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Mysteries (especially ones with a supernatural element) are to fall what light romances are to summer: the perfect accompaniment to the season. Trial by Treason and Dig Your Grave are ideally paired with a blanket, cooling weather and the smell of falling leaves in the air.

Steven Cooper’s Dig Your Grave, the second in the series, opens as Phoenix has been struck with a grisly murder—a body left in a cemetery with a gruesome note that warns of more to come. As detective Alex Mills and his crew begin to investigate, it soon becomes clear that there are no leads, no clues as to who committed the murder or why. When a second body appears with no leads in sight, Mills turns to his friend, local psychic Gus Parker, for a hand. But Gus’ visions are vague, and as the investigation begins to narrow it becomes less clear whether his intuitions are about the case or about a series of cryptic threats directed at Gus himself.

Dig Your Grave occupies an unlikely space somewhere between a story about balancing life as a middle-aged man and a hardboiled detective novel. It takes some of the tropes of the second genre—the clinical investigation, the careful police work, and the interdepartmental struggles—and presents them unapologetically. This is the reality of solving a murder, these details tell the reader, and they ground us, guiding us through the macabre mystery. But surrounding that plot is also a story about the struggle with the banalities of middle age and everyday life. Mills wrestles with what it means to be a good father and husband but still give his all to his job. Parker worries about his relationship with his rock star lover. Neither issue overshadows the main mystery. Instead, both give it context, reminding us that there is something darker on the other side of normal life.

Dave Duncan’s Trial by Treason takes readers out of the modern era and into 12th century England, where King Henry has received a letter from one of his allies warning him of a plot against the throne at Lincoln Castle. Although the letter is unbelievable, the king sends two of his familiares, the young knight Sir Neil d’Airelle and the newly minted enchanter Durwin of Helmdon, whose education he has financed for two years. When Durwin and his compatriots arrive in Lincoln, they soon discover that, far from an idle threat, the Lincoln Castle conspiracy may threaten the life of the king himself.

Duncan’s Trial by Treason, the second installment in his Enchanter General series, is simultaneously straightforward and thoughtful. Its narrator, Durwin, is matter of fact in his recounting—so matter of fact that some of the more surprising plot points can just seem like mere matters of course. However, while the book’s conspiracy is straightforward, the book itself is by no means simple. Duncan refrains from talking about his characters as merely English or French. They are Saxon, Norman or remnants of the old Danelaw. And while those details may seem initially insignificant to a modern reader, they are representative of the kind of care that Duncan has put into the construction of Trial by Treason. And that care and attention to detail are exactly what makes the book so hard to put down.

Mysteries (especially ones with a supernatural element) are to fall what light romances are to summer: the perfect accompaniment to the season. Trial by Treason and Dig Your Grave are ideally paired with a blanket, cooling weather and the smell of falling leaves in the air.

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Debut novels can be tricky, and in the fantasy realm, debuts frequently define entire careers. Terry BrooksThe Sword of Shannara marked him as a leading proponent of high fantasy; Susanna Clarke’s towering Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell established her reputation as a master of Victorian fantasy; Neil Gaiman’s solo debut, Neverwhere, defined his trademark wry humor and knack for mythologizing everyday life; and China Miéville’s King Rat sparked his career as a progenitor of today’s ethically complicated urban fantasy. In each case, the expectations established by the success of these authors’ debuts irrevocably shaped their future work. Debuts carry power. In this vein, the inventiveness demonstrated by both Tasha Suri’s Empire of Sand and Alexandra Rowland’s A Conspiracy of Truths carries fascinating implications for the future development of their individual styles.

These two novels are, in some ways, polar opposites: Suri’s tale revolves around two isolated, naive people whose personal relationship might save the world, while Rowland’s protagonist is a storytelling traveler who wields his enormous trove of global mythologies to save his own skin. Suri’s world is self-contained within Empire of Sand’s pages. Rowland casually references entire continents and magics that are never visited or explained, giving the impression of an unknowably massive universe that surrounds this story that takes place almost entirely within prison cells.

Suri’s Empire of Sand follows her headstrong protagonist, Mehr, the illegitimate daughter of an imperial governor and an Amrithi woman, as she navigates the deadly conspiracies and complicated politics of a Mughal India-esque empire. The Amrithi are desert nomads who claim divine descent and have a special connection to the natural world, and are thus viewed with scorn and fear by the ruling elite. When Mehr’s uneasy position within her father’s court grown untenable, she accepts a marriage proposal from one of the empire’s mysterious, feared mystics and is thrust into an even more dangerous world. As she tries to unravel the secrets of her new husband, Mehr begins to discover the true extent of her powers and the dark secrets at the heart of the empire. Suri’s tightly focused, propulsive story blends multiple simultaneous storylines without resorting to flashbacks or post-hoc descriptions. This style is evocative of George R.R. Martin but unfolds on a much more intimate scale, and sleeping gods take the place of Martin’s dragons.

By contrast, Rowland frames the entirety of A Conspiracy of Truths as a recounting of an elderly raconteur known as Chant, whose adventurous wanderings are put on hold when he is arrested on suspicion of espionage. Chant wades through the hilariously byzantine bureaucracy of Nuryevet, a country ruled by powerful queens and plagued by all manner of superstition, and peppers his life story with various forms of folk tales, complete with different narrative voices and linguistic characteristics. Rowland conjures tension out of the interminable prison sentence as Chant must both determine why he was arrested in the first place and who he can actually trust in order to avoid execution. The sheer variety of linguistic forms at play contributes to the overwhelming scale of Rowland’s world, and the overall conceit of the book as a story recounted to one of its characters is reminiscent of Patrick Rothfuss’ The Kingkiller Chronicles. However, Chant is a much more approachable character than Kvothe, and the world he evokes through his stories hints at a world as grand and varied as any in contemporary fantasy.

The next step for both writers is to determine which aspects of their debuts they will sustain, and which characteristics they will jettison or warp as they continue. Will Suri fill her next novels with tense relations between misguided mortals and a sleeping divine? Is Rowland plotting a lineage of Chants as protagonists of their future stories? At this stage, it is impossible to say how either writer’s follow-up effort will unfold, but both authors have demonstrated more than enough to be worth that second look.

Debut novels can be tricky. They can be an author’s best friend, setting a high standard for quality and inventiveness, or they can pigeonhole a writer into a niche. In the fantasy realm, debuts frequently define entire careers.

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Conventional fantasy settings (often Tolkien-inspired landscapes) can be useful for establishing easy-to-understand lines between good and evil, or to skip the onboarding process of learning new systems and races. However, some authors choose to step away from the industry standard, creating a separate, distinct experience.

In Elle Katharine White’s Dragonshadow, the landscape of her Austenesque fantasy world drives each conflict. Sequel to Heartstone, which was a magical retelling of Pride and Prejudice, White’s latest book finds Alistair and Aliza Daired (her Darcy and Elizabeth avatars) happily married and called upon to defeat a mysterious monster threatening the castle of a powerful lord. The core conflict in White’s world is a direct result of an ancient pact between humans, wyverns and dragons, who fight together against the other dangerous magical creatures that opposed the pact.

Upon arriving at Castle Selwyn, the Daireds find themselves embroiled in a murder mystery, complicated by ancient grudges and secret avengers. White builds out her fantasy world naturally, setting pieces into categories: bad guys, good guys, neutral guys. This seemingly simplistic scheme plays into the novel’s central mystery—without spoiling anything, the story’s twists go to interesting and surprising places.

As a whole, dragon and human (and valkyrie!) relationships keep the beat-to-beat energy going, but they are ultimately in support of White’s primary story: the relationship between the newly married Alistair and Aliza. Their relationship’s growth and conflict mirror the entire arc of the murder mystery. White carves a metaphor into the setting and plot, and allows her fictional married couple to grow naturally within the space that the story creates. Similar to Heartstone, the epic setting and heroic events in Dragonshadow play second fiddle to the romantic struggles of Aliza and Alistair.

With the dynamic setting firmly in place, chock full of independent factions with ulterior motives and rich history, White paints her power-couple romance with a vibrant brush, splashing sorrow, joy and solidarity generously across the canvas.

On the other side of the spectrum, the setting of Mirah Bolender’s City of Broken Magic is the primary engine of her story and characters. The first in a series, Bolender’s debut thrusts the reader into a world where magic can take form as a hungry hive mind, consuming everything. This infestation’s only weakness? Locked and loaded sun-bullets (and other sun-things, but the sun-bullets were my favorite).

The city of Amicae claims to have eliminated such infestations entirely, and newbie exterminator Laura is a member of the Sweepers, a team responsible for keeping that farce alive. Each facet of Bolender’s magical steampunk island is fully fleshed out, with motivations and schemes mapped onto each faction and character. This incredible attention to detail is vital to City of Broken Magic, as Laura is generally responsible for trying to micromanage, overcome or save every single character she encounters. If that sounds exhausting, being a Sweeper most certainly is, and the city’s Renaissance Italy-level intrigue makes Laura and her boss Clae’s plight entirely believable. The pair’s banter and genuinely enjoyable relationship serve as an accessible lens to view the intricate complexities of Bolender’s land (which is like if Rome invaded Japan and ruined it really badly). Laura and Clae are set up as underdogs from the start, and rooting for them to succeed comes naturally as they wage a war against the setting itself, cannily crafted by Bolender to fight them at every turn.

Both of these novels use the setting as powerful third party, both guiding the stories to their natural conclusions and acting as an instigator of adversity and hardship for the protagonists. White’s setting is a gorgeous caravan, carrying characters carefully to their conclusion, while Bolender uses her setting as a bludgeon, beating her proud, struggling characters into the ground with its oppressive constraints. Neither novel would be nearly as engaging and fun to read without the energy of its colorful, fantastic world pushing the story along.

 

P.S. I strongly advise not reading the back of the book summary for City of Broken Magic. It quite literally spoils a major plot point.

Conventional fantasy settings (often Tolkien-inspired landscapes) can be useful for establishing easy-to-understand lines between good and evil, or to skip the onboarding process of learning new systems and races. However, some authors choose to step away from the industry standard, creating a separate, distinct experience.

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TOP PICK
Set in the not-too-distant future, The Power is a chilling sci-fi novel expertly executed by award-winning British author Naomi Alderman. In Alderman’s alternate world, women have recently gained the ability to release waves of electricity through their fingertips—and the jolts can kill. Their lethal facility grants them physical supremacy over men, altering the fabric of society. The novel focuses on a few central characters, including Margot, a politician who learns through her young daughter that she, too, has the power; Allie, an orphan who falls in with a circle of nuns and begins touting a new religion; and Tunde, a would-be journalist whose video of a woman unleashing electricity goes viral. Alderman’s convincing and disturbing vision of the future has been compared to The Handmaid’s Tale. Selected as a best book of 2017 by NPR and the New York Times, this hypnotic novel offers futuristic thrills even as it explores important questions of gender and identity.

 

No Time to Spare
by Ursula K. Le Guin

This delightful volume brings together the late, beloved author’s crisply composed meditations on aging, cats and the craft of writing.

 

Everything Here Is Beautiful
by Mira T. Lee

The future looks bright for Lucia Bok—until she is beset by a recurring mental illness. The resulting turmoil upends her and her family’s lives as they struggle with important questions about tradition and marriage.

 

Love and Ruin
by Paula McLain

In this exhilarating novel, McLain delivers an unforgettable portrait of pioneering reporter Martha Gellhorn, who holds her own against a formidable husband—literary titan Ernest Hemingway.

 

Tangerine
by Christine Mangan

It’s 1956 in Morocco, and a twisted friendship between two women is about to explode. Exotic and suspenseful, Mangan’s bestselling debut novel is a true page-turner.

 

This article was originally published in the January 2019 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

New in paperback for January 2019—5 recommendations for book clubs!

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Reinvention and apprehension abound in two surreal new short story collections.

In the introduction to her new collection A Cathedral of Myth and Bone, Kat Howard declares her ambition to “hang a skin of myth on the skeleton of the strange.” If you’re inclined to overlook this phrase as a bit of airy lyricism, don’t. The bone first pokes through the mythical skin in “Translatio Corporis,” in which a young girl’s slow physical decline gives life and dimension to a city of her own creation. By “The Speaking Bone,” a meditation on an imagined island manned by bone-divining oracles, the physical structure and its mythic overlay are indistinguishable. Like the protagonist of another strange short story, Ray Bradbury’s “Skeleton,” Howard is obsessed with the human frame and returns to it again and again.

It’s a fitting motif for a writer as preoccupied by the construction of myth as by its content. “When I wrote my versions of these stories,” Howard writes, “I wanted to . . . break them out of the frames they had been displayed in.” The opening story, “A Life in Fictions,” gives the reader a taste of her intention, depicting a woman whose reality is profoundly altered when she becomes a recurring protagonist in her boyfriend’s writings. The fascinating novella “Once, Future,” published here for the first time, sees an English project turn sinister when college students find themselves helplessly reenacting the fall of King Arthur. (Fans of the short form may wonder if the knowing “Professor Link” heading the experiment is really veteran slipstream writer Kelly Link.) And “Returned,” which is more contemporary thriller than ancient epic, throws a wrench into the Eurydice myth by asking whether our heroine really wanted to be resurrected.

Howard’s myths are independent sallies, some mutually exclusive, not all effective. Her evocation of Catholic imagery sometimes seems as surface-level as a Sacred Heart on the wall of a tattoo parlor. (It’s at its best in “The Calendar of Saints,” which explores doubt by alluding to real hagiography.) Further, her attempts to shatter the frame of myth fail to contend with the fact that such subversion is a common frame in itself. The last story, fittingly titled “Breaking the Frame,” self-consciously describes a gallery of feminist reinterpretation (think Beauty holding the head of the Beast) that would be at home in any college art building. But if Howard’s ringing challenges aren’t always surprising, her more wholehearted investigations may drag you in their wake. The most moving tale in the collection, “All of Our Past Places,” keeps its myth at the edges, using fantastic cartography to explore the history of a longstanding friendship.

If Cathedral speaks for the adolescent rebelling against the prescriptions of its elders, Samanta Schweblin’s Mouthful of Birds is decidedly grown-up, its wildest surrealism rife with parental anxiety. (The fetching abstraction of its translated title doesn’t quite capture the violent punch of the Spanish Pájaros en la boca, “Birds in the mouth”—a fitting header for a story detailing a father’s struggle to accept a teenaged daughter’s bizarre appetite.) In “Preserves,” a young couple discovers an unusual way to put an unplanned pregnancy on hold. No harm is done to the child, but the success of their trick can’t deliver them from the reeking guilt they feel at having played it. “On the Steppe” hits the opposite end of the adult terror spectrum, dealing with the pain of infertility by taking baby fever to feral extremes. Between these points lie a breathtaking range of misgivings and inadequacies, from a lethal mistake comprehended a heartbeat too late in the nightmarish “Butterflies” to a child’s misunderstanding of a broken marriage in “Santa Claus Sleeps at Our House” to a haunting reverberation of the Pied Piper in “Underground.”

Readers may relate to the hearer of the latter tale, who, abandoned without an ending, squints at the landscape, “searching for some revelatory detail.” Schweblin doesn’t offer that easy solution, preferring to dispense discomfort. Her art lies in setting up a problem and letting the reader sit with it. “The Size of Things” gets to the bitter heart of onlooker helplessness, and the title story is a particular highlight, asking (but not quite settling) the question of how far parental love can go.

Reinvention and apprehension abound in two surreal new short story collections.

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All of our crushes are fictional characters. But what if we actually had the opportunity to date one of our imaginary loves? Just how good (or bad!) would that first date be? The editors have some thoughts.


Hagrid from the Harry Potter series
By J.K. Rowling

There are so many characters from Rowling’s world who’d be great on a date: Sirius Black, Hermione once she’s 30 (if Ron’s OK with it), either of the Weasley twins. But if I want to feel fancy, I’m taking Hagrid. Sure, his beard is out of control, and he’ll probably smell strongly of damp wool, but he gives the best hugs, and you know he’ll try really hard to make it a nice evening. He’ll get dressed up in his best suit, I’ll bring the (oversize, low-priced) bottle of wine, and he’ll show me his favorite clearing in the forest to watch the moon rise. I fully expect the date to be ruined by whatever magical creature is hidden away in his breast pocket, but that’s just fine with me.

—Cat, Deputy Editor


Nino from the Neapolitan Quartet
By Elena Ferrante

Ah, Nino Sarratore. What shy girl hasn’t had their own Nino Sarratore—the brilliant, somewhat pretentious boy you know would love you if you ever worked up the courage to talk to him. However, with the benefit of having read the rest of Ferrante’s brilliant Neapolitan novels, I know what lurks behind Nino’s appealing exterior. And ladies, he’s not worth any of our time. So this Valentine’s Day, I’ll take one for the team. I’ll go on a date with Nino and let him talk at me and think that I’m falling for his “more brilliant than you” act. And then, after I’ve gained his trust and made him think he’s gained a new acolyte-admirer, I’ll stomp on his heart on behalf of bookish girls everywhere.

—Savanna, Editorial Assistant


Leonard from The Marriage Plot
By Jeffrey Eugenides

Listen, I know he’s trouble. But I am in love with Leonard Bankhead. I love his brilliance, his passion, his intensity and his dark and terrible understanding of the world. If Leonard met me, he would realize that we were meant to be together. No one understands him like I do. Leonard and I are going to a dive bar, we’re getting shots of whiskey, and I don’t care what my mother says about it. We’ll talk about our favorite books and how messed up everything is. We’ll get into a heated argument about if reality television has any worth (it does, and I will introduce him to “Vanderpump Rules,” which he will admit to loving). Later, his career on track, he’ll name a type of algae after the color of my eyes: mud.

—Lily, Associate Editor


Matsu from The Samurai’s Garden
By Gail Tsukiyama

For intelligence and thoughtfulness, I’d turn to the devoted gardener from Tsukiyama’s tender, melancholy second novel, set in 1937. In this story about gracefully weathering loneliness and sorrow, Matsu tends his exquisite garden and frequently journeys to a leper colony, where he continues to care for his beloved. But readers only ever see Matsu through the eyes of Chinese student Stephen, and this gentle man deserves to rise above his secondary-character status. He’s such a classic kind of man that I’d love to see his reaction to a contemporary art museum some summer afternoon. Assuming that I’ve learned to speak Japanese for the date, it would be nice to walk silently through a gallery and debrief afterward. 

—Cat, Deputy Editor


Lilliet from The Queen of the Night
By Alexander Chee

James Bond, Holly Golightly, Jay Gatsby—how much fun would it be to go on a first date (but probably not a second) with one of fiction’s most notorious partiers? For glitz, glamour, scandal and an all-around epic night on the town, it would be hard to beat a visit to 19th-century Paris for a decadent costume party with soprano Lilliet Berne. In Chee’s second novel, Lilliet is a woman of many secrets—too many for a long-term relationship—and drama swirls around her to an improbable degree. But dressed in a fabulous costume and swathed in dazzling jewels—and with the possibility of dramatic escapes and scheming aristocrats—an evening spent with this rags-to-riches diva would be quite an adventure.

—Hilli, Assistant Editor

 

This article was originally published in the February 2019 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

All of our crushes are fictional characters. But what if we actually had the opportunity to date one of our imaginary loves? Just how good (or bad!) would that first date be? The editors have some thoughts.


Hagrid from the Harry…

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Starting a fantasy series is a tricky business. Not only must the author tackle the usual tasks of character development and world building, but they must also introduce a central story that is sufficiently compelling and developed to lure the reader into returning for the next instalment. Dan Stout’s Titanshade and Angus Macallan’s Gates of Stone take two different approaches to this challenge, and succeed in vastly different ways.

Gates of Stone stars a menagerie of displaced misfits: a self-exiled, rebellious princess; a lovesick spy with a gambling addiction; a prince who watched as invaders razed his home; and a pair of former priests. As Macallan veers from character to character, drawing their disparate storylines inexorably closer, he builds a world tantalizingly close to historical fantasy, with near-analogues of the Indian, Russian, Chinese and Majapahit empires. However, Macallan’s story is pure high fantasy, complete with evil sorcerers, magic swords, heroic journeys with wise old advisers and magic from all the least likely places. Gates of Stone is a Wheel of Time set in Southeast Asia, but the skill of his writing and his exquisitely detailed world more than make up for the occasionally predictable plot, and the novel ends in a near-perfect fashion—an inspiring victory in danger of disintegrating mere moments after the reader closes the book. It is at once a conclusion and a hook, and firmly situates Gates of Stone as an excellent introduction to Macallan’s grand universe.

The self-contained Titanshade, on the other hand, is equal parts fantasy, Western and film noir. Stout is a blunt, no-nonsense writer of blunt, no-nonsense characters who seem written for a young Harrison Ford. Detective Carter is a human detective in an oil boomtown populated by a variety of species, all of which coexist by a mutual agreement that the oil is worth the trouble. But his latest case involving a murdered diplomat turns into a saga of greed, corruption, zealotry and manipulation, not to mention sorcerous constructs, vigilante prostitutes, mad scientists and weaponized body odor. Stout’s magic is intensely visceral, reading as if the most twisted aspects of medieval mythology were real. His story is almost apocalyptic, as the titular city teeters on the edge of environmental destruction. The only flat characters are those at the story’s periphery, and Carter’s core relationships are complex and well realized. And even though the case is solved at the end, the world of Titanshade remains unstable enough to merit further tales.

While Gates of Stone opens a traditional high fantasy sequence in style, kicking off what is clearly a long story arc, Titanshade feels more like an episode of a procedural, with a fully encapsulated narrative woven through with potential season long plots. They are radically different books, but both are well-crafted and compelling beginnings to their respective series.

Starting a fantasy series is a tricky business. Not only must the author tackle the usual tasks of character development and world building, but they must also introduce a central story that is sufficiently compelling and developed to lure the reader into returning for the next instalment. Dan Stout’s Titanshade and Angus Macallan’s Gates of Stone take two different approaches to this challenge, and succeed in vastly different ways.

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Science fiction and fantasy novels are filled with roguish misfits, from heroic starship captains who just can’t stay on the good side of the law to ghoulish assassins who dispense justice from the shadows. Because this trope is so popular, authors sometimes lack the ability to surprise and delight readers with new twists on this old tune, and it takes a clever mind to turn it into something exciting, but both Suzanne Palmer’s Finder and Sam Sykes’ Seven Blades in Black do just that.

Finder is the kind of science fiction you’d get if “Firefly” and Pierce Brown’s Red Rising had a baby—an adrenaline-packed, heist-filled ride with a heavy side of political intrigue. Set against the backdrop of deep space colony Cernee, Palmer’s debut novel follows repo man Fergus Ferguson as he attempts to complete a seemingly straightforward mission: find (and reclaim) the stolen spaceship Venetia’s Sword from one Arum Gilger, local trade boss. When the colony is suddenly pulled into a civil war, Fergus must balance his job against protecting the lives of the locals who he has—unfortunately—begun to care about.

Palmer spins a story that pays homage to the rogue archetype so common to space operas without feeling like a stale copycat. As Fergus Ferguson careens from one end of Cernee to another, we are treated to not just frenetic fight scenes, daring escapes and tense intrigues, but also to the crushing uncertainty of what it would feel like to live in a human colony at the edge of the alien unknown. This contrast enhances an already complex (and not always predictable) plot that captures readers and drags them through to the book’s unlikely and unsettling end.

Like Finder, Sykes’ first entry into the Grave of Empires trilogy is, at first blush, a simple story. Sal the Cacophony is slated for execution but refuses to go until someone hears her final words—even if that means roping an officer of the Revolution into listening to her and being late to her own death by firing squad. Part Gunslinger and part Kill Bill, Seven Blades in Black is a revenge story both classic and wholly original. Sykes brilliantly weaves a tale of adventure, loss and revenge that is set against the backdrop of a countryside torn from decades of magical warfare between the magic-wielding Imperium and the Revolution, which is led by their former slaves.

What stands out most about Seven Blades in Black isn’t the characters, although Sal and her companions are beautifully crafted and far more nuanced than first meets the eye. It also isn’t the magic system, which is both complex and thoughtful in its execution. It isn’t even the breath-stealing plot, which makes the novel’s roughly 700 pages fly by. Instead, what makes Seven Blades in Black so compelling is the depth of the world Sykes has constructed. Sykes isn’t afraid to ask more questions about his world than he answers, leaving readers knowing that there’s more adventure around the corner. That ability to immerse readers in a new world without over-explaining things is difficult in the first book in any series, but Sykes deftly rises to the occasion.

Although radically different in setting and tone, both Finder and Seven Blades in Black offer fantastic, fantastical stories that are sure to delight. Either would be a great pick for anyone who loves rascals, rogues and high-octane adventure.

It takes a clever mind to take our expectations as readers of what the rogue character should be and to turn it into something new and exciting. Both Suzanne Palmer’s Finder and Sam Sykes’ Seven Blades in Black do just that.

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Starred Review
Sarah Gailey’s fresh, clever Magic for Liars is a study in balance. It’s funny, it’s familiar, it’s sinister, and it’s engrossing. When a teacher is found dead at Osthorne Academy for Young Mages, private investigator Ivy Gamble is enlisted by Principal Marion Torres to investigate the possibility of murder. Ivy knows the school well, as her sister Tabitha teaches on campus. As she starts to interview students and teachers alike, the truth slowly comes into focus—there’s something wicked going on at Osthorne. Even the most casual Harry Potter fan will see similarities to Hogwarts, but Magic for Liars borrows without stealing. Teenage angst and school tensions are present, but Ivy’s adult perspective brings some needed cynicism to the whole affair. This impressive, confident debut is a total blast to read thanks to Gailey’s snappy, nimble writing.

Louis Greenberg’s Green Valley asks what’s more valuable: freedom or peace? Tucked away from the world behind a massive wall, the sense-­altering conclave of Green Valley promises an idyllic life. All inhabitants are fitted with brain-controlling hardware that coordinates a shared hallucination meant to block out the cruel realities of the outside world. When Lucie Sterling’s niece, Kira, goes missing inside Green Valley, Lucie must uncover the truth and expose the dark underbelly of this false refuge. The futuristic technology never distracts from the engaging narrative, and Greenberg centers the story on Lucie’s feelings of uncertainty and disgust even as she peels back the layers of her investigation.

I never thought I’d have much interest in 15th-­century Florence, but toss in about a million demons, and I’m hooked. Hugo Award-winning author Jo Walton does just that in Lent. Brother Girolamo is head of the church of San Marco, and not only can he confer with kings and sway city leaders, but he can also see demons. These creatures of hell gather in places of power to tip the scales in favor of Satan. When Girolamo discovers a treacherous plot at the highest levels of government, just as more and more demons flock to Florence’s walls, he must learn the dark secret of his power over hell in order to save the city. Walton’s detailed, vibrant vision of the Italian Renaissance is amazing, and Girolamo’s shifting relationship with hell is equally mesmerizing. Lent is unlike any other book I’ve read this year and is worth a look for history buffs and fantasy fans alike.

Starred Review
Sarah Gailey’s fresh, clever Magic for Liars is a study in balance. It’s funny, it’s familiar, it’s sinister, and it’s engrossing. When a teacher is found dead at Osthorne Academy for Young Mages, private investigator Ivy Gamble is enlisted by Principal Marion…

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Fantasy has always been inspired by history, but in recent years what was once an accepted undercurrent has become a full-blown trend—from Susanna Clarke’s magical retelling of the Napoleonic Wars in Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell to George R.R. Martin’s War of the Roses-inspired A Song of Ice and Fire series. In their new fantasy novels, W.M. Akers and Guy Gavriel Kay offer two compelling and well-crafted takes on the historical record.

A Brightness Long Ago is classic Kay. A beautifully rendered depiction of Renaissance Italy, the fantasy icon’s latest work is filled with compelling characters and a multifaceted tragedy that is as emotionally resonant as it is inevitable. The longstanding feud between Teobaldo Monticola and Folco Cino, mercenary lords of Remigio and Acorsi, dominates their lives and the lives of all close to them, from the brilliant, driven Adria Ripoli to the observant Danio Cerra, a scholar and diplomat who travelled with both Monticola and Cino for a time. Kay once again immerses his readers in a kaleidoscopic world of ambition, politics and romance. By the end, there are no clear antagonists, and the plot is recast as just one episode in the long, slow decline of the Rhodian Empire and the decadent and fragmented Church that sustained it. For devoted fans of Kay’s work, there are myriad connections to other novels, especially Children of Earth and Sky and The Sarantine Mosaic. But A Brightness Long Ago easily stands on its own as a masterful addition to Kay’s historical fantasy oevre.

In contrast to Kay’s elegiac style, Akers’s Westside revels in stripping its characters of their carefully constructed mythologies and revealing their seedy, petty true selves. Few of Akers’ characters are fully redeemable, and those who do possess better natures are relatively feckless. In Akers’ Prohibition-era New York City, street gangs and moonshine smugglers rule over a city slowly being devoured by a mysterious darkness. Gilda Carr is a private detective specializing in “little mysteries” whose search for a missing glove sends her down a rabbit hole of secret documents, all-consuming greed and personal rivalries that threatens the lives and souls of her friends and her home. While Kay’s characters play their parts in a world that turns beneath them, Akers’ protagonists have all the agency in their stories and must decide whether to use that power to repair their city or repair their pasts.

There is a minimalist elegance to the magic in both worlds. And neither book uses its fantastical elements to alter the historical timeline, as Clarke’s titular magicians do with abandon. But fantasy is essential to both stories nevertheless, and both A Brightness Long Ago and Westside are welcome additions to the burgeoning genre of historical fantasy.

In their new fantasy novels, W.M. Akers and Guy Gavriel Kay offer two compelling and well-crafted takes on the historical record.

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A nontraditional take on Holmes and Watson and a sci-fi thriller overflowing with attitude will hook any reader.


In Khelathra-Ven, a city surrounded by portals to other universes, the only limit to the types of people one might meet is the imagination. Alexis Hall’s The Affair of the Mysterious Letter finds Captain John Wyndham, a war veteran with few options left, returning to Khelathra-Ven and moving into an apartment at 221B Martyrs Walk. However, his new roommate is different from any other he’s had, because Miss Shaharazad Haas is a sorceress. A consulting sorceress, to be precise. Unpredictable and strong-willed, Haas immediately pulls Wyndham into solving the case of who’s blackmailing one of Haas’ former lovers. Traveling across the multiverse and getting into more than a little bit of trouble, Wyndham and Haas must discover the identity of the blackmailer before the ever-
changing reality of Khelathra–Ven obscures it forever.

A Sherlock Holmes story through and through, The Affair of the Mysterious Letter takes the idea of homage to a completely different level. The genius of it is how closely Hall sticks to the voice of Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories. The book is written as though Wyndham is writing a retro-spective serial for a future publication, so his words are straight out of Victorian England. He even eschews any foul language and inserts his own editorial filters for the sake of sparing his audience. Of course, ghoulish apparitions, necromancers with low self-esteem and other interdimensional nightmares contrast completely with his tone, leading to some absolutely hilarious juxtapositions. Wyndham is just as prudish as Watson, and reading his reactions to some of Haas’ theatrics will have readers in stitches. This book is simply magic from cover to cover.

Equally unique in tone is Jackson Ford’s surprising The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t With Her Mind. Teagan Frost, a young woman with telekinetic powers and a sarcastic streak, is part of a clandestine operation run by the government. As she’s considered to be one of a kind, Teagan is the star of the show until a man is murdered in a way only a telekinetic could achieve. With the government assuming her guilt, Teagan has just one day to discover who the murderer is and clear her name. But at the same time, she secretly hopes she will find something else—someone like her.

Teagan has such a strong identity, complete with the typical slang and profanity of any 20-something living in Los Angeles, that the reader is totally immersed even as the action charges forward. Ford’s breakneck pace keeps the tension high, and the thrills coming the whole way through. Every decision or mistake feels incredibly impactful as Teagan and her team avoid the cops while searching for the answers they desperately need. Teagan’s jokes, internal monologue and pop culture references are sure to please those looking for an adventure with a digestible amount of sci-fi thrown in.

A nontraditional take on Holmes and Watson and a sci-fi thriller overflowing with attitude will hook any reader.
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Some people love to celebrate the lazy days of summer with relaxing books set on the misty moors of Scotland or far-off beaches in the South Pacific. But for those of us who would prefer a jolt of adrenaline, The Girl in Red and Salvation Day offer enough frantic sci-fi adventure to chase the summer blues away.

Christina Henry is well known for her often dark and always enthralling takes on classic fairy tales. Her latest endeavor, The Girl in Red, follows in this tradition. Set in a post-apocalyptic world where a dangerous plague has driven survivors to quarantine camps and lawlessness, Henry’s new novel is a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood—if Red were a biracial 20-something with a prosthetic foot, anxiety issues and the woodsman’s axe. Refusing to go to a quarantine camp, Red is instead determined to hike the hundreds of miles to the safety of her grandmother’s home. But with the world gone mad, there are darker things lurking in the woods than mere wolves.

The Girl in Red is equal parts psychological horror and post-apocalyptic survivor story, and it manages to harness the best qualities of both. Remarkably slow-paced for such a stressful novel, Henry’s story allows us to see and feel what Red sees and feels, nothing more. The narrowness in scope feels like having blinders on, forcing us to question whether the bumps in the night that terrify Red are monsters or misunderstandings. That same narrowness also grounds the story. By focusing on the pain—both physical and mental—that comes from Red’s long journey, Henry avoids making her remarkable characters feel small and unimportant in the face of the end of the world.

While The Girl in Red is singularly focused on the struggles of one woman, Kali Wallace’s Salvation Day is far grander in scope. The plot centers on what should have been a flawless heist. Zahra and the members of her “family” knew every inch of the plan to commandeer the House of Wisdom, a research vessel abandoned a decade earlier after a deadly plague swept through its hulls. What they could not plan for was what they learned once they got on board—that the virus that wiped out House of Wisdom was far worse and far different from what the government reported. And that they may have woken it up.

Salvation Day isn’t terrifying because of its premise—plenty of virus and zombie films should be scary and are instead just laughable or sad. It is terrifying instead because of Wallace’s sense of timing. She builds the story of the theft of the ship more like a story about war: long periods of tension punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Zahra and her compatriots spend a lot of their time on the ship exploring and learning about its fate rather than dealing with the still-present biological threat. Those lulls of relative calm make the action more intense and startling when it does occur, forcing readers to wonder with bated breath just what lurks beyond that next corner.

While different in scale, The Girl in Red and Salvation Day are similar in one very important way: Once you pick them up, it’s unlikely that you’ll put them down any time soon.

Some people love to celebrate the lazy days of summer with relaxing books set on the misty moors of Scotland or far-off beaches in the South Pacific. But for those of us who would prefer a jolt of adrenaline, The Girl in Red and Salvation Day offer enough frantic sci-fi adventure to chase the summer blues away.

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Waiting for Tom Hanks
In this charmingly sweet romance from Kerry Winfrey, a lovable aspiring screenwriter named Annie Cassidy is obsessed with Nora Ephron movies and finding her own Tom Hanks. To Annie, Tom Hanks—the star of several of Ephron’s most beloved romantic comedies—represents her dream man. He’s an everyman who believes in love at first sight and maybe even lives on a houseboat à la Sleepless in Seattle. In contrast, Annie lives with her Dungeons & Dragons-loving uncle, and her dating prospects are looking grim. When a movie production takes over her neighborhood, it brings with it several men who vie for her attention. Will she end up with the grip who checks all her boxes, or with the handsome movie star she keeps bumping into but couldn’t possibly have a chance with? With fun, engaging narration from Rachel L. Jacobs, Waiting for Tom Hanks is a pure delight from beginning to end.

Out East
Out East
 is a memoir about one summer in the Long Island beach town of Montauk, where John Glynn, his friends and some loose acquaintances go in together on a summer home. Glynn feels like the odd man out in a group mostly populated by women, gay men and Wall Street bros. But as feelings develop for one of his new friends, it turns out he might fit in better than he thought. Glynn has a knack for details, is skilled at place-setting and displays a true love of language, which he deploys effortlessly. It’s a small, personal story about Glynn figuring out who he truly is over one wild summer of weekends away from the city. Michael Crouch lends an earnestness to the narration. As focused as the story is, he makes everything feel big and new.

The Lesson
A strong debut from Cadwell Turnbull, The Lesson does what all the best science fiction does: It uses the supernatural to reveal something true about our world. The book is set in the U.S. Virgin Islands five years after the Ynaa, an advanced alien race, arrived to study humans. The Ynaa live mostly peacefully with humans, at least for the time being. Most people are willing to put up with the occasional killing at the hands of the Ynaa in exchange for their science and medicine, but eventually enough is enough. Narrators Janina Edwards and Ron Butler do a fantastic job setting us in the islands, and their accents draw extra attention to the colonial elements of alien invasion that mirror our own history. It’s worth a listen for anyone with an interest in sci-fi.

Waiting for Tom Hanks In this charmingly sweet romance from Kerry Winfrey, a lovable aspiring screenwriter named Annie Cassidy is obsessed with Nora Ephron movies and finding her own Tom Hanks. To Annie, Tom Hanks—the star of several of Ephron’s most beloved romantic comedies—represents her…

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