back series.

And now to my poor orphans. Firstly, the other two series which I have promised I will get to…

Bian’s Tale

I loved writing the first book. (A good thing because my editor made me rewrite it about 3 times).

I loved the research, and it was necessary because 1890s Saigon isn’t the most accessible of eras & places. I have a huge box of books (some of them in French), videos in DVD and VHS(!) format, TV recordings, entire battered notebooks, travel guides, etc. etc.

I found the box stuffed away in the back of the attic a couple of weeks ago.

Why?

Because when I released Bian’s Tale 1, The Harvest of Lies… it disappeared with barely a ripple. I don’t think the writing is bad, or the setting is too unusual. (Although someone complained of the evidence of too much research, lol). But I think I got the marketing wrong (cover, advertising etc.).

While I was still finding that out, for a few weeks, I was running on the enthusiasm of the first book, and outlined five others, and I wrote some of book 2, The Words of the Dead. Then I put it aside because the response to book 1 was so bad, and eventually I tidied the research away into the attic.

All that said, with the resurgence of Bite Back, now people are discovering The Harvest of Lies and complaining about the non-appearance of book 2.

I will return to The Words of the Dead. I hope next year. There are 5-6 books in the series which will take Bian through to the point where she is appointed Diakon of House Altau, with maybe an epilogue that shows Bian’s point of view at that first meeting with Amber described in Sleight of Hand.

The Harvest of Lies is at:

https://mybook.to/THoL

Among the Stars

Another orphan series. The first two books were written as episodes which I posted on WordPress and made available in newsletters.

Book 1, A Name Among the Stars, was a definite success. I wrote it as a bit of an experiment, which freed me from the concept of narrow genres and writing styles. Book 1 was a deliberate attempt to write a mash-up of a Regency romance and Science Fiction adventure, in the first person, in the present tense. It was great fun to write. I thought it was going to be a stand-alone, but enough people asked for more, and so I wrote A Theat Among the Stars. The complexity of the story required the addition of multiple PoV characters, with Zara remaining in the first person and other PoV characters speaking in the third person. All fun to write as well.

Readers liked A Threat Among the Stars, but not in the numbers to make book 3, A Ship Among the Stars, a high enough priority.

I have written some short stories which form part of book 3, and I do want to finish this series, but it’s definitely a ‘next year’ thing.

There are a couple more books in this series.

The first two are at:

https://mybook.to/Among_the_Stars

Other Orphans

Stand Up

An unnamed sequel to Change of Regime

Newsletter stories (monthly)

A host of others.

Yes. I know. I hate not finishing things. I will get through everything, but I started a slow writer and I haven’t got any faster!

I mentioned in January’s list that I had fewer books to recommend in February and March. I read a lot but didn’t finish some of the books, and the ones I did finish, I didn’t really like well enough to recommend. As I tell my writing students, you have to stick the landing. And some of those landings really missed. A few of the others just bored me. I faded out as I went along and realized I didn’t want to read the book anymore. (I do that by grabbing other books, starting those, and realizing that I’d rather be reading them.)

I have stories here from 2 different Best American Mystery & Suspense, but I’m not recommending either volume, since I didn’t read a lot of them. The stories seemed child-cruelty heavy or animal abuse heavy, and I’m not really into either of those things. And there’s some I’m not fond of the kind of noir in either of them. So it’s up to you if you get these two volumes. 

So here’s what I liked back in February…

 

February 2025

Bernier, Ashley-Ruth M., “Ripen,” The Best American Mystery and Suspense 2023,  edited by Lisa Unger, Mariner Books, 2023. When editors are lazy with the Best Americans and do not put the stories in any kind of reading order, the opening story is a real crapshoot. I’m always braced for something that does not give me any ideas as to the way the volume will go. As a result, I approach the first story with trepidation, and usually that trepidation is justified.

In this volume, though, the first story, “Ripen,” is well written, powerful, and memorable. I was happily surprised by the entire thing. The setting is rich, the characters vivid, and the story itself strong. Read this one.

Cho, Winston, “AI: The Ghost in Hollywood’s Machine,” The Hollywood Reporter, December 13, 2024. (This story online has a different title.) Fascinating piece that could have been written about any emerging technology, really. AI will change how business gets done all over the planet (is changing?), and Hollywood is no different. It will make some things easier to “film” such as massive crowd scenes (already is, in fact) but it might cost a lot of jobs. As in a lot of jobs. And the kind that normally don’t get taken by technological change…as in the jobs of creatives. I think we’ll see a lot of these articles in the future as we try to figure out how to live with this newest thing in our lives.

Cobo, Leila, “Guarding Celia Cruz’s Legacy,” Billboard January 11, 2025. Fascinating interview with Omer Pardillo, who manages the Celia Cruz estate. It’s about how he got the job, how he goes about maintaining the estate, and the heart of the estate. He lists where the revenue comes from. He says it’s mostly from recording royalties and brand partnerships. It’s really fun to see his joy at all of the success the estate’s been having. At one point, he states that it’s not bad for an artist who’s been dead for 21 years.

Cole, Alyssa, “Just a Girl,” The Best American Mystery and Suspense 2024, edited by S.A. Cosby, Mariner Books, 2024. This story, written as a series of online TikTok posts, DMs, texts, emails, and online articles, is devastating and heartbreaking and extremely powerful. Tiana, her first year in college during Covid, starts posting updates on TikTok, and gaining a following. She tries a dating app, encounters a gross guy, and calls his yuckiness out on her TikTok…and then he and his friends start going after her. Everything spirals after that. What’s amazing about this story is that you can see the joy leaching from this young woman as she realizes how terrible the world can be—and how dangerous it is for young beautiful women. Highly recommended.

Freimor, Jacqueline, “Forward,” The Best American Mystery and Suspense 2023,  edited by Lisa Unger, Mariner Books, 2023. Normally, I wouldn’t read a story that looked dense and difficult, but the format (and the footnotes) are the point of the story. It’s an amazing work of fiction, with a great reveal. Yes, it takes concentration to read it, but it’s really worthwhile.

McClintock, Pamela, “Ryan Reynolds Multitasks Like a Mofo,” The Hollywood Reporter,  December 13, 2024. There’s a lot of fascinating quotes in this interview with Ryan Reynolds, whom The Hollywood Reporter dubbed their Producer of the Year. He does a variety of things besides act, and seems to enjoy all of them. The quote I like the most is at the end:

…it’s all an emotional investment. If you can create emotional investment in anything, any brand, it creates a moat around that brand that really, I think, facilitates the resilience and allows it to weather the storms in the bad times. And yes, that’s the part I love.

I think I love it too, although not as much as actual writing and making things up. Still, lots of good stuff to think about in this interview.

Zeitchik, Steven,“The Other Rebuild,” The Hollywood Reporter, January 17, 2025. 2025 has been such a shitshow already it’s hard to remember that the LA Fires happened only a few months ago. We seem to be moving from tragedy to tragedy, heartbreak to heartbreak, every single day, and we lose track of what others have gone through. A number of my friends went through the fires and fortunately, in this round of the climate change blues, very few of them lost their homes. (I can’t say that about previous California fires.) But everyone’s mental health took a nosedive. Many moved to different digs in the same town while others are leaving their LA h

I know we don’t normally do posts on the weekend, but Mod R is off anyway, and if I do it on Monday, our newsletter will eat the post. We can only do one post a day or it loses it.

Hidden Legacy in Dutch.

Love Books has collaborated with So Many Pages to release this beautiful special edition of Hidden Legacy in Dutch.

Verschijningsdatum: 17-07-2025

Pre-order actie: bestel dit boek bij So Many Pages en je ontvangt automatisch de artprint ‘Baylor Sisters Portrait’ van Luisa Preissler bij je pre-order! Zo lang de voorraad strekt, exclusief bij So Many Pages en exclusief bij de pre-order.

Romantasy must-read! Een verslavende slow burn van internationale bestsellerauteur Ilona Andrews.

Click to Preorder

The Inheritance Release Date

As of now, we are aiming for July. We are desperately trying to finish, but last week was just difficult for many reasons. We will have ebook and print. The audio will come out later. We are in talks for the split narration audiobook, that will feature a woman reading Ada’s parts and a man reading Elias’ parts. We can’t announce anything more concrete until all details are finalized and the contracts are signed.

The length will be around 50K, which is shorter than Magic Claims but longer than Magic Tides.

As always, while most of the story will be released on the blog, a chunk of the finale will be held back for the official publisher version.

I need to reach out to my CEs to see if anyone has an opening.

This Kingdom Needs an Astronomer

We have three moons. They are at different orbits and positions so they are not always in the same phase. Does anyone know of a calculator that would let us ballpark the moon phases and calendar? There has got to be some sort of tool where you can plug in your month length and calculate things for a hypothetical planet, right?

The post Housekeeping Saturday first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

This month has been way better than last month. Though it would be hard to get much worse than last month.

But now, it's almost Omega's turn to fly the ship! He's so excited that he promises not to appear over you as you sleep​, whispering into your ears with six mouths. As long as you preorder. If you don't buy the book, he promises nothing.

Writing The Pilot was an interesting challenge, mainly because of all the interruptions over the last half a year. I did enjoy writing Omega, though. Especially his backstory. Probably my favorite scene to write was a flashback to before Omega had powers, because you get to see him act like a lunatic but in a more human way.

While enjoyable, he's still hard to write as the central character of a book, because Omega doesn't care about anything. Or does he? Yes he does, because otherwise there would be no story, but bringing that out was Interesting Challenge #2.

Interesting Challenge #3 will be writing the next book, because we'll get to explore some COOL NEW THINGS that I won't SPOIL because they're SPOILERS for the ending of this one.

Besides putting a book up for preorder, the coolest thing I did this month was go to Epic Universe, the new theme park in Orlando.

I know they already had Super Nintendo World in Japan and California, but I hadn't spoiled myself, and my first time walking into the Mushroom Kingdom was literally breathtaking. It took my breath. I shed a single nostalgic tear.

The entire park seems like it's tailor-made to appeal to me specifically. The worlds are themed after Wizards, Dragons, Monsters, and Nintendo. This is the park that my eight-year-old self sketched in a notebook.

For real, the entire park is incredible. And we got in when it was raining and therefore not hot or crowded, which is a Florida life hack for theme parks.

-Will

P.S. The Chocolate-Covered Pretzel Oreos sound like they wouldn't work, but they are delicious.

Hello! I’m frantically packing for my upcoming tour but wanted to give you a final reminder about the WE COULD BE MAGIC preorder campaign. If you’re in the US or Canada, preorder your copy and upload your receipt to receive these special items :

• An adorable scrunchie set inspired by the book

• An exclusive digital sneak peek of THE HOUSE SAPHIR (my next fairy tale retelling, coming out this fall!)

BUT HURRY! This campaign closes June 2 at 11:59pm ET.

A swoon-worthy young adult graphic novel about a girl’s summer job at a theme park from #1 New York Times bestselling author Marissa Meyer.

When Tabitha Laurie was growing up, a visit to Sommerland saved her belief in true love, even as her parents’ marriage was falling apart. Now she’s landed her dream job at the theme park’s prestigious summer program, where she can make magical memories for other kids, guests, and superfans just like her. All she has to do is audition for one of the coveted princess roles, and soon her dreams will come true.

There’s just one problem. The heroes and heroines at Sommerland are all, well… thin. And no matter how much Tabi lives for the magic, she simply doesn’t fit the park’s idea of a princess.

Given a not-so-regal position at a nacho food stand instead, Tabi is going to need the support of new friends, a new crush, and a whole lot of magic if she’s going to devise her own happily ever after. . . without getting herself fired in the process.

With art by Joelle Murray, the wonder of Sommerland comes to life with charming characters and whimsical backdrops. We Could Be Magic is a perfect read for anyone looking to get swept away by a sparkly summer romance.

How to get your swag:

1. Preorder your copy via my Bookshop.org store (or wherever you normally purchase your books).
2. Submit your receipt here. US/Canada only. See link for full details.

See you on tour! Make sure you check out the special tour linktree for individual event details and ticketing.

Do you follow me on Instagram? If you don’t yet, you’re going to want to as there will be a rom-com giveaway featuring WITH A LITTLE MAGIC, INSTANT KARMA, and WITH A LITTLE LUCK. Coming soon for my Instagram followers.

Until next time, happy reading and I can’t wait to see many of you on the WE COULD BE MAGIC tour!

With love,

Marissa

The post Will I See You On Tour? first appeared on Marissa Meyer.

Are you ready to read a collection of short stories that reads like a novel?…

The post Immerse Yourself in 12 Influential Short Story Novels That Epitomize the Form appeared first on LitStack.

Well, this one goes to show that (again) I shouldn’t let my preconceptions determining my reading. From that title, I was expecting some sort of time-travelling Medieval/Tolkienesque fantasy, something akin to say, Connie Willis’s Doomsday Book, but perhaps a bit more light-hearted. It isn’t. (Well – except perhaps the light-hearted bit.) The author himself says…

Mod R is taking time off, so I’m moderating. I know she sometimes explains why a comment was pulled. I don’t have time, unfortunately, so if your comment disappears, it was probably really off topic or it might have gotten flagged as spam.

Elias studied London from across the conference table. The man was lean, in good shape, with an expensive haircut and the kind of face most people would describe as attractive. He seemed ten years younger than his forty-five, and the way he sat, although not overtly confrontational, signaled that he was neither nervous nor afraid.

It was that easy confidence, coupled with innate ability, that first prompted Elias to promote London to leader of Assault Team 4 five years ago. People looked at London, saw that he wasn’t frightened, and trusted him to take them into the breach and bring them safely out. London appeared capable and stable, and in practice and training matches he outperformed most of the other higher tier Talents. A perfect candidate to lead an assault team.

He saw London differently now. What he’d previously mistaken for confidence was instead an ever-present air of polite entitlement. London lost most of his team, people who counted on him to keep them from harm, and he had escaped uninjured. Most guild members in that position would be sweating bullets right now.  Not London.

He held himself as if this was a meeting of equals instead of a subordinate who’d made a major mistake and his boss who was not inclined to let it pass. He wasn’t impatient – that would’ve been impolite and London was never impolite.  Rather he managed to make it clear that he considered this entire process a formality, a series of tedious procedural steps, at the end of which he would be released with all his troubles swept under the rug and forgotten.

On paper, he and London were not dissimilar. Both blade wardens, both in their mid to late 40’s, both with nearly a decade of gate diving. At one point, years ago, the gap between their abilities had been much shorter.

Elias had grown in power every year. Nine years after his awakening, he was stronger, faster, and more experienced than when he had started. He learned to imbue his blade, so his weapons cut through solid steel and stone. His shield lasted a full five seconds longer now than it had when he’d walked into his first gate, and each second was hard won through grueling training and life and death battles.

London hadn’t progressed at nearly the same pace. It might have been the limitations of their inborn abilities, but Elias had come to suspect that it was a limitation of will. London was happy in his current position within the guild. He was well compensated for taking a relatively low risk role, he had no immediate supervisor breathing down his neck, and he rarely spent a night in the breach. Elias could see the appeal. But he also knew that he, himself, would never be satisfied with just that.

He’d thought about it while rereading London’s file. Alexander Wright came from an upper middle-class family, had gone to a boarding school, followed that with Cambridge, and ended up with a job in finance. Affluent, comfortable, respectable, just as expected. Unfortunately for Wright, the market collapse following the first gates’ bursting bankrupted the firm he’d worked for and wiped out his personal wealth. He was forced to pivot.

This struggle was short-lived, since he’d conveniently awakened to his talent. Six months later he was in the US, making a name for himself as London, moving from smaller guilds to more prominent ones, until a Cold Chaos recruiter scouted him six years ago.

That seemed to be a trend with London. He led a charmed existence. It wasn’t that he didn’t experience adversity, it was that when a crisis occurred, another opportunity always presented itself. He was expected to do well and always land on his feet and had no doubt he would.

Elias had been in a state of crisis from the moment the gates opened. It never stopped. No exit ramp appeared, and if it had, he wasn’t sure he would’ve taken it.

 His grandfather was a carpenter who got drafted during WWII and served with honor. His father enlisted in the Navy to escape Vietnam, because he knew he would eventually be drafted and wanted to choose where to serve. He ended up going career, retiring 20 years later, and picking up a civilian contractor job at the Department of Defense. Elias himself had gone to Virginia Military Institute, and his big rebellion consisted of accepting a commission in the Army instead of the Navy, partially to spite his dad. He was the first college graduate and the first officer in four generations of McFernons. To him, striving for advancement was a given. You always wanted to be better, to do more, to get that next rank, to excel, and to matter.

No matter where life took them, London would always slightly look down on him.  The condescension of classism was so casual, London himself likely barely registered it. Normally Elias didn’t give a fuck what London – or anyone else – thought of him, but right now he needed to remind the escort captain of their respective roles.  This wasn’t a business meeting.  London wasn’t doing him a favor. He was called out on the carpet and had to account for his actions. The man was entirely too comfortable, and when people felt that comfortable, lying was effortless.

Elias would’ve liked to have this conversation back at HQ instead of Elmwood Library.  It would’ve set a proper tone, but he, Leo, and London needed to remain on site. The protocol dictated that if an entire assault team was lost, the gate had to be guarded at all times in case of a sudden rupture. Elias had taken a very short excursion to the HQ today, because it was absolutely necessary, but from now on he and every other guild member were gate-bound.

Library or not, Elias needed to deliver a powerful, precise punch and knock the man off balance or he would never get to the bottom of this mess.

Elias leveled a heavy stare at London. “Is this another Lansing? If it is, you need to tell me now.”

London went pale.

That’s right.  Remember how you landed in your current spot. Remember why you’re no longer the assault leader.

London leaned back in his chair, his expression indignant. “How much longer? How many times do I have to prove myself? Will you ever let it go? What do I have to do?”

Too easy. “Not losing an entire escort team and most of the miners would be a good start.”

The words hung between them.

The door swung open.  Leo entered the room and sat on London’s left. They had coordinated this prior to the interview.

“That’s unfair,” London said. “Nobody could have stopped that. You couldn’t have stopped that.”

“I would have tried.”

“And you would have died.”

Elias pointed to the survey of the mining site printed on a large posterboard. “Walk me through it.”

London glanced at Leo. “I already spoke to the Vice-Guildmaster.”

“And now you’re speaking to me.”  Elias leveled a heavy stare at London and paused to let the weight of his words sink in.

The escort captain shifted his weight to the side, leaning to his left in the chair, and crossed his arms. If they were standing instead of sitting in the office, his shield would be up.

 Elias leaned forward, taking up more of London’s view, communicating that the table between them wasn’t much of a barrier. His speech was unhurried.

“You know what’s so easy about telling the truth? It’s always the same. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to keep track of it. It never changes. Start with the moment you entered the gate. You were four minutes behind schedule. Why?”

London sighed. “Ms. Moore had an emergency phone call regarding her daughter. I judged it to be in the best interest of the guild to allow her to resolve that situation before we went in. That way she could be more fully focused on the assessing.”

Elias had spoken with Adaline’s children this morning, after he drove to HQ at sunrise. Haze had put them into the HQ’s guest apartments, and when Elias came to visit, he was greeted by two scared kids and an upset cream-colored cat. The cat hissed at him. The children wanted to know if their mother was dead.  He wanted to know that too.

“What happened next?” Elias pressed.

“We entered the breach and proceeded to the mining site.” London pointed to the survey. “We walked for approximately twelve minutes. The transit was uneventful. Seven minutes in we encountered a group of deceased hostiles, which identified as a variant of Moody’s stalkers…”

The story was largely the same as the notes Elias had read: they got to the site, started mining, then five hostiles emerged from the tunnels and slaughtered everyone. According to London, he saved whom he could by collapsing the entrance. This time though, he mentioned the gold in addition to the adamantite.

“You omitted the discovery of the gold in your original interview. Why?”

“It was not relevant. I was focused on conveying the nature of the threat.”

“Fourteen people died or are presumed dead,” Elias said. “Everything is relevant.”

“I know,” the exasperation was clear in London’s voice. “I can count.”

He wasn’t completely lying, Elias reflected. His physical responses when recounting the attack matched those of someone who lived through a near death experience. Whatever happened scared the hell out of London, and that was precisely the problem.

At his side Leo sat slightly straighter. Elias kept looking straight ahead. No, not yet.

“In your opinion, was the mining site secure?”

London unlocked his teeth. “No.”

“What steps would you have taken to make the mining site secure?”

“I would have collapsed the north access tunnels.”

“Why didn’t you?”

London grimaced. “It wasn’t my call.”

And it went exactly the way Elias expected it to go. London was shifting as much of the blame on Malcolm as he could get away with, and Malcolm wasn’t here to defend himself.

Elias glanced at Leo. Now.

“Did you review the survey with Assault Team Leader Malcolm?” Leo asked.

“I did. You have a record of that meeting.”

“Did Malcolm specify how he selected the mining site?” Elias asked.

“Again, you have the record of the meeting. He selected the site based on the visible mineral deposits of malachite and copper-bearing ores in the walls, the size and relative stability of the cavern, and the proximity to the gate.”

“Were you aware of the risks the tunnels posed?” Leo asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you raise those concerns with Malcolm?” Elias asked.

“I did.”

“What rationale did Malcolm give you for leaving the tunnels intact?” Leo asked.

“He thought he might require an alternate route to the anchor.”

“Why not just collapse the tunnels and dig through if needed?” Elias asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you collapse the tunnels after getting to the site?” Leo asked.

London stared at him for a second. “Because it is not my call.” He bit the words off.

“The security of the mining site is your call. You are responsible for the safety of the escorts and the miners,” Elias countered. “Do you understand the scope of your duties, Escort Captain Wright?”

London glared at him. Angry red blotches colored his face.

“Malcolm wanted to keep the tunnels open. I brought up the possible risk. Malcolm reiterated his desire to keep the tunnels open. The survey showed no predators larger than the stalkers, and my team was well equipped to handle the stalkers. I requested a secondary sweep of a half mile from the entrance to the tunnels. The scout confirmed the sweep was done. You are not going to hang this on me. Malcolm fucked up. Malcolm is dead.”

It was all pouring out.  They broke him.  

“We can split hairs all day, but in the end, all of us in this room know that the ultimate responsibility lies with the assault leader.  As the escort captain, I must maintain a good working relationship with the assault leader. That is the system that you put in place. You put Malcolm in that position, and you put me in my position.”

Shifting the blame again. If it wasn’t his fault, it was Malcolm, and if it wasn’t Malcolm, the system and the guild were to blame.

“Malcolm and I respected each other. I was not going to go behind his back, because I had to work with him in the future. I brought three people out with me, three people who otherwise would have been dead. I am not going to take the blame for what happened. This outrage and scrutiny are disingenuous. A fatal event happened; people died. People die in breaches every day. This was no different. Either get used to it or get out of the game.”

London’s brain finally caught up with his mouth. He shut up.

Nobody said anything.

“You can judge all you want,” London said. “But you weren’t there. You didn’t see them. The speed… They were so fast, they blurred. My reaction time is half that of an average human and I couldn’t follow it. Elias, seriously, whatever assault team would have been in that fucking cave, none of them would have made it. You want me to say I ran? Yeah, I did. Like I told you, I saved who I could and got out.”

Elias leaned forward. “Look me in the eye and tell me that everyone else in that cave was dead when you threw the grenade.”

“They were dead. All of them. The miners, the K-9, the scout – everyone was dead. I saw the DeBRA cut to pieces. You have my word.”

They hounded London for the next ten minutes, but they didn’t get anything else. Elias knew they wouldn’t. In the end, they told him to stay put at the site and let him go.

Elias leaned back in his chair. London was lying. It was in the eyes. That direct unblinking stare when he said, “You have my word.”

“It wasn’t the gold,” Leo muttered.

“It wasn’t.”

London’s demeanor confirmed what Elias already deduced from the record of the survey meeting. He didn’t know about the gold, and he didn’t see it as relevant.

No, this problem ran deeper.

Leo steepled his fingers, his tone methodical, almost clinical.

“Assault Team 3 is the best performing team in the yellow and orange tiers. Malcolm and London worked together frequently. London saw him as his professional equal. In his mind, they were laterally positioned. If he pushed against Malcolm, there would’ve been tension and conflict. London abhors tension. He didn’t want to rock the boat. Was it a misguided professional courtesy?”

“And professional arrogance,” Elias said.  “You heard him.  Nothing larger than a stalker was found.  Breaches are unpredictable.  Nothing can be taken for granted. He’s grown complacent.”

Leo’s eyes flashed with white. “He’s lying.  I can’t prove it, but I feel it.”

“It’s the lack of guilt,” Elias told him. “You go in and lose your whole team. You’re going to be pretty fucked up. Maybe catatonic. I’ve had to put people on suicide watches before. He’s too aggressive, too confrontational. He’s absolved himself of all responsibility. He’s right about one thing – I put him into that position. The buck stops with me.”

“It’s been three years since Lansing,” Leo said. “He hasn’t fucked up until now.”

“That we know of. One of two things happened in that breach.  Either London is telling the truth, and he is a hero who saved three miners, or he is a coward who abandoned his team to their death.”

“Which do you think it is?” Leo asked.

“I think he saw something that terrified him, and he bugged out. The only way to prove what happened is to examine the mining site and the bodies, assuming there is anything left of them. I need cause to remove him from his position.”

“And with Melissa backing him up, we don’t have any.” Leo frowned. “If we demote him, it will look like we made him into a scapegoat.”

“That’s not our biggest problem. If we demote him without proof, he will jump ship to Guardian or any other guild willing to take him.  He looks good on paper.  He will aim for the escort captain again, because he likes that job, and the next time shit hits the fan, more people will die.” Elias exhaled. “We need to get into that breach ASAP.”

“Agreed,” Leo said.

“Did you find Jackson?” Elias asked.

“Not yet. We’re doing everything we can.”

“I know.”

Sitting on his hands was driving him out of his skin, but going into that breach without a healer was suicide. Whether London lied or told the truth, something took out Malcolm’s assault team.  He couldn’t risk any more lives.

“You need to rest, sir,” Leo said quietly.

Elias looked up. Outside the window the morning was in full swing. He’d slept four hours in the last forty-eight.

“We have bunks set up downstairs,” Leo said. “If anything happens, if I hear anything, I’ll wake you up.”

Elias didn’t feel like sleeping, but his body needed it, and he knew he would pass out the moment his head hit a pillow.

“Wake me up as soon as you find Jackson.”

“I will, sir.”

The post The Inheritance: Chapter 7 Part 1 first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Book review: The Price of Power by Michael Michel

Book links: Amazon | Goodreads

About the book: Prince Barodane could not hold back the darkness. Not even in himself. He laid an innocent city in its grave and then died a hero.

In his absence, war whispers across the land.

Power-hungry highborn dispatch spies and assassins to the shadows as they maneuver for the throne, while an even greater threat rises in the South. Monsters and cultists flock to the banners of a mad prophet determined to control reality…and then shatter it.

Destiny stalks three to the brink of oblivion.

A dead prince who isn’t dead. Barodane buried his shameful past in a stupor of drugs, drink, and crime. Now, he’d rather watch the world fall apart than wear the crown again.

An orphan with hero’s blood who's forced to make a harrowing betray her country or sacrifice her first love.

And a powerful seer who has no choice at all–her grandson must die.

If any of them fails to pay the price…

The cost will be the world’s complete annihilation.

Formats: Audiobook, ebook, paperback

REVIEW: The Price of Power is an impressive start to an intricately plotted dark fantasy saga. Michel’s writing shines with his fine attention to detail, a polished prose, and a rich, moral ambiguity where you’re never comfortable rooting for a particular side.

Two empires have been struggling for decades. One side invaded and enslaved the other, but the slaves broke free and overcame their oppressors while unifying disparate territories into a sovereign nation. But as time passed, the oppressed became the oppressors; they enacted a horrifying tradition of permanently scarring the newborns of their old enemies. There are legitimate arguments on both sides for generational hatred, and the current balance of peace vs. rebellion is teetering on the precipice of disaster.

We follow several POVs across the continent: a powerful Grandmother tasked with training a doomed young boy; an isolated princess forced to prove her worth to save the kingdom from shattering into chaos; a disgraced war veteran-turned-drug dealer haunted by madness and regret; an ally of the veteran who traded honor for loyalty; a defeated and abused pig farmer who embarks on a suicide march up a cursed mountain haunted by demons and untold power.

The vast majority of the story has very little crossover between the characters, but the threads start to weave together near the conclusion. While there was some predictably with some of the later reveals, Michel’s strong character development and emotional growth elevated the reading experience.

The pacing was also strong, as I longed to return to each POV to see what would happen next — but was never upset about switching over to the next chapter POV. There was a good balance between action, plot development, and the emotional struggles each character was facing.

This is not a short book, but it still felt like it was all about setup — characters were introduced, stakes were raised, and pieces put in place for a long, complex, and exciting journey ahead.

I wouldn’t classify this as grimdark although it’s easy to see how others might. Just be warned that this is not an uplifting book — many terrible things happen to good people, and justice is fleeting. But for those who like grit and grime and no easy solutions, this is an easy recommendation to make. I already started the prequel novella and eagerly await book two’s release.

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

Feeders by Matt Serafini

Mogsy’s Rating: 4 of 5 stars

Genre: Horror

Series: Stand Alone

Publisher: Gallery Books (May 20, 2025)

Length: 416 pages

Author Information: Website | Twitter

I just recently watched The Substance, that crazy body horror movie starring Demi Moore, and my brain still hasn’t fully recovered. It’s the kind of dark satire that relishes making you uncomfortable while shining a twisted light on our deepest societal insecurities, especially with regards to vanity and self-destruction. With Feeders by Matt Serafini: same vibes, but different angle. While the book doesn’t do sci-fi or transformational horror, it does boast its fair share of gore and follows a protagonist so desperate for validation and celebrity that she’s willing to debase herself and hurt others to get it.

The story follows nineteen-year-old Kylie Bennington, a community college student using school as a stepping-stone toward something bigger—but what she really wants is to become an online influencer. Perpetually envious of her best friend Erin who has millions of followers on social media and gets comped gifts from sponsors, Kylie is hungry for the same attention and desperate to be someone, yet that dream always seems to feel just out of reach. That is until MonoLife comes into the picture. When a clip of a former classmate’s brutal murder begins circulating online, Kylie is made aware of the underground video sharing app, which features layers of cryptic rules and user levels. Signing up is easy, but keeping your account is another story. The first rule of MonoLife is you don’t talk about MonoLife, or you will face dire consequences. The app also requires at least two daily logins or else it will delete itself, resulting in loss of access forever.

Her curiosity piqued, Kylie is quickly drawn into MonoLife’s unique but warped culture, one driven by a userbase that thrives on edgy content that pushes boundaries. Her ambition also gradually turns to obsession as she becomes addicted to unlocking the app’s special levels, which are earned by gaining more followers and clout. In time, what started as a few harmless prank videos begin escalating to more extreme stunts and vile acts. Yet her audience is insatiable—and the more depraved the content she posts, the more the algorithm rewards her with fame and material wealth. Thus, by the time the story reaches its final act, Kylie has flung herself across just about every ethical line there is.

First, let’s talk about the characters. These are all awful people, which is fine because you are definitely meant to despise and occasionally even pity them. These aren’t just morally gray personalities; some are darker than the pits of hell. Kylie, for one, is equal parts horrifying and fascinating—a vain, self-absorbed, and unstable powder keg willing to go to any length for subscribers and likes. While I had to keep reminding myself that her over-the-top characterization is by design, there’s also something disturbingly real about her zeal, considering the numerous studies showing that a large percentage of Gen Zers list social media influencer as their dream job. For what it’s worth though, Serafini even doesn’t try to redeem his protagonist, and I respect that. It makes you question if Kylie was ever a good person, or if her thirst for fame was always just lurking beneath the surface—probably the case, given her obsession with influencer culture and the way she worships her hero Katy Perry like a religion.

As for the horror, all I can say is, it works, even as several styles are vying for dominance here. On the one hand, you have bloody violence aplenty, enough to satisfy genre lovers whose tastes might run towards slasher flicks. On the other, there’s the existential dread, the why behind Kylie’s downward spiral into depravity and corruption. MonoLife doesn’t just encourage evil. It rewards it by triggering those surges of dopamine, leading to a need for increasingly higher doses for more intense engagement. Feeders is a brutal metaphor for the worst parts of social media, and watching Kylie succumb to it is a lot like watching a car crash in slow motion—you simply can’t look away.

My final verdict: Feeders is a dark and disturbing novel steeped in social commentary, one that feels especially relevant in these hyper plugged-in times. Bear in mind it’s also a satire that’s completely over-the-top and not at all shy about making you squirm. So, if you’re into bold topical horror that holds absolutely nothing back, this book might be for you. Who it’s not for are the squeamish, or for readers looking for happy endings and sympathetic characters to root for. Still, it leaves an impression, and maybe even a few lingering thoughts to chew on.

Ten Sleep is a supernatural modern-day western about a trio of young people on a…

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

Anji Kills A King by Evan Leikam

Mogsy’s Rating: 4 of 5 stars

Genre: Fantasy

Series: Book 1 of The Rising Tide

Publisher: Tor (May 13, 2025)

Length: 368 pages

Author Information: Website

Anji Kills a King by Evan Leikam made me realize something. Fantasy doesn’t always need grand epic battles or ancient prophecies to pull you in. Sometimes all it takes is one bold act by a single person.

The title even tells you what to expect. Anji, a young palace laundress, slits the king’s throat in the book’s opening pages, and everything that follows is one wild bloody, ride. Immediately after that spur-of-the-moment assassination, our protagonist goes on the run and is almost just as immediately apprehended by a notorious bounty hunter known as the Hawk. A member of the Menagerie, a legendary organization consisting of mercenaries who wear animal-shaped masks, the Hawk is determined to bring her prey back to face justice and collect the massive cash prize on Anji’s head. Thus, the prisoner becomes physically and magically tethered to the captor, forming a bond that neither of them wants.

Pretty soon, Anji also realizes there’s more to the Hawk’s reasons for chasing her than just gold. She’s not working with the rest of the Menagerie, for one. As they are relentlessly pursued by the Hawk’s former colleagues and other factions that want to see Anji silenced or dead, the two of them are forced to travel through some of the roughest parts of a fractured and war-torn kingdom. It’s a path littered with traps and pitfalls, and with every close call, their uneasy alliance is tested, forcing both to question who their real enemies are and what they’re willing to do to survive.

For a story featuring such epic scope and widespread conflict, Anji Kills a King feels remarkably intimate and personal. While it’s clear that our protagonist’s act of regicide has thrown more fuel on an already blazing fire of political unrest, all that chaos remains only ambient noise in the background. The real story, and what truly matters here, is the relationship between two people. We already know the world outside is falling apart, but Leikam keeps the spotlight tight on Anji and the Hawk, making their complicated relationship the core of the novel.

It helps that both our main characters are fascinating figures, just as likely to frustrate you as they are to charm you. Anji is someone who might seem a little dumb and reckless at first. After all, she kills a king on impulse, and then, instead of getting the hell out of dodge, she winds up getting caught while drinking and gambling at a tavern. The Hawk, in contrast, is all sharp edges and discipline, an older professional who doesn’t take any chances, even if it means carrying out what might seem like cruel decisions. This dynamic carries the book, especially when the tone of the story darkens and the struggle between the controller and the controlled gradually evolves into understanding and then grudging respect.

If I had any criticisms at all, it would be the plot’s tendency towards reusing the same devices. Like I said, this is a story meant to feel up-close-and-personal and relatively small-scale, so more variety is going to be needed. Anji and the Hawk end up spending a lot of time running through the same loop of evading the bad guys, narrowly escaping, getting caught, and breaking free—rinse and repeat. There are interesting moments in between, but after a while, the pattern can’t be denied. And while the writing is sharp and keeps things moving at a good speed (this was a quick and easy read), the big emotional moments don’t always feel as significant as they should. Often, it’s almost as though the book is already racing ahead to make its next big impact before the dust of the last one has even settled.

All in all, Anji Kills a King is a fast-paced, riveting debut with plenty of grit from both the story and the characters. Dig a little deeper though, and there’s a surprising amount of heart. While the novel doesn’t offer anything too new for those of us who read a lot of fantasy, Evan Leikam succeeds in delivering memorable characters and interesting world-building, even if the latter is quietly done. This is a book I would recommend to genre fans who enjoy following heroes who get into lots trouble but somehow manage to keep going anyway. I’ll be checking out the sequel.

Okay — close your eyes and visualize Middle-earth. I can’t be certain what you’re seeing behind your eyelids, but I think I have a good chance of guessing; five will get you ten that whatever you’re conjuring bears a strong resemblance to the Alan Lee Lord of the Rings book illustrations and to Tolkien’s world as envisioned in Peter Jackson’s films (on which Lee and John Howe did much of the production design).

The austere, rather chilly (once you’re out of the Shire, anyway) Lee/Howe template has become the default picture of Middle-earth for many — if not most — people, but there are other ways to view Tolkien’s realms and their inhabitants. I have already sworn my fealty to the first such visualization that I ever encountered: the beautiful Tim Kirk paintings that were featured in the 1975 Tolkien Calendar.

I am also partial to another version that’s not nearly well enough known, the gorgeous illustrations done by Michael Kaluta for the 1994 Tolkien Calendar. (Kaluta is probably best known for his comic book work, especially on the 1970’s Shadow for DC.)

One thing that makes both Kirk’s and Kaluta’s art so attractive to me is that its depiction of Middle-earth is just different from the one that has become the current standard. (Kaluta’s work is especially striking because it is so extravagantly colorful compared to Lee’s and Howe’s bleached-out work.)

Also, please understand, I — who cannot draw a straight line — am not criticizing the fine work of Lee and Howe or any other artist, merely pointing out that there are other, equally fruitful ways of looking at Tolkien’s creations.

All of which is to say that there’s more than one way to skin an orc — or draw a dwarf — and alternate visions can come from unexpected places, as I found out last Christmas when my daughter Samantha gave me a gift that was a real surprise — a Finnish edition of The Hobbit. Instead of coming from an Amazon warehouse, it came all the way from Finland (I was told that it arrived just in the nick of time), and is indeed in the exotic-looking Finnish language, which, uh… I can’t read a word of (except for “Bilbo” and “Gandalf”, which are apparently the same in Finnish, and I think I’ve figured out that dwarves are kääpiötä).

Nevertheless, it was a wonderful gift, because it’s illustrated by Tove Jansson, who was herself wonderful.

Tove Jansson and friends.

Jansson (who died in 2001) was a Finnish artist and writer who is probably best known (outside of Scandinavia, anyway) for the eight “Moomin” children’s fantasies she wrote beginning in the mid-1940’s and ending with the last volume in 1970. Set in Moominland and featuring the Moomin family and their eccentric friends (Moomins look sort of like hippos, or ambulatory marshmallows), the books are whimsical, dreamlike, gentle, satirical and sinister, all at the same time. I only recently discovered them, and I find them disquieting and delightful, which is one of the best combinations going.

From Comet in Moominland. ©the estate of Tove Jansson

Jansson illustrated the Moomin stories herself, and her pen-and-ink drawings are some of the best things about the books. The illustrations for the first book in the series, Comet in Moominland, are especially striking; some of them are a cross between a kind of nightmare Lovecraftian landscape and the surreal imagery of William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land.

The Dwarves. ©the estate of Tove Jansson

Though I’ve steadily been working my way through the Moomin books, I wasn’t aware until I had the Finnish Hobitti in my hands that Jansson had illustrated anyone else’s work. One look at her gorgeous cover illustration made me glad that she did. (There will always be a special place in my heart for a rampaging dragon.)

The Trolls. ©the estate of Tove Jansson

Jansson did her Hobbit illustrations for a 1962 Swedish edition (she was a member of Finland’s Swedish-speaking minority community) and they are refreshingly different from the more realistic renderings of Middle-earth and its inhabitants that are common today. She did twelve full-page black-and-white drawings for the book, another ten that cover half to a third of a page, and many smaller drawings that decorate the beginning or end of chapters.

Bilbo and Gollum. ©the estate of Tove Jansson

One thing that will immediately stand out to any Tolkien lover who flips through Jansson’s Hobitti is her visualization of Gollum. In Jansson’s drawings he’s huge, towering over Bilbo, and when Tolkien saw these illustrations, he supposedly realized that he had never specified exactly how large the slimy creature was, and so made the appropriate corrections for the Hobbit’s next edition, cutting Bilbo’s antagonist down to size.

The Wargs. ©the estate of Tove Jansson

Jansson’s Tolkien illustrations are all her own; they’re not like any other rendition of Middle-earth that I can think of, and in comparing these wonderful pictures with more current ones, you can glimpse an older tradition, one that has its roots in the “North” that Tolkien loved, one that goes back to the sagas and Norse eddas that gave him his inspiration.

Mirkwood. ©the estate of Tove Jansson

These simple-looking  illustrations may not be to the taste of folks raised on fantasy photorealism (of course, in the hands of a true artist, there are few things deeper and more nuanced than simplicity), but I love them; their bold, expressionist lines combine the weird and the whimsical, the humorous and the beautiful, all with echoes of the heroic and the epic. I think Tove Jansson was a perfect match for Tolkien and his world.

Smaug’s Treasure. ©the estate of Tove Jansson

Just the other day I found out that Jansson did illustrations for Lewis Carrol’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; NYRB Classics has just published a new edition featuring her drawings. Seeing what sparks Carrol’s story struck from Jansson is a rabbit hole I can’t wait to go down.

Smaug destroys Lake-Town. ©the estate of Tove Jansson

Until I can report back on Jansson’s Alice, I commend her Hobitti to you (her Moomin books, too), and I leave you with this:

Kaikki asekuntoiset ihmismiehet ja suurin osa haltiakuninkaan joukoista valmistautuivat marssimaan pohjoiseen Vuorta kohti. (What does that mean? I dunno, but it comes at the end of chapter Tulta Ja Vettä.)

The Battle of Five Armies. ©the estate of Tove Jansson

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 The Lost World

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 Buy The Incandescent

FORMAT/INFO: The Incandescent was published by Tor Books on May 13th, 2025. It is 432 pages long and is available in hardcover, ebook, and audiobook formats.

OVERVIEW/ANALYSIS: As the Director of Magic at Chetwood Academy, one of the most prestigious boarding schools in England, Dr. Walden's day is full of everything from faculty meetings to demons trying to break through the school's wards. She is constantly torn between keeping up on mundane admin while trying to stop idiot teenagers from messing with magic beyond their capabilities. But what is Dr. Walden to do when the greatest threat to the school might be herself?

The Incandescent is a fresh spin on the magical academia genre, where the overworked, underpaid faculty at an elite boarding school get to shine front and center. Nearly, if not all, magical academia books I have read have been from the POV of the students. I've seen plenty of books where a group of scrappy teenagers discovers a dark conspiracy afoot at their school. They sneak behind teachers' backs, dabble in a bit of forbidden magic or research, and generally defy authority, all in the name of saving the day.

But let's face it, many teenagers aren't noble heroes on a quest - they're idiots. Enter the exasperated staff of Chetwood Academy, trying to help shape students on their quest to discover their path in life, while also making sure they don't fall prey to demonic possession because they cut corners while drawing a summoning diagram. Dr. Walden and her staff are just as often trying to save the students from themselves as much as from outside threats, all while grading papers, offering career counseling, and managing the school's budget.

The Incandescent also takes a moment to examine and critique the whole structure of elitist boarding school culture. It examines the notion that what parents aren't paying for isn't really a top tier education; they're paying for their child to join the network of alumni scattered across the country and use that network for the rest of their lives. It's the social connections that truly matter to most parents, the security of knowing their child will have plenty of contacts who will open doors for them in the future. This in turn perpetuates systemic class disparities, as most often only those who can pay for the connections, get the connections.

I want to take a moment to note that while the marketing for this book makes a point of mentioning this is a sapphic story, you shouldn't expect a sweeping romance. Relationships are just one part of Dr. Walden's life, and certainly not the focus - which is good, because I found those romance dynamics one of the weaker parts of the story. On the one hand, I liked that Dr. Walden is grappling with the complications of juggling potential romance with the demands of her career. But there was just no chemistry between Dr. Walden and her love interest, leaving not particularly interested in what happened on that front.

CONCLUSION: The Incandescent is a worthy addition to the shelves of magical academia, and any fan of the genre should give it a read. It examines school culture from the rare perspective of the teacher, but it doesn't put forth that the teachers have all the answers; one of the best scenes is a student who challenges Dr. Walden's notion of how well their life situation and an elite boarding school education track go together. It gives you food for thought while also being an entertaining blend of school exams and demonic invasions, making The Incandescent a definite recommend.

As a Bookshop affiliate, I earn from qualifying purchases. The Knight and the Moth is the first book in The Stonewater Kingdom, a new gothic/romantic fantasy series by New York Times bestselling author Rachel Gillig. This was one of my most anticipated books of 2025 because One Dark Window, the author’s debut novel and the first book in The Shepherd King duology, was a fun, difficult-to-put-down story—and, as such, was one of my favorite books of 2022. Unfortunately, I was […]

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