I don’t know about you, but I am freaking excited!
While I normally do not get excited about the end of the year festivities, for some reason this year, your girl is freaking pumped. I get excited about the Christmas lights, Christmas trees, the food, the people… I’m excited about everything. It could be because I am thrilled about the fact that I will have two weeks vacation from school and work and everything else, and be able to take some time to spend it traveling with my families and celebrate my New Years with them that it bleeds out into my daily life. That’s as good reason as any to be excited, not gonna lie.
And while we are on the topic of being excited, I am proud and happy to announce that I am finally back into the reading game. After about two months of not having interest in reading and not being able to finish any books that I picked up, your girl is finally feeling the urge to read again. And because of that, I could not be more excited to look through the upcoming December book releases with you and add more novels into my already bursting pile of TBRs.
With that said, let’s end 2018 with a bang shall we?
1. Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3)
Genre :Young Adult, Fantasy, Romance
Publish Date :December 4, 2018
BLURB :
What if damnation is the price of true love?
Innocent blood has been spilled on the steps of the Council Hall, the sacred stronghold of the Shadowhunters. In the wake of the tragic death of Livia Blackthorn, the Clave teeters on the brink of civil war. One fragment of the Blackthorn family flees to Los Angeles, seeking to discover the source of the blight that is destroying the race of warlocks.
Meanwhile, Julian and Emma take desperate measures to put their forbidden love aside and undertake a perilous mission to Faerie to retrieve the Black Volume of the Dead. What they find in the Courts is a secret that may tear the Shadow World asunder and open a dark path into a future they could never have imagined. Caught in a race against time, Emma and Julian must save the world of Shadowhunters before the deadly power of the parabatai curse destroys them and everyone they love.
”Excerpt”
The pyres were still burning as the procession turned and headed back toward the city. It was customary for the smoke to rise all night, and for families to gather in Angel Square to mourn among others.
Not that Emma thought it was likely the Blackthorns would do that. They would remain in their house, closeted in with each other: They had been too much apart all their lives to want comfort from other Shadowhunters who they barely knew.
She had trailed away from the rest of the group, too raw to want to try to talk to Julian again in front of his family. Besides, he was holding Tavvy’s hand.
“Emma,” said a voice beside her. She turned and saw Jem Carstairs.
Jem. She was too surprised to speak. Jem had been a Silent Brother once, and though he was a Carstairs, he was a very distant relative, due to being more than a century old. He only looked about twenty-four, though, and was dressed in jeans and scuffed shoes. He wore a white sweater, which she guessed was his concession to Shadowhunter funeral whites.
Jem was no longer a Shadowhunter, though he had been one for many years, and was one of the most famous of the Carstairs family, along with his cousin Cordelia.
“Jem,” she whispered, not wanting to alert anyone else in the procession. “Thanks for coming.”
“I wished you to know how sorry I am,” he said. He looked pale and drawn, but that couldn’t be grief for Livvy, could it? He’d barely known her. “I know you loved Livia like a sister.”
“Can we talk?” she said abruptly. “Just us?”
He nodded and indicated a low rise some distance away, partially hidden by a stand of trees. After whispering to Cristina that she was going to talk to Jem—“The Jem? The really old one? Who’s married to a warlock? Really?”—she followed Jem to where he was sitting on the grass, among a tumble of old stones.
They sat for a moment in silence, both of them looking out over the Imperishable Fields. “When you were a Silent Brother,” Emma said abruptly, “did you burn people?”
Jem looked over at her. His eyes were very dark. “I helped light the pyres,” he said. “A clever man I knew once said that we cannot understand life, and therefore we cannot hope to understand death. I have lost many I loved to death, and it does not get easier, nor does watching the pyres burn.”
“We are dust and ashes,” Emma said.
“It was meant to make us all equal,” said Jem. “We are all burned. Our ashes all go to build the City of Bones.”
“Except for criminals,” said Emma.
Jem’s brow furrowed. “Livia was hardly that,” he said. “Nor you, unless you are thinking of committing a crime?”
I already have. I’m horribly in love with my parabatai. The desire to say the words, to confess to someone—to Jem, specifically—was like a pressure behind Emma’s eyes. To forestall them, she said hastily: “Did your parabatai ever pull away from you? When you, you know, wanted to talk?”
“People do strange things when they’re grieving,” said Jem gently. “I was watching from a distance, earlier. I saw what Julian did for his brother at the funeral. I know how much he has always loved those children. Nothing he says or does now, in these first and worst days, is symbolic of who he is. Besides,” he added with a slight smile, “being parabatai is complicated. I hit my parabatai in the face, once.”
“You did what?”
“As I said.” Jem seemed to enjoy her astonishment. “I struck my parabatai—I loved him more than anyone else in the world I’ve ever loved save Tessa, and I struck him in the face because my heart was breaking. I can hardly judge anyone else.”
“Tessa!” Emma said, feeling suddenly rude that she hadn’t asked after her before. “Where is she?”
Jem’s hand made a fist in the grass. “She is in the Spiral Labyrinth with Catarina Loss, searching desperately for a cure. All the warlocks are sickening. Tessa herself seems protected by her Shadowhunter blood. But those who are older, who have used more magic and more powerful magic, are sickening first.”
“Magnus,” Emma said. “He’s older, and powerful, isn’t he? And he uses a lot of magic?”
Jem nodded grimly.
“How much does Tessa know about it?” Emma demanded. “What have they figured out?”
“Tessa thinks it’s connected to the murders Malcolm committed with the Followers of the Guardian,” said Jem. Emma blinked at him. All of that seemed a thousand worlds away. “He used the ley lines to power his necromantic magic—if they’re poisoned, it might be communicating that poison to any warlock who uses them.”
“Can’t warlocks just not use them?”
“There are only a few sources of power,” said Jem. “Ley lines are the easiest. Many of the warlocks havestopped using them, but it means they’re exhausting their powers very quickly, which is also unhealthy.” He gave her an unconvincing smile. “Tessa will solve it,” he said. “She found Kit—she’ll discover the answer to this as well. I’m more worried about you at this moment. You look thin and drawn—”
“I had to watch Livvy die,” said Emma. “Have you ever watched someone you loved die?”
“Yes,” said Jem.
That was the problem with very old people, Emma thought. It was rare that you had a life experience that they hadn’t.
“And Horace Dearborn is the Inquisitor now,” she said. “It’s like there’s no hope for anything now.”
“There is always hope,” said Jem. “And though I cannot stay with you, for I must return to Tessa, I will be a fire-message away. Send me a letter and I will come, no matter how distant I may be.” He put an arm around her and hugged her close for a moment. “Take care, mèi mei.”
“What does that mean?” Emma asked. But he was already gone, vanishing into the trees as swiftly as he’d come.
Kit stood and watched the smoke rising in the distance through the window of the room he shared with Ty.
At least, he assumed he shared the room with Ty. His bag was here, tossed into a corner, and nobody had ever bothered to tell him whether he was supposed to be in a different room. He’d gotten dressed in the bathroom that morning and emerged to find Ty pulling his T-shirt on over his head. His Marks seemed unusually black, probably because his skin was so pale. He looked so delicate—Kit had to glance away from the shape of his shoulder blades, the fragility of his spine. How could he look like that and be strong enough to fight demons?
Now Ty was downstairs, with the rest of his family. People tended to cook when someone died and Shadowhunters were no exception. Someone was probably making a casserole. A demon casserole. Kit leaned his head against the cold glass of the window.
There was a time he could have run, Kit thought. He could have run and left the Shadowhunters behind, lost himself in the underground world of Shadow Markets. Been like his father, not part of any world, existing between them.
In the reflection of the window glass, Kit saw the bedroom door open and Ty come in. He was still wearing his mourning clothes, though he’d taken off the jacket and was just in a black long-sleeve T-shirt. And Kit knew it was too late to run, that he cared about these people now, and specifically Ty.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Ty sat down on the bed and started unlacing his shoes. “I wanted to talk to you.”
The door was still slightly open and Kit could hear voices coming from the kitchen downstairs. Helen’s, Dru’s, Emma’s, Julian’s. Diana had gone back to her own house. Apparently she lived in a weapons store or something like that. She’d gone back to get some kind of tool she thought could fish the splinters out of Julian’s bleeding hands.
Ty’s hands were fine, but he’d been wearing gloves. Kit had seen Julian’s when he’d gone to rinse them out at the sink, and they’d looked like shrapnel had blown into his palms. Emma had stood nearby looking worried, but Julian had said he didn’t want an iratze, that it would just heal the skin closed over the bits of wood. His voice had sounded so flat, Kit had barely recognized it.
“I know how this is going to sound,” Kit said, turning so his back was against the cold glass. Ty was hunched over, and Kit caught the gleam of gold at his neck. “But you’re not acting the way I expected.”
Ty kicked his boots off. “Because I climbed up the pyre?”
“No, that was kind of actually the most expected thing you did,” said Kit. “I just . . .”
“I did it to get this,” Ty said, and put his hand to his throat. Kit recognized the gold chain and the slim disk of metal attached to it: Livvy’s locket, the one he’d helped her put on before the Council meeting. He vividly remembered her holding her hair aside as he fastened the clasp, and the smell of her perfume. His stomach lurched.
“Livvy’s necklace,” he said. “I mean, I guess that makes sense. I just thought you would . . .”
“Cry?” Ty didn’t look angry, but the intensity in his gray eyes had deepened. He was still holding the pendant. “‘Everybody is supposed to cry. But that’s because they accept that Livvy is dead. But I don’t. I don’t accept it.”
“What?”
“I’m going to get her back,” said Ty.
Kit sat down heavily on the windowsill. “How are you going to do that?”
Ty let go of the necklace and took his phone out of his pocket. “These were on Julian’s phone,” he said. “He took them when he was in the library with Annabel. They’re photos of the pages of the Black Volume of the Dead.” He looked at Kit with a worried frown. “Will you come and sit down next to me so you can see them?”
Kit wanted to say no; he couldn’t say it. He wanted this not to be happening, but it was. When he sat down next to Ty on the bed, the mattress sagged, and he knocked against Ty’s elbow accidentally. Ty’s skin felt hot against his, as if the other boy had a fever.
It had never crossed his mind that Ty was lying or wrong, and he didn’t seem to be either. After fifteen years with Johnny Rook, Kit was pretty familiar with what bad spell books were like and this one looked decidedly evil. Spells in cramped handwriting littered the pages, along with creepy sketches of corpses crawling out of the grave, screaming faces, and charred skeletons.
Ty wasn’t looking at the photos like they were creepy, though; he was looking at them like they were the Holy Grail. “This is the most powerful spell book for bringing back the dead that’s ever existed,” he said. “That’s why it didn’t matter if they burned Livvy’s body. With spells like these she can be brought back whole no matter what happened to her, no matter how long—” He broke off with a shuddering breath. “But I don’t want to wait. I want to start as soon as we get back to Los Angeles.”
“Didn’t Malcolm kill a lot of people to bring Annabel back?” said Kit.
“Correlation, not causation, Watson,” said Ty. “The simplest way to do necromancy is with death energy. Life for death, basically. But there are other sources of energy. I would never kill anyone.” He made a face that was probably supposed to be scornful but was actually just cute.
“I don’t think Livvy would want you to do necromancy,” Kit said.
Ty put his phone away. “I don’t think Livvy would want to be dead.”
Kit felt the words like a punch to the chest, but before he could reply, there was a commotion downstairs. He and Ty ran to the top of the stairwell, Ty in his stocking feet, and looked down into the kitchen.
Zara Dearborn’s Spanish friend, Manuel, was there, wearing the uniform of a Gard officer and a smirk. He was shrugging, and Kit leaned forward more to see who he was talking to. He caught sight of Julian leaning against the kitchen table, his face expressionless. The others were ranged around the kitchen—Emma looked furious, and Cristina had her hand on the other girl’s arm as if to hold her back.
“Really?” Helen said furiously. “You couldn’t wait until the day after our sister’s funeral to drag Emma and Jules to the Gard?”
Manuel shrugged, clearly indifferent. “It has to be now,” he said. “The Consul insists.”
“What’s going on?” Aline said. “You’re talking about my mother, Manuel. She wouldn’t just demand to see them without a good reason.”
“It’s about the Mortal Sword,” Manuel said. “Is that a good enough reason for all of you?”
Ty tugged on Kit’s arm, pulling him away from the stairs. They moved down the upstairs hallway, the voices in the kitchen receding but still urgent.
“Do you think they’ll go?” Kit said.
“Emma and Jules? They have to. The Consul’s asking,” said Ty. “But it’s her, not the Inquisitor, so it’ll be all right.” He leaned in toward Kit, whose back was against the wall; he smelled like a campfire. Kit realized it was probably sap from the pyre wood, and his stomach lurched again. “I can do this without you. Bring back Livvy, I mean,” he said. “But I don’t want to. Sherlock doesn’t do things without Watson.”
“Did you tell anyone else?”
“No.” Ty had pulled the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands and was worrying at the fabric with his fingers. “I know it has to be a secret. People wouldn’t like it, but when Livvy comes back, they’ll be happy and they won’t care.”
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Kit said, feeling dazed.
“Yes.” Ty wasn’t looking directly at Kit—he never did—but his eyes lit up hopefully; in the dim light of the hallway, the gray in them was so pale it looked like tears. Kit thought of Ty sleeping, how he’d slept the whole day of Livvy’s death and into the night, and the way Kit had watched him sleep in terror of what would happen when he awoke.
Everyone had been terrified. Ty would fall apart, they’d thought. Kit remembered Julian standing over Ty as he slept, one hand stroking his brother’s hair, and he’d been praying—Kit didn’t even know Shadowhunters prayed, but Julian definitely had been. Ty would crumble in a world without his sister, they’d all thought; he’d fall away to ashes just like Livvy’s body.
And now he was asking Kit for this, saying he didn’t want to do it without him, and what if Kit said no and Ty crumbled from the pressure of trying to do it alone? What if Kit took away his last hope and he fell apart because of it?
“You need me?” Kit asked slowly.
Ty nodded. “Yes.”
“Then,” Kit said, knowing already that he was making a huge mistake, “I’ll help you.”
A dark midwinter’s night in an ancient inn on the Thames. The regulars are entertaining themselves by telling stories when the door bursts open on an injured stranger. In his arms is the drowned corpse of a little child.
Hours later the dead girl stirs, takes a breath and returns to life.
Is it a miracle?
Is it magic?
Or can it be explained by science?
Replete with folklore, suspense and romance, as well as with the urgent scientific curiosity of the Darwinian age, Once Upon a River is as richly atmospheric as Setterfield’s bestseller The Thirteenth Tale.
”Excerpt”
The Story Begins . . .
There was once an inn that sat peacefully on the bank of the Thames at Radcot, a day’s walk from the source. There were a great many inns along the upper reaches of the Thames at the time of this story and you could get drunk in all of them, but beyond the usual ale and cider each one had some particular pleasure to offer. The Red Lion at Kelmscott was musical: bargemen played their fiddles in the evening and cheesemakers sang plaintively of lost love. Inglesham had the Green Dragon, a tobacco-scented haven of contemplation. If you were a gambling man, the Stag at Eaton Hastings was the place for you, and if you preferred brawling, there was nowhere better than the Plough just outside Buscot. The Swan at Radcot had its own specialty. It was where you went for storytelling.
The Swan was a very ancient inn, perhaps the most ancient of them all. It had been constructed in three parts: one was old, one was very old, and one was older still. These different elements had been harmonized by the thatch that roofed them, the lichen that grew on the old stones, and the ivy that scrambled up the walls. In summertime day-trippers came out from the towns on the new railway, to hire a punt or a skiff at the Swan and spend an afternoon on the river with a bottle of ale and a picnic, but in winter the drinkers were all locals, and they congregated in the winter room. It was a plain room in the oldest part of the inn, with a single window pierced through the thick stone wall. In daylight this window showed you Radcot Bridge and the river flowing through its three serene arches. By night (and this story begins at night) the bridge was drowned black and it was only when your ears noticed the low and borderless sound of great quantities of moving water that you could make out the stretch of liquid blackness that flowed outside the window, shifting and undulating, darkly illuminated by some energy of its own making.
Nobody really knows how the tradition of storytelling started at the Swan, but it might have something to do with the Battle of Radcot Bridge. In 1387, five hundred years before the night this story began, two great armies met at Radcot Bridge. The who and the why of it are too long to tell, but the outcome was that three men died in battle, a knight, a varlet, and a boy, and eight hundred souls were lost, drowned in the marshes, attempting to flee. Yes, that’s right. Eight hundred souls. That’s a lot of story. Their bones lie under what are now watercress fields. Around Radcot they grow the watercress, harvest it, crate it up, and send it to the towns on barges, but they don’t eat it. It’s bitter, they complain, so bitter it bites you back, and besides, who wants to eat leaves nourished by ghosts? When a battle like that happens on your doorstep and the dead poison your drinking water, it’s only natural that you would tell of it, over and over again. By force of repetition you would become adept at the telling. And then, when the crisis was over and you turned your attention to other things, what is more natural than that this newly acquired expertise would come to be applied to other tales? Five hundred years later they still tell the story of the Battle of Radcot Bridge, five or six times a year on special occasions.
The landlady of the Swan was Margot Ockwell. There had been Ockwells at the Swan for as long as anyone could remember, and quite likely for as long as the Swan had existed. In law her name was Margot Bliss, for she was married, but law was a thing for the towns and cities; here at the Swan she remained an Ockwell. Margot was a handsome woman in her late fifties. She could lift barrels without help and had legs so sturdy, she never felt the need to sit down. It was rumored she even slept on her feet, but she had given birth to thirteen children, so clearly she must have lain down sometimes. She was the daughter of the last landlady, and her grand-mother and great-grandmother had run the inn before that, and nobody thought anything of it being women in charge at the Swan at Radcot. It was just the way it was.
Margot’s husband was Joe Bliss. He had been born at Kemble, twenty-five miles upstream, a hop and a skip from where the Thames emerges from the earth in a trickle so fine that it is scarcely more than a patch of dampness in the soil. The Blisses were chesty types. They were born small and ailing and most of them were goners before they were grown. Bliss babies grew thinner and paler as they lengthened, until they expired completely, usually before they were ten and often before they were two. The survivors, including Joe, got to adulthood shorter and slighter than average. Their chests rattled in winter, their noses ran, their eyes watered. They were kind, with mild eyes and frequent playful smiles.
At eighteen, an orphan and unfi for physical labor, Joe had left Kemble to seek his fortune doing he knew not what. From Kemble there are as many directions a man can go in as elsewhere in the world, but the river has its pull; you’d have to be mightily perverse not to follow it. He came to Radcot and, being thirsty, stopped for a drink. The frail-looking young man with floppy black hair that contrasted with his pallor, sat unnoticed, eking out his glass of ale, admiring the innkeeper’s daughter, and listening to a story or two. He found it captivating to be among people who spoke out loud the kind of tales that had been alive inside his head since boyhood. In a quiet interval he opened his mouth and Once upon a time . . . came out.
3. Watching You
Genre :Thriller, Mystery, Fiction, Suspense
Publish Date :December 26, 2018
BLURB :
Melville Heights is one of the nicest neighbourhoods in Bristol, England; home to doctors and lawyers and old-money academics. It’s not the sort of place where people are brutally murdered in their own kitchens. But it is the sort of place where everyone has a secret. And everyone is watching you.
As the headmaster credited with turning around the local school, Tom Fitzwilliam is beloved by one and all—including Joey Mullen, his new neighbor, who quickly develops an intense infatuation with this thoroughly charming yet unavailable man. Joey thinks her crush is a secret, but Tom’s teenaged son Freddie—a prodigy with aspirations of becoming a spy for MI5—excels in observing people and has witnessed Joey behaving strangely around his father.
One of Tom’s students, Jenna Tripp, also lives on the same street, and she’s not convinced her teacher is as squeaky clean as he seems. For one thing, he has taken a particular liking to her best friend and fellow classmate, and Jenna’s mother—whose mental health has admittedly been deteriorating in recent years—is convinced that Mr. Fitzwilliam is stalking her.
Meanwhile, twenty years earlier, a schoolgirl writes in her diary, charting her doomed obsession with a handsome young English teacher named Mr. Fitzwilliam…
”Excerpt”
My Diary
20 September 1996
I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to feel. Is this normal? He’s an adult. He’s twice my age. There’s no way… No. There’s no way. But OH GOD. I wish there was.
Dear diary: I think I’m in love with my English teacher.
Prologue
24 March
DC Rose Pelham kneels down; she can see something behind the kitchen door, just in front of the bin. For a minute she thinks it’s a bloodstained twist of tissue, maybe, or an old bandage. Then she thinks perhaps it is a dead flower. But as she looks at it more closely she can see that it’s a tassel. A red suede tassel. The sort that might once have been attached to a handbag, or to a boot. It sits just on top of a small puddle of blood, strongly suggesting that it had fallen there in the aftermath of the murder. She photographs it in situ from many angles and then, with her gloved fingers, she plucks the tassel from the floor and drops it into an evidence bag which she seals. She stands up and turns to survey the scene of the crime: a scruffy kitchen, old-fashioned pine units, a green Aga piled with pots and pans, a large wooden table piled with table mats and exercise books and newspapers and folded washing, a small extension to the rear with a cheap timber glazed roof, double doors to the garden, a study area with a laptop, a printer, a shredder, a table lamp. It’s an innocuous room; bland even. A kitchen like a million other kitchens all across the country. A kitchen for drinking coffee in, for doing homework and eating breakfast and reading newspapers in. Not a kitchen for dark secrets or crimes of passion. Not a kitchen for murdering someone in. But there, on the floor, is a body, splayed face down inside a large, vaguely kidney-shaped pool of blood. The knife that had been used is in the kitchen sink, thoroughly washed down with a soapy sponge. The attack on the victim had been frenzied: at least twenty knife wounds to the neck, back and shoulders. But little in the way of blood has spread to other areas of the kitchen – no handprints, no smears, no spatters – leading Rose to the conclusion that the attack had been unexpected, fast and efficient and that the victim had had little chance to put up a fight. Rose takes a marker pen from her jacket pocket and writes on the bag containing the red suede tassel. Description: ‘Red suede/suedette tassel.’ Location: ‘In front of fridge, just inside door from hallway.’ Date and time of collection: ‘Friday 24 March 2017, 11.48 p.m.’ It’s probably nothing, she muses, just a thing fallen from a fancy handbag. But nothing was often everything in forensics. Nothing could often be the answer to the whole bloody thing.
2 January
Joey Mullen laid the flowers against the gravestone and ran her fingertip across the words engraved into the pink-veined granite.
SARAH JANE MULLEN 1962–2016 BELOVED MOTHER OF JACK AND JOSEPHINE
‘Happy new year, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you yesterday. Alfie and I had shocking hangovers. We went to a party over in Frenchay, at Candy’s new flat. Remember Candy? Candy Boyd? She was in my year at school, she had all that long blond hair that she could sit on? You really liked her because she always said hello to you if she passed you on the street? Anyway, she’s doing really well, she’s a physiotherapist. Or… a chiropractor? Anyway, something like that. She cried when I told her you were dead. Everyone cries when I tell them. Everyone loved you so much, Mum. Everyone wished you were their mum. I was so lucky to have a mum like you. I wish I hadn’t stayed away for so long now. If I’d known what was going to happen, I would never have gone away at all. And I’m sorry you never got to meet Alfie. He’s adorable. He’s working at a wine bar in town at the moment, but he wants to be a painter-decorator. He’s at his mum’s now, actually, painting her kitchen. Or at least, he’s supposed to be! She’s probably made him sit down and watch TV with her, knowing her. And him. He’s a bit of a procrastinator. Takes him a while to get going. But you’d love him, Mum. He’s the cutest, sweetest, nicest guy and he’s so in love with me and he treats me so well and I know how much of a worry I was to you when I was younger. I know what I put you through and I’m so, so sorry. But I wish you could see me now. I’m growing up, Mum. I’m finally growing up!’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I’d better go now. It’ll be getting dark soon and then I’ll get really scared. I love you, Mum. I miss you. I wish you weren’t dead. I wish I could go to your house and have a cup of tea with you, have a good gossip, have a bitch about Jack and Rebecca. I could tell you about the gold taps. Or maybe I could tell you about the gold taps now? No, I’ll tell you about the gold taps next time. Give you something to look forward to. ‘Sleep tight, Mum. I love you.’
Joey climbed the steep lane from Lower Melville to the parade of houses above. Even in the sodium gloom of a January afternoon, the houses of Melville Heights popped like a row of children’s building blocks: red, yellow, turquoise, purple, lime, sage, fuchsia, red again. They sat atop a terraced embankment looking down on to the small streets of Lower Melville like guests at a private party that no one else was invited to. Iconic was the word that people used to describe this row of twenty-seven Victorian villas: the iconic painted houses of Melville Heights. Joey had seen them from a distance for most of her life. They were the sign that they were less than twenty minutes from home on long car journeys of her childhood. They followed her to work; they guided her home again. She’d been to a party once, in the pink house, when she was a student. Split crudely into flats and bedsits, smelling of damp and cooked mince, it hadn’t felt bright pink on the inside. But the views from up there were breathtaking: the River Avon pausing to arc picturesquely on its mile-long journey to the city, the patchwork fields beyond, the bulge of the landscape on the horizon into a plump hill crowned with trees that blossomed every spring into puffballs of hopeful green. She’d dreamed of living up here as a child, oscillated between which house would be hers: the lilac or the pink. And as she grew older, the sky blue or the sage. And now, at twenty-six, she found herself living in the cobalt-blue house. Number 14. Not a sign of a lifetime of hard work and rich rewards, but a fringe benefit of her older brother’s lifetime of hard work and rich rewards. Jack was ten years older than Joey and a consultant heart surgeon at Bristol General Hospital, one of the youngest in the county’s history. Two years ago he’d married a woman called Rebecca. Rebecca was nice, but brittle and rather humourless. Joey had always thought her lovely brother would end up with a fun-loving, no‑nonsense nurse or maybe a jolly children’s doctor. But for some reason he’d chosen a strait-laced systems analyst from Staffordshire. They’d bought their cobalt house ten months ago, when Joey was still farting about in the Balearics hosting foam parties. She hadn’t even realised it was one of the painted houses until Jack had taken her to see it when she moved back to Bristol three months ago. ‘You bought a painted house,’ she’d said, her hand against her heart. ‘You bought a painted house and you didn’t tell me.’ ‘You didn’t ask,’ he’d responded. ‘And anyway, it wasn’t my idea. It was Rebecca’s. She virtually bribed the old lady who was living here to sell up. Said it was literally the only house in Bristol she wanted to live in.’ ‘It’s beautiful,’ she’d said, her eyes roaming over the tasteful interior of taupe and teal and copper and grey. ‘The most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.’ ‘I’m glad you like it,’ Jack had said, ‘because Rebecca and I were wondering if you two would like to live here for a while. Just until you get yourselves sorted out.’ ‘Oh my God,’ she’d said, her hands at her mouth. ‘Are you serious? Are you sure?’ ‘Of course I’m sure,’ he’d replied, taking her by the hand. ‘Come and see the attic room. It’s completely self-contained – perfect for a pair of newlyweds.’ He’d nudged her and grinned at her. Joey had grinned back. No one was more surprised than she was that she had come back from Ibiza with a husband. His name was Alfie Butter and he was very good-looking. Far too good-looking for her. Or at least, so she’d thought in the aqua haze of Ibizan nights. In the gunmetal gloom of a Bristol winter the blue, blue eyes were just blue, the Titian hair was just red, the golden tan was just sun-damage. Alfie was just a regular guy. They’d married barefoot on the beach. Joey had worn a pink chiffon slip dress and carried a posy of pink and peridot Lantanas. Alfie had worn a white T‑shirt and pink shorts, and white bougainvillea blossom in his hair. Their marriage had been witnessed by the managers of the hotel where they both worked. Afterwards they’d had dinner on a terrace with a few friends, taken a few pills, danced until the sun came up, spent the next day in bed and then and only then did they phone their families to tell them what they’d done. She would have had a proper wedding if her mother had still been alive. But she was dead and Joey’s dad was not really a wedding kind of a man, nor a flying-out‑to‑Ibiza kind of a man, and Joey’s parents had themselves married secretly at Gretna Green when her mum was four months pregnant with Jack. ‘Ah, well,’ her father said, with a note of relief. ‘I suppose it’s a family tradition.’
4. The Disasters
Genre :Young Adult, Science Fiction, LGBT
Publish Date :December 18, 2018
BLURB :
Hotshot pilot Nax Hall has a history of making poor life choices. So it’s not exactly a surprise when he’s kicked out of the elite Ellis Station Academy in less than twenty-four hours.
But Nax’s one-way trip back to Earth is cut short when a terrorist group attacks the Academy. Nax and three other washouts escape—barely—but they’re also the sole witnesses to the biggest crime in the history of space colonization. And the perfect scapegoats.
On the run and framed for atrocities they didn’t commit, Nax and his fellow failures execute a dangerous heist to spread the truth about what happened at the Academy.
They may not be “Academy material,” and they may not get along, but they’re the only ones left to step up and fight.
”Excerpt”
Name: Nasir Alexander “Nax” Hall
Admission Status: Denied
I’ve been at Ellis Station Academy for exactly twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours, and I’ve already washed out.
Honestly, I’m not even surprised.
I shove a wadded-up, still-clean pair of boxers into my travel bag, right next to the brand-new Academy T-shirt I just bought yesterday. May as well burn it now. Maybe I’ll light it on fire and hoist it up the flagpole at Command once I’m back on Earth soil.
A cluster of guys sprawls across the back wall of the barracks, laughing as they pass their exam scores around. They’re either too oblivious to know how loud they are or they just don’t care, but I hear every word of their conversation.
“Why’d he even bother unpacking? He thought he was such hot shit in the cockpit, but y’all saw how that went.”
My flight papers crumple in my hand, and I breathe in, slow and deep, barely resisting the urge to put my fist right in the asshole’s face. Like I really need a reminder when my brain keeps up a constant lecture on how much of a screwup I am.
Only one other person from my high school made it to the Academy, and of course it had to be Tucker Fineman. Somehow this guy, who once got high in a cornfield on laughing gas stolen from his mother’s dental practice, is worthy of being an Academy pilot. And I’m not.
I thought I hated him back home, but apparently his douchery hadn’t yet achieved its greatest heights. He waltzed into the exam room this morning with a fake smile and a cheesy handshake, like some kind of wannabe politician. I held my breath through his whole entrance interview, waiting for him to spill all my dirt, tell the examiners every reason they should send me home.
He never did. Turns out I didn’t need his help getting kicked out anyway.
But if asshats like Tucker are what they’re looking for in future colonists, then it’s no wonder they decided to pass on the cow-town failboat. Me.
I dump a pile of travel-sized toiletries on top of my packed clothes and tug at the zipper. It resists me, of course, because nothing would make this day better than missing the shuttle back to Earth because I’m too incompetent to even zip my bag. I yank it once, twice, and it closes bit by bit . . . until finally it breaks altogether.
I stare at the bag. The bag stares back.
Finally I pick up it up by the shoulder strap and storm out of the room, followed by snickering whispers and a trail of leaking mouthwash.
Left turn, then right turn, past staff-only doors and high voltage area warnings. Eyes up and forward. Don’t meet anyone’s gaze. Something hot and terrible burns in my chest every time an Academy student walks by with squared shoulders and straight back, laughing, the Academy logo prominent on their chest and sleeves. I count air vents in the ceiling and breathe.
Uniformed instructors and students slowly give way to working officers and plainclothes citizens as I cross from the Academy wing into the common area of Ellis Station. Behind me, new students settle in for their training—six months for civilians relocating to the colonies, and anywhere from one to four years for pilots and officers. Ahead of me, people who have completed their training prepare for their one-way trip out into the black, looking forward to their new lives.
I get neither option. I get awkward parental silences and overly formal politeness instead. Whoo.
The terminal for Earth-bound shuttles isn’t far, but my ride is supposed to arrive any minute, so I break into a light jog. My deodorant bounces out of my open bag and clatters to the floor behind me, but I’ve got no shits left to give for it. Honestly, if I miss this shuttle, I think I’d rather swim back to Earth without a vacuum suit than stay here for a second longer. The bright outline of Earth glows through the viewports like a taunt, casting eerie shadows over the craggy lunar terrain beyond. The silhouettes of the old cargo tunnels connecting the station to the abandoned first settlement slice through the light like something out of a nightmare. They seemed massive and beautiful when I arrived this morning.
Now they’re just ugly.
One more left turn, and I’m there. Through the enormous bay window, the arrival/departure board glows with a single flight status: mine, marked as ARRIVING SOON. I haven’t missed it. I’d be thankful, but I was actually starting to look forward to that little vacuum walk. Probably better than showing my face back home after screwing up yet another thing.
My parents will be nice enough about it, like they always are, but “nice” and “disappointed in their loser son” aren’t mutually exclusive. Nothing like a lecture about good life choices with a side of motherly weeping in the morning. Can’t wait. They watched me play pilot while herding the goats out in the field behind the house from age five until embarrassingly recently. Now that future is impossible. Their pity will be excruciating.
At least the golden boy won’t be there to witness my grand return and scold me like a child. Malik actually got hisone-way ticket to life in the colonies. Of course. It’s cool, I’ll just live with my ammi and dad for the rest of my life, feeding the chickens and flying simulators.
The terminal door is blocked by a black guy about my age locked in conversation with none other than Dr. Herrera herself, the headmaster of the Academy. The guy stands straight and confident, his expression calm, with long English vowels smooth and reasonable on his tongue. His well-fitted polo shirt bears the crest of the School of Colonial Relations stitched over the right side.
Another wannabe politician type. Great.
“Surely there’s something we can work out,” he says, oozing charm, but apparently the conversation is already over. Dr. Herrera cuts him off with a sharp gesture.
“You made your choice, Rion. Now you have to live with it. Excuse me,” she says, glancing at her watch as she dashes away. The guy’s cool mask slides into a scowl, and he runs a hand through his dyed-red hair. I catch his eye and grin.
“Guess that means you’re with me,” I say with false cheer. “What’d you do to get kicked out?”
His lip curls. “Piss off, wanker.”
Ooh, never been sworn at in an English accent before. Can’t say I mind it.
Lowen Ashleigh is a struggling writer on the brink of financial ruin when she accepts the job offer of a lifetime. Jeremy Crawford, husband of bestselling author Verity Crawford, has hired Lowen to complete the remaining books in a successful series his injured wife is unable to finish.
Lowen arrives at the Crawford home, ready to sort through years of Verity’s notes and outlines, hoping to find enough material to get her started. What Lowen doesn’t expect to uncover in the chaotic office is an unfinished autobiography Verity never intended for anyone to read. Page after page of bone-chilling admissions, including Verity’s recollection of what really happened the day her daughter died.
Lowen decides to keep the manuscript hidden from Jeremy, knowing its contents would devastate the already grieving father. But as Lowen’s feelings for Jeremy begin to intensify, she recognizes all the ways she could benefit if he were to read his wife’s words. After all, no matter how devoted Jeremy is to his injured wife, a truth this horrifying would make it impossible for him to continue to love her.
6. Rapid Falls
Genre :Thriller, Mystery, Fiction
Publish Date :December 1, 2018
BLURB :
Forgive and forget? The past and present collide for two sisters who survived a tragedy—and must now survive the truth behind it.
It’s been twenty years since Cara’s boyfriend died in a horrible accident and her sister, Anna, went to prison. The tragedy has become a local legend, but Cara has moved past her grief to have a successful career and a happy family. Pity about Anna. Recently released from incarceration, she’s struggling with addiction, guilt, and shame—a shattered life. Cara’s forgiveness seems to be the only thing that helps her pick up the pieces.
But as Anna pulls herself together, her memories of that night on the bridge start to come into focus. And few of them match her sister’s.
As past secrets unfold and nothing is what it seems anymore, Anna desperately searches for the truth. But what if Cara doesn’t want her to find it?
Their son is gone. Deep down, they think they’re to blame.
Summertime in Bleak Harbor means tourists, overpriced restaurants, and the Dragonfly Festival. One day before the much-awaited and equally chaotic celebration, Danny Peters, the youngest member of the family that founded the town five generations ago, disappears.
When Danny’s mother, Carey, and stepfather, Pete, receive a photo of their brilliant, autistic, and socially withdrawn son tied to a chair, they fear the worst. But there’s also more to the story. Someone is sending them ominous texts and emails filled with information no one else should have. Could the secrets they’ve kept hidden—even from one another—have led to Danny’s abduction?
As pressure from the kidnapper mounts, Carey and Pete must face their own ugly mistakes to find their son before he’s taken from them forever.
8. Captive
Genre :Paranormal, Romance, Fantasy, Vampires
Publish Date :December 15, 2018
BLURB :
“An unapologetic and haunting tale of power, vengeance, betrayal and the eternal quality of love.”
Faced with an insurmountable enemy and betrayed by those he once trusted, Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia and Duke of Amlas and Fagaras, will stop at nothing to defend his throne and his country against the superior Ottoman might.
Determined to destroy Sultan Mehmed, the man who was once his closest friend and who now threatens to destroy his people, the Prince willingly descends into the realms of hell, giving up his very soul in return for victory and revenge.
Tempted by power and blinded by his burning need for vengeance, the Prince devices a diabolical plan which will have devastating consequences for both the innocent and the guilty.
But when this terrible, merciless tyrant sets eyes on the innocent girl he has chosen as the unwitting instrument of his vengeance, he will finally learn what it means to love. Torn between power, vengeance and love, he will drag her into his world, driven to possess her heart and soul.
”Excerpt”
The night was quiet. High above him, the snow-capped spires and rooftops of Bran Castle glistened faintly in the moonlight – the harsh, threatening appearance of the colossal citadel strangely softened by the frosty shroud of snow.
Perched high atop a rugged cliff, the ancient stronghold overlooked the hostile mountains and fertile valleys of his kingdom. For centuries, this fortress had served as a sanctuary to the pious, God-fearing kings who had born the Wallachian crown before him.
It was ironic that now, it was he who followed in their footsteps.
Tearing his eyes away from the ancient monument, the Prince continued along the ornately balustraded walkway, descending a sprawling flight of stairs to the vast platform that overlooked the castle’s formal gardens – Gardens that had been built on his command and which served only one purpose: To entrap those that he brought here to die.
Placing his hand on the snow-covered balustrade, he lowered his gaze to the maze that sat at the centre of the castle’s grounds. For the briefest of moments, his eyes lingered on the neatly cut hedges of the labyrinth, marvelling at their perfect symmetry, then they moved to the solitary figure of a woman that strolled along the gravel path.
Unaware of his presence, the blond beauty sauntered along the outer hedge of the maze, her green skirts billowing in the cold breeze. Idly, he studied her. She truly was a beauty, with skin so pale that it seemed almost translucent.
“You could show her mercy, allow her to live…” A voice said softly behind him.
“Clemency is God’s domain, not mine.” He remarked, not bothering to turn around to his visitor. “But I am sure you have not come here to lecture your Prince on morality Ștefan.”
“No your Grace, I have not.” His guest replied, lowering his dark hood to reveal his short blond hair and icy blue eyes. “I have come here for another reason: Sultan Mehmed is preparing for war. He intends to punish you for your refusal to honour your allegiance to the Ottoman crown. We have months, maybe only weeks before his troops set foot on Wallachian soil.”
“Then the time has finally come.” The Prince said softly, his green eyes strangely inhuman as he stared into the night.
“Are you truly prepared to do this Vlad?” Ștefan asked. “Are you truly willing to imperil your crown, your kingdom, all we ever fought for, to fight a war you cannot win?”
The Prince moved ever so slightly and for a moment, the signet ring on his left glistened faintly in the moonlight. He looked down at it, his eyes tracing over the curling Ouroboros that adorned his crest – the sign of his power and his service to the Wallachian people.
“A monarch that bows to another, is not a king, but a pawn.” He replied, finally turning to his guest. “I will not subject my people to the Ottoman yoke, or let them die in Mehmed’s futile wars.”
“This is utter madness Vlad, this is not a game.”
The Prince chuckled mirthlessly. “I intend to turn it into one Ștefan: A magnificent game of power and revenge. I will tear down all that is precious to him and burn it in the fires of hell.”
The Prince studied his general for a moment, and there, lingering in the depts of his blue eyes, he could see what he was trying to hide: Fear, terror and revulsion. Soon, he would give him true reasons to fear him.
“You know what needs to be done. See to it that all is prepared.” The Prince said, his tone bearing the unmistakable air of command, making it clear that his decision was final. “You may leave.”
“Your Grace.” Ștefan bowed swiftly, taking two steps backwards, away from the Prince and then he turned, leaving his master to his gruesome business.
As his General strode away, Vlad directed his gaze back at his guest, watching her idly for a moment. She was dressed in a flimsy gown, her neckline cut so low that it left little doubt as to either her charms or her intentions. Even from a distance, he could see the gentle swell of her breast and the faint heaving of her chest against her corset. She was nervous, doubtlessly wondering whether the rumours she had dismissed so lightly could be true. Soon, she would learn that they merely scratched on the surface of the truth.
A cruel smile lingered in the corner of his mouth as he descended the stairs into the gardens. She did not hear him approach, only taking notice of his presence as he stepped into the faint moonlight. As she beheld him, she sank into a deep, reverent bow.
He stepped closer, the hem of his crimson cloak trailing over the snow as he walked. Wordlessly, he offered her his hand. She grasped it without hesitation. Her hand was cold, but not as cold as his.
“I see that you are enjoying my gardens, Madame.” He said, studying her intently, his green eyes resting on her.
“They are beautiful, almost unworldly.” She replied, her eyes returning to the pale, snow-covered roses that were in full bloom in spite of the bitter cold – as if for some inexplicable reason, the seasons had no effect on them.
He chuckled softly, letting go of her hand and reaching out to pluck one of the roses from the hedge.
“Unworldly…” Vlad echoed, drawing out the word, letting it roll off his tongue as he held up the rose, studying it closely for a moment.
“I have never seen anything to compare. It is almost like magic.” She whispered, stepping closer to him, transfixed by the sight of the flower.
He chuckled softly, handing her the rose. “Illusions are by their nature sweet.”
Mesmerised, she stared at the flower, finally lifting her hand to brush the snow from its powdery white petals.
“Yes, they are.” She whispered.
He circled her, studying her silently, like a predator its prey. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the back of her neck and the throbbing vein that was visible just behind her ear, then he stepped closer to her, so close that he could feel the heat that radiated from her body.
Bending down, he traced his lips over the pulsing vein on her neck, his fingertips trailing gently along her arm until his hand closed around hers.
“But illusions fade, and when they do, we are inevitably faced with the harrowing truth that hides behind the mirage.” He murmured, closing his hand around hers, watching as the flower withered under his touch – its colourful beauty reduced to nothing but wilted, black leaves.
Terrified, she struggled against him, and he let her go, watching calmly as she staggered away from him. He could have made this easy for her, but he preferred the elaborate chase to the artless kill – it was so much more exhilarating.
“Go on, run.” He whispered, his eyes flashing red for the briefest of moments.
In utter terror, she stumbled away from him and then she turned, running into the maze in mindless panic. He smirked. She had already lost.
Waiting for the briefest of moments, he allowed her to venture deeper into the labyrinth. And then, slowly, he moved forward, stepping into the darkness – becoming one with it.
His keen senses felt her fear as she fled through the maze, heedless that her desperate escape was precisely what he wanted.
Following her, he strode through the darkness, idly passing the stone-carved effigies of winged demons and dragons that lined the maze. Stretching out his hand, he traced his fingertips over the pristine white marble of a statue and for a moment, it seemed as if the creature was coming to life under his touch, its lifeless body coiling and rippling faintly. Then he withdrew his hand, and the illusion was gone.
Closing his eyes, he listened to her ragged breathing and faith sobs as she fled through the maze, desperate to find a way out. But there would be no escape. Behind each turn, there would be just another alley, lined with snow-white marble statues and surrounded by impossibly tall hedges that trapped her inside the labyrinth.
He felt her racing heart, and her breathing that grew ever more laboured. The chase exhausted her. And then finally, she stopped, desperate to catch her breath.
He waited a moment, watching her idly and then he moved, allowing her to hear him.
In utter terror, she fled again, stumbling through the maze in mindless terror – her long, blond hair catching in the branches, while the thorny bushes tore her expensive gown to shreds. And then, suddenly, she came to a dead end, the impenetrable hedge blocking her way, trapping her.
She wanted to turn back but stopped as she glimpsed him in the shadows. He waited, drawing out the moment, enjoying her fear. And then he moved, stepping out of the darkness, materialising like a spectre out of thin air.
And as he stepped from the shadows, he gave up every last pretence of humanity. The intense viridian colour of his eyes seemed suddenly unnatural, his skin was no longer pale, but deathly white and the sharp, regal features of his face seemed no longer hard but cruel and inhuman.
He felt her fear – the deep primal fear that every living thing felt in the presence of death. And yet, she did not run, simply staring at him as if mesmerised by his presence. For the briefest of moments, everything was still, as if time and space were suspended in a void – as if nature itself was waiting for the inevitable in agonised suspense.
And then, the illusion shattered and her breathless awe gave way to utter terror. She staggered away from him, pressing herself against the hedge, desperate tears running down her face.
“Shh, you must not cry Countess.” He murmured, stepping closer to her. “Not yet.”
9. Lies (Web of Sin #2)
Genre :Romance, Contemporary, Suspense
Publish Date :December 4, 2018
BLURB :
I am…
That’s no longer an easy statement.
Who am I?
Since Sterling Sparrow, a man so handsome he takes my breath away and so infuriating he pushes me in ways I’ve never known, came barreling into my life like a category five hurricane, I can’t even finish that simple statement.
In twenty-six years I’ve lived three lives—been three different people.
Renee. Kennedy. And now, Araneae.
They say that I was named after the spider to make me resilient.
Sparrow would then be a bird.
Birds eat spiders.
I prefer to consider myself a cat. It ups my chance of surviving the world I’m now living.
Maybe that’s only wishful thinking because according to Sterling, my number of lives is running out.
There are people who want to harm me, to learn the secrets they claim that I possess.
The only person to offer me protection is Sterling Sparrow.
Can I trust a man who willingly put me in the sight of danger?