Take a moment and consider the last time you studied medieval European history, specifically the advent of Hussite “heresy” in the wake of John Wycliffe’s translation of the Bible into the common tongue. Focus specifically on the years between 1400 and 1440, during which the first through third anti-Hussite crusades took place. If these inquiries bring specific, vivid events to mind, then The Tower of Fools by Andrzej Sapkowski will be a fitting read for an enterprising European history enthusiast such as yourself.

Set in the powder keg of 15th-century Europe, The Tower of Fools brings readers into a richly referential world of Christian history as it casually dissects the events leading to the Protestant Reformation. Often Sapkowski's references come audaciously close breaking the fourth wall (a character quite literally references nailing theses to a wall while coincidentally owning a cat named Luther). These references are spearheaded by our protagonist, Reinmar of Bielawa, who is an infamous seducer of married women and also a doctor, a student and a mage.

While the book is strongly grounded in the real events and politics of Catholic history in Europe, Sapkowski delights in depicting a range of magical abilities and creatures in his version of medieval Europe. His characters encounter the supernatural in a fairly believable way: with heavy skepticism, then fear, then denial and then, finally, acceptance. Magic, witchcraft and magical creatures enter and exit the story with such abruptness that neither readers nor characters have time to digest the last before the second appears before them. The supernatural elements, however, are not the primary crux of the story. The Tower of Fools deploys irony with the grace of a stampeding elephant, and, as such, our story centers on the king of fools, Reinmar. Reinmar embarks on a journey in which every wise character, force of nature, twist of fate and clear sign from God attempts to dissuade him from pursuing who Reinmar believes is his one true love, Adele. Adele is, naturally, a married woman, and Reinmar meets a motley crew of miscreants during his harrowing quest for her love.

The Tower of Fools clearly sets up for a series but provides ample entertainment as a standalone story. Sapkowski’s primary draw is his ability to weave rich historical context with a complex atmosphere of magic and superstition. The central characters are merely points of view that provide the reader a detailed perspective of the world; Reinmar and company are simple characters who grow little by the end of the story. However, this simplicity services the story Sapkowski tells, providing an easy starting point for readers to navigate the complex politics and superstition of the time period. While this is certainly not a slow read, Sapkowski does dole out plot points at a methodical pace. The first 300 pages or so pass before our central triad of characters meet up, and even longer passes before the larger subplots begin to come together.

Even with a fairly extensive understanding of Catholic history, I needed to keep Google handy while reading, and at one point I looked up a map of Silesia at the narration’s not-so-subtle prompting. Sapkowski often incorporates three other languages, and occasionally up to five, in addition to English: Polish, Latin and Italian primarily, with occasional French and German. He incorporates theology from early church figures like Augustine alongside the “modern” church leaders of the early- to mid-1400s, such as Wycliffe and Jan Hus and the Roman Curia. I would strongly suggest readers take the time to look up the words and references they do not understand. If all of these languages and references scare you—good. They should. The Tower of Fools is not an easy read, but it's quite rewarding for readers ready to take the plunge.

J.S. Barnes’ sequel to Bram Stoker’s Dracula finds Jonathan and Mira Harker having just returned to England after their horrific Transylvanian collision with the inimical Count Dracula. Their son, named for their tragically deceased friend Quincey Morris, is growing up. But the glow of their victory over the ancient vampire is soon tainted, as comrades die while speaking evil portents and young Quincey seems strange, even to his own mother. The Harkers and the remaining members of their circle reassure themselves with the knowledge that the Count is dead by their hand, and he cannot return from beyond the grave they fashioned for him. But there are shadows gathering in the deep Romanian forests, and they have designs on the world outside.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: J.S. Barnes shares what inspired him to revisit Dracula.

In Dracula’s Child, Barnes portrays vampires at their most sinister. They do not sparkle, nor do they enjoy shopping; rather, they hunger, and only the eldest and most disciplined among them can control the urge to feed. The gothic, almost oppressively macabre atmosphere is enhanced by Barnes’ revival of Stoker’s epistolary form. Not only is it an effective allusion to the original material, but telling this new story through diary entries, letters and newspaper clippings also forces the reader to experience the events almost in real time. There are no hints of omniscience; instead, Barnes is downright miserly with foreshadowing, offering only hints of what is to come. The result is both an admirable blend of horror and dark fantasy and an accurate reconstruction of the original’s mood.

However, Dracula’s Child is not just a sequel in form and cast, but also in its interpretation of its monster, and it is this quality that renders it particularly timely. Barnes extends Stoker’s underlying metaphor connecting vampirism to sexual abuse to include the seduction of social and cultural power. In Dracula’s Child, vampires do not merely threaten the life and well-being of their victims: rather, they seek to exert power over entire societies, and they are adept at wielding sensationalism, mass opinion and the levers of public policy to accomplish their aims. The reader is left wondering how their own society would react to a vampiric intrusion, or indeed, if the vampires are already here.

An Austen-esque romance, a heart-racing mystery full of dangerous twists and an anxiety-inducing yet enthralling family feud, Louisa Morgan’s The Age of Witches is anything but a traditional tale of good versus evil. This historical fantasy follows three strong-willed, Gilded Age New York women who share a common ancestor Bridget Byshop, executed as a purported enchantress during the Salem Witch Trials of 1692.

Morgan thrusts readers into the lives of these very different, yet appealing, characters right away. Frances’ struggles early on in life have caused her to constantly desire more, and her loveless marriage to older, nouveau riche George Allington has staled her passion for life. Annis is Frances’ headstrong stepdaughter, whose interests include caring for her purebred horses, overseeing their progeny and evading marriage and the control of men. Harriet is Frances’ cousin and Annis’ great-aunt, a revered herbalist who lives in the shadows but who seems to have a propensity for other miracles and mysterious happenings.

This energetically paced novel bounces between the three women’s lives, building to a battle over the use of their magical gift (or curse?) called the maleficia, a powerful strain of magic that leaves a dark imprint on the wielder and can tear the soul and conscience from one’s powers. It’s clear that while Frances is willing to utilize the family talent to her advantage—no matter the cost—Harriet and the newly-inducted Annis must discover how to stop her machinations before Annis is wed off for the sake of a title and financial gain.

The Age of Witches’ eloquent, flowery prose will please fans of Victorian British classics, and her detailed descriptions and attention to detail bring the locations and historical period to vivid life. New Yorkers will certainly recognize familiar locations in the picturesque setting, and for romance fans, the chemistry between Annis and an eventual suitor is palpable and skin-tingling. The Bishops’ magic is powerful yet elegant, far from some gaudy Halloween spectacle, and requires wisdom and skill to wield.

Morgan whisks up a tale of legacy and feminist might as the Bishop women take charge of their destinies—and sometimes the destinies of others. From eerie cantrips to lifelike manikins, the magic in The Ages of Witches relies on imagination, instinct and intuition. It all makes for a perfect brew of meticulous skill and focused intention as the Bishops battle over their entangled lineage and futures.

Fresh from an unexpectedly complicated job in Mexico, Lizbeth Rose is shepherding a mysterious crate from her native Texoma to the nation of Dixie when her train derails and her cargo is stolen. As the only member of her crew left alive and in fighting condition, she attempts to infiltrate the small town of Sally, with the unexpected aid of some old friends from Mexico. Lizbeth must now find her missing cargo, outwit a mysterious order of white supremacists and seek vengeance for the deaths of her crew members. And she must do so in Dixie, accompanied by a Russian wizard pretending to be her husband, and without her precious guns.

A Longer Fall, Charlaine Harris’ sequel to An Easy Death, is just as gritty as its predecessor. Harris’ prose is blunt and uncomplicated, matching Lizbeth’s general sensibility, and lending the novel a welcome readability. This straightforward style meshes well with the first-person narration, implying that the protagonist is relating events in her own words as she remembers them. Each character is filtered through Lizbeth’s biases, resulting in a refreshingly direct story, albeit one in which everyone uses roughly the same cadence and vocabulary and some of the plot twists are foreshadowed into predictability.

The most remarkable aspect of A Longer Fall, though, is the fluency of Harris’ alternate history. Her fractured United States features references to Alexei Romanov’s hemophilia, Russian and Coptic Orthodox theology and the racial dynamics of the Reconstruction-era American South, to name a few. While Texoma communities tend to write their own rules, both Dixie (the former South) and the Holy Russian Empire (California) operate under established hierarchies. In Dixie, these structures are founded on gender and race, while the Holy Russian Empire’s society revolves around religion, genealogy and magical ability. Lizbeth encounters these systems as an outsider both to these specific cultures and to the idea of a firmly hierarchical social structure in general, and her difficulties making sense of them form the central obstacles in both An Easy Death and A Longer Fall. Well, except for the people who keep trying to kill her, of course.

Karen O’Neil has already saved the world once. So when an old friend sends her a mysterious package from Havana at the start of W. L. Goodwater’s Revolution, she is reluctant to get involved in yet another magical mystery. But this time, a little girl has gone missing, and the arcane is unmistakably involved. And in her capacity as head researcher on theoretical magic for the Office of Magical Research and Deployment, she has a vested interest in new magical technologies unknown to the United States government. What she finds is a cauldron of incipient revolution, corrupt men with impossible dreams and few trustworthy colleagues, if any. And in the process, she may just have to save the world for a second time.

It would be easy, perhaps, to draw an analogy between Goodwater’s magically infused Cold War and other arcanely altered histories. Historical fiction with a dash of magicians is increasingly common, as evidenced by books authored by such luminaries as Susanna Clarke, China Mieville and Guy Gavriel Kay. Revolution falls squarely in this domain, but unlike the work of those writers, it is defined almost wholly by its taut, compelling plot, rather than by stylistic elements like Clarke’s flowery, Austenesque prose. Goodwater’s writing is direct and efficient, ideally suited to the thrillers he crafts, and adroitly gets out of its own way to allow the story itself to shine through.

Karen O’Neil’s travails in Cuba are great fun (for the reader, emphatically not for Ms. O’Neil), bringing to mind an Indiana Jones adventure with a little more moral ambiguity, a lot more incantations and much stronger female characters. Without exception, the women are smart, capable and independent, while the men tend towards greedy, corrupt or inept, which is a more than welcome change from the genre’s status quo. There are conspiracies, secret societies, guerrilla rebels, mob bosses, nefarious businessmen, Soviet spies, magic artifacts and disembodied voices galore. Goodwater’s ventures into Spanish names (a witch predictably named La Bruja) and dialogue (consisting mostly of single words or simple phrases before veering back into English) leave some verisimilitude behind, but this is a quibble, and does not distract from the book’s overall narrative drive. The cliffhanger ending ensures there will be further chapters in Karen O’Neil’s reluctant quest to save the world from its own worst impulses.

While The True Queen is the second in Zen Cho’s Sorcerer Royal series, in many ways it is more of a standalone novel than true sequel. It is true that readers who enjoyed Sorcerer to the Crown will delight in the reappearance of familiar characters and settings, as well as the expansion of Cho’s vision of a magical Regency England. But because The True Queen is told from the perspective of characters new to Prunella, Henrietta and Zacharias’s world, the novel gives incoming readers a smooth introduction to Cho’s complex and exciting creation. But be careful—once you’ve experienced Cho’s vision of the past, you will never want to leave.

The True Queen opens in the weeks after Muna and her sister Sakti found themselves on the shores of Janda Baik, a tiny (and fictional) island. Stripped of their memories by an unknown magician, the girls take refuge with the witch Mak Genggang. But as the weeks go on, Sakti and Muna learn that their memories may not be all that the curse took from them. Sakti is beginning to fade from existence, and the sisters’ only hope in lifting the curse is to travel to Britain and enlist the aid of the Sorceress Royal. But when Sakti gets lost in the Unseen Realm between Janda Baik and Britain, Muna must learn how to navigate the world of magicians without Sakti. In the process, she will learn exactly how far she’ll go to save her sister.

Purposefully or not, much of historical fiction and fantasy tends to show a whitewashed view of European history. In both Sorcerer to the Crown and The True Queen, Zen Cho reminds us that Britain was far from homogenous. And while Cho never strays into direct discussions of imperialism (at its core, The True Queen is a fairly light book), it is a constant presence. Its threat looms in Janda Baik as Mak Geggang struggles to keep the influence of the British from growing on the island. And while few are outright hostile towards Muna, she is treated as an exotic addition to society rather than a person of her own. These additions distinguish the novel from others of its genre, making The True Queen a book worth reading for lovers of historical fantasy and thoughtful historical fiction alike.

A three minute jaunt into your local bookstore will reveal a plethora of books detailing the lives of young, magically gifted girls, but no author marches her gifted protagonist through trials (and oppressive Russian winters) like Katherine Arden. From the beginning of her Winternight trilogy, Vasilisa Petrovna has been constantly bombarded with tragedy, and Arden’s conclusion, The Winter of the Witch, is no different. Quite literally burned, battered and cursed with broken ribs, Vasilisa has been thrust into the public spotlight. And contrary to the previous entries in the trilogy, she cannot escape the dangerous attention of men and chyerti this time around.

Finding a place to live in the world of Orthodox Russia has been difficult for Vasilisa, and her final quest for power and responsibility is marked with copious opposition. Even after emerging victorious over each foe she has encountered, Vasilisa must endure Bruce Willis in Die Hard-levels of abuse to reach her goals, with little to no reprieve. Seemingly in pace with her injuries, Vasilisa also exponentially expands in power, adding several spheres of power to her magical portfolio. Many of these tricks and explosive flashes come with particularly satisfying payoffs.

The Russian language can confuse Anglophone readers (looking at you, Doctor Zhivago), so Arden has added in several detailed notes about Russian names and a glossary of terms to help the unfamiliar. With a fluid incorporation of Russian diminutives and references, Arden wonderfully blends Russian culture into her novel. Conversations are brought to life in a realistic and relatable fashion, even when half the participants are devilish fey creatures.

Arden also embraces another commonly Russian trait in her writing: stoicism. Arden’s entire cadre of fictional actors constantly shrug off the weight of the horrors they bear, pushing themselves to a new edge. There is no commentary on the value of ignoring grief, no celebration of their grit. Just an acknowledgement of humanity’s inevitable tendency to ignore the wounds we incur, physical or otherwise. But when a character does, eventually, break down, they find themselves comforted, allowed to mourn. This respect for grief is rare, and well written in The Winter of the Witch. Seeing characters agonize over their past scars brings a true depth to even the most vile among them. While understanding a tragic backstory can help a reader sympathize, seeing a person or character truly suffer invokes empathy (even within my cold, dead heart).

To readers of the previous books, there is no spoiler in revealing that the end is not perfectly happy. Arden does go out of her way to wrap nearly every loose end the series has set up, and therein lies my only criticism. Arden writes the mystical and mysterious forces of her fey world well, and keeps the reader engaged with its mysteries. But in answering almost every possible question I could have had, Arden removes that mysticism from the setting. Some readers may find they like a tidy ending, but for a book fraught with sacrifice and cost at every turn, I would have liked to see an ending just as messy.

However, The Winter of the Witch was a fantastic way to end my literary year (as this reviewer read it in the last weeks of 2018), and I would highly recommend it. Arden explores the line between paganism and Christianity in a way that lends respect and power to each, which is especially amplified in her impressive final installment of the trilogy. Vasilisa is a heroine worth rooting for and her final story is just as impressive.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our Q&A with Katherine Arden about The Winter of the Witch.

Irene is a Librarian, sworn to maintain the balance between order and chaos by carefully observing and, when necessary, stealing works of literature and history. Her Library stands apart from a vast array of alternate universes, and Irene travels between them to find and protect game-changing works of literature. She is (mostly) content with her typical daily duties of infiltrating the private libraries of brutal feudal lords and reading books so extraordinary, most mortals would never know they’d ever existed.

So when she is called to investigate a murder that could threaten that balance, Irene must apply her ingenuity and adaptability to preserve the most delicate of peaces and protect her Library while uncovering the truth. And if she and her friends and fellow investigators happen to stumble across a conspiracy or two along the way, they can only hope that any of the lawful and regimented dragons, chaotic Fae raconteurs, or suspicious and secretive senior Librarians will believe them.

Genevieve Cogman’s prose in The Mortal Word is characteristically light and witty, and filled with the kind of unexpected literary references one would expect from a book about magical librarians. Even more impressive, however, is Cogman’s ability to craft compelling standalone novels, while still using the developing relationships among her characters to tie the entire Invisible Library series together. Her series is reminiscent of the better, longest-running television serials, and the murder mystery aspect of The Mortal Word lends it the air of an unusually comedic episode of “Law and Order.”

The Library itself, and its relationship to humanity, is itself a fascinating take on an established literary tradition. Borges wrote of a Library of Babel, in which all possible writing was catalogued in an infinite and barely-navigable maze, but Cogman’s Librarians have more in common with Connie Willis’ time-traveling historians. They are not merely collectors, but have an explicit purpose in their behavior, and must be cautious when their activities in some world or historical era have unintended consequences. Cogman’s version of reality stands apart from its peers as one of the few versions of reality where, if the narrative lines up just right, anybody can be a knight in shining armor, a poem can bring down a dragon and a kiss really can bring back the dead.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our Q&A with Genevieve Cogman about The Mortal Word.

In many fantasy stories, making a deal with a demon starts out as a good idea. Maybe you end up with superhuman strength, riches beyond your wildest dreams or the admiration of those around you. But what do you have to give to receive these gifts? In the case of Molly Tanzer’s fun and atmospheric Creatures of Want and Ruin, two women from very different walks of life have to figure out what the demon wants before Long Island is swallowed by an evil they don’t understand.

The first character you meet is Ellie. It’s the height of Prohibition, and she smuggles liquor by boat to paying customers all over Long Island. When she discovers a wrecked ship stocked with bottles of a mysterious liquid, she naturally takes them for herself. Meanwhile, Fin, a socialite visiting the island to escape the city, feels disconnected from her husband and the rest of her friends from high society. She’s coaxed into hosting a party and enlists Ellie’s help to supply the all-important booze. Fin ends up taking a sip from one of Ellie’s unmarked bottles, and sees a vision: a man bowed before a monstrous thing, submitting to a dark will that she is unable to understand. Bound together by shared experience, Ellie and Fin must work together to find the source of the unholy presence gripping the island.

The vision Tanzer paints of Long Island during Prohibition is nostalgic, tactile and just a little bit creepy. One can almost hear the creak of Ellie’s boat or the tinkle of Fin’s expensive champagne flutes as we float into and out of each character’s perspectives. That being said, the setting never overtakes the interplay between the characters. Both Ellie and Fin maintain complex, multidimensional relationships that ebb and flow as real relationships do. And, thankfully, not even Ellie and Fin are blameless in how they treat others. No one is perfect in this vision of the past.

The back-and-forth between the two heroines is worth celebrating. Ellie, the hard-nosed, what’s-it-to-you liquor smuggler balances perfectly with thoughtful, lonely, demure yet determined society maven Fin. The way they gain each other’s trust and play off one another’s strengths feels natural and unforced, a testament to Tanzer’s gifts with dialogue and pacing. Indeed, the book does a wonderful job of knowing when to lean into an action sequence (the climax gets a large chunk of time at the end of the story) and when to step back and let the characters inhabit the world.

Creatures of Want and Ruin is the second of a trilogy of books revolving around the impact of a demonic presence in a small community. How these communities are split by fear and hatred is telling and relevant in today’s divided public forum. It’ll be a sad day for readers when Tanzer’s trilogy is complete, but at least we didn’t have to sell our souls for such a fantastic journey.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our Q&A with Molly Tanzer.