Feed aggregator

You asked for it, and you were absolutely right, so here it is.

Like any self-respecting fandom, we, the readers of Ilona Andrews’ books, have picked up our own shorthand and running jokes along the way.

This is a quick reference for new readers and a refresher for anyone who needs it.

Us on Horde parade. Art by Sophia @blossombythesea

Ilona Andrews, IA, House Andrews, HA – these all refer to our authors, Ilona and Gordon, who co-author all our favorite adventures and are the reason we are here. The “House” part of HA comes from the Hidden Legacy series, in which powerful magic families call themselves Houses.

BDH – acronym that stands for Book Devouring Horde. That’s us! The readers and fandom of Ilona Andrews’ books: beloved, spoiled, and very enthusiastic. We named ourselves this far back in the mists of time (around 2013, as far as I can tell), inspired by the Hope Crushing Horde alien species from the Innkeeper Chronicles.

There is no official membership, no tiers, no badges. You don’t have to be BDH to enjoy the books, but you might end up here anyway. One of us! One of us!

W*it, P*tience, D*lay – the Horde’s least favorite four-letter words, usually censored. As our name suggests, we like to devour books. Unfortunately, books have a habit of not being released every other week. So waiting, patience and sometimes delays it is, but we are not happy about it.

Ripper Cushions – is a reference to a Horde-favourite moment in volume 4 of the Innkeeper Chronicles series, and our way to say “repercussions”. Also a much-sought-after design item, because the Ilona Andrews merch store had Ripper Cushions cushions at one point!

Chalant – we try to be a stiff-upper-lip kind of Horde, but when we’re too emotionally compromised, our chalant persona comes out. It’s a reference to this Horde scene (that’s right, we go on adventures sometimes!). “We cannot be nonchalant! We are very chalant!” When it gets the better of us, we erm….have been known to do things.

Steve – a fictional fandom figure. The BDH contains multitudes, but Steve only has the one tude. Chaos. He is our stand-in troublemaker, and we love and accept him despite his tendency to set things on fire. First appeared in this classic BDH moment Ilona wrote for us.

Fluffy – we are the best fandom ever. This is known. When our intensity dials up to 11, however, we are gently encouraged to be more fluffy. I won’t make a roster of our achievements to date because I don’t want to give anyone ideas, but suffice to say House Andrews do not negotiate with terrorists, and directly contacting people involved in the publishing process to mention fish-sleeping arrangements is a no-no. Plus, being fluffy gets us snippets and treats! The word itself is a reference to an old British comedy sketch.

Ferrets – the unofficial mascot of the BDH, usually brought up in “Have ferrets. Will infiltrate” type of contexts. They come from a memorable heist scene in White Hot (Hidden Legacy 2). House Andrews write many amaing animal characters, but these tiny ninjas have stolen our hearts.

Barsa barsa barsa – one of the alien species in Sweep of the Heart (Innkeeper 5) communicates by only repeating the word “barsa”. The Horde found this very easy to identify with, as we have been known to adopt the same communication pattern ourselves daily at times (Sequel sequel sequel, When when when, Klaus Klaus Klaus). It’s now something of a war cry.

Metal Rose – wherever there are readers, there are ships (a romantic pairing of characters). Of course, the BDH has many, but our oldest and most referenced one is the Metal Rose. Based on a scene in Magic Burns, Kate Daniels 2, this ship involves Julie Olsen, a magical street orphan, and Derek, the protagonist’s werewolf sidekick. How their story grew, who they became, and why this ship still sails in our hearts years later is yours to discover.

The post A Fandom Glossary first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Days after I made my previous post, the rehab hospital extended my son’s stay, to the 20th of February. We were … not overjoyed, but aware that Physio is necessary for the foreseeable future. When we’d been given the discharge date of 29th January, we were told that this was immutable, that there were OHIP rules, etc. etc. That they couldn’t extend. He wasn’t walking at that point—and still isn’t—and that meant we would need to figure out how to get him into the house. (Our house is an old semi-detached that was built at the turn of the century—the last one. 1900s. It has a tiny, city lawn. This means that we can’t build a ramp from the sidewalk … Continue reading →

Other LitStack Spots – Titles by Maria Semple LitStack has spotted some other titles by…

The post Spotlight on “Go Gentle” Maria Semple appeared first on LitStack.

 

A Long and Speaking Silence(The Singing Hills Cycle #7)by Nghi Vo
Every story begins somewhere.

On the banks of the Ya-lé River, the town of Luntien gathers to celebrate the start of the rainy season, but the celebration is marred by the arrival of refugees from the sea. Everyone has a story about the foreigners newly in their midst—lazy, violent, unwanted—while the refugees themselves grieve the loss of the home they loved.
Cleric Chih, very recently still Novice Chih, is also a stranger in Luntien. A moment of carelessness and bad luck leaves them waiting tables as they struggle to establish themself as a real cleric. A cleric’s job is to listen and record, but the stories emerging in Luntien are ugly and violent, as hard to predict as the river itself. With their hoopoe companion Almost Brilliant by their side, Chih must help the refugees while also unraveling a mystery that may have roots in their own faraway home in the abbey of Singing Hills.
In the seventh entry of the award-winning Singing Hills series, we meet Chih and Almost Brilliant just beginning their journey together as Chih assumes their place on the road and in the world.
The novellas of the Singing Hills series are standalone stories linked by the Cleric Chih, and may be read in any order.
Expected publication May 5, 2026

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

Weavingshaw by Heba Al-Wasity

Mogsy’s Rating: 2.5 of 5 stars

Genre: Fantasy, Romance

Series: Book 1 of Weavingshaw

Publisher: Del Rey (February 24, 2026)

Length: 464 pages

Author Information: Website

A lot of other reviewers enjoyed this book, so I’m just going to say this right now: Hi, it’s me, I’m probably the problem! Weavingshaw has a lot of things going for it, at least on a craft level, including a full-on gothic fantasy aesthetic and a tension-laden romance. Unfortunately though, it didn’t fully click for me.

The story follows Leena, a young woman who can see the dead. Ever since her mother died and her father was imprisoned, she and her younger brother Rami have been living as refugees, adrift in a country that treats them as outsiders. For years, they have been trying to survive while she is forced to hide her abilities for fear of being institutionalized or exploited. But when Rami falls gravely ill, Leena has no choice but to seek out help, and the only treatment that can save him is far beyond anything she can realistically afford. Out of options, she turns to the one person everyone warns her to avoid.

Enter Silas, the Saint of Silence, an enigmatic trader in favors and information. The name of his game is leverage, or any knowledge he can use as currency to keep people in his debt. In exchange for the medicine to save her brother’s life, she offers up her secret, the only thing of value that she has. As she’d hoped, it catches the attention of St. Silas, but the bargain comes with strings attached. She’s bound to his service and tasked with finding the ghost of Percival Avon, a figure connected to both the decaying estate of Weavingshaw and St. Silas’s past. From there, Leena and the Saint fall into a tense, uneasy partnership, working together to untangle a mystery buried deep in the past, drawing closer as hidden agendas and outside threats start closing in.

All the classic gothic fantasy and romance ingredients are here, and the setup itself is very much my thing. That said, I found myself appreciating the individual pieces more than the whole. From a world-building standpoint, the lore and supernatural elements are intriguing, but the details are pretty surface level, such as the ghostly mechanics and the stratified society. Ideas are seemingly conjured up whenever the plot needs them, then sidelined again when something else is required. Even though I could sense a larger mythology in play, much of it feels backloaded instead of immersive.

Character-wise, Leena and St. Silas are familiar archetypes, but in a good way. I liked how their motivations were simple, but made sense in the context of their circumstances, i.e. Leena is driven by loyalty to her family vs. Silas being propelled by the secrets in his past and his need to see his long-running plans through. Ironically, the romance was where their relationship felt the weakest. It’s meant to be slow burning, which is fine, but the dynamic also felt overly guarded and stiff as a result. More spark and less posturing would have been better.

Structurally, the pacing can drift with subplots weaving in and out. I confess I put this book down many times because of the meandering, with a storyline that sometimes felt as if it was playing for time in a holding pattern rather than moving towards its destination. However, I always picked it up again, so there is that. The setting really is outstanding, and I enjoyed the fantastically broody vibes. Still, there is a fine line between atmosphere and narrative drag, and I won’t lie, this one frequently came close to crossing it. The open ending was a bit annoying too. As cliffhangers go, it’s far from the worst, but I didn’t love how abruptly it cut off.

In the end, Weavingshaw is a debut with some clear talent behind it, and I completely understand why it’s finding an audience. This just happens to be one where my personal tastes didn’t quite align with the execution. If broody gothic fantasy with haunted settings and a slow-building romance is your thing, there’s a good chance this will work much better for you.

Swordsmen and Supermen (Centaur Press, February 1972). Cover by Virgil Finlay

Swordsmen and Supermen 1972, subtitled “Swashbuckling Fantastic Anthology.” From Centaur Press, edited by Donald M. Grant. Cover from Virgil Finlay. This was linked to Centaur Press’s Time-Lost series of books but I’m not sure it quite fit that or the “swashbuckling” subtitle. It’s a strange mishmash of material, including three old reprints and two new stories (from ’72).

It starts off with a Robert E. Howard story, but it’s one of his humorous westerns featuring Breckinridge Elkins called “Meet Cap’n Kidd.” It’s a funny tale but not really the type of fantasy one associates with Swordsmen.

The Red Gods by Jean D’Esme, translated from the French by Moreby Acklom (E. P. Dutton, 1924). Cover artist unknown

Then we have “The Death of a Hero” by Jean D’Esme, which does have some sword and axe battles, but it’s an excerpted piece of a novel called The Red Gods and I’m not sure how well it stood on its own.

Third is “Wings of Y’vrn” by Darrel Crombie, featuring a shapeshifter main character. Donald Grant was apparently very high on Crombie at this time, and the prose is well done. Crombie was a pseudonym for Joseph Fraser Darby, a Canadian who had worked as a journalist. Apparently this is the only known story by Crombie. I liked it pretty well.

Grey Maiden: The Story of a Sword Through the Ages by Arthur D.
Howden Smith (Centaur Press, October 1974). Cover by David Ireland

“The Slave of Marathon” is next, by well-known writer Arthur D. Howden Smith (1887 – 1945). This is one of Smith’s Gray Maiden stories (Gray Maiden being a sword) and is my favorite story in the book.

Finally, we end with “How Sargoth Lay Siege to Zarwemm” by Lin Carter. This is a very brief piece, only a few pages, by Carter, and while well-written, is not really a story at all but more of a vignette about an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

Charles Gramlich administers The Swords & Planet League group on Facebook, where this post first appeared. His last article for us was on Avon Fantasy Reader, edited by Donald A. Wollheim. See all of his recent posts for Black Gate here.

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

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

 

Official Author Website
Buy Mushroom Blues over HERE
Mushroom Blues was Adrian M. Gibson's debut and FBC's SPFBOX Finalist, it was also the joint highest scorer of SPFBO 10. But that's not what we are here to reveal.
Thanks to Adrian, we are super thrilled to reveal the cover for the next Fungalverse story in the Hofmann Report series titled A MURDER MOST FUNGAL (releasing on 16th June 2026)
The brilliant & bloody art is by Katerina Belikova & cover design is done by Adrian himself:

Pre-order A Murder Most Fungal on Amazon
Add A Murder Most Fungal on Goodreads 
OFFICIAL BLURB: The knives are out in this fast-paced, standalone Fungalverse novel. Set several months after the events of Mushroom Blues, this side story combines the culinary wonder of Jiro Dreams of Sushi, the kitchen chaos of The Bear, and the explosive tension of Hong Kong crime thrillers.
In the aftermath of the “Fuyu Massacre,” riots and whispers of revolution continue to plague the Hōpponese capital of Neo Kinoko. As a result, the iron grip of a foreign military occupation tightens day by day. Amidst this, Pocho Jiro, a once-renowned makizushi chef, has chosen to cook for Duncan MacArthur—the Coprinian Military Governor in Hōppon—as his personal chef... and indentured servant.
A run-in with dangerous fungal gangsters sets off a chain of events that Pocho cannot escape from. He’s left with two choices: Assassinate MacArthur, or watch his beloved sister die in front of his eyes. Will Pocho take up his knife and prepare MacArthur’s final meal?
You can also view Katerina Belikova's spectacular art of the book in its full glory below:

 

The Maleficent Faerie (For the Love of the Villain #2)by Rebecca F. Kenney
What is it about:A spicy, Fae Sleeping Beauty retelling with a male version of Maleficent, a dying realm, and intriguing twists on the old tale.When Malec, the Void King, attacks Princess Dawn's carriage, her Fae bodyguard Aura switches places with her. Glamoured as a human, Aura must fool Malec into thinking she's the Princess he cursed 25 years ago. Relentless and powerful, but with a vulnerable side he hides from others, Malec begins to crave Aura's respect as much as he craves her body.
What did Voodoo Bride think of it:I've very much enjoyed the other books I've read by Kenney so far, so I treated myself to The Maleficent Faerie to see if I'd enjoy stories not connected to her Wicked Darlings series.
And this book was such an enjoyable read!
I'd call this a re-imagining instead of a retelling as the story differs greatly from the original fairytale (in the most yummy ways). I fell hard for Malec (I do love a tortured hero/villain) so it was easy to lose myself in the romance between Aura and Malec. There were of course story elements connecting this story to its inspiration, but those were used in original ways to create a whole new story with a romance at the heart of it that doesn't need a prince to save Aura. 
All in all I had a great time with this very steamy and delicious Fantasy Romance and you bet I got my hands on another book in this series of standalones.
Why should you read it:It's a delightful Fantasy Romance re-imagining of Sleeping Beauty.

Featuring a whole new Schooled in Magic novella

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

You’ve seen magic schools, but what about magical universities? Come visit worlds where young adults further their education, learn their trades and experience the joys and sorrows of living on campus, free from parents and dominating teachers alike. Experience classes for adults, buildings that cast a long shadow over campus; learn a trade on the job, with money, reputation and lives on the line. Learn how to get along with roommates – or at least avoid turning them into toads; visit older and more settled universities, then explore a very new university on the cusp of success or complete disaster.

All this and more in Fantastic Schools Universities …

Purchase from Amazon here: US, UK, CAN, AUS

Other LitStack Spots – Titles by Emma Straub LitStack has also spotted some titles by…

The post Spotlight on “American Fantasy” by Emma Straub appeared first on LitStack.

Three months ago, in a moment of christmassy optimism, I posted a draft quiz meant to help answer that question: Which Ilona Andrews series should you start next?

The idea was simple:

New Hordlings would arrive on our welcoming BDH shores after reading This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me. They would discover multiple Ilona Andrews series waiting for them, each with a different tone and entry point. A shiny treasure trove!

But sometimes even treasure can be overwhelming. The quiz was meant to be one extra quick, fun way to point them toward the best starting point according to their preferences. (We all know they will end up reading everything anyway.)

The Horde very generously tested the first version. And by “tested,” I mean you had many thoughts about how much you hated it haha.

Back to the drawing board I went. Thank you!

The original quiz has been reworked and simplified so it requires much less reading and thinking than the first draft. There are no more jokes or questions about anything to do with morally grey characters or pacing. There is one constraint I can’t change: the quiz plugin cannot produce a reasonably accurate result across five different series with only 3 questions, as many of you requested.

So, new version: same question count, but trims everything down to the shortest prompts I can possible write while still allowing the quiz to hopefully point readers somewhere useful.

You can let me know below whether we succeeded this time, please and thank you!

Take 2:

16760

Which Series Should I Start With?

Welcome to the Ilona Andrews worlds!
Not sure where to begin? Answer the questions below to find the best place to start your reading journey.

1 / 9

What reading commitment are you ready for?

Self-contained trilogies, but with a big overarching story A huge world to fully sink into, with many books and spin-offs and POVs, I want to be there for a long time Short independent stories, a quick dip in and out A shorter series, with new protagonists each book, I get easily bored A longer series, with mostly the same main character throughout

2 / 9

Your favorite kind of tension:

Monster vs sword Power vs power Order vs chaos Hero vs the world Mission vs survival

3 / 9

How much romance?

A complete romance and HEA in each individual book Intense and fast-paced, always developing against immediate danger Always present, but soft and balanced with adventure Slow-burn romance that grows along with the story I came here for the romance! Give me all the feels, across complex emotional arcs

4 / 9

Pick a reading mood:

Gritty action Dangerous romance and intrigue High-stakes sci-fi adventure Cozy core Hard survival and quiet strength

5 / 9

Choose a companion for the protagonist:

A sarcastic mercenary Someone who just quietly fixes impossible problems A dangerous(ly seductive) strategist A lethal professional who gets the job done A stubborn survivor who refuses to quit

6 / 9

Your favorite story moment:

A massive fight scene A bizarre character causing chaos A dangerous negotiation The underdog refusing to quit A perfectly executed plan

7 / 9

Pick a setting:

Post-apocalyptic magic chaos High-tech future with dangerous missions A contemporary city hiding powerful magic, wealth, and intrigue A cozy, welcoming Inn where ordinary life meets the unexpected A rustic borderland between the magical and non-magical worlds

8 / 9

What makes you immediately reach for the next book in a series?

The war isn't over The conspiracy just got bigger I can't let go of the world yet The hero still has something to prove Just deserts for the villain

9 / 9

Your usual taste in TV-shows is:

Anthology-style shows, each season following a different storyline Sci-fi adventure series that tell a complete story in each episode Dramatic, glamorous soaps about powerful families and complicated relationships Comfy-cozy sitcoms with beloved cast and hilarious situations Epic serialized sagas, where the story keeps building season after season

div#ays-quiz-container-11 * { box-sizing: border-box; } /* Styles for Internet Explorer start */ #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 { } /* Styles for Quiz container */ #ays-quiz-container-11{ min-height: 350px; width:400px; background-color:#fff; background-position:center center;border-radius:0px 0px 0px 0px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px rgba(0,0,0,0.4);border: none;} /* Styles for Navigation bar */ #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-11 { width: 100%;border-radius:0px 0px 0px 0px;box-shadow: 0px 0px 15px 1px rgba(0,0,0,0.4);border: none;} #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-11 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item a.ays_questions_nav_question { color: #000; border-color: #000; background-color: #fff; } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-11 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item.ays-quiz-questions-nav-item-active a.ays_questions_nav_question { box-shadow: inset 0 0 5px #000, 0 0 5px #000; } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-11 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item.ays-quiz-questions-nav-item-answered a.ays_questions_nav_question { color: #fff; border-color: #fff; background-color: #000; } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-11 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item a.ays_questions_nav_question.ays_quiz_correct_answer { color: rgba(39, 174, 96, 1); border-color: rgba(39, 174, 96, 1); background-color: rgba(39, 174, 96, 0.4); } #ays-quiz-questions-nav-wrap-11 .ays-quiz-questions-nav-content .ays-quiz-questions-nav-item a.ays_questions_nav_question.ays_quiz_wrong_answer { color: rgba(243, 134, 129, 1); border-color: rgba(243, 134, 129, 1); background-color: rgba(243, 134, 129, 0.4); } /* Styles for questions */ #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 div.step { min-height: 350px; } /* Styles for text inside quiz container */ #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-start-page *:not(input), #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays_question_hint, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container label[for^="ays-answer-"], #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container p, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-fs-title, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-fs-subtitle, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .logged_in_message, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-quiz-limitation-count-of-takers, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays-quiz-limitation-count-of-takers *, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays_score_message, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container .ays-questions-container .ays_message{ color: #000; outline: none; } /* Quiz title / transformation */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-fs-title{ text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 21px; text-align: center; text-shadow: none; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-quiz-password-message-box, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-quiz-question-note-message-box, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_question, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_question *:not([class^='enlighter']) { color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 textarea, #ays-quiz-container-11 input::first-letter, #ays-quiz-container-11 select::first-letter, #ays-quiz-container-11 option::first-letter { color: initial !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 p::first-letter:not(.ays_no_questions_message) { color: #000 !important; background-color: transparent !important; font-size: inherit !important; font-weight: inherit !important; float: none !important; line-height: inherit !important; margin: 0 !important; padding: 0 !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-container, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field * { font-size: 15px !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-fs-subtitle p { text-align: center ; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_question p { font-size: 16px; text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_question { text-align: center ; margin-bottom: 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_question pre { max-width: 100%; white-space: break-spaces; } div#ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-questions-container .ays-field, div#ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-questions-container .ays-field input~label[for^='ays-answer-'], div#ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-questions-container .ays-modern-dark-question *, div#ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-questions-container .ays_quiz_question, div#ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-questions-container .ays_quiz_question *{ word-break: break-word; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-quiz-timer p { font-size: 16px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 section.ays_quiz_redirection_timer_container hr, #ays-quiz-container-11 section.ays_quiz_timer_container hr { margin: 0; } #ays-quiz-container-11 section.ays_quiz_timer_container.ays_quiz_timer_red_warning .ays-quiz-timer { color: red; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_thank_you_fs p { text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form input[type='text'], #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form input[type='url'], #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form input[type='number'], #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form input[type='email'], #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form input[type='tel'], #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form textarea, #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form select, #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form option { color: initial !important; outline: none; margin-left: 0; background-image: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form input[type='checkbox'] { margin: 0 10px; outline: initial; -webkit-appearance: auto; -moz-appearance: auto; position: initial; width: initial; height: initial; border: initial; background: initial; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .information_form input[type='checkbox']::after { content: none; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .wrong_answer_text{ color:#ff4d4d; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .right_answer_text{ color:#33cc33; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .right_answer_text p { font-size:16px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .wrong_answer_text p { font-size:16px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_questtion_explanation p { font-size:16px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_cb_and_a, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_cb_and_a * { color: rgb(0,0,0); text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-11 iframe { /*min-height: 350px;*/ } #ays-quiz-container-11 label.ays_for_checkbox, #ays-quiz-container-11 span.ays_checkbox_for_span { color: initial !important; display: block; } /* Quiz textarea height */ #ays-quiz-container-11 textarea { height: 100px; min-height: 100px; } /* Quiz rate and passed users count */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quizn_ancnoxneri_qanak, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_rete_avg{ color:#fff; background-color:#000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-questions-container > .ays_quizn_ancnoxneri_qanak { padding: 5px 20px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 div.for_quiz_rate.ui.star.rating .icon { color: rgba(0,0,0,0.35); } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_rete_avg div.for_quiz_rate_avg.ui.star.rating .icon { color: rgba(255,255,255,0.5); } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_rete .ays-quiz-rate-link-box .ays-quiz-rate-link { color: #000; } /* Loaders */ #ays-quiz-container-11 div.lds-spinner, #ays-quiz-container-11 div.lds-spinner2 { color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 div.lds-spinner div:after, #ays-quiz-container-11 div.lds-spinner2 div:after { background-color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .lds-circle, #ays-quiz-container-11 .lds-facebook div, #ays-quiz-container-11 .lds-ellipsis div{ background: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .lds-ripple div{ border-color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .lds-dual-ring::after, #ays-quiz-container-11 .lds-hourglass::after{ border-color: #000 transparent #000 transparent; } /* Stars */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ui.rating .icon, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ui.rating .icon:before { font-family: Rating !important; } /* Progress bars */ #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .ays-progress { border-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.8); } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .ays-progress-bg { background-color: rgba(0,0,0,0.3); } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-progress-value { color: #000; text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-progress-bar { background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-question-counter .ays-live-bar-wrap { direction:ltr !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-live-bar-fill{ color: #000; border-bottom: 2px solid rgba(0,0,0,0.8); text-shadow: 0px 0px 5px #fff; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-live-bar-fill.ays-live-fourth, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-live-bar-fill.ays-live-third, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-live-bar-fill.ays-live-second { text-shadow: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-live-bar-percent{ display:none; } /* Music, Sound */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_music_sound { color:rgb(0,0,0); } /* Dropdown questions scroll bar */ #ays-quiz-container-11 blockquote { border-left-color: #000 !important; } /* Quiz Password */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-start-page > input[id^='ays_quiz_password_val_'], #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-quiz-password-toggle-visibility-box { width: 100%; margin: 0 auto; } /* Question hint */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_question_hint_container .ays_question_hint_text { background-color:#fff; box-shadow: 0 0 15px 3px rgba(0,0,0,0.6); max-width: 270px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_question_hint_container .ays_question_hint_text p { max-width: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_questions_hint_max_width_class { max-width: 80%; } /* Information form */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-form-title{ color:rgb(0,0,0); } /* Quiz timer */ #ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays-quiz-redirection-timer, #ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays-quiz-timer{ color: #000; text-align: center; } #ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays-quiz-timer.ays-quiz-message-before-timer:before { font-weight: 500; } /* Quiz buttons */ #ays-quiz-container-11 input#ays-submit, #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button, div#ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button.ays_restart_button { background-color: #27AE60; color:#333; font-size: 17px; padding: 10px 20px; border-radius: 3px; white-space: nowrap; letter-spacing: 0; box-shadow: unset; white-space: normal; word-break: break-word; } #ays-quiz-container-11 input#ays-submit, #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 input.action-button { } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 a[class~=ajax_add_to_cart]{ background-color: #fff; color:#333; padding: 10px 5px; font-size: 14px; border-radius: 3px; white-space: nowrap; border: 1px solid #333; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button.ays_check_answer { padding: 5px 10px; font-size: 17px !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button.ays_download_certificate { white-space: nowrap; padding: 5px 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button.ays_arrow { color:#333!important; white-space: nowrap; padding: 5px 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 input#ays-submit:hover, #ays-quiz-container-11 input#ays-submit:focus, #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button:hover, #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button:focus { box-shadow: 0 0 0 2px #333; background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_restart_button { color: #333; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_restart_button_p { display: flex; justify-content: center; flex-wrap: wrap; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_buttons_div { justify-content: center; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .step:first-of-type .ays_buttons_div { justify-content: center !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 input[type='button'], #ays-quiz-container-11 input[type='submit'] { color: #333 !important; outline: none; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 i.ays_early_finish.action-button[disabled]:hover, #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 i.ays_early_finish.action-button[disabled]:focus, #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 i.ays_early_finish.action-button[disabled], #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 i.ays_arrow.action-button[disabled]:hover, #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 i.ays_arrow.action-button[disabled]:focus, #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 i.ays_arrow.action-button[disabled] { color: #aaa !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_finish.action-button{ margin: 10px 5px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-share-btn.ays-share-btn-branded { color: #fff; } /* Question answers */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field { border-color: #444; border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; box-shadow: none;flex-direction: row-reverse; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-quiz-answers .ays-field:hover{ opacity: 1; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .ays-field label.ays_answer_caption[for^='ays-answer-'] { z-index: 1; position:initial;bottom:0;} #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .ays-field input~label[for^='ays-answer-'] { padding: 5px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .ays-field { margin-bottom: 10px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .ays-field.ays_grid_view_item { width: calc(50% - 5px); } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .ays-field.ays_grid_view_item:nth-child(odd) { margin-right: 5px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .ays-field input:checked+label:before { border-color: #27AE60; background: #27AE60; background-clip: content-box; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-quiz-answers div.ays-text-right-answer { color: #000; } /* Answer maximum length of a text field */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_question_text_message{ color: #000; text-align: left; font-size: 12px; } div#ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays_quiz_question_text_error_message { color: #ff0000; } /* Questions answer image */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-answer-image { width:15em; height:150px; object-fit: cover; } /* Questions answer right/wrong icons */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field input~label.answered.correct:after{ content: url('http://ilona-andrews.com/wp-content/plugins/quiz-maker/public/images/correct.png'); } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field input~label.answered.wrong:after{ content: url('http://ilona-andrews.com/wp-content/plugins/quiz-maker/public/images/wrong.png'); } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field label.answered:last-of-type:after{ height: auto; left: 10px;top: 10px;} /* Dropdown questions */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-container--default .select2-search--dropdown .select2-search__field:focus, #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-container--default .select2-search--dropdown .select2-search__field { outline: unset; padding: 0.75rem; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single { border-bottom: 2px solid #27AE60; background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__placeholder, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__arrow { color: #d8519f; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered, #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-container--default .select2-results__option--highlighted[aria-selected] { background-color: #27AE60; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .selection, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .dropdown-wrapper, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__rendered .select2-selection__placeholder, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__arrow, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field .select2-container--default .select2-selection--single .select2-selection__arrow b[role='presentation'] { font-size: 16px !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-container--default .select2-results__option { padding: 6px; } /* Dropdown questions scroll bar */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar { width: 7px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar-track { background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0.35); } #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb { transition: .3s ease-in-out; background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0.55); } #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-results__options::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb:hover { transition: .3s ease-in-out; background-color: rgba(255,255,255,0.85); } /* WooCommerce product */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-woo-block { background-color: rgba(39,174,96,0.8); } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-woo-product-block h4.ays-woo-product-title > a { color: #000; } /* Audio / Video */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .mejs-container .mejs-time{ box-sizing: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .mejs-container .mejs-time-rail { padding-top: 15px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .mejs-container .mejs-mediaelement video { margin: 0; } /* Limitation */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-quiz-limitation-count-of-takers { padding: 50px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block span.ays-show-res-toggle.ays-res-toggle-show, #ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block span.ays-show-res-toggle.ays-res-toggle-hide{ color: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle { border: 1px solid #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle { border: 1px solid #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle:after{ background: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_elegant_dark div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle:after, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_rect_dark div.ays-quiz-results-toggle-block input:checked + label.ays_switch_toggle:after{ background: #000; } /* Hestia theme (Version: 3.0.16) | Start */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .mejs-container .mejs-inner .mejs-controls .mejs-button > button:hover, #ays-quiz-container-11 .mejs-container .mejs-inner .mejs-controls .mejs-button > button { box-shadow: unset; background-color: transparent; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .mejs-container .mejs-inner .mejs-controls .mejs-button > button { margin: 10px 6px; } /* Hestia theme (Version: 3.0.16) | End */ /* Go theme (Version: 1.4.3) | Start */ #ays-quiz-container-11 label[for^='ays-answer']:before, #ays-quiz-container-11 label[for^='ays-answer']:before { -webkit-mask-image: unset; mask-image: unset; } #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field input:checked+label.answered:before, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field input:checked+label.answered:before { background-color: #27AE60 !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.correct:before, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.correct:before { background-color: #27ae60 !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.wrong:before, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field input:checked+label.answered.wrong:before { background-color: #cc3700 !important; } /* Go theme (Version: 1.4.3) | End */ #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_results fieldset.ays_fieldset .ays_quiz_question .wp-video { width: 100% !important; max-width: 100%; } /* Classic Dark / Classic Light */ /* Dropdown questions right/wrong styles */ #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_dark .correct_div, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_light .correct_div{ border-color: green !important; opacity: 1 !important; background-color: rgba(39,174,96,0.4) !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_dark .correct_div .selected-field, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_light .correct_div .selected-field { padding: 0px 10px 0px 10px; color: green !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_dark .wrong_div, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_light .wrong_div{ border-color: red !important; opacity: 1 !important; background-color: rgba(243,134,129,0.4) !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_dark .ays-field.checked_answer_div.wrong_div input:checked~label, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-field.checked_answer_div.wrong_div input:checked~label { background-color: rgba(243,134,129,0.4) !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_question_result .ays-field .ays_quiz_hide_correct_answer:after{ content: '' !important; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-quiz-close-full-screen { fill: #000; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-quiz-open-full-screen { fill: #000; } @media screen and (max-width: 768px){ #ays-quiz-container-11{ max-width: 100%; } div#ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_modern_light .step, div#ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_modern_dark .step { padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important; } div#ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_modern_light div.step[data-question-id], div#ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_modern_dark div.step[data-question-id] { background-size: cover !important; background-position: center center !important; } div#ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_modern_light .ays-abs-fs:not(.ays-start-page):not(.ays-end-page), div#ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_modern_dark .ays-abs-fs:not(.ays-start-page):not(.ays-end-page) { width: 100%; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays_quiz_question p { font-size: 16px; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .select2-container, #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field * { font-size: 15px !important; } div#ays-quiz-container-11 input#ays-submit, div#ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button, div#ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button.ays_restart_button { font-size: 17px; } div#ays-quiz-container-11 div.ays-questions-container div.ays-woo-block { width: 100%; } /* Quiz title / mobile font size */ div#ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-fs-title { font-size: 21px; } } /* Custom css styles */ /* RTL direction styles */ #ays-quiz-container-11 p { margin: 0.625em; } #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field.checked_answer_div input:checked~label { background-color: rgba(39,174,96,0.6); } #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_light .enable_correction .ays-field.checked_answer_div input:checked+label, #ays-quiz-container-11.ays_quiz_classic_dark .enable_correction .ays-field.checked_answer_div input:checked+label { background-color: transparent; } #ays-quiz-container-11.ays-quiz-container.ays_quiz_classic_light .ays-questions-container .ays-field:hover label[for^='ays-answer-'], #ays-quiz-container-11 .ays-field:hover{ background: rgba(39,174,96,0.8); color: #fff; transition: all .3s; } #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button:hover, #ays-quiz-container-11 #ays_finish_quiz_11 .action-button:focus { box-shadow: 0 0 0 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.5), 0 0 0 3px #333; background: #27AE60; } if(typeof aysQuizOptions === 'undefined'){ var aysQuizOptions = []; } aysQuizOptions['11'] = '{"quiz_version":"8.7.4","core_version":"6.9.4","php_version":"8.2.30","color":"#27AE60","bg_color":"#fff","text_color":"#000","height":350,"width":400,"enable_logged_users":"off","information_form":"disable","form_name":"off","form_email":"off","form_phone":"off","image_width":"","image_height":"","enable_correction":"off","enable_progress_bar":"off","enable_questions_result":"off","randomize_questions":"off","randomize_answers":"off","enable_questions_counter":"on","enable_restriction_pass":"off","enable_restriction_pass_users":"off","restriction_pass_message":"","restriction_pass_users_message":"","user_role":[],"ays_users_search":[],"custom_css":"","limit_users":"off","limitation_message":"","redirect_url":"","redirection_delay":0,"answers_view":"list","enable_rtl_direction":"off","enable_logged_users_message":"","questions_count":"","enable_question_bank":"off","enable_live_progress_bar":"off","enable_percent_view":"off","enable_average_statistical":"off","enable_next_button":"off","enable_previous_button":"off","enable_arrows":"off","timer_text":"","quiz_theme":"classic_light","enable_social_buttons":"off","final_result_text":"","enable_pass_count":"on","hide_score":"on","rate_form_title":"","box_shadow_color":"#000","quiz_border_radius":"0","quiz_bg_image":"","quiz_border_width":"1","quiz_border_style":"solid","quiz_border_color":"#000","quiz_loader":"default","quest_animation":"shake","enable_bg_music":"off","quiz_bg_music":"","answers_font_size":15,"show_create_date":"off","show_author":"off","enable_early_finish":"off","answers_rw_texts":"disable","disable_store_data":"off","enable_background_gradient":"off","background_gradient_color_1":"#000","background_gradient_color_2":"#fff","quiz_gradient_direction":"vertical","redirect_after_submit":"off","submit_redirect_url":"","submit_redirect_delay":"0","progress_bar_style":"first","enable_exit_button":"off","exit_redirect_url":"","image_sizing":"cover","quiz_bg_image_position":"center center","custom_class":"","enable_social_links":"off","social_links":{"linkedin_link":"","facebook_link":"","twitter_link":"","vkontakte_link":"","instagram_link":"","youtube_link":""},"show_quiz_title":"on","show_quiz_desc":"on","show_login_form":"off","mobile_max_width":"","limit_users_by":"ip","explanation_time":"4","enable_clear_answer":"off","show_category":"off","show_question_category":"off","answers_padding":"5","answers_border":"on","answers_border_width":"1","answers_border_style":"solid","answers_border_color":"#444","ans_img_height":"150","ans_img_caption_style":"outside","ans_img_caption_position":"bottom","answers_box_shadow":"off","answers_box_shadow_color":"#000","show_answers_caption":"on","answers_margin":10,"ans_right_wrong_icon":"default","display_score":"by_points","enable_rw_asnwers_sounds":"off","quiz_bg_img_in_finish_page":"off","finish_after_wrong_answer":"off","after_timer_text":"","enable_enter_key":"on","show_rate_after_rate":"on","buttons_text_color":"#333","buttons_position":"center","buttons_size":"medium","buttons_font_size":"17","buttons_width":"","buttons_left_right_padding":"20","buttons_top_bottom_padding":"10","buttons_border_radius":"3","enable_audio_autoplay":"off","enable_leave_page":"on","show_only_wrong_answer":"off","pass_score":0,"pass_score_message":"<h4 style=\"text-align: center;\">Congratulations!<\/h4>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">You passed the quiz!<\/p>","fail_score_message":"<h4 style=\"text-align: center;\">Oops!<\/h4>\r\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">You have not passed the quiz!\r\nTry again!<\/p>","answers_object_fit":"cover","quiz_max_pass_count":1,"question_font_size":16,"quiz_width_by_percentage_px":"pixels","questions_hint_icon_or_text":"hide","questions_hint_value":"","enable_early_finsh_comfirm_box":"on","hide_correct_answers":"off","quiz_loader_text_value":"","show_information_form":"on","show_questions_explanation":"disable","enable_questions_ordering_by_cat":"off","enable_send_mail_to_user_by_pass_score":"off","enable_send_mail_to_admin_by_pass_score":"off","show_questions_numbering":"none","show_answers_numbering":"none","quiz_loader_custom_gif":"","disable_hover_effect":"off","quiz_loader_custom_gif_width":100,"quiz_title_transformation":"uppercase","quiz_image_width_by_percentage_px":"pixels","quiz_image_height":"","quiz_bg_img_on_start_page":"off","quiz_box_shadow_x_offset":0,"quiz_box_shadow_y_offset":0,"quiz_box_shadow_z_offset":15,"quiz_question_text_alignment":"center","quiz_arrow_type":"default","quiz_show_wrong_answers_first":"off","quiz_display_all_questions":"off","quiz_timer_red_warning":"off","quiz_schedule_timezone":"UTC-6","questions_hint_button_value":"","quiz_tackers_message":"This quiz is expired!","quiz_enable_linkedin_share_button":"on","quiz_enable_facebook_share_button":"on","quiz_enable_twitter_share_button":"on","quiz_enable_vkontakte_share_button":"on","quiz_make_responses_anonymous":"off","quiz_make_all_review_link":"off","quiz_message_before_timer":"","quiz_password_message":"","enable_see_result_confirm_box":"off","display_fields_labels":"off","quiz_enable_password_visibility":"off","question_mobile_font_size":16,"answers_mobile_font_size":15,"social_buttons_heading":"","social_links_heading":"","quiz_enable_question_category_description":"off","quiz_message_before_redirect_timer":"","buttons_mobile_font_size":17,"quiz_answer_box_shadow_x_offset":0,"quiz_answer_box_shadow_y_offset":0,"quiz_answer_box_shadow_z_offset":10,"quiz_enable_title_text_shadow":"off","quiz_title_text_shadow_color":"#333","right_answers_font_size":16,"wrong_answers_font_size":16,"quest_explanation_font_size":16,"quiz_waiting_time":"off","quiz_title_text_shadow_x_offset":2,"quiz_title_text_shadow_y_offset":2,"quiz_title_text_shadow_z_offset":2,"quiz_show_only_wrong_answers":"off","quiz_title_font_size":21,"quiz_title_mobile_font_size":21,"quiz_password_width":"","quiz_review_placeholder_text":"","quiz_make_review_required":"off","quiz_enable_results_toggle":"off","question_count_per_page":null,"question_count_per_page_number":"","mail_message":"","enable_certificate":"off","enable_certificate_without_send":"off","certificate_pass":"0","form_title":"","certificate_title":"<span style=\"font-size: 50px; font-weight: bold;\">Certificate of Completion<\/span>","certificate_body":"<span style=\"font-size: 25px;\"><i>This is to certify that<\/i><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 30px;\"><b>%%user_name%%<\/b><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 25px;\"><i>has completed the quiz<\/i><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 30px;\">\"%%quiz_name%%\"<\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 20px;\">with a score of <b>%%score%%<\/b><\/span>\r\n\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 25px;\"><i>dated<\/i><\/span>\r\n<span style=\"font-size: 30px;\">%%current_date%%<\/span>","mailchimp_list":"","enable_mailchimp":"off","enable_double_opt_in":"off","active_date_check":"off","activeInterval":"2026-03-17 09:56:50","deactiveInterval":"2026-03-17 09:56:50","active_date_message":"The quiz has expired!","active_date_pre_start_message":"The quiz will be available soon!","checkbox_score_by":"on","calculate_score":"by_points","send_results_user":"off","send_interval_msg":"off","question_bank_type":"general","questions_bank_cat_count":{"1":""},"enable_tackers_count":"off","tackers_count":"","send_results_admin":"on","send_interval_msg_to_admin":"off","show_interval_message":"on","allow_collecting_logged_in_users_data":"off","quiz_pass_score":"0","send_certificate_to_admin":"off","certificate_image":"","certificate_frame":"default","certificate_orientation":"l","make_questions_required":"off","enable_password":"off","password_quiz":"","mail_message_admin":"","send_mail_to_site_admin":"on","generate_password":"general","generated_passwords":{"created_passwords":[],"active_passwords":[],"used_passwords":[]},"display_score_by":"by_keywords","show_schedule_timer":"off","show_timer_type":"countdown","progress_live_bar_style":"default","enable_full_screen_mode":"off","enable_navigation_bar":"off","hide_limit_attempts_notice":"off","turn_on_extra_security_check":"on","enable_top_keywords":"off","assign_keywords":[{"assign_top_keyword":"A","assign_top_keyword_text":""},{"assign_top_keyword":"B","assign_top_keyword_text":""},{"assign_top_keyword":"C","assign_top_keyword_text":""},{"assign_top_keyword":"D","assign_top_keyword_text":""}],"quiz_enable_coupon":"off","quiz_coupons_array":{"quiz_active_coupons":[],"quiz_inactive_coupons":[]},"apply_points_to_keywords":"off","limit_attempts_count_by_user_role":"","enable_autostart":"off","paypal_amount":null,"paypal_currency":null,"paypal_message":"","enable_stripe":"off","stripe_amount":"","stripe_currency":"","stripe_message":"You need to pay to pass this quiz.","payment_type":"prepay","enable_monitor":"off","monitor_list":"","active_camp_list":"","enable_slack":"off","slack_conversation":"","active_camp_automation":"","enable_active_camp":"off","enable_zapier":"off","enable_google_sheets":"off","spreadsheet_id":"","google_sheet_custom_fields":[],"quiz_attributes":null,"quiz_attributes_active_order":null,"quiz_attributes_passive_order":["ays_form_name","ays_form_email","ays_form_phone"],"required_fields":null,"enable_timer":"off","timer":100,"enable_quiz_rate":"off","enable_rate_avg":"off","enable_box_shadow":"on","enable_border":"off","quiz_timer_in_title":"off","enable_rate_comments":"off","enable_restart_button":"off","autofill_user_data":"off","enable_copy_protection":"off","enable_paypal":"off","ays_enable_restriction_pass":"off","ays_enable_restriction_pass_users":"off","result_text":null,"enable_result":"off","enable_mad_mimi":"off","mad_mimi_list":"","enable_convertKit":"off","convertKit_form_id":"","enable_getResponse":"off","getResponse_list":"","submit_redirect_after":"","rw_answers_sounds":false,"id":"11","title":"Which Series Should I Start With?","description":"Welcome to the Ilona Andrews worlds!\r\nNot sure where to begin? Answer the questions below to find the best place to start your reading journey.","quiz_image":"https:\/\/ilona-andrews.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/03\/Book-opened.jpg","quiz_category_id":"1","question_ids":"92,91,90,94,93,96,88,95,89","ordering":"11","published":"1","intervals":"[{\"interval_min\":\"0\",\"interval_max\":\"25\",\"interval_text\":\"Meet Kate Daniels!\\r\\nHer world has suffered a magic apocalypse. Magic comes in waves, without warning, feeding on every shred of technology the modern world uses. \\r\\nKate likes her sword a little too much and has a hard time controlling her mouth. She is hiding in plain sight and surrounds herself with found family and danger.\\r\\nThe first book is Magic Bites, but many fans recommend starting with book 3, Magic Strikes\\r\\nThis world is the largest of Ilona Andrews' creations and has developed into several beloved spin-offs and companion novellas.\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2019\\\/09\\\/Kate-SM-banner.jpg\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"A\"},{\"interval_min\":\"26\",\"interval_max\":\"50\",\"interval_text\":\"The Innkeeper Chronicles!\\r\\nWelcome to Gertrude Hunt, a quaint Victorian Bed and Breakfast in a small Texas town. Your innkeeper, Dina Demille, will see to your every need. The limits of physics are not an issue for us. \\r\\nPhilosophical space chickens, naked vampires, retired galactic tyrants and cunning space merchants are just a few of your fellow guests.\\r\\nEnjoy yourself, feast on the exquisite food prepared by our giant hedgehog chef, and above all, remember the one rule all visitors must abide by: the humans must never know.\\r\\nStart with: Clean Sweep\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2020\\\/06\\\/Dina-and-Sean-block-1.jpg\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"B\"},{\"interval_min\":\"51\",\"interval_max\":\"75\",\"interval_text\":\"Hidden Legacy awaits!\\r\\nThe world is ruled by magical dynasties - powerful Houses who marry to preserve and expand their abilities, command private armies, and control global corporations.\\r\\nThe Baylors are a small family of underdogs, scraping by through their modest detective agency, far from the notice of the truly powerful. They like it that way, because the three Baylor sisters carry dangerous secrets that must be protected.\\r\\nSoon, the big leagues come calling, bringing danger, romance, conspiracies, and torrents of fire to the Baylors\\u2019 warehouse doorstep.\\r\\nBegin your adventure with Burn for Me.\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2021\\\/02\\\/Baylor-sisters-banner.jpg\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"C\"},{\"interval_min\":\"76\",\"interval_max\":\"100\",\"interval_text\":\"You're one of the Kinsmen!\\r\\nIn a distant future, on a planet far, far away, powerful groups of genetically and technologically advanced families control vast financial empires. They are known as the Kinsmen. The struggle for power is a bloody, full-contact sport: in business, on the battlefield\\u2026and sometimes in love.\\r\\nYou can start anywhere in the series. The four Kinsmen stories  are completely stand-alone and perfect for readers who love strong arcs and quick payoffs.\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2021\\\/09\\\/fatedblades_print.jpg\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"D\"},{\"interval_min\":\"\",\"interval_max\":\"\",\"interval_text\":\"The Edge lies between worlds, on the border between the Broken, where people shop at Wal-Mart and magic is a fairy tale\\u2014and the Weird, where blueblood aristocrats rule, changelings roam, and the strength of your magic can change your destiny. \\r\\nBook 1 is On The Edge. The series is complete at 4 books, and can be read on its own, but has a few crossover characters with the Innkeeper series.\",\"interval_image\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ilona-andrews.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2020\\\/07\\\/George-and-Jack.jpg\",\"interval_redirect_url\":\"\",\"interval_redirect_delay\":\"\",\"interval_wproduct\":\"\",\"interval_keyword\":\"E\"}]","author_id":"4477","post_id":null,"create_date":"2025-12-12 18:15:36","quiz_url":"http:\/\/0","is_user_logged_in":false,"quiz_animation_top":100,"quiz_enable_animation_top":"on","store_all_not_finished_results":false}';

Please remember the quiz plugin does not work in the email newsletter, so if you’re seeing this in your inbox you’ll need to click here to try it through the blog.

The post Which Series Re-Quizzed first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

 

"Why should he be mad? He's the one who fucked me over," I grumbled, then winced, hoping the construct circling some distance below hadn't caught my words.
(page 68, Apparently, Sir Cameron Needs to Die by Greer Stothers)

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

Kingdom of Heaven Director’s Cut (20th Century Fox, December 23, 2005) Kingdom of Heaven (Director’s Cut) (194 minutes; 2005)

Written by William Monahan. Directed by Ridley Scott.

(There is a shorter theatrical cut, which should be avoided at all costs, like the plague it is.)

What is it?

Ridley Scott’s epic saga of the Crusades, as seen through the eyes of a simple French blacksmith who travels to Jerusalem in an attempt to save the soul of his late wife, and ends up as the defender of the city against the massive army of Saladin.

Noteworthy

After massive edits mandated by the studio in order to shorten it, the theatrical cut of this film was a bomb. The restored Director’s Cut is, to put it simply, a masterpiece. It is a completely different film from the one the editors hacked to pieces and sent out to theaters, with 45 minutes (!!) of restored footage that completely changes the story and the characters.

For one example of many: in the theatrical cut, Eva Green’s character, the Queen of Jerusalem, comes across as acting irrationally, because we don’t know her motivations. In the Director’s Cut, we gain entirely new and powerful subplots involving her brother, her husband and her son, all of which render her actions quite clear and understandable. The queen becomes half of the beating heart of the story.

How anyone could have thought the movie was improved by omitting even a portion of that material is beyond comprehension.

Orlando Bloom and Liam Neeson in Kingdom of Heaven

The cast is filled with famous actors. Orlando Bloom stars as the reluctant warrior, Balian. Eva Green is the queen of Jerusalem (with Edward Norton uncredited as her brother, the leper king). Liam Neeson is the Baron of Ibelin and father of Balian. Jeremy Irons is, effectively, the police chief of Jerusalem.

The rest of the stellar cast includes Michael Sheen, David Thewlis, Kevin McKidd, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Marton Csokas, Alexander Siddig, Ghassan Massoud, Brendan Gleeson and Iain Glen, among many others. Good heavens.

With the increasing availability of the Director’s Cut, public acclaim for the film has drastically improved. In just the past year alone, the IMDb rating has risen from 5.6 to 7.3, presumably on the strength of viewers’ votes after seeing the Director’s Cut. At this rate, it should deservedly reach a perfect 10 within a couple more years!

(Also of note: Scott’s underrated 2010 Robin Hood movie, starring Russell Crowe, is arguably a direct sequel. Kingdom of Heaven ends with King Richard the Lionheart stopping by Balian’s village on his way to the Crusades, while Robin Hood begins with the king’s journey back home.)

Michael Sheen and Orlando Bloom in Kingdom of Heaven Quick and Dirty Summary

During the Crusades, Balian the blacksmith (Bloom) travels from France to Jerusalem to seek forgiveness from God for himself and for his late wife, who committed suicide after the death of their infant child.

Along the way, he kills his half-brother (Sheen) — who needed killing, honestly. He discovers his true father (Neeson), falls in love with a queen (Green), battles corrupt knights (Csokas and Gleeson), and befriends a king (Norton).

He also wrestles with moral questions, impresses a top aide (Siddig) to the great warlord Saladin (Massoud), and absorbs wise counsel from knights such as Hospitaler (Thewlis) and Tiberias (Irons), helping him grow as a man, a knight and a leader. And just in time – because the next thing he knows, this former blacksmith is suddenly in charge of defending Jerusalem from attack by Saladin’s massive army!

Fantasy/SF/Sword & Sorcery Elements

There’s plenty of sword, as in a number of battles involving massive armies, as well as several individual duels (one sword, two swords, a half-molten sword – a lot of swords!). The sorcery elements are more of a religious nature, but unquestionably and increasingly supernatural as the story unfolds.

The Hospitaller Knight – no other name is given for him – is the focus of the most fantastical aspects of the story. At three particular moments he exhibits abilities that elevate him from mere human to divine and perhaps angelic being.

First, during an early battle scene, Hospitaler evades arrows by disappearing from his horse as it runs through the Crusader camp. Ridley Scott doesn’t play fair with us here, however, as we quickly see that the knight has simply shifted to the far side of the horse, hanging on for dear life while making his horse appear riderless. But it serves a tease for what is to come.

David Thewlis as the Hospitaller Knight

The second scene cranks up the weirdness quite a bit. As Balian sits alone in the desert, brooding over his situation, Hospitaller walks up and addresses him, handing out more deep moral philosophy. Once the knight is done, a literal “burning bush” distracts Balian. When he looks back a moment later, Hospitaler is nowhere to be seen. In true Batman fashion, he has vanished from a vast, wide-open desert. Balian’s horse cries out and rears, as if a ghost – or an angel – had just moved past it, invisible.

Finally, when Balian lies near death following a fight with two of Guy’s Templar knights, Hospitaller appears from out of nowhere. He touches Balian on the forehead, restoring him to life – just in time to try to stop the army of Jerusalem from marching out to its destruction.

Clearly, there’s something going on with that character beyond the realms of mortal man. Some have argued Hospitaler is God himself, or at least an angel, sent to guide Balian. But we are left to puzzle out those specifics for ourselves.

Eva Green in Kingdom of Heaven High Point

For all the action and romance and adventure, what still rings true above all else with this film is its powerful message that what king one serves or what religion one adheres to does not ultimately make one a good or bad person. What matters is what we choose to do, and choose not to do – as both the leper king and the priest-knight Hospitaler repeatedly point out to Balian.

One scene crystallizes this entire message. When Balian confides in the Hospitaller Knight that he fears he has lost his religion, the knight responds in a way that shocks the young man – and perhaps the audience, as it comes from a holy man. But it lays out the great message of the film:

I put no stock in religion. By the word religion I have seen the lunacy of fanatics of every denomination be called the will of God. I’ve seen too much religion in the eyes of too many murderers. Holiness is in right action, and courage on behalf of those who cannot defend themselves. And goodness — what God desires — is here (points to head) and here (points to heart). And by what you decide to do every day, you will be a good man. Or not.

Ghassan Massoud as Saladin Low Point

Balian repeatedly states that his only goal is to be “a good knight.” From this, multiple people respond in shock, with reactions along the lines of, “A perfect knight? Good heavens!” As in, who does he think he is??

But he never says “perfect.” Never once. Just “good.”

It makes me want to pull my hair out.

Standout Performance

Marton Csokas, who played Celeborn in The Lord of the Rings and who auditioned for the part of Balian in this film, makes for a truly memorable and despicable villain as Guy de Lusignan, head of the Templar Knights. When he’s not sneering on a scale perhaps not seen since Basil Rathbone in the 1938 Robin Hood or scheming against our hero, he’s throwing hissy fits or issuing catastrophically bad orders to his army. In a movie with so many good-guy supporting characters, Csokas shines in his own darkness.

Kingdom of Heaven theatrical poster Overall Evaluation as a Movie and as Fantasy/SF/Sword & Sorcery

While not as much a Fantasy film as some others, Kingdom of Heaven contains enough Medieval battles, one-on-one sword fights, supernatural forces and general derring-do to place it alongside the best of that genre. Throw in the entire moral and ethical layer, and the film achieves masterpiece status.

Just treat that theatrical cut like the leper it is!

Van Allen Plexico is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA), a Grand Master of Pulp Literature (2025 class) and a multiple-award-winning author of more than two dozen novels and anthologies, ranging from space opera to Kaiju to crime fiction to superheroes to military SF. He notably edited, co-created and co-wrote the Sword and Sorcery anthology GIDEON CAIN: DEMON HUNTER. Find all of his works on Amazon and at Plexico.net.

Abraham van Helsing is the most famous vampire hunter in literature, and while he vanquished the Count, he may not have been the best father. His daughter Anneke is on the hunt for the creature who killed her father (she happened to be the only person to see this haunting creature), which has helped to…

  Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";}

Chapter 4

 

Atlas XIV

 

Jethro checked on the status of his unit. They had reorganized the TOE in the aftermath of taking the vast ship. Now he had another headache to deal with.

Each fire team had a block of sectors to monitor and act as SWAT. So, one fire team had nine sectors to respond to. It was a lot of ground to cover. They were on ten hours, off four, and then on for another ten. They were also on call. They each had up to six robots to control, but the robots were not as good as an actual fellow soldier.

They were backstopped by Marines in powered armor in a few hot spots but they were few and far between. Many of the powered armor troops had to also guard critical areas of the ship.

Marines and MPs were guarding specific areas or acting as a liaison with the Horathians that they had deemed trustworthy. There had been a few incidents and several Marines had been killed in an ambush, but so far nothing too earth shattering.

There were NCIS and JAG teams scattered about the ship too, doing interviews. They and the engineering teams were the most annoying. They had to have guards too and some were damn annoying. A couple of the JAGs wanted a personal escort of Cadre.

Not going to happen, he thought sourly.

<<(O)>>

Bast monitored Jethro's emotional state along with a host of other things on her list. She was being pulled in a variety of directions just like the other AI. They had gotten support from the ship AI, but it was still an ongoing struggle to keep up with all of the demands for their attention. Luckily they had some support from the ships in the fleet. Batmobile's ship AI, Alfred, and some other ships had come into the main bay and docked in order to directly help in the network.

She was looking forward to the downtime to allow her to process and sort through the mess. An organic would think of the downtime as rest and recovery, and many still did not understand just how vital it was for her kind as well as their own.

<<(O)>>

Sergeant Sabu McClintock liked the enemy combatants. Well, okay, the ones that were dumb enough to carry a weapon and fight back. He couldn't do much about the ones that gave him a dirty look at the moment.

The die hards were the ones that were making things oh-so-difficult and yet simplifying things at the same time. They were outing themselves and painting targets on their backs. But they were keeping him busy. It was the ones in the crowds, the sneaky shits, that had some of his people worried. They were fully expecting a knife in the back at any turn.

It was enough to make any good soldier paranoid. They could only let their guard down in areas that were completely cleared of Horathians. Even then peace and security was relative; they'd had a couple of incidents of people trying to slip explosives into safe zones, or blow plasma conduits to flood areas with plasma that would destroy everything that it touched.

He'd heard about the guy who'd strapped explosives to a baby and tried to hand it off to a corpsman.

Nice people, he mused darkly.

Well, it was to be expected; after all, they were technically uninvited guests. Not really guests, he corrected himself, new landlords.

At least they'd gotten the leaders to bed. All of the Horathian leadership were in stasis. The theory was that by cutting off the head of the snake the body could thrash and cause some damage but not cause as much trouble.

Honestly, he didn't see them as a snake. More along the line of a flock of headless chickens.

If they ever did find another leader, things could get sticky.

He had another two hours on shift and then he was down for four hours. He was looking forward to a break though he dreaded looking into his sister's status. Word was that they were going to decide if they should try to rebuild her here or ship her back home for Zuhura and the medics to do the job.

Considering how complex it was to regenerate limbs and other bits, his money was on shipping her back in stasis. That was a shame; she should share in the victory. Or at least help cleanup after it, he mused.

Typical, he thought as he keyed a memo.

"Really? Writing a reminder to tease your sister about leaving her mess to clean up?" his AI teased.

"Something like that," he said as he finished the memo and then got back to work.

<<(O)>>

Major Snorkle nodded as he read the latest reports. So far they were holding. Naval officers were taking charge. Integrating the sleepers into their ranks was both helping and a hindrance. Many were suffering time-related trauma. That was fully understandable, though they needed to be identified and either given the chance to process off duty or find another coping mechanism while still remaining useful.

The medics had offered to put some who had been suffering severe symptoms back into stasis; however, that had backfired. They'd had a couple of violent incidents. Fortunately, none fatal.

One of the best things that they had going for them was that the enemy was unorganized and uncoordinated. They couldn't communicate with each other well. Attempts to do so were identified, monitored, and forces were directed to capture them once their locations were narrowed down.

He rolled his shoulders. The one spot of good news was that all of the injured were off ship, in hospitals, or in stasis like Suqi McClintock. The captured Horathian leadership was as well.

He'd feel a lot better when they were off ship too. For the moment, they were stored in the stasis bays that had formally held the previous Federation skeleton crew.

<<(O)>>

Minotaur watched a civilian shipyard worker break down. She cried softly until a coworker found her and then knelt to talk to her. He made certain she was not going to become violent and then tagged a bot to monitor the situation before moving his attention elsewhere.

The AI was seeing that a lot with the civilian side. The AI had set up their own forums with things to watch out for and people to check on regularly. He had shielded his principle from such unwanted attention. Ox was still struggling with some of his PTSD but had a handle on it. Throwing himself into the work helped a great deal.

Speaking of which … he noted the JAG officer approaching Ox and hit record. "This should be interesting," he stated for his principle's ears as he alerted him to trouble coming his way.

<<(O)>>

"This should be interesting," Minotaur's voice said for his ears only. The Tauren's big ears twitched and then he saw an icon on his HUD coming up behind him.

"You there, Cadre," the attorney stated.

He turned. The woman was dressed in a skinsuit with body armor strapped over it. She had a sidearm strapped to her hip and a helmet.

"Make sure that there are no power interuptions to the number six grid. The last flux burned out a life support module."

"How?" a navy tech argued. "They should be buffered, right?"

"They bypassed the breakers and hard wired it into the net."

The human tech grimaced and then shook his head. "Stupid."

"Stupid, yes. In a hurry or just lazy. Either way, we don't have the spares right now to replace the breakers so we're flying without a net. So beware."

"You there," the strident voice said.

"Dismissed," Ox said as he turned to the lieutenant.

"Yes … Lieutenant Yerenski?" he asked mildly. A message from Major Snorkle's AI asking for a status report came up on his inbox along with six others from naval officers.

"I need to get to the number six hold and interview the prisoners there."

"Yes,  ma’am, it is that way," he said as Minotaur pulled up a map to indicate the direction. "Take the port corridor and then get to the lift, then down seven levels. There are security teams at the lifts to direct you if you get lost."

"Or she could use the map on her HUD," Minotaur said for his ears only.

"I require an escort," she stated. "Clear your schedule. I'm assigning you to my security detail for the duration."

"I'm afraid not, ma'am."

Her face clouded. "I'm an officer giving you a direct order, Sergeant …," her face cleared as he felt her reach through her WiFi to tag his ID implants. "… Chief Warrant Officer Ox?" she asked. She blinked and then her eyes went wide. Instinctively, she came to attention as the ID tag showed a CMH icon. "Ah …?"

Ox blinked slowly as she came to attention. He normally resented how some people reacted to his having the medal. He now understood why Jethro tried to hide it. But in this case, it was proving amusing and useful.

The Congressional Medal of Honor award meant that he was supposed to be saluted by anyone else who had not recieved one irrigardless of rank. They were also generally deferential to him. He could see her embarrassment as her cheeks flushed as she came to attention and saluted.

He came to attention and returned the salute.

"Sorry, Chief, I didn't recognize you."

"Not a problem," he stated mildly.

"It's not like there are a lot of Taurens in the Cadre," Minotaur said acidly in his ear. He flexed his jaw slightly to let the AI know that the sidebar wasn't helping.

"Ma'am, if you don't have a map, I can upload it to you. We are currently in a safe zone. There are no Horathians in this bank of sectors."

She frowned but then nodded reluctantly.

"If that is all?"

She nodded again. She still looked embarrassed.

"Good. I've got to get back to work. I need to be in four places at the same time," he said as he huffed a theatrical sigh and left. "Yes, Major, I'll be there," he said loudly enough for her to hear.

She blinked and watched him leave.

<<(O)>>

So, let me understand the types of Life Sigils we have seen.

Continuous Sigils – The Armsmen and Hobbs. They work on free essentia and direct it via the sigil to work on whatever it is supposed to work on. Unless, of course, you have a Haywire Sigil.

Triggered Sigils – The drucraft Doctor. These work when activated on a subject that the wearer channels essentia through to direct to perform something on either themselves or a 3rd party. This is the case the skill of the channeler matters. I assume medical drucrafters have a range of Sigils to work on different parts/systems of the body.

Somebody like Stephen could make a death Sigil, because he is not being paid for his shaping. Right?

Everyone hates Wicked the dog. Wicked, the aptly named baggage, who arrived with the next door neighbor’s daughter and granddaughter after they escaped his bastard son-in-law.

Wicked barks all the time—until the day he gets kidnapped, and the entire neighborhood spirals out of control.

“The Disappearance of Wicked”  is available on this site for one week only. You can get it as a standalone ebook, or in the anthologies Little Troublemakers, Crimes Collide Vol. 4, and Series Collide Vol. 2.  Enjoy!

The Disappearance of Wicked Kristine Kathryn Rusch

First, let me preface my story by telling you that none of us liked Wicked. He was an obnoxious little yappy dog, with long curly white hair that needed trimming and a propensity for peeing on anything vaguely foodlike, from a bag of groceries in the open trunk of a car to the kibble set out for the neighborhood cats. He barked most of the time he was awake. When he wasn’t barking, he was yipping, a sad little high-pitched sound that was twice as annoying as any bark could be.

Even Isabel, the dog he lived with, an elderly female mix about the size of a Lab, hated him. Isabel, who faithfully guarded our neighborhood hilltop for the past thirteen years, would slink away whenever Wicked was outside, as if to say, Don’t look at me. I have nothing to do with that smelly, undisciplined little thing.

None of us had much to do with Wicked, not even his so-called owner, Ike Maize. Ike had inherited the dog from his daughter, Roxy, who was going through a messy divorce. Ike and his wife Stella promised to care for Wicked while Roxy went back to California to move her things to Oregon.

I had assumed Roxy would get an apartment when she got to Oregon. Instead, she showed up with the furniture and a six-month-old no one had told me about. The divorce wiped her out financially, so she moved in with her parents.

And that meant Wicked stayed too.

I work at home and am usually immune to the neighborhood noise pollution. I’m not the kind of man who investigates each blaring radio or early morning chain saw. Normally, I play my own stereo so loud that I don’t hear much during the day.

But I could hear Wicked. Nonstop. Barking, barking, yipping, and barking.

By the end of the first day, I wanted to strangle the little thing. By the end of the third day, I spent more time glaring at Wicked than I did working. By the end of the week, I was actively plotting the dog’s death.

I’m an inventive plotter. The critics say that’s one of my (only) strengths as a novelist. In fact, they claim I’ve been on the bestseller list for the past ten years because I can plot better than anyone else in the business.

Outwardly, my home does not reflect the wealth that my plotting skills have brought me. I kept the same footprint—as my realtor likes to say—and built up to make three full stories It’s quite a redesign, but it fits into the neighborhood—or it pretends to.

And that’s all that matters to me.

Because I don’t want to leave the Crest Hill Subdivision. This house was the first house I ever bought—and I vowed not to sell it. Back then, it was a simple split-level, built in 1972, and not remodeled in twenty years. I pulled the orange and green shag carpeting, remodeled the kitchen by myself, and turned the free-standing garage into my writing office, which I still use without many modifications.

In fact, the free-standing garage/office is the problem. The walls are thin because here on the temperate Oregon Coast, houses don’t need insulation. I haven’t replaced the cheap windows I put in during my first redesign, which is why I can hear that early morning chainsaw and the blaring truck radio.

Normally, I don’t mind.

But that was before Wicked.

It was all before Wicked who, oddly enough, changed my view of the neighborhood forever.

***

The Crest Hill Subdivision was built on a sandy ridgeline, 700 feet above sea level, several blocks east of the Pacific Ocean. The story of the subdivision is a story of neighbors—common in most places around the country, but extremely uncommon here on the Oregon Coast. In Seavy Village, three out of four houses are vacation rentals or second homes. These houses are full every Fourth of July. Two-thirds are full on Thanksgiving. A third are full during spring break.

Seavy Village has housing for forty thousand people, and hotel rooms for twice that many, but its year-round population is 7,000. Most neighborhoods are entirely empty most of the time or have only one year-round family residing on those quiet streets.

Crest Hill Subdivision has always been different. We are a small enclave in a sea of empty houses. All twenty houses in Crest Hill are owner-occupied.

For the most part, we get along. We have an annual barbeque at Dave the Plumber’s. When we see each other during the rest of the year, we always wave. If we have time, we stop on the street and chat.

Not a week goes by without a group of us gathered in front of the mailboxes, exchanging the village gossip, and catching up on each other’s lives. We watch out for each other as best we can, and sometimes we even babysit each other’s children or feed the pets during the occasional long weekend.

When my money started pouring it—and it did pour: one minute I was scrambling to make my mortgage, the next I was talking to my broker about various places to store excess cash—I could have built a true mansion on a cliff face overlooking the ocean. But every bare piece of property I looked at, every tumbledown house that could be replaced for something better, existed in that sea of empty houses.

I didn’t like that much isolation, so I stayed in Crest Hill, along with Ike and Stella next door, the Sandersons one house up, Old Mrs. Gailton across the street, and Annalita Carmica on the corner. We formed the foundation of the neighborhood and over time, we acquired even more full-timers. Dave the Plumber and his wife (whose name I always forget), Joyce the Hollywood Producer who retired to her dream house, and the McMillians who bought, for a song, a McMansion that lost its view to the six-plex.

We’re a pretty quiet bunch who lived in very safe place—or so I thought, in those days before Wicked moved in.

***

The morning Wicked disappeared seemed like any other. I had trudged through the rain from my back door to my freestanding office, a hot mug of coffee in one hand, and an offering to the Goddess in the other.

The Goddess was the elderly cat who lived alone in my office. She bit the hand that fed her each and every day. I was inordinately fond of her, enough that I put up with her nasty temper and her inability to get along with anyone, including me.

She spent that morning in the library window, watching Wicked, as she often did. She hated the barking more than I did. Once, she had seen him peeing on one of her dishes that I had set down outside. She had pushed the screen out of the window, then attacked him, beating him so badly that I had to go over to Ike and Stella’s and offer to pay for Wicked’s trip to the vet.

That’s when I learned how much Ike hated Wicked.

“Let the damn dog suffer,” he said. “He’s got to learn that the world isn’t his toilet.”

During Wicked’s stay on the hilltop, the Goddess glared out the library window—the only room in my office that had a good view of Wicked’s yard—and occasionally made little growling noises. Mostly, she seemed to believe if she stared hard enough, Wicked would feel her anger and shut up.

It spoke to my desperation that daily I wished she did have magical powers. I wanted something to shut that damn dog up.

About 11 o’clock that morning, I got my wish. Wicked let out one of his sad yips, followed by the strangest bark I’d ever heard. It was high pitched and sharp, almost sounding startled. Then he let out a long half-bark, half-yowl that seemed more like a human scream than a noise any dog was trained to make.

That sound didn’t end. It got cut off. I leaned back in my office chair and listened, waiting for the barking to begin again.

It didn’t.

Instead, I heard the squeal of truck tires against gravel. Rocks pelted my newly built fence (good fences make good neighbors; they also keep out little peeing yappy dogs).

Then silence.

After a moment, the Goddess sprinted across my desk. She landed in my lap, meowed in my face, and pawed at my hands. I hadn’t seen her that agitated since a yellow tom sprayed one of the rose bushes outside the office’s sliding glass doors. So I followed her into the library.

She jumped onto the window ledge and pressed her face against the glass.

I peered out. From this one window, I could see over the fence and into the Maize’s yard. No truck sat in the driveway, even though I had heard one. Isabel, the elderly dog, was sitting on the walkway to the back door, head tilted to one side.

I didn’t see Wicked.

The Goddess was murping, a sound she made when something in her universe was out of order. I frowned, my stomach knotting in a little ball.

I realized I recognized that sequence of sounds.

I hadn’t heard it in years, not since the Maize’s daughter was little and Ike drove up the driveway too fast one afternoon, running over one of their cats.

He scooped the bleeding, broken creature into his arms, placed it on the floor of the truck, and then backed out of the driveway, peeling away as fast as his old Ford one-ton could go.

He made it to the vet’s in record time, but it was still too late. He’d crushed his daughter’s favorite cat beneath the wheels of his truck and it took months for her to forgive him.

Now, I figured the same thing had happened. Right in the middle of her messy divorce, one that threatened to spill into a long custody battle over her own daughter, her father runs over the dog she has loved since she moved away from home.

Ike had to be devastated.

I really didn’t want to be there for him—there were some things that were beyond neighborly, even in Crest Hill Subdivision—but I knew I had to investigate, just in case my writerly imagination had leaped to the wrong conclusion.

I let myself out of the office. The morning rain had turned into a light drizzle, the kind that looks harmless but actually can soak you within five minutes.

Red and gold leaves littered my driveway. Sometime during the night, a raccoon had clearly pulled part of a white plastic trash bag through the slight hole in my garbage can’s lid, scattering plastic food containers and paper plates across the yard.

I ignored the mess and walked to the fence. It was a picket fence, painted brown, with the pickets rising over six feet, so that few people could see over the top of them. I pulled open the gate in the center and stepped into the Maize’s unpaved driveway.

The rainstorm had left the ground so wet that the retreating truck had torn up deep grooves in the muck. I walked to the edge of them, expecting to see some pieces of white curly hair ground into the dirt or maybe a bit of blood on the already wet rocks. Maybe even a smashed collar or the impression of a small dog’s body in the dirt.

To my disappointment, I saw none of that. I didn’t even see Ike’s footprints in the muddy gravel, although mine were clearly visible.

I frowned and looked up. Isabel, who was used to me, stared at me, a matching frown on her large doggy face. I couldn’t tell if she was perplexed to see me standing on her driveway or if the truck’s quick retreat had surprised her.

I clasped my hands behind my back and walked farther up the driveway, so that I could peer inside the garage. No injured Wicked lying on his side on the concrete. No impish brown eyes peering at me through the small window beside the garage door.

Nothing barked, nothing yipped.

The silence was profound.

Isabel sighed, seemingly in relief, and put her head between her paws. Again, I couldn’t understand the reason for her emotion. Relief that a human was on the case? Or relief that Wicked had finally shut up?

Or both?

I felt no relief. The depth of my Wicked hatred surprised me. Part of me really wanted to see that dog dead. I had never actively wished anything dead before, not even the raccoons who constantly defeated each garbage can I bought.

I had hoped to find evidence of that dog’s demise.

Finding none disappointed me.

But at least, something had forced Wicked to become quiet. As I peered into my neighbor’s garage, I realized I should accept the gift.

I hurried back to my office—after stopping briefly to clean up after the raccoons—and had the most productive day I’d had in the month and a half since Wicked had moved in.

***

The silence didn’t last.

As I microwaved the take-out I picked up for dinner, someone knocked on my door. Even though our neighborhood was close, very few people knocked. The UPS guy knocked every morning, and the newspaper delivery boy knocked once a month, but almost no one else came to the door.

I pressed stop on the microwave and walked to the door. The door was solid core, with no peephole, something I’d meant to remedy. So opening it always contained, for me, a small bit of adventure.

Someday, my vivid thriller writer’s imagination told me, the person on the other side of that knock would be a serial killer, coming to attack me. My logical mind told me that serial killers didn’t knock, but my vivid imagination would counter with the fact that thieves often did, just to see if someone was home.

Fortunately, the person waiting on my stoop wasn’t a serial killer or a thief.

It was Ike.

He was a big man with long, graying hair that showed his hippy roots. He slouched on a good day, but this evening, he was nearly bent in half.

He gave me a sheepish half smile. “I don’t suppose I can ask you a question.”

“Sure,” I said. “Come on in.”

I stepped back and he walked in, careful to stay on the throw rug I put over the hardwood at the start of every rainy season. Even though we had been neighbors for more than fifteen years, we hardly went inside each other’s homes. I couldn’t remember the last time he had been in mine.

He looked at his mud-covered shoes as he said, “My daughter sent me over here. Seems Wicked is missing.”

His voice had the right combination of sincerity and loss, but he wasn’t meeting my gaze.

“Wicked stopped barking about 11 this morning,” I said.

Ike looked up, frowning at me much the way his elderly dog had when I stood in their driveway.

I told Ike the entire story, such as it was, leaving out, of course, the Goddess’s odd attack and her murping sounds, as well as my desire to see Wicked’s blood seeping into the muddy tire prints.

“A truck?” Ike repeated.

“I thought maybe it was you,” I said. “You know, that whole incident with the cat.”

He winced. “No one lets me forget that. I didn’t mean to hit the damn thing.”

“No one ever does,” I said, then realized I wasn’t being neighborly. “You want a beer?”

“I want an entire keg,” he said tiredly. Then he smiled at me. “But a bottle will do.”

I got him a Rogue Brewery Pale Ale from the fridge, then kicked out one of the dining room chairs. “Sit for a minute.”

“I’ll track all over,” he said.

“Who cares?” I said, catching myself before I added, I have a housekeeper who worries about such things. I had a lot more money than my neighbors—hell, these days, I had more money than the entire town—but I didn’t try to call attention to that.

Although it was hard not to notice in my maple and cherry kitchen, with the matching formal dining table, the brand new appliances, and every cooking gadget known to man lining the kitchen counters. Not that they saw those.

What they usually saw was my one and only toy. My late-model Jag, which I replaced each and every year.

He sat down and took a sip from the longneck bottle.

“That goddamn dog,” he said. “If my karma determined that I had to run over only one animal with my truck, why did it have to be Roxy’s kitten? Why the hell couldn’t it have been Wicked?”

“If the neighborhood had known you were looking for volunteers….” I said, letting my words trail off.

He looked up at me, startled. Then he realized I was joking. He leaned against the table, resting his elbow against the tablecloth my housekeeper insisted on changing every Tuesday.

“There were times I might’ve looked,” he said. “The Bastard—” That was his nickname for his daughter’s soon-to-be ex “—trained the little fucker, or didn’t train it, as the case may be. Wicked loves my daughter and that baby, and will guard them with his little doggy life, but other than that, he isn’t a dog at all. He’s a goddamn menace. He doesn’t shut up, he pees all over everything, he tears up the furniture.”

“He’s still a puppy,” I said, not exactly sure why I was making excuses for a dog I hated.

“A puppy?” Ike said, sitting upright. “Are you kidding? Wicked is three years old. I’ve been trying to train him all month. It’s not working.”

Obviously, I nearly said, but didn’t. No sense in causing my neighbor more pain.

“I haven’t heard Wicked since that truck,” I said. “You’d think if he got injured or snuck into the woods, we’d hear him.”

“You’d think the entire town would hear him,” Ike said. “I’m hoping the little bastard ran off.”

The little bastard, trained by the Bastard. I had never put Ike’s language together before. He hated Wicked not just because he was an uncontrollable dog, but also because the dog represented an uncontrollable soon-to-be ex-son-in-law.

“If Wicked did run off,” I said, “he did so chasing that truck. Silently.”

“That dog isn’t quiet about anything,” Ike said. Then he paused for a moment before adding, “You thought I was driving that truck?”

I nodded.

His frown grew deeper. “Not many trucks sound like mine. Did you see it?”

“Nope,” I said, taking another sip of my ale. “I heard it. It sounded big and heavy, like yours does when it comes up the driveway. But you usually don’t peel out. In fact, the only time I ever heard you peel away down the driveway was—”

“The cat incident,” he said tiredly. “I know.”

He started to take a sip from his beer, and stopped.

“The Bastard,” he said.

“Hmmm?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the soon-to-be ex or the little dog.

“The Bastard,” Ike said to me, slowly, like he was having a realization. “He used to peel.”

I sipped. Thought. Remembered.

He did peel. It was one of the noises I had gotten used to. Roxy had started dating the Bastard in high school. It became one of those neighborhood dramas, something everyone in Crest Hill Subdivision talked about, since the Bastard came from a family of do-nothings on the wrong side of town.

In a town of 7,000, the wrong side is pretty low-key. We don’t have murderers, thieves or knife-wielding maniacs. Our do-nothings are well named. They’re freeloaders who try to live on county money without doing any work. If they do get a job, from an unsuspecting out-of-towner, they lose that job within the month.

The Bastard’s family was pretty notorious. Entire generations lived in a small trailer on an expensive lot near the ocean. They wouldn’t move, no matter how much developers offered them, and they wouldn’t work either. Mostly, they sat outside—rain or shine—and drank, throwing their empties into an ever-growing pile in a part of the yard that had once housed a driveway.

The Bastard had that bad-boy charm. At least, that was what fifteen-year-old Roxy had thought. She had been a straight-A student, and remained so, graduating at the top of her class, earning several partial scholarships—enough so that the Maizes could send her to the school of her choice in California.

The Bastard followed. By this point, he had dropped out of high school, lost three jobs, and had his first DUI. Yet for her, the charm remained.

For Ike, who complained about him every moment he got, the Bastard was a gigantic version of Wicked, peeing all over the neighborhood, then barking and yipping when anyone else got in his mangy little way.

When the Bastard followed Roxy to California, I stopped thinking about him.

“I thought he was still in California,” I said. That was what Stella had told me one morning when we met at the mailboxes, both of us picking up our rain-soaked copies of the Oregonian.

“He went to live with his mother in Vegas,” Ike said.

“Oh, jeez.” I didn’t even have to ask how that was working out. When you took do-nothings and gave them the opportunity to get rich quick for very little effort, they spent every dime they hadn’t earned on penny slots and the upcoming big win.

“Yeah,” Ike said. “Good riddance, I thought. But he threatened to come back and get his things. I told Roxy to get a restraining order, but she thinks he doesn’t have the balls to drive all the way up here.”

“But you think he does,” I said, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. I agreed with Roxy on this one. A third generation do-nothing wasn’t going to drive across three states just to retrieve his things. That would take too much effort.

“Yeah, I do,” Ike said. “He’s a mean, weasly little bastard who thinks my daughter is something he owns.”

He took the final sip of his beer and sighed.

“I’m not the smartest man in the world,” he said, “but I’ve seen guys like him before. When they think they’re losing the only things they own, they get dangerous.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Ike was right; sometimes do-nothings became violent and possessive. I hadn’t seen that in the Bastard, but then I hadn’t done much more than exchange a few sentences with him in a little more than five years.

“Why would he take Wicked?” I asked.

Ike gave me a chilling glance. “Because my daughter loves that horrid little dog. Although for the life of me, I have no idea why.”

***

In the next few days, the Wicked saga became the focus of neighborhood gossip. From Dave the Plumber, I heard that Ike had the cops searching for the Bastard’s truck. From Old Mrs. Gailton, I heard that Roxy had been getting threatening phone calls. From Stella, I heard that Roxy had finally hired an attorney to finalize the divorce and to get that all-important restraining order.

The whole family believed that the Bastard had stolen Wicked, although the chief of police, Dan Reilly, thought the little dog had finally run away.

“Good riddance,” he said. “The nasty thing peed on my leg one afternoon.”

We had run into each other at the local A&P. We stood in the fresh fish aisle, which smelled of both fish and cocktail sauce. Twice during our conversation, the butcher snuck us bits of a steak he was cooking up in the back.

“We’re looking for the Bastard, of course,” Reilly said. He was a big man with gym rat muscles. They made him look formidable in his gray-green uniform.

As he spoke, I smiled to myself. Ike had everyone in town calling his daughter’s soon-to-be ex the Bastard. “But I doubt we’ll find him. He knows better than to come back here.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“He’s got a bench warrant,” Reilly said. “You didn’t know that?”

“No,” I said. “Does Ike?”

“Now he does.”

“What did the Bastard do?” Even I had picked up the phrase.

“Robbed the Cruise Inn one Friday night using his father’s .45. Got away with about one hundred dollars, but the crime’s pretty serious. See, it’s—”

“Armed robbery,” I said. “A felony.”

Reilly’s eyes twinkled. “Forgot you write about this stuff.”

Usually I write about bigger things. Stockbrokers taking down entire corporations and having hit men after them; the President surviving assassination attempts; and, of course, my biggest seller, the serial killer truck driver working the Pacific Northwest who finally gets caught by the plucky female cop from the Oregon Coast.

“How come I never heard about this robbery?” I asked.

Reilly shrugged. “The Cruise Inn doesn’t want anyone to know how easy they are to rob. Or how often they do get robbed.”

“How often do they get robbed?” I asked.

“At least once a month. We leave it out of the police report as per their request.”

I shook my head, this time letting my amusement show. These things happen in small towns. In fact, when I moved to Seavy Village, Ike Maize told me that the best way to get your news was to talk to the locals. The paper didn’t cover most of the interesting stories, since we were a tourist town and we didn’t want our tiny crime waves to scare the tourists away.

“How long has he had that warrant?” I asked.

“Since before he went to California,” Reilly said.

At least a year then. “Why didn’t you tell Ike? He knew where the Bastard was.”

Reilly sighed. “I thought about it. But Ike and Roxy fought about the Bastard enough. Ike almost lost his daughter because of it. So I never said anything to Ike, although I did find out where the Bastard and Roxy lived. I tried to get someone down there to act on the warrant, but they wouldn’t. Seems a $100 theft, even if the thief used a .45, is small potatoes to them.”

I wondered how much anguish it would have solved for the Maizes to have the Bastard arrested in California. But that would have been before the marriage went south, and Roxy might’ve gotten stuck, like so many women did, waiting for her man to get out of prison.

“What if he has come back to town?” I asked.

“I would’ve heard about it,” Reilly said. “Everyone’s looking out for him.”

“Now they are,” I said. “But a week ago? I had no idea this was going on. Neither did anyone else in Crest Hill. And we were the ones most likely to see him.”

“He’s not in town,” Reilly said. “You can take that to the bank.”

If I took it to the bank, I wouldn’t be able to deposit it. Much as I liked Dan Reilly, he was a placeholder chief of police, one of the local boys made good until the out-of-town replacement showed up like she was supposed to do sometime in the following spring.

Reilly, for all his certainty, really didn’t know much about police work. He knew Seavy Village, and nothing else. Usually, in this town, that was enough. But bench warrants, armed robbery, and hints of violence took the Bastard out of the local small-time range and into something much more dangerous.

Something I really didn’t want on the other side of my fence, not even for a short, dog-stealing visit.

Still, I didn’t hear any more trucks except Ike’s reliable one-ton. Occasionally Isabel barked, but those were welcome-home barks for her family or her standard warning to the UPS guy not to get too close.

The Goddess and I worked every day. I progressed on the latest book. She growled at the raccoons. We both had a productive week.

Until we heard a truck zoom its way up the Maize’s driveway. The Goddess murped at me as she ran from the double glass doors to the library window.

I didn’t go to the library window at all. I hurried out of the office, grabbing my cell phone along the way.

The truck I heard was bigger than Ike’s. It was one of those with the double-long bed. I had no idea what kind it was—trucks aren’t my specialty—but I called this kind, which stood higher, wider, and longer than most trucks, penis shrinkers. I figured any guy who wanted one of these was overcompensating for something, and the overcompensation was worse if he actually found the dough to buy one of these monsters.

I had already dialed 911 as I approached the fence. Through the slats, I could see the Bastard. He had stepped out of the truck’s cab, leaving the door open. The truck was running, and even over the roar of the diesel engine, I could hear the dinging of the warning bell, reminding us all that the keys were in the ignition.

The Bastard ignored the sound. He was one of those guys who changed from a thin, somewhat good-looking teenager to a muscular, menacing twentysomething.

As I reached for the gate’s handle, I saw Roxy step out of the garage. Isabel was barking, a strange, frightened bark I hadn’t ever heard from her. She blocked Roxy’s path, but Roxy went around her.

Roxy, still carrying baby weight around her hips and stomach. Roxy, carrying the baby—now a cute blond toddler—tightly in her arms.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said in a frightened voice as the 911 dispatch answered on my cell.

I stopped, softly gave my address, and said, “We need police up here immediately. We have a felon with a bench warrant against him in my neighbor’s yard, threatening everyone he sees.”

Then I pulled the phone away from my ear, opened the gate, and stepped onto the Maize’s driveway.

The Bastard whirled toward me. He had something white and bloody in his arms, and I realized that was Wicked. I couldn’t tell if the dog was alive or dead.

“Go away,” the Bastard snarled at me. “This is a family matter.”

“It’s a neighborhood matter,” I said loudly, hoping the 911 dispatch could still hear me. “You’re not supposed to be on Ike Maize’s property. There’s a restraining order against you.”

I said all of that for the 911 dispatch, not for the Bastard. Still, he glared at me with so much anger that my pulse started to race.

“Is that Wicked?” Roxy asked, her voice shaking.

“Stay back,” I said.

But her question had turned the Bastard back to her.

“Yeah.” He tossed the dog onto the driveway. The dog bounced on the gravel and then, appallingly, whimpered.

Time and time again, I had imagined horrible, hideous ways to kill that dog, but now that I saw it in front of me, I ashamed for myself and terrified for the dog.

So was Roxy. She ran to the dog, and as she did, the Bastard ran toward her.

“Roxy, don’t!” I yelled, and I ran toward both of them.

But I was too far back. The Bastard grabbed his daughter from Roxy’s arms and raced for the truck. He cradled the toddler against his chest as he jumped into the cab, pulling the door closed.

“Noooo!” Roxy screamed, running for the truck. I ran for it to. She got there ahead of me, grabbing the door handle.

The Bastard shoved the truck into reverse and sped up, sending gravel in my direction. It hit me like sharp needles, but I kept going.

Roxy lost her grip, falling backward.

For one horrible moment, I thought he was going to back over her, but he didn’t. He put the truck into drive, and sped off down the driveway.

I reached her side a moment later. Her knees and hands were scraped and she sat there, defeated, staring at the truck down on the road.

“Here,” I said, thrusting the cell phone at her. “I’ve already called 911. Give them the license plate and the make of the truck. I’m going after the Bastard.”

I didn’t give her time to argue. As I ran back through the gate, I realized I should have told her to call her dad as well. I hoped she was smart enough to figure that out.

I ducked inside my house, grabbed my car keys and sprinted for my one indulgence. That Jag could outperform any other car in Seavy Village. And it could outperform a penis shrinker too.

I slid into the driver’s seat and started the car in the same motion. It purred into life, the engine ready to go at whatever speed I wanted.

I peeled down my driveway—something I had always wanted to do, but never dared to, not in this quiet subdivision. I turned right at the bottom of the driveway, thanking whatever developer had designed this place for the long twisty road that took us out of the subdivision to the highway.

I could just see the truck at the intersection. He didn’t come to a full stop—he was kidnapping his daughter after all—but the stupid Bastard had his signal on.

He was turning left. To the straightaway that would take him out of Seavy Village and down Highway 101, away from the police and into a kind of legal no-man’s land.

He pulled out and for the first time, I cursed the fact that I had given Roxy my phone. I wanted to tell the dispatch what direction he was going in.

Of course, in this tiny town, he only had two choices—north or south. The smart direction was south. Anyone with a brain would think of that straightaway and legal no-man’s land.

There, in the miles between Seavy Village and Whale Rock, the Seavy Village Police Department lost its jurisdiction. For ten miles, only the state police could arrest anyone. Then the Whale Rock police took over.

The state police, underfunded and undermanned, never patrolled that section of the highway. If they had to come in to make an arrest, they often had to come from another part of the county—sometimes from another part of the state.

When I reached the intersection, I didn’t stop either. I turned left, sliding behind a black Subaru and in front of a bright blue Smart Car. The Smart Car slammed on its brakes, but I was already in the other lane, heading south at 80 miles an hour, double the speed limit.

There weren’t a lot of cars on the road, but there were enough that I had to weave and dodge around them, moving from the southbound lane to the passing lane to the shoulder in the areas where I could see far enough ahead to make sure there were no cyclists on the road.

The hotels and convenience stores, the kitschy restaurants and antique stores sped by me in a blur. My engine roared as I shifted into the final gear, cranking the speed up to 100 miles per hour.

I had never driven these roads this fast. Part of me hoped someone would report me to the police—I could lead them on a goose chase to the Bastard, and then, since they were already on the scene, they could arrest him for the state police.

Part of me prayed that I wouldn’t hit anything or anyone. If I hit someone going this fast, I’d kill them. My Jag was so well built that I’d probably survive, but I wasn’t sure I could live with myself.

Then I thought of that little girl. I had only gotten a glimpse of her, even though she lived right next door for the past few weeks. Tiny, blond, quiet for someone that age, on this afternoon, she had been wearing a pink dress that showed her chubby legs.

Those legs were probably coated with Wicked’s blood, rubbed off from the Bastard’s hands.

I shuddered, gripped the steering wheel tighter, and pressed hard on the accelerator. I continued to weave, continued to pray, and finally, as the road narrowed and curved up the mountain between Seavy Village and Whale Rock, I saw the truck.

It was hard to miss with that extended back end. A lot of young men in Seavy Village loved those trucks, but most couldn’t afford them.

It had to be the Bastard.

I drove even faster.

The truck moved closer at a rapid pace.

Now if I swerved, I would hit the guardrail, maybe bounce over it and fall wheels over roof all the way to the ocean. Or if I crossed into the northbound lane, I would hit the mountainside.

I wouldn’t survive either of those.

My breath caught. I had to make myself exhale and think. I couldn’t force the Bastard off the road because he had the toddler with him.

But there was a wide area in the road about eight miles from this point, where another road—coming from the east—intersected it. I could force him down that road, away from the ocean.

That road dead-ended into a large parking lot that led to a state park.

I zoomed up to him, then around him, hoping that he was smart enough to stop or turn when he came across an obstacle. He knew these roads better than I did, and I hoped that would influence his driving as well.

When I reached the road that formed a T with the highway, I glanced east. The road was as wide as I remembered. Someone driving fast could make a quick turn—even if that someone was in an extra long truck.

I stopped only a few yards away, turned on my flashers, and blocked both lanes. I kept watching both lanes, hoping that the first vehicle to approach—on either side—was the Bastard’s truck.

Of course, it wasn’t. A minivan heading north pulled up and stopped. A middle-aged man with a paunch and graying hair got out. He walked around to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.

“You okay?”

“No,” I said. “Move away from my car.”

“You can’t block the road.”

In the distance, I saw the truck. I pointed at it.

“You see that truck? The man in there is wanted for armed robbery. He kidnapped the baby in the car with him. I’m trying to force him to stop. You got a cell phone?”

The man was looking at the truck, squinting. “Yeah.”

“Call the police. Tell them that you’ve seen the gray long-bed truck that everyone’s looking for. Tell them he’s gone into Whale Cove State Park. Can you do that?”

“Um—”

“Because I’m going after him and I need backup.”

The truck had nearly reached the T. He was at the point where he would see the car blocking the highway. At that moment, I realized it was good to have the middle-aged man alongside my Jag. The Bastard wouldn’t know I was waiting for him.

He turned east, just like I expected him to. His truck was too big to make a U-turn. The drive to the parking lot and back would allow him to drive north again.

“Move!” I said to the middle-aged man.

Smart guy, he ran behind my car, so that I could zoom after the Bastard.

My initial plan had been to follow the Bastard down to the parking lot, but as I drove the few yards, I realized that was stupid. The best thing I could do was park in front of the T. He’d have nowhere to go.

I parked over both lanes of the state park road, blocking it, my Jag facing north.

Then I shut off the ignition, set the parking brake, and got out.

I was only a few feet away when the Bastard crashed into my car. The sound was tremendous, overpowering everything, the scream of metal on metal.

His truck shoved my car toward me. I had to dive into the ditch between the highway and the mountainside to get out of the way. My car rolled and then hit the guardrail.

The Bastard turned north and drove away as if nothing happened.

I lay in the ditch. I had landed in cold brackish muddy water. I made myself climb out slowly, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short gasps.

I never expected him to hit my car, not with the toddler in his truck. I thought he’d get out, scream at me, and stay busy until the police showed up.

Maybe I’m not as good a plotter as the reviewers say I am.

I pulled myself up by my hands, then got onto the state park road and walked to the highway. I stood beside the highway, looking north, probably as forlornly as Roxy had looked as the Bastard drove off with her baby girl.

In the distance, I heard sirens.

I turned, slowly, and saw the middle-aged guy with the van. He was walking toward me, clutching a cell phone.

I refused to look at my Jag.

“That was like a monster truck rally,” he said. “I kept expecting him to drive over your car.”

He sounded almost excited. His cheeks were flushed. As he got closer, I realized he was probably younger than I was. All I had seen before was the gray hair and paunch. I’d missed the roundness to his cheeks, the brightness of his eyes.

Or maybe that came from the adrenaline brought on by witnessing an accident.

“He did enough to my car,” I said without looking at it. I didn’t want to know exactly what happened to it. I knew the moment it hit the guardrail that he had totaled it.

Because of my vivid imagination, I did not want to know what the driver’s side looked like. I didn’t want to have nightmares about what might have happened to me had I been inside.

The middle-aged guy waved the cell phone at me. “They said that they already had reports on the guy and they were heading this way. They said that they’d catch him now that he turned around. You forced him back to Seavy Village, you know?”

I knew. That hadn’t quite been my plan—I didn’t have a plan past blocking the road and waiting for the police—but it would have to do.

I would rather have the police take down the Bastard with the baby in the truck than have me do it.

“How’d you know what was going on with the guy?” the middle-aged man asked.

“I was there when he took the baby.” I suddenly felt very tired. My whole body hurt.

I wanted to go home. It meant I would leave the scene of an accident, which was a crime, but not a major one if no one got injured.

I had a hunch I could talk my way out of that one.

And even if I couldn’t, I could pay the damn fine.

“Can you give me a lift?” I asked the middle-aged guy. “I want to go home.”

The middle-aged man grinned. “I’d be happy to,” he said. “Just don’t ask me if you can drive.”

***

The middle-aged man, whose name was Tom Yates, chattered all the way to Crest Hill. I figured it was a nervous reaction and let him talk. I had him let me out at the bottom of Maize’s driveway—for some reason I didn’t want him to see my house—and then I waved as he drove away.

He had told me he was going to the police station to make a report. What a good citizen he was. I figured they could come to me if they wanted to talk.

As I reached the top of the driveway, I was stunned to see Ike’s truck, two police cars, and an ambulance. One of the paramedics was working hard on something on the ground.

It took me a moment to realize he was bandaging up Wicked.

Ike wasn’t around. Neither was Roxy.

But a uniformed police officer—a man I recognized but didn’t know by name—walked over to me.

“You the famous writer neighbor?”

“Yeah,” I said tiredly.

“I didn’t expect you here, sir,” he said. “I thought you’d be by Whale Cove State Park.”

“I was. But the other guy at the scene offered to drive me home.”

The policeman stuck out his hand. I stared at it a moment before taking it. He shook hard, then let go.

“You’re a real hero, sir. They have the baby. She’s fine. The Maizes have gone down to the station to get her.”

“So they caught the Bastard,” I said.

“They did. He’s going away for a long, long time.”

I hoped so. I hoped that the legal system worked the way it was supposed to. I would testify against him, that was for certain.

But I didn’t say that. I just nodded at the police officer and walked over to the paramedic.

“Didn’t know you guys worked on dogs,” I said.

“That girl,” he said, “she was hysterical. Dispatch thought she had been injured and sent me up here. She asked me to work on the dog. How could I say no?”

I looked down at the stretcher. Wicked’s eyes were glassy and he was panting. The paramedic had bandaged his back legs.

“That guy who took the dog—he cut its tendons in its back legs. Knew what he was doing too, because he stayed away from major arteries. This poor thing’ll probably never walk right again.”

Wicked’s gaze met mine. He was clearly in pain. He whimpered.

Lifting his leg was probably impossible now. He wouldn’t pee on my groceries again. He probably wouldn’t ever run again.

I never thought I could feel sorry for that dog, but I did.

“I’ve got him stabilized,” the paramedic was saying. “Can you let Ike know I’m taking the dog to Seavy Village Animal Clinic? They’ll know what to do with him.”

“Think they’ll have to put him down?” the officer said from behind me.

“No,” the paramedic said. “He’s not a horse. You don’t have to shoot him just because he’s injured his leg. Right, buddy?”

To my surprise, he put his hand gently on Wicked’s side and Wicked didn’t even try to bite him. The dog closed his eyes. His tail thumped.

“I’ll tell Ike,” I said. I wasn’t sure he’d be happy. But he would have a different dog than the one he hated. Wicked would never be the same.

Neither would Roxy. I only hoped her daughter wouldn’t have lasting scars.

Knowing the Maizes, they would do everything they could to make that little girl feel loved and wanted, not the product of some felon who had seduced their only daughter.

The paramedic wheeled the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, got in beside it, and pulled the double doors closed. The ambulance backed up in the very tracks left by the Bastard’s truck, then eased carefully down the driveway as if its cargo were as precious as an injured human being.

The officer watched from beside me. Then he looked at me and frowned. “You okay?”

“Tired,” I said.

“No kidding. You did a great thing.”

I hadn’t done anything great. If anything, I’d been reckless and stupid, letting my vivid imagination get away with me, making me think I could be as heroic as the people I wrote about.

“What do we do about my car?” I asked. “It’s crumpled on the side of the road by Whale Cove State Park.”

“I’ll take care of it,” the officer said. “And we’ll need you to make a statement whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now.” I wanted this incident behind me.

I didn’t want to think about Wicked or the Bastard or Ike’s helpless hatred of both. I wanted to go back to my office and use my vivid imagination to create stories.

I thought it would be easy to go back. But I found I couldn’t shake the memories. Which is why I’m writing this.

Wicked is home. He’ll limp badly, and he’ll be a mostly indoor dog. The incident changed his temperament—or, as Ike says, being helpless has. Wicked lost all the aggression that made him the nasty little piece of work that he was.

Roxy’s divorce went through. The Bastard pled out to the minimum on both kidnapping and the armed robbery. He’ll be gone for years.

And the neighborhood has gone back to normal. Except that people ask me for advice now, as if my impulsive moment has given me some kind of wisdom.

Actually, Old Mrs. Gailton says they don’t see me as wise so much as the neighborhood leader. The mayor of Crest Hill Subdivision.

Apparently, it’s an appointed position. It’s certainly not one I want.

I blame Wicked. If it hadn’t been for the little bastard, I’d still be the mostly invisible weird writer who lives next to the Maizes, not the thriller writer who channels James Bond in his off-time.

So I hide in my office with the Goddess. She hunts raccoons again, having no interest in Wicked now that he’s not barking incessantly.

I have a little more interest. Sometimes I wonder what he went through in his last days with the Bastard. Sometimes I wonder if Wicked realized he meant nothing to the man who had trained him. And I wonder if the little dog had wanted to die when the Bastard tossed him onto the driveway.

I’ll never know, and Wicked will never tell.

He’s quiet these days. Isabel actually stands guard over him, as if she understands the changes too.

Sometimes in the middle of the afternoon, when no one’s around, I go to the Maize’s yard and pet him.

I have the sense that, ever since the incident, Wicked needs comfort.

And I know that I do too.

 

The Disappearance of Wicked

Copyright ©  by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Published by WMG Publishing

Cover and Layout copyright © by WMG Publishing

Cover design by WMG Publishing

Cover art copyright © amoklv/Depositphotos

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. 

All rights reserved. 

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. 

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

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

The tour of Kair Toren continues. Today we bring you a portrait of Doran Arvel, the head of the Arvel household and current Lord Commander of the Defender Order.

Ahem. Let us brace ourselves. This one is amazing. All of Helena’s work is amazing, but this one is really amazing.

Of all the Eight Families, the Arvels had the best reputation. Doran, in particular, was viewed as the kind of knight all others should aspire to be. Brave, honorable, a gifted general dedicated to his duty and devastating in battle. The main character to put all main characters to shame. The Golden Knight.

The gorgeous art is by Helena Elias. Click to enlarge. It’s worth it.

As we passed the keep’s staircase, a blond man in ornate white armor stepped
out of the doors at the top and began walking down the stairs as if he owned
the entire place. A beautiful blue cloak draped his shoulders. Another knight
followed him, keeping a respectful distance. Arvel. Had to be.

“Is that Lord Arvel?” I asked.

“Yes,” the knight said, his voice clipped. “Lord Arvel does not receive visitors
unless there are special circumstances.”

Perhaps he thought I would charge up those stairs to fangirl-rush Arvel.

“No worries, sir. I have no plans to ambush the Lord Commander.”

You can meet Lord Arvel and other interesting people in This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me. Fourteen days left.

The post Art Reveal: Lord Doran Arvel first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

Only in the Realm of Zadrya do readers get to see sentient, murderous plants as side characters with notable personalities. Now, it's time to see some amazing artwork of the most well-known varieties as of book two, Wrath & Desire.