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Our Favorite Pirate Fantasies

Our Favorite Pirate Fantasies

By Alison Bunis

Two things we love: pirates and fantasy. So you know what’s even better? When we can get them together in a good old fashioned pirate fantasy adventure.

If you’re a longtime fan of this genre, you’ll find some exciting new reads and a few old favorites to revisit on this list. And if you’ve never cracked open a pirate fantasy book before―what are you waiting for? It’s got pirates and fantasy!

At Death’s Door by Sherrilyn Kenyon

Poster Placeholder of - 7Curl up with the latest in Sherrilyn Kenyon’s Deadman’s Cross saga, an epic pirate fantasy perfect for her millions of Dark-Hunter fans. Welcome to the latest Deadmen’s Quest…

Valynda Moore was born cursed. So when she dies as the result of a spell gone wrong and is trapped in the body of a voodoo doll, she expects nothing else from her messed up life. Until the leader of the Hellchasers offers her a chance at redemption. She will join the crew of Deadmen on the Sea Witch and fight demons.
Easy enough? But nothing is ever easy for Valynda, and she must keep her wits about her or be denied her salvation and forced to watch as the entire world falls into the hands of absolute evil.

Dark Shores by Danielle L. Jensen

Image Place holder  of - 99This book has it all: adventure on the high seas, blackmail, thrills, meddling gods…Teriana was the second mate of the Quincense pirate ship, and heir to the people who keep the secrets of their world’s treacherous seas―until she broke her people’s mandate to help her closest friend escape an unwanted betrothal. Marcus is the commander of the notorious Thirty-Seventh legion, and has helped the Empire conquer the entire East―but he has a secret he’ll risk his life―and the world―to protect. When the two are forced into an alliance, they must decide how far they’re willing to go for a conquest they didn’t choose…

The Shades of Magic series by V.E. Schwab

Image Placeholder of - 71No pirate fantasy list is complete without mentioning Lila Bard from V.E. Schwab’s Shades of Magic series. When we first meet her in A Darker Shade of Magic, Lila is a pickpocket with a secret and a lot of ambition: one day, she’ll have her own ship. But first, she meets Kell, one of the last magicians with the coveted abilities to travel between parallel Londons: Red, Grey, White, and, once upon a time, Black. Grey London native Lila doesn’t know the parallel worlds exist until she robs Kell and then saves him from a deadly enemy. With new worlds at her fingertips, Lila’s not staying home―what kind of pirate would she be if she did?

Child of a Hidden Sea by A.M. Dellamonica

Place holder  of - 56Interested in some political intrigue with your pirates? How about a portal to a hidden world? Child of a Hidden Sea checks both boxes and then some. One minute, Sophie Hansa is in a San Francisco alley. The next, she’s in the warm and salty waters of an unfamiliar world: Stormwrack, a series of island nations with a variety of cultures and economies, all in the middle of a political firestorm…and where everyone seems to know who she is, but nobody wants her to stay. With the help of a ship captain who would rather she’d never arrived, Sophie must navigate Stormwrack’s seas and treacherous politics, and win the right to decide her own destiny.

 Pirate Freedom by Gene Wolfe

Placeholder of  -4Gene Wolfe was a towering master of fantasy and science fiction. He won award upon award, he was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame in 2007, and he was named a Grand Master by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America in 2012. So it would be absolutely ridiculous of us to not include his contribution to the pirate fantasy oeuvre on this list. Pirate Freedom is the story of a young boy, Chris, who leaves a monastery in Cuba and finds himself in a world much harder than the one he remembers: a world where slaves are sold at auction, and the Spanish, French, and English are all battling for supremacy. When he’s offered the chance to work on a ship in exchange for food and a bit of money, Chris takes it, and so begins his life as a pirate. But as with all Gene Wolfe books, things are never quite as simple as they seem.

The Queen of Swords by R. S. Belcher

Maude Stapleton, one of the most popular characters from The Six-Gun Tarot and The Shotgun Arcana, gets an adventure of her own, and it’s just as pirate-filled as we’d hoped. Respectable widow Maude is raising her daughter all by herself. But like any self-respecting respectable widow, she’s got a secret: Maude belongs to an ancient order of assassins, the Daughters of Lilith, and is the heir to the legacy of the infamous pirate queen Anne Bonney. And when her daughter is kidnapped, Maude will do anything to get her missing child back―even get in the middle of a secret war between the Daughters of Lilith and their monstrous, inhuman enemies the Sons of Typhon, or follow in Anne Bonney’s footsteps on a perilous voyage that leads to the Father of All Monsters…

Pacifica by Kristin Simmons

This one leans a little more sci-fi than fantasy, but a pirate is a pirate, so let’s not get too nitpicky. Instead, sink into the romance and perhaps the ocean (it covers the world) of Pacifica. It’s a polluted, dilapidated world, so no wonder when five hundred lucky lottery winners are offered the chance to leave their homes behind and be the first to settle in an island paradise with blue skies, green grass, and clear ocean water, everyone jumps at the chance. It sounds perfect. Except Marin Carey spent her childhood on those seas and knows there’s no island paradise out there. She’s pirate royalty, like her father and his father before him, and she knows a con when she sees one. So where are the First Five Hundred really going?

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Fantasy Firsts Sweepstakes

It’s November, which means we are entering the last month of our Fantasy Firsts program. We wanted to say thank you with a special sweepstakes, featuring ALL the titles we highlighted this past year. That’s 40 fantastic reads from 40 different series to add to your TBR stack! Plus, we’re including an added bonus: two sandblasted book dragon mugs, so you can enjoy your coffee or tea in style while you read.

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Fantasy Firsts Sweepstakes

NO PURCHASE OR PAYMENT OF ANY KIND IS NECESSARY TO ENTER OR WIN THIS SWEEPSTAKES. OPEN ONLY TO LEGAL RESIDENTS OF THE 50 UNITED STATES, D.C. AND CANADA (EXCLUDING QUEBEC) WHO ARE 13 YEARS OF AGE OR OLDER AT THE TIME OF ENTRY. U.S. LAW GOVERNS THIS SWEEPSTAKES. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED.

  1. ELIGIBILITY: The Fantasy Firsts Sweepstakes (the “Sweepstakes“) is open only to persons who as of the date of entry (and, if a winner, as of the date of prize fulfillment) are a legal resident of the 50 United States, District of Columbia or Canada (excluding Quebec) and who are 13 years of age or older. We are sorry for the geographic restrictions, unfortunately it is required for various legal reasons. Persons who as of the date of entry (and, if a winner, as of the date of prize fulfillment) are an employee of Tom Doherty Associates (“Sponsor“) or any of Sponsor’s Affiliates (as defined in Section 5), and members of the immediate family or household (whether or not related) of any such employee, are not eligible. Eligibility determinations will be made by Sponsor in its discretion and will be final and binding. U.S. law governs this Sweepstakes. Void in Quebec and where prohibited by law.
  1. HOW TO ENTER: The entry period for the Sweepstakes begins at 9:00 a.m. Eastern Time (ET) on Wednesday, November 1, 2017 and continues through 11:59 p.m. ET on Sunday, November 19, 2017 (the “Entry Period“). No purchase is necessary. Any entrant who is under 18 years of age or otherwise under the legal age of majority in the jurisdiction in which the entrant resides (a “Minor“) must obtain permission to enter from his or her parent or legal guardian, and the agreement of the parent or legal guardian to these Official Rules, prior to entry. To enter the Sweepstakes, during the Entry Period, entrants must access, complete and submit the Sweepstakes entry form (which will require entrant to submit his or her e-mail address and such other information as Sponsor may require), found in entrant’s Facebook newsfeed or alternatively by visiting Sponsor’s website located at https://www.torforgeblog.com/2017/11/01/fantasy-firsts-sweepstakes-15/ (the “Website”) and following the on screen entry instructions. The Facebook entry form may be pre-filled with information provided by the Facebook platform. There is a limit of one entry per person and per email address. All entries must be completed and received by Sponsor prior to the conclusion of the Entry Period. Entry times will be determined using Sponsor’s computer, which will be the official clock for the Sweepstakes. Normal time rates, if any, charged by the entrant’s Internet or mobile service provider will apply. All entries are subject to verification at any time. Proof of submission does not constitute proof of entry. Sponsor will have the right, in its discretion, to require proof of identity and/or eligibility in a form acceptable to Sponsor (including, without limitation, government-issued photo identification). Failure to provide such proof to the satisfaction of Sponsor in a timely manner may result in disqualification.
  1. WINNER SELECTION AND NOTIFICATION: Following the conclusion of the Entry Period, one (1) potential Grand Prize winner(s) will be selected in a random drawing conducted by Sponsor or its agent from among all eligible entries received during the Entry Period. The odds of winning will depend on the number of eligible entries received. The potential winner will be notified by e-mail (sent to the e-mail address provided by the entrant when entering), or using other contact information provided by the potential winner, in Sponsor’s discretion. If the initial notification requires a response, the potential winner must respond to Sponsor’s initial notification attempt within 72 hours. The potential winner is subject to verification of eligibility and may, in Sponsor’s discretion, be required to complete, sign and return to Sponsor an Affidavit of Eligibility/Release of Liability or an Affirmation of Eligibility/Release of Liability, as determined by Sponsor, and, if legally permissible, a Publicity Release, collectively, a “Declaration and Release” for residents of Canada) and any other documentation provided by Sponsor in connection with verification of the potential winner’s eligibility and confirmation of the releases and grant of rights set forth herein (as applicable, “Winner Verification Documents“), within seven days of attempted delivery of same. The potential winner if a U.S. resident may also in Sponsor’s discretion be required to complete and return to Sponsor an IRS Form W-9 within seven days of attempted delivery of same. If the potential winner is a Minor, Sponsor will have the right to request that the potential winner’s parent or legal guardian sign the Winner Verification Documents on behalf of the winner, or to award the prize directly in the name of the winner’s parent or legal guardian, who in such event will be required to sign the Winner Verification Documents and/or, if a U.S. resident, an IRS Form W-9. If the potential winner is a Canadian resident, he or she will be required to correctly answer a mathematical skill testing question without mechanical or other aid to be administered via telephone, email or another manner determined by Sponsor in its discretion at a pre-arranged mutually convenient time. If the potential winner cannot be reached or does not respond within 72 hours of the initial notification attempt or fails to complete, sign, and return any required Winner Verification Documents or, if a U.S. resident, IRS Form W-9 within seven days of attempted delivery of same, or in the case of a Canadian selected entrant, fails to correctly answer the mathematical skill testing question without mechanical or other aid, or if the potential winner does not otherwise comply with these Official Rules and/or cannot accept the prize as awarded for any reason, “then the potential winner may be disqualified and an alternate winner may, at Sponsor’s discretion, be selected from among the remaining eligible entries as specified in these Official Rules (in which case the foregoing provisions will apply to such newly-selected entrant).
  1. PRIZE: One (1) Grand Prize(s) will be offered. The Grand Prize consists of one (1) hardcover copy of THE GUNS ABOVE by Robyn Bennis, one (1) trade paperback copy of RED RIGHT HAND by Levi Black, one (1) hardcover copy of ROAR by Cora Carmack, one (1) hardcover copy of THE ALCHEMY OF MASQUES AND MIRRORS by Curtis Craddock, one (1) hardcover copy of CHILD OF A HIDDEN SEA by A.M. Dellamonica, one (1) trade paperback copy of TRUTHWITCH by Susan Dennard, one (1) hardcover copy of CROSSROADS OF CANOPY by Thoraiya Dyer, one (1) hardcover copy of DEATH’S MISTRESS by Terry Goodkind, one (1) hardcover copy of STEEPLEJACK by A.J. Hartley, one (1) hardcover copy of DEADMEN WALKING by Sherrilyn Kenyon, one (1) hardcover copy of EVERY HEART A DOORWAY by Seanan McGuire, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE HUM AND THE SHIVER by Alex Bledsoe, one (1) trade paperback copy of RANGE OF GHOSTS by Elizabeth Bear, one (1) trade paperback copy of A NATURAL HISTORY OF DRAGONS by Marie Brennan, one (1) trade paperback copy of SERIOUSLY WICKED by Tina Connolly, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE LIBRARIANS AND THE LOST LAMP by Greg Cox, one (1) trade paperback copy of DANCER’S LAMENT by Ian C. Esslemont, one (1) trade paperback copy of FORGE OF DARKNESS by Steven Erikson, one (1) trade paperback copy of FINN FANCY NECROMANCY by Randy Henderson, one (1) trade paperback copy of ROYAL STREET by Suzanne Johnson, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE EYE OF THE WORLD by Robert Jordon, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE SHARDS OF HEAVEN by Michael Livingston, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE MAGIC OF RECLUCE by L.E. Modesitt, Jr., one (1) trade paperback copy of RIDERS by Veronica Rossi, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE WAY OF KINGS by Brandon Sanderson, one (1) trade paperback copy of A DARKER SHADE OF MAGIC by V.E. Schwab, one (1) trade paperback copy of THE EMPEROR’S BLADES by Brian Staveley, one (1) trade paperback copy of UPDRAFT by Fran Wilde, one (1) ARC of THE MIDNIGHT FRONT by David Mack, one (1) mass market paperback copy of THE SIX-GUN TAROT by R.S. Belcher, one (1) mass market paperback copy of THE DINOSAUR LORDS by Victor Milan, one (1) mass market paperback copy of THE SLEEPING KING by Cindy Dees and Bill Flippin, one (1) mass market paperback copy of TOUCHSTONE by Melanie Rawn, one (1) mass market paperback copy by THE INCREMENTALISTS by Steven Brust and Skyler White, one (1) mass market paperback copy of CROWN OF VENGEANCE by Mercedes Lackey and James Mallory, one (1) mass market paperback copy of IMAGER by L.E. Modesitt, Jr., one (1) mass market paperback copy of LAMENTATION by Ken Scholes, one (1) mass market paperback copy of THE ETERNA FILES by Leanna Renee Heiber, one (1) mass market paperback copy of KUSHIEL’S DART by Jacqueline Carey, and one (1) mass market paperback copy of AMERICAN CRAFTSMEN by Tom Doyle, and one (1) set of two Book dragon mugs. The approximate retail value (“ARV“) of the Grand Prize is $551.56 USD. All prize details that are not expressly specified in these Official Rules will be determined by Sponsor in its discretion. The prize will be awarded if properly claimed. No substitution, cash redemption or transfer of the right to receive the prize is permitted, except in the discretion of Sponsor, which has the right to substitute the prize or any component of the prize with a prize or prize component of equal or greater value selected by Sponsor in its discretion. The prize consists only of the item(s) expressly specified in these Official Rules. All expenses or costs associated with the acceptance or use of the prize or any component of the prize are the responsibility of the winner. The prize is awarded “as is” and without any warranty, except as required by law. In no event will more than the number of prizes stated in these Official Rules be awarded. All federal, state and local taxes on the value of the prize are the responsibility of the winner. For U.S. residents, an IRS form 1099 will be issued if required by law.
  1. RELEASE AND LIMITATION OF LIABILITY: By entering the Sweepstakes, to the fullest extent permitted by applicable law, each entrant on behalf of himself or herself and anyone who succeeds to entrant’s rights and responsibilities including without limitation entrant’s heirs, executors, administrators, personal representatives, successors, assigns, agents, and attorneys, and with respect to minors entrant’s parents and legal guardians (collectively the “Entrant Parties“) releases Sponsor, each of Sponsor’s Affiliates, the licensees and licensors other than Entrant Parties including authors of each of the foregoing, all other companies involved in the development or operation of the Sweepstakes, Facebook, the successors and assigns of each of the foregoing and the directors, officers, employees and agents of each of the foregoing (collectively, the “Released Parties“) from and against any and all claims and causes of action of any kind that entrant and/or the Entrant Parties ever had, now have or might in the future have arising out of or relating to the Sweepstakes, participation in the Sweepstakes, the use of the Website, the provision, acceptance or use of any prize or any component thereof or any use of the entrant’s name as permitted pursuant to these Official Rules, including without limitation any and all claims and causes of action: (a) relating to any personal injury, death or property damage or loss sustained by any entrant or any other person, (b) based upon any allegation of violation of the right of privacy or publicity, misappropriation, defamation, or violation of any other personal or proprietary right, (c) based upon any allegation of infringement of copyright, trademark, trade dress, patent, trade secrets, moral rights or any intellectual property right, or (d) or based upon any allegation of a violation of the laws, rules or regulations relating to personal information and data security. Each entrant on behalf of himself or herself and the Entrant Parties agrees not to assert any such claim or cause of action against any of the Released Parties. Each entrant on behalf of himself or herself and the Entrant Parties assumes the risk of, and all liability for, any injury, loss or damage caused, or claimed to be caused, by participation in this Sweepstakes, the use of the Website, or the provision, acceptance or use of any prize or any component of any prize. The Released Parties are not responsible for, and will not have any liability in connection with, any typographical or other error in the printing of the offer, administration of the Sweepstakes or in the announcement of the prize. The Released Parties are not responsible for, and will not have any liability in connection with, late, lost, delayed, illegible, damaged, corrupted or incomplete entries, incorrect or inaccurate capture of, damage to, or loss of entries or entry information, or any other human, mechanical or technical error of any kind relating to the operation of the Website, communications or attempted communications with any entrant or Entrant Parties, the submission, collection, storage and/or processing of entries or the administration of the Sweepstakes. The term “Affiliate” of Sponsor means any entity that directly or indirectly, through one or more intermediaries, controls, is controlled by, or is under common control with Sponsor. The term “control” means the possession, directly or indirectly, of the power to direct or cause the direction of management and policies of an entity, or the ownership, directly or indirectly, of more than fifty percent (50%) of the equity interests of the entity.
  1. GENERAL RULES: Sponsor has the right, in its sole discretion, to modify these Official Rules (including without limitation by adjusting any of the dates and/or timeframes stipulated in these Official Rules) and to cancel, modify or suspend this Sweepstakes at any time in its discretion, including without limitation if a virus, bug, technical problem, entrant fraud or misconduct, or other cause beyond the control of the Sponsor corrupts the administration, integrity, security or proper operation of the Sweepstakes or if for any other reason Sponsor is not able to conduct the Sweepstakes as planned (including without limitation in the event the Sweepstakes is interfered with by any fire, flood, epidemic, earthquake, explosion, labor dispute or strike, act of God or of public enemy, communications failure, riot or civil disturbance, war (declared or undeclared), terrorist threat or activity, federal, state or local law, order or regulation or court order) or in the event of any change to the terms governing the use of Facebook or the application or interpretation of such terms. In the event of termination of the Sweepstakes, a notice will be posted on the Website or Sponsor’s Facebook page and a random drawing will be conducted to award the prize from among all eligible entries received prior to the time of termination. Sponsor has the right, in its sole discretion, to disqualify or prohibit from participating in the Sweepstakes any individual who, in Sponsor’s discretion, Sponsor determines or believes (i) has tampered with the entry process or has undermined the legitimate operation of the Website or the Sweepstakes by cheating, hacking, deception or other unfair practices, (ii) has engaged in conduct that annoys, abuses, threatens or harasses any other entrant or any representative of Sponsor or (iii) has attempted or intends to attempt any of the foregoing. CAUTION: ANY ATTEMPT TO DELIBERATELY DAMAGE ANY WEBSITE OR SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORM ASSOCIATED WITH THIS SWEEPSTAKES OR UNDERMINE THE LEGITIMATE OPERATION OF THIS SWEEPSTAKES IS A VIOLATION OF CRIMINAL AND CIVIL LAW. SHOULD SUCH AN ATTEMPT BE MADE, SPONSOR HAS THE RIGHT TO SEEK DAMAGES (INCLUDING ATTORNEYS’ FEES) FROM ANY PERSON INVOLVED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT PERMITTED BY LAW. The use of agents or automated devices, programs or methods to submit entries is prohibited and Sponsor has the right, in its sole discretion, to disqualify any entry that it believes may have been submitted using such an agent or automated device, program or method. In the event of a dispute regarding who submitted an entry, the entry will be deemed to have been submitted by the authorized account holder of the email address submitted at the time of entry. “Authorized account holder” means the person who is assigned an email address by an internet provider, online service provider or other organization (e.g., business, educational institute, etc.) that is responsible for assigning email addresses for the domain associated with the submitted email address. An entrant may be required to provide proof (in a form acceptable to Sponsor, including, without limitation, government-issued photo identification) that he or she is the authorized account holder of the email address associated with the entry in question. All federal, state, provincial, territorial and local laws and regulations apply. All entries become the property of Sponsor and will not be verified or returned. By participating in this Sweepstakes, entrants on behalf of themselves, and to the extent permitted by law on behalf of the Entrant Parties agree to be bound by these Official Rules and the decisions of Sponsor, which are final and binding in all respects. These Official Rules may not be reprinted or republished in any way without the prior written consent of Sponsor.
  1. DISPUTES: By entering the Sweepstakes, each entrant on behalf of himself or herself and the Entrant Parties agrees that, to the maximum extent permitted by applicable law, (a) any and all disputes, claims and causes of action arising out of or connected with the Sweepstakes, or the provision, acceptance and/or use of any prize or prize component, will be resolved individually, without resort to any form of class action (Note: Some jurisdictions do not allow restricting access to class actions. This provision will not apply to entrant if entrant lives in such a jurisdiction); (b) any and all claims, judgments and awards shall be limited to actual out-of-pocket costs incurred, including costs associated with entering the Sweepstakes, but in no event attorneys’ fees; and (c) under no circumstances will any entrant or Entrant Party be permitted to obtain any award for, and each entrant and Entrant Party hereby waives all rights to claim, punitive, special, incidental or consequential damages and any and all rights to have damages multiplied or otherwise increased and any other damages, other than for actual out-of-pocket expenses. All issues and questions concerning the construction, validity, interpretation and enforceability of these Official Rules or the rights and obligations of the entrants, Entrant Parties and Sponsor in connection with the Sweepstakes shall be governed by, and construed in accordance with, the laws of the State of New York in the United States of America without giving effect to any choice of law or conflict of law rules or provisions that would cause the application of the laws of any jurisdiction other than the State of New York. Any legal proceedings arising out of this Sweepstakes or relating to these Official Rules shall be instituted only in the federal or state courts located in New York County in the State of New York, waiving any right to trial by jury, and each entrant and Entrant Party consents to jurisdiction therein with respect to any legal proceedings or disputes of whatever nature arising under or relating to these rules or the Sweepstakes. In the event of any conflict between these Official Rules and any Sweepstakes information provided elsewhere (including but not limited in advertising or marketing materials), these Official Rules shall prevail.
  1. USE OF INFORMATION: Please review the Sponsor’s Privacy Notice at https://us.macmillan.com/privacy-notice. By entering the sweepstakes, entrant hereby agrees to Sponsor’s collection and use of their personal information in accordance with such Notice, including the use of entrant’s personal information to send email updates about Tor Books and other information from Sponsor and its related companies.
  1. WINNER NAME AND RULES REQUESTS:For the name(s) of the winner(s), which will be available two weeks after the conclusion of the Entry Period, or a copy of these Official Rules, send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to Fantasy First Sweepstakes, Tom Doherty Associates, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Winner name requests must be received by Sponsor within six months after the conclusion of the Entry Period.
  1. Sponsor: Tom Doherty Associates, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. The Sweepstakes is in no way sponsored, endorsed or administered by, or associated with, Facebook.

© 2017 Macmillan. All rights reserved.





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New Releases: 12/6/16

Here’s what went on sale today!

A Dog’s Purpose by W. Bruce Cameron

A Dog's Purpose by W. Bruce CameronDog’s Purpose—which spent a year on the New York Times Best Seller list—is heading to the big screen! Based on the beloved bestselling novel by W. Bruce Cameron, A Dog’s Purpose, from director Lasse Hallström (The Cider House Rules, Dear John, The 100-Foot Journey), shares the soulful and surprising story of one devoted dog (voiced by Josh Gad) who finds the meaning of his own existence through the lives of the humans he teaches to laugh and love.

Brazen by Loren D. Estleman

Brazen by Loren D. EstelmanA killer is reenacting the deaths of Hollywood’s blond bombshells, and Valentino must stop him before it’s too late in Loren D. Estleman’s Brazen. UCLA film archivist and sometime film detective Valentino doesn’t take friend and former actress Beata Limerick very seriously when she tells him that she quit acting because of the curse on blond actresses. But when Valentino finds Beata’s body staged the way Monroe was found, “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” playing on repeat; he knows Limerick’s death was no accident.

Last Year by Robert Charles Wilson

image-30569Two events made September 1st a memorable day for Jesse Cullum. First, he lost a pair of Oakley sunglasses. Second, he saved the life of President Ulysses S. Grant. It’s the near future, and the technology exists to open doorways into the past but not our past, not exactly. Each “past” is effectively an alternate world, identical to ours but only up to the date on which we access it. And a given “past” can only be reached once.

The Nature of a Pirate by A. M. Dellamonica

The Nature of a Pirate by A.M. DellamonicaThe Nature of a Pirate is the third book in acclaimed author, A.M. Dellmonica’s high seas, Stormwrack series. The Lambda Award nominated series begins with Child of a Hidden Sea. Marine videographer and biologist Sophie Hansa has spent the past few months putting her knowledge of science to use on the strange world of Stormwrack, solving seemingly impossible cases where no solution had been found before.

Pathfinder Tales: Reaper’s Eye by Richard A. Knaak

Pathfinder Tales: Reaper's EyeDaryus Gaunt used to be a crusader, before a questionable battlefield decision forced him to desert his unit. Pathfinder Shiera Tristane is an adventuring scholar obsessed with gaining the recognition she feels was stolen from her. When both are contacted by a sinister talking weasel and warned of a witch about to release a magical threat long trapped beneath an ancient temple, the two have no choice but to venture into the demon-haunted Worldwound in order to stop the disaster.

 

NOW IN PAPERBACK:

Anything Goes and The Richest Hill on Earth by Richard S. Wheeler

Bloodline by Warren Murphy

The Extra by Michael Shea

Doom of the Dragon by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

Speak to the Devil by Dave Duncan

NEW EBOOK BUNDLE:

Chronicle of the Unhewn Throne by Brian Staveley

NEW IN MANGA:

Holy Corpse Rising Vol. 1 Story and art by Hosana Tanaka

The Other Side of Secret Vol. 3 Story and art by Yoshikawa Hideaki

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Going Rogue: A Pirate’s Life

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The Nature of a Pirate by A. M. DellamonicaWritten by A. M. Dellamonica

About a century ago, as the portal flickers, on a sea-glutted world dotted with hundreds of tiny island nations, there were five barren, unpromising little rocks whose people made their living by attacking the ships and coastlines of the weaker nations of Stormwrack.

Piracy! The word conjures up dashing, seafaring renegades. Errol Flynn! Geena Davis! Cutlass-wielding outlaws loose on the high seas, puncturing the egos and draining the treasuries of government buffoons and rich, wig-wearing bastards with twee accents. How jolly! Not quite carrying on like Robin Hood, you understand—there’s no great piratical tradition of giving to the poor—but still, definitely stealing from the rich. Why steal from anyone else?

In fiction and in Hollywood, pirate characters run a villainous gamut. Take the oily, spineless Captain Hook of Neverland, the bumbling yet somehow cuddly Captain Jack Sparrow, or all the varied ruthless and bloody-minded enemies of Captain Flint, in Black Sails.

We romanticize our pirate characters, usually, just as we create mafiosi who are charming (if occasionally murdery) criminals. They are outlaws, sticking it to the system. Or misunderstood. Perhaps, some stories suggest, they’re even a little admirable.

On Stormwrack, the world where the Hidden Sea Tales takes place, pirates weren’t cuddly; they were a deadly nuisance, sowers of misery. It took a massive military effort, gobs of unsexy statecraft, and a lot of magic to (mostly) bring a halt to the raiding and looting that had destroyed so many ships, countries, and lives.

End it the Fleet of Nations did, for just over a century. But in my trilogy’s first novel, Child of a Hidden Sea, a woman from San Francisco stumbles upon a first attempt by old-guard, traditional pirates to break up Stormwrack’s peacekeeping fleet and go back to the predatory ways they too romanticize and see as a sort of cultural imperative. Ah, the good old days! Wasn’t it awesome when all we ever did was loot, pillage, take slaves, go raiding, and count up the booty?

In that first book, the Piracy tried but failed to trigger a treaty-shattering war, one that would have let them get back to the business of pillaging. Now, in the upcoming The Nature of a Pirate, they have targeted the Fleet’s weak point, slavery, an issue that often strains the political alliance almost to the point of breaking.

As a writer, I found it entertaining to think about piracy as a cultural construct. Once they had been defeated, how did these five rogue nations get by? Four are unrepentant, obeying international law out of necessity, using their loot to play the money markets, and sulking over their defeat. The fifth, the penitent nation of Issle Morta, has established a monastery that attempts to make reparations for old crimes.

How do you dress, think, feel, and talk if you’re a pirate who can’t openly practice piracy? As a defeated nation with a bloody reputation, what do you teach your sons and daughters about the past? Creating a narrative where the attackers became the attacked, wronged, maligned, and banned from a legitimate cultural practice, they spent generations claiming the right—the hereditary privilege, you might say—to test the weak at sea. In so doing, they have created a long-standing grudge and nurtured a longing among their young to bring back the days of the sword.

In The Nature of a Pirate, new intrigues are in the works.

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Sneak Peek: The Nature of a Pirate by A. M. Dellamonica

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 The Nature of a Pirate by A. M. DellamonicaMarine videographer and biologist Sophie Hansa has spent the past few months putting her knowledge of science to use on the strange world of Stormwrack, solving seemingly impossible cases where no solution had been found before.

When a series of ships within the Fleet of Nations, the main governing body that rules a loose alliance of island nation states, are sunk by magical sabotage, Sophie is called on to find out why. While surveying the damage of the most recent wreck, she discovers a strange-looking creature—a fright, a wooden oddity born from a banished spell—causing chaos within the ship. The question is who would put this creature aboard and why?

The quest for answers finds Sophie magically bound to an abolitionist from Sylvanner, her father’s homeland. Now Sophie and the crew of the Nightjar must discover what makes this man so unique while outrunning magical assassins and villainous pirates, and stopping the people responsible for the attacks on the Fleet before they strike again.

The Nature of a Pirate, the third book in Alyx Dellmonica’s Stormwrack series, will become available December 6th. Please enjoy this excerpt.

CHAPTER   1

Kitesharp was bleeding.

The wounded ship was fifty feet long, with a crew of fourteen sailor-mechanics, and when dawn rose over the Fleet of Nations, her blood trail was just a thin line of crimson threaded into her wake. It twisted against the blue of the sea, a hint of pinkish foam that might have gone unnoticed for hours if it hadn’t begun attracting seabirds and sharks.

The whole Fleet watched as the birds shrieked and Kitesharp’s captain raised a warning cone up her mainmast. Soon—presumably after her bosun had been below for a look—a sphere was raised, too. From a distance, both cone and sphere would appear as flat shapes, seeming to onlookers to be a triangle and circle. It meant Ship in distress. Help required.

This particular distress call had gone out twice before.

By midmorning the blood trail was a foot wide and the ship had taken on enough water to raise her bow well above the surface.

The greatest of the Fleet rescue vessels, Shepherd, was ready. Her crew brought her alongside the craft as traffic flowed past. Working with military precision, Shepherd’s crew lowered a walking bridge to Kitesharp’s deck and boarded personnel: twenty workers, first, to help the crew load the doomed ship’s tools and fixtures, to strip whatever they could. Yards of hang glider silk were waiting to be off-loaded, along with the flexible boards that made up the skeletons of the gliders’ wings. There were bright streamers that carved the kites’ paths through the sky, above the sails of the Fleet, and pots upon pots of dyes, glues, and needles. Everything that wasn’t bolted down, including the sailors’ personal trunks, was already packed.

Shepherd also brought soldiers, fit young adults bearing stonewood swords and a grim sense of purpose. They would search the boat from main deck to bilge, looking for intruders. They brought a spellscribe, who was tasked with seeking anything that might tell them about the intention—a curse, some whispered—that had been worked upon the vessel.

For this third sinking, they also brought Sophie Hansa.

Raised in San Francisco and trained as a biologist, Sophie had been working as a marine videographer until she fell into—… well, she was essentially applying twenty-first-century science to puzzles the locals couldn’t work out, here on Stormwrack. She had come in search of her birth parents, following them to a society that lived largely at sea, on a world whose existence had been concealed from Earth.

Since then, she’d done everything from hunting for a newfound aunt’s murderers to determining international ownership rights over a species of migrating turtles.

The locals were strangely hampered by a cultural taboo against curiosity. Sophie had realized that her best chance of being allowed to stay was by channeling her natural desire to ask questions in ways that earned her political goodwill.

Lately she had been mining the judiciary’s warm case files, seeking out little mysteries that might be cleared up with a bit of fact finding or a basic application of science.

But now someone was sinking small civilian ships that followed Stormwrack’s Fleet, the great oceangoing capital city that circled the world, keeping the peace and policing piracy. Knowing the sinkings were caused by magicians wasn’t helping the authorities. So, here was Sophie, in her wetsuit, with her tanks and camera and a solar-charged LED lamp, about to take an exploratory plunge through a sinking ship.

“What will you need from us?” asked the head of the Shepherd rescue crew, a twentysomething woman, Southeast Asian in appearance (although that meant little here, on this world of tiny island nations) named Xianlu. She was all business. “Kir Zophie?”

Right. Concentrate. “Ship’s already taking water—do you know where it’s coming from?”

“The aft hold.”

“I’ll start there, before it gets any deeper.”

The officer summoned one of her crew,—a broad-shouldered guy with the build of a high school quarterback, clad in a tight-fitting uniform designed for swimming. He looked familiar; after a moment, Sophie realized she had seen him at a disastrous Fleet graduation ceremony she’d attended after she had first arrived here, in the spring, eight months ago.

“Escort Kir Zophie below.”

He bobbed his head in assent and gestured for Sophie to follow.

“Get the sails down, move and double,” Xianlu ordered, turning her attention to the crews waiting at the ropes.

Kitesharp had a high, snub profile in the water that reminded Sophie of a modern towboat, despite her sails and rigs. Her bow was tilting up as she continued to take water in the stern.

“What’s your name?” Sophie asked the boy as they worked their way past a work crew busily sealing the tins of hang glider dye.

“Tenner Vale, Kir.”

“‘Tenner’ was a ranking for cadets. It meant he had a full ten years left on his term of service. “Graduation was a while ago, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “In four months, after my exams, I’ll be a niner. Xianlu is a septer.”

“Do you stay a tenner if you fail the tests?”

He did a double take, probably thinking, How can you not know that? Then, having apparently decided she wasn’t joking, he said, “A decade is a decade. Niners who’ve failed their exams are given posts with less responsibility.”

“Drop and stow, one, two!” The crew lowered the mainsail. The canvas and rigging loosened and fell to the deck with a sound like a hundred drumbeats. The ship had already been given up for lost. Kitesharp, but for the ropes that bound her to Shepherd, was now at the mercy of the waves.

“Like a wounded animal,” Sophie murmured.

Vale looked frustrated, almost ashamed. “We would fight to save her, if we understood how she’s being sunk.”

They had to be desperate to turn to me, Sophie thought. Stormwrackers were ambivalent about science. Much of it they labeled atomism and dismissed as unreliable, even dangerous. People preferred to believe in a patchwork of disciplines with as much merit as astrology or dousing.

Wrackers could navigate ships by the stars. They built and used barometers. But they also thought that observing the flame from a yellow candle would tell them the emotional state of a prevailing wind, and that aspirin worked by “encouraging the spirit to bend like a willow around its hurts.”

Sophie was getting away with working for the courts by rebranding her skills. What she was bringing to the table wasn’t atomism at all—that was the story. It was a shiny new discipline dubbed “forensic.”

Same old wheel, shiny new rim.

Vale opened a hatch, revealing a ladder. Giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, Sophie stepped into the hold. The tilt of the ship was more obvious here; she crab-stepped her way down the inclined deck and opened another hatch, peering into a flooded chamber.

“Thanks.” She put on her flippers and descended alone. The hold was half full of waist-high salt water. She took a careful stance on the deck, set her light, and began filming, taking a shot of the whole room first, just in case. She captured everything visible above the waterline.

“It is water,” she noted.

That look again: of course it’s water. “Your pardon, Kir?”

“The ship’s gushing blood, but filling with salt water. There’s no blood here, so where’s it coming from?”

He gave the half shrug, a bob of shoulders that was the unofficial Wracker ward against curiosity.

Having filmed it, she took time to look with the naked eye. “You know if anyone has schematics for the ship? Plans?”

“I believe so, Kir.”

“To work out how fast the water’s coming in, we’ll need an accurate measurement of cabin volume.”

“A sailing master can do the calculations, if it’s important.”

She didn’t bother to say that, with the right measurements, she could do it herself. “While I’m down there, I want you to record how long it takes the water level to rise from here…” She put her hand on one of the ladder rungs.—“To this one. Do you understand?”

He made a gesture, indicating rising water. “Sink rate per ten count?”

“Exactly. Do you have something that counts seconds for you?”

Vale nodded. “And a measuring rope, Kir.”

“Good. As accurate as you can, please.” She set her watch to record the diving time.

“Understood, Kir.”

Something in his tone made her think of Captain Parrish; she felt a pang of something that was equal parts longing, loneliness, and frustration.

Forget Garland. It’s time to focus on the not-so-smart dive of the day. Still with a hand on the ladder, she checked her camera’s waterproof housing, put on her mask and rebreather, took a few breaths, and then bent her knees to bring her face below the level of the rising water. Shining the light around the narrow space, she looked for floating debris or loose rope—anything that might knock or entangle her. But the crew had worked upward from the compromised stern when they began emptying out their ship; the space was empty. Sophie half swam, half crawled to the low point, camera and light at the ready.

She hoped to find a gaping hole in the hull, of course, something to account for whatever was hemorrhaging into the seas behind the ship. But at first glance, there was nothing. No hole, no bubbles, certainly no blood.

Nothing to patch. If she could be patched, she could be saved.

The answering thought came in her brother’s voice: If it had been easy, they wouldn’t have asked you to help, Ducks.

Taking out a bulb filled with blue-black squid ink, she squeezed out a drop, then another, working her way along the floor. The first two drops swirled lazily. The third moved and dispersed, propelled by a current coming up from the boards.

She put out a hand, discovered the pressure of inrushing water, and worked her way toward it, seeking its source by touch.

Here, on the hull. She pushed in close. On the wood there was a waxy mark, dark red on the oak boards, barely visible.

It was the outline of a hand.

She held her position, working the light and camera together to get a decent shot of the outline. It was biggish, with a stubby, truncated pinkie.

The red looks waxy, like crayon, she thought.

Releasing her camera—it was tethered—she dug into her tool kit again, selecting a steel scalpel she’d imported from home. Working carefully, she tried to scratch some of the waxy stuff into a test tube. It didn’t want to come.

She tried again, pushing harder. If she could pry up a splinter of the wood …

Softness, like flesh.

The blade broke a chip of the wax-marked wood loose, but the force of Sophie’s hand drove it inside the outline of the hand. Instead of glancing off of more wood, it dug into something with the give of meat.

All at once, the outline came to life, fingers flexing blindly to grab at the scalpel. As it did, the hull gaped and cracked. A surge of cold water pushed inward. The back of the hand, the part that had been outside the ship, was covered in shreds of bloody tissue.

Like Cousin It from the Addams family. No, It’s the one with all the hair. Like Thing, just a hand—eww, hand—but grab that splinter …

Sophie caught the chunk of wood with its wax smear, tucking it into her sample tube. Kicking, she put some space between herself and the hand. She reeled her camera back, aimed the light, and started recording video.

The incoming water had more force now.—She could feel it gushing past, the sensation reminiscent of water jets in a hot tub. As the hand curled in, leaving a deep, five-fingered hole in the hull, Sophie’s diving light picked up barnacles, streamers of seaweed, and gory, spongy-looking masses on the back of the hand, the side that had been in the water.

Sophie snagged a hunk of red tissue, too, clipping it into another specimen flask without taking her eyes off the hand.

The outline on the boards was growing now, the drawn edges of the wrist extending as if someone was there, drawing in both lines with crayon. The hand grew a wrist, then a forearm. It bent at the elbow, and the boards of the hull reshaped themselves into an arm. It lashed about as it groped at the inside of the ship.

Sophie swam farther back. The thing, as it detached itself, was ripping ever-greater holes into the bottom of Kitesharp.

What happens when it grows a head?

It’d be dumb to wait around and find out, wouldn’t it? She kicked back to the ladder. The tenner, Vale, was timing seconds and measuring water rise.

“Anything, Kir?”

She spat out her rebreather. “Found a monster! Up, up!”

A shudder ran through the ship, accompanied by a sound of splintering wood so loud it drowned out Vale’s reply. He offered Sophie his hand.

The incline of the deck grew more steep by the minute as they charged to the nearest ladder out of the hold.

“You first, Kir.” The kid drew a shortsword.

Sophie fought an impulse to argue. What was she going to do, fight a monster in her diving rig?

Another splinter. The deck below them cracked, splitting up the middle. The ship listed sharply to starboard.

“Teeth!” Vale cursed. “Ship’s splitting down the middle!”

They scrambled out onto the deck.

The blood slick around Kitesharp had become a dense red puddle, a crimson smear broken by tissue and bits of debris. Shark fins stirred in the murk. A boarding plank, extended from Shepherd, was stretched across the gap between the two ships. A half-dozen of Xianlu’s crew stood ready, waiting for Sophie and her escort.

The ship began to buck, as if something big had taken hold and was shaking it.

“There!” Sophie pointed, as the wooden hands rose to the main deck, one after another, the leading edge of a wooden body covered in gore and sea-slime, pushing up through the hatch as if it were forcing itself through a birth canal.

“Wood fright!” someone shouted.

“This far asea? How did it seed?”

The deck heaved. The hatch broke in zigzag fissures. As the hands came down onto the deck they seemed to stick—roots grew from the wooden palms into the planks, and the fright had to rip them out, causing more damage.

It did not breathe. A person would have been panting with effort, but this, whatever it was, had the eerie stillness of a store mannequin.

Sophie trained her camera on it as it raised its head.

Are its eyes covered in moss?

The thing began to stride across the crumbling deck of Kitesharp, ripping holes in the boards as its feet fell and rooted, rose and tore loose. It made straight for Shepherd.

Sophie could feel the bridge underfoot moving as they pulled away. Vale and Xianlu were guiding her so she could keep filming and still move backwards in her flippers. Unless the thing could jump a hell of a long way—Why couldn’t it?—there was no chance it’d catch them.

“Someone called this a wood sprite?” Xianlu asked.

“Wood fright, Septer,” someone else corrected. “Used on Mossma, before the ban, to guard forests. And for murders, sometimes.”

“Frightmaking’s illegal,” Vale said.

“I said before the ban.”

“Was anything like this aboard the other ships?” Sophie asked.

“If so, it sank with them,” Xianlu said.

“I think I woke this guy before he was fully baked,” Sophie said.

It was a guy; the body was unmistakably male, and on the slender side. He had a limp.

A limp and … a foreshortened pinky? She zoomed in on its hands.

The thing began to run toward them.

“Gunner battery one! Fire!”

Stormwrack didn’t have cannons.—They used magically transformed specialists instead. Three sailors stepped up and hurled flaming spheres at the wood fright.

It pulled up short, throwing both arms up to defend its head—giving Sophie a good shot of all ten fingers—and then disappeared in a burst of fire, leaving an appalling stench of scorched meat and campfire behind.

As the smoke from the cannons dispersed, the remains of the sailing mechanics’ shop, Kitesharp, fell to pieces and vanished beneath the waves.

Copyright © 2016 by A. M. Dellamonica

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Enough With Zombies! Bring on the Pirate Apocalypse!

Child of a Hidden Sea by A. M. Dellamonica

Welcome back to Fantasy Firsts. Our program continues with a guest post from Child of a Hidden Sea author A. M. Dellamonica, who advocates for pirates over zombies.

Enough With Zombies! Bring on the Pirate Apocalypse!

Written by A. M. Dellamonica

The first time I saw the Global Warming Coffee Mug, it was at the American Museum of Natural History. The mug is a commonly-found gift store item in science-y tourist attractions: aquariums, Biodiversity Centers, science museums. The idea is that you pour hot fluids into the mug, and its heat-reactive plastic artwork changes color, transforming alarming chunks of the planet’s land mass into ocean.

It’s dramatic. South America gets to looking especially moth eaten. Were you fond of Buenos Aires? Too bad! Want to visit the Amazon basin? Don’t wait until you retire.

My primary feeling, though, the first time I saw the mug, was relief. I could still recognize everything. Sure, habitats of millions of animals, plants and people vanished. But I could take comfort in the shape of the continents, in what remained.

Yes, I am appallingly Bad at Maps. Also, like many writers, I tend to imagine disasters in the starkest terms possible. Don’t get me wrong—that coffee-heated map is dire. But I could still find Saskatchewan on the mug. So… win?

In Child of a Hidden Sea, a marine videographer named Sophie winds up on a world, possibly Earth, where the continents aren’t recognizable. Almost all the land is gone; only the moon is familiar. Is Stormwrack a parallel world? A future one? If the latter, is the catastrophic whatever that rearranged the world’s geography going to happen to us? And how soon?

Though Stormwrack is an imaginary worst-case scenario for a real world problem, it isn’t scientifically realistic. According to Echopraxia author Peter Watts, the only way to transform the map of present day earth to the tiny Galapagos-like archipelagos of Stormwrack would be to flood the planet with the water ice from multiple comet strikes.

Or, alternately, a magical cataclysm. Luckily I’m better able to imagine those than I am at looking at Google Earth and envisioning a six meter ocean rise.

The good news, for Sophie and for Stormwrack anyway, is that whatever it was that made this world what it is, it took place millennia ago. Human beings survived. We’re flourishing on those little islands in the Nine Seas—there are 250 separate island nations, in fact, each with its own culture, form of government, and ecosystem. Each practices a form of magic, called inscription, which depends on the wildlife within their microclimate. Tiny variations between plant and animal species can yield great differences in the kind of magic practiced: the feathers of a blue penguin from Ylle, for example, might create a spell that’ll save a person from eighty-below weather. An almost identical penguin that nests on Murdocco, meanwhile, might be good for inscribing weather seers, people who predict those same cold snaps.

Stormwrack is a pretty fun place. When Sophie arrives, it’s enjoying an unprecedented period of peace, the Cessation of Hostilities, that dates back to an international effort to stamp out piracy in the Nine Seas. The unified front against bandits was so successful that the five pirate nations were forced to go legit, and join the United Nations-type organization created with their destruction in mind. But you can’t keep a pirate down forever, and the Isle of Gold is looking for revenge. Soon Sophie has cutthroats at her door, and problems far more pressing than some little matter of ocean rise here on Earth.

Which, you know, don’t we all?

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Don’t forget to follow A. M. Dellamonica on Twitter (@AlyxDellamonica ) or visit her website.

(This is a rerun of a post that originally ran on June 16, 2014.)

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Child of a Hidden Sea: Chapters 1-3

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Child of a Hidden Sea by A. M. Dellamonica

Welcome back to Fantasy Firsts. Our program continues today with an extended excerpt from the portal fantasy novel, Child of a Hidden Sea. This high seas adventure is the first book in A. M. Dellmonica’s Stormwrack series. The third book in this series, The Nature of a Pirate, will become available December 6th.

One minute, twenty-four-year-old Sophie Hansa is in a San Francisco alley trying to save the life of the aunt she has never known. The next, she finds herself flung into the warm and salty waters of an unfamiliar world. Glowing moths fall to the waves around her, and the sleek bodies of unseen fish glide against her submerged ankles.

The world is Stormwrack, a series of island nations with a variety of cultures and economies—and a language different from any Sophie has heard. Sophie doesn’t know it yet, but she has just stepped into the middle of a political firestorm, and a conspiracy that could destroy a world she has just discovered…her world, where everyone seems to know who she is, and where she is forbidden to stay.

But Sophie is stubborn, and smart, and refuses to be cast adrift by people who don’t know her and yet wish her gone. With the help of a sister she has never known, and a ship captain who would rather she had never arrived, she must navigate the shoals of the highly charged politics of Stormwrack, and win the right to decide for herself whether she stays in this wondrous world…or is doomed to exile, in Child of a Hidden Sea by A. M. Dellamonica.

CHAPTER 1

Sinking.

Sophie Hansa had barely worked out that she was falling before she struck the surface of an unknown body of water.

First, there’d been a blast of wind. A tornado? Rushing air, pounding at her eardrums, had plucked her right off the ground. Howling, it had driven her upward, pinwheeling and helpless, over the rooftops of the houses and shops, carrying her up above the fog, in a cloud of grit and litter, trash can lids, uprooted weeds, discarded heroin needles, and a couple very surprised rats.

She remembered pain as something tangled and wrenched her arm. Then the upward thrust of wind blew itself out, taking with it the sunlight above. One second she was flying and sunblind. The next, she was plummeting, dead weight in the dark.

Terror jolted through her. She drew breath to scream, only to feel the spank of the sea, a wet fist of concrete between her shoulder blades, stinging even as it slowed her fall. She plunged beneath the waves, headfirst.

This, at least, was her element. Despite the fear and disbelief—the ocean? I made it to the water?—she instinctively held her breath as she went under.

Reaching out with the grace of long practice, arms extended, her body twisted to break her downward momentum.

A jerk—the arm—brought the motion short. Weight pulled her downward. The nylon strap of her camera case, looped around her wrist, had snagged something heavy.

She tried to slide it off, but there was no slack. Instead, she yanked up her skirt with her free hand, clearing her legs and scissor-kicking for the surface. One, two. For a frightening moment, she made no headway. Then she, the camera case, and whatever it had hooked all started moving upward. Sophie broke water, blowing to clear her nose and mouth, inhaling deeply.

Taste of salt, definitely not some lake …

“Help,” she shouted. “Hello?”

No reply. She kept treading, reeling in the tether on her wrist, creating slack so she could slip it off her arm.

The night sky was clouded over but something—a million somethings—twinkled above her, forming an oscillating, multipoint strip of light.

… shouldn’t be night; it’s three in the afternoon. Could I have hit my head? How far did the wind carry me? I was inland. Water feels too warm to be the Pacific …

What happened? Where am I?

One thing at a time. She tugged again on the nylon tether and saw a hand just below the surface.

“Nyuhh!” She got a good grip, wrestling the weight of the unconscious stranger. A woman’s upper body rose from the water, head lolling. Water dribbled from her lips.

Don’t be dead. Muscling her onto her back, Sophie supported her neck, letting her head drop behind her and fumbling to open her mouth and check her airway.

She was breathing. Relieved, she tried stabilizing the woman in a supported float—only to get swamped by a wave. Warm brine sheeted over her mouth and nose.

Spitting, she kicked harder. One foot caught solid meat … a fish? The sensation was like kicking a slimy two-by-four. She surfaced again, spitting.

“We’re good.” She coughed out the words. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

No answer. In the dim, cloud-filtered moonlight, the woman’s skin was the color of pewter, her lined face as still as an engraving. Then Sophie noticed the dagger, buried haft-deep under her breast.

Daggers. The alley. A couple of men had attacked the woman.

And I piled in, Sophie remembered, swinging the only thing I had, the camera case. The strap snagged her, I guess, in the wind. Or she grabbed it. I saw something go flying … a pocket watch?

The initial rush of fighting, falling, gonna-die terror was wearing off now. In its wake, she felt fatigue building in her muscles. Pain, too—the shoulder and wrist were throbbing. Sprained? She’d been lucky, she supposed; nothing was broken. She could have snapped her neck, hitting the water like that.

Just tread, Sophie, she told herself. Catch your breath, look around.

Fumbling to adjust her grip on the woman, she scanned the surface of the water. The breeze was light and the swells weren’t big—maybe half a meter high. Eddies near the surface and movement below, near her legs, hinted at more fish.

One of the aerial fairy-lights dropped out of formation, spiraling down to splat beside her like a fat purple-gray snowball. It was a bioluminescent moth, quivering feebly, in its death throes.

What the—I don’t recognize that species, Sophie thought. She wasn’t merely seizing on an ill-timed distraction—if she could identify the insect, she might at least know where she was, which ocean.

The moth’s wings had fanned out in the water: it was about five inches long from end to end. The posterior tip of its abdomen was aglow, but the light was fading as it died. Around her, more were falling, a sparse glittering snowfall.

Another fish bumped her treading legs, catching the edge of Sophie’s skirt as it lunged around her knee, spaghetti-slick and weighty, its open mouth crammed with jagged teeth. It gulped down the moth and vanished, leaving a wing drifting on the surface.

“Some kind of prey bonanza,” she said. “The moths are … migrating? This is incredible! I can’t believe I don’t recognize the species.”

A wave washed the wing against her wrist. It clung stickily. The injured woman’s chin dipped into the water.

Am I tiring?

“Wake up, please, wake up.” Kicking against the next surge, she tightened her grip.

Another moth drifted into view, wings beating furiously as it tried to stay aloft. As Sophie watched, it glided a foot, fluttered up a couple inches, then dropped down into another ready mouth.

It was easy to imagine the same thing happening to her. Tiring under the weight of the unconscious woman, wearing out, sinking below. The two of them breaking into anonymous nutrients, feeding the ecosystem.

“Not gonna happen,” she told herself. “Come on, focus on something else … like why isn’t it afternoon?” Talking to herself provided a check on her breathing. If she could speak, at least in short bursts, she wasn’t too exhausted.

Higher up, past the moths, a layer of cloud obscured the stars. It was bright nonetheless. The edges of the clouds were silver; edged in bone-white, lacy wisps backlit by moonlight. The full moon was ten days away. Could she have lost ten days?

Another swell lifted them, and she got her arm properly snugged around the woman, below the slender neck, braced above the knife. The lolling head rested against her shoulder. Now she felt secure enough to use her free hand to adjust her skirt, tucking it higher into her waistband, further clearing her legs.

“You got lucky there,” she told the woman. “I dressed up to impress you. No way could I have kept us both afloat if I’d been wearing jeans. You’d have drowned before I got them stripped.”

She was easing into what Bram called “diving mode” now, scanning the waves for threats, or anything she might use to improve their situation. She groped for the bobbing waterproof camera case, still bound to her wrist.

“Every bit of buoyancy, right?” Raising her face to the sky, Sophie aligned herself with the moths. Kick, kick, breathe. “Hope you’re headed for land, guys.”

The moths didn’t answer. They glimmered above, a streamer of pinpoints aswirl on windy gusts. Their bodies kept falling, more and more of them, blanketing the water, so many that Sophie could observe there were lots of big ones and a lesser number of smaller individuals. Females and males?

They were noisy, too. Between the splash and murmur of the waves she could hear … was that cheeping?

“Oop.” Embarrassment flared, though nobody was around to witness her mistake. “That’s not the moths, it’s—”

The woman coughed, spitting blood onto Sophie’s hand.

“Please wake up,” Sophie said. “Where are we?”

Something big broke the water, maybe twenty feet away. Anything might be coming from the depths, surfacing to feast on the fish that were here for the moths. Orca, sharks …

“Stay with me, okay?” she said. “Don’t die.”

A long sigh that might have been a groan.

“You kind of owe me. You’d so be dead if I hadn’t jumped into that fight with the guys who stabbed you. Besides, I think maybe you’re Beatrice Vanko’s sister. And the thing is, Beatrice is my biological mother…”

And apparently she hates me. “If I’m right, that would make you my aunt. I’m family. Maybe I didn’t exactly save your life, but you can’t die on family, right?”

Silly argument, but she pushed on.

“I know I shouldn’t have just turned up at Beatrice’s house. I should have called. I meant to drive by her place, get the lay of the land, you know? But she came down the street and I got excited. Seeing what I might look like when I’m middle-aged—”

So she’d done what felt right, as usual, without thinking it through.

“I’m sorry. You’re in shock, and I’m babbling. Suboptimal behavior, my brother would say.”

Kick, kick, breathe. “I guess after twenty-four years, I figured she’d want to know her daughter was alive. But that’s stupid, isn’t it? She got rid of me. I should have known she’d blow me off.”

Should’ve known she wouldn’t see anything worth getting to know. “Anyway, I saw you—” She skipped the part where she’d slept in her car for three days while watching Beatrice’s house. She wasn’t about to admit—even to an unconscious maybe-aunt—to practically stalking her biological mother. “I thought I’d try again. But those guys attacked you, in the alley—what was that about?”

You snapped, said a calm interior voice. The terrible things your biomom said drove you over the edge. All of what happened afterward—watching the house, weird guys attacking this unnamed maybe-aunt—it’s a nervous breakdown. Or do they call them psychotic breaks?

Kick, kick, breathe.

Maybe when your advisor called and tried to push you into setting a date to defend your thesis, you couldn’t deal. Finding Beatrice, the mugging and now this … maybe it’s all a delusion.

“If I’m insane, I’ll wake up in a clean, safe hospital sooner or later,” she said. “My family will come, I’ll take some antipsychotics and doctors will promise us it’s gonna be okay. Right?”

A furious, inhuman cheeping. A bedraggled moth had landed in the hollow of the woman’s belly. A small shadow splashed after it: one of the bats Sophie had heard earlier. It came up, triumphant, in the puddle of brine and blood, with the insect caught in its jaws.

The bat hitched itself past the knife, across her aunt’s breast, over Sophie’s wrist. It continued up her sore arm, climbing from the unconscious woman’s face into Sophie’s hair, pulling itself to the highest point it could find.

The bat settled on her head, munching on its catch and preening seawater out of its wings.

Sophie groaned. If this was a delusion, her subconscious mind was going all out to make it seem real. Pieces of carapace and drops of wet bug juice pattered on her forehead.

Just don’t crap on me, Dracula, she thought.

And then: I don’t know this species, either.

“See, that’s proof! Seagoing bats, glowing moths—come on! I don’t care how real it feels, it has to be a delusion.”

Munch, munch, munch.

“This is profoundly mediagenic. Somebody would have shot this. I’d have seen those moths migrating a thousand times. On IMAX, no less.”

From the bat, a spitting sound. The glowing tip of the moth’s posterior bounced down her face.

“I’ve never lost anyone—not on a climb, not on a dive,” Sophie said. “I’ve been in trouble before. You’ll make it.”

The body in her arms stiffened, then coughed.

“Those moths are going somewhere, and I’m rationing my energy. The sun’s gonna come up and I’m going to make it to shore. Some shore. With you, maybe-Aunt. That’s a promise.”

The woman’s eyelids fluttered. A second later, her weight shifted, lightening the load. Sophie felt a burst of acceleration; she was kicking.

“I don’t know for sure,” she said, “but I think that might make you bleed faster. Just float, okay?”

The woman sputtered some more; the kicking stopped. Her hand crawled to the knife, probing. She hissed, obviously pained.

“Dinna seyz Fleetspak?” she mumbled.

“What?”

“You speak Anglay…?”

“English.”

“Thought I’d imagined—Anglish only?” Her voice was thready.

“I can do Spanish, I guess, or a little Russian—”

“Who are you?”

“I’m—ow!” The bat on Sophie’s head had taken wing, yanking hair as it launched itself at the flying buffet above. “Hey, is that land?” The trail of lights in the sky was accumulating into a bright mass on the horizon.

“Stele Island. Moths … lay … eggs on the cliffs.”

“I don’t know Stele Island—is this the Caribbean? The Mediterranean? The Gulf?”

“Stele Islanders,” the woman repeated. “Boats’ll be out. The moths bring up deepfish … swim another mile or so, they’ll catch us.”

“Only a mile?” Sophie felt a surge of relief. “No problem.”

“Who are you?” the woman repeated.

Okay, Sofe, for once in your life don’t blurt out everything at once. Keep it simple.

It was what her brother, Bram, would have told her. Sophie blinked back tears as her detachment shredded. “I’m Beatrice’s daughter.”

Don’t go all motormouth on her, she’s injured …

“Daughter, Beatrice?” The woman’s face pinched; her mental processes probably muddled by pain or blood loss. “No. That daughter? How old are you?”

“Twenty-four. I didn’t mean any trouble, I just wanted to meet her. My parents are traveling and I wanted to track down my birth family while they were gone. Without hurting them, see? But Beatrice went mental when she saw me.”

“’Trice can be…” the woman mumbled. “High strung.”

“I kinda noticed. I told her, ‘Fine, I’ll go. Just tell me about my dad and I’ll bug him instead.’ That was when she lost it.”

“Your. Dad.”

“Do you know him? Did he die tragically or—” Sophie quailed from a picture-perfect memory of the horror on her birth mother’s face.

Beatrice recoiling, like I was poison …

She couldn’t quite ask—had her biological father been a rapist? Instead, she changed the subject. “Then those guys jumped you.”

The woman eyed her dully.

Told you, Sophie. You always feel this need to overshare.

Deep breath. Try again. “Sorry, miss—you are my aunt, right? I mean, you look like Beatrice.”

“Gale, child … name’s Gale.”

“I just wanted to know where I came from. Gale.”

A cough that was very much a laugh. “And here we are.”

“What do you…” But Gale had passed out, once again becoming dead weight.

Just swim, Sophie. It’s a delusion, remember? Kick, rest, kick, all in your mind, Kick, kick, rest. An aunt who’s a street-fighting ninja? Wizard of Oz windstorms that dump you in the ocean? Has to be a delusion.

Please, let me wake up in the hospital. Is that a bedsheet?

No such luck. She’d caught a thread of seaweed with her arm.

She pulled free.

Another tangled her feet.

The weeds were moving.

Up and down the glimmering path of winged bodies on the water’s surface, green-sheathed bubbles were rising, bean-shaped floats dotting a growing thicket of stems. Seaweed: it formed a carpet, highway-wide and blistered with the buoyant, air-filled pods. Bristly stems clung to Sophie, winding around her legs, around Aunt … Gale?

The weeds raised both women, the camera case and all the fish who’d come up to feast on the moth migration. Water streamed out of Sophie’s hair and her dress and she shivered, suddenly chilled. Gale’s weight came off her arm. The pain in her shoulder ramped up a notch.

The fish, lifted out of water, thrashed as they suffocated. A pelican landed on the cushion of weed and plucked one of them up.

Brown pelican, Sophie thought, pelecanus occidentalus, perfectly ordinary. Maybe this is the Gulf of Mexico. But how?

Entangled, afloat, apparently safe, Sophie stared at the tons of gasping fish as insects dropped in a twinkling rain around her and bats chittered above.

A jerk—something was towing them.

She kept her good arm locked around Gale, in case any of this was real. The way things were going so far, whoever was reeling them in would probably decide to throw them back.

CHAPTER 2

The first thing their rescuers said to Sophie was the same thing as Aunt Gale: “Sezza Fleetspak?”

They were out in small wooden sailboats, rickety eighteen- and twenty-footers with patched sails, whose crews were frantically hauling in the rising seaweed and its catch. A bucket brigade of adults sorted the thrashing fish; anything shorter than arm’s length went over the port side. The larger ones they clubbed to death and transferred below.

Preadolescent kids clad in undyed, lumpy sweaters worked at stripping the moths’ wings, trimming off their glow-bulbs and dropping the bodies into vats that stank of hot vinegar. Guttering motes of chitin flickered at their feet, which were mostly bare. A third group sliced the seaweed into arm’s-length strips as they hauled it up, popping off the floats and storing them in crates. Nothing was wasted.

No garbage, Sophie noticed. The dense mattress of vegetation should be full of plastic grocery bags, water bottles, and other refuse; the oceans were full of floating and submerged trash.

“Fleetspak? Sezza Fleetspak?”

The grizzled woman directing these words at Sophie was already examining Gale’s wound, tearing her jacket and shirt aside to reveal the knife, embedded just under a rib.

“English,” Sophie replied. “Español? Français? Russki? Anyone?”

Blank looks all around.

“Guess we can’t communicate.” She crouched by Gale, taking her hand. The knife had a leather-wrapped handle, she noticed, and a familiar brand name.

The woman—the ship’s skipper?—barked orders. One of the crew vanished below, reappearing a minute later with a threadbare blanket and a steaming cup. Sophie let him drape her—the wind was icy—and took a careful sip of what turned out to be hot fish broth, flavored with dill.

By now, the skipper had improvised a pressure bandage for Gale’s wound. She picked through her pockets and found a small purse, made of reptilian-looking leather and worked with unfamiliar letters.

At the discovery, the woman stiffened: whatever the thing was, it was bad news. She looked at Sophie before removing it—as if seeking permission? Sophie nodded, holding out a hand. The woman passed it over.

“Looks like it might be watertight,” Sophie said. The pouch had a clamshell shape and pursed lips with interlocked zipper teeth. Sophie ran her finger over the closure, looking for a tab, and the zip separated, releasing with a sound that was almost a sigh.

She could feel the crew’s eyes on her as she reached inside.

The first thing she pulled out was a badge.

It had the look of a police badge: shield-shaped, with a stylized sun stamped on it. It was made of an unfamiliar substance; it had the weight and hardness of metal, but looked like a polished piece of wood—fir, maybe, or birch. Ordinary Roman letters were pressed or carved into it. A couple of the words looked familiar—arrepublica, athoritz. Republic? Authority?

The sailors’ attitude, already disapproving, seemed to darken.

At this rate, they’ll chuck us overboard. She turned her attention to the next item, a silk scarf so fine she could see through it, like a veil. It was an oceanic chart—currents and islands were printed on the almost weightless fabric. There were no familiar landmarks, no X to mark any particular spot.

There was a USB flash drive.

“Any chance there’s a computer aboard?” she asked, but the skipper looked at the disc key without recognition. Sophie swapped it for the biggest thing in the purse, a cell phone, charged up and flashing “No Service.” She held it up and, again, got blank expressions.

The bottom of the pouch held some golden coins and a platinum Amex card bearing the name Gale A. Feliachild. There was a laminated picture of a younger Gale, standing with Sophie’s birth mother and a teenaged girl. A cousin? Half sibling?

Beatrice’s words came back: Get out, go now—you can’t be here—get away from me, you viper. No, I won’t calm down, I’m not answering questions. Go, go and don’t come back!

“Is my being here something Beatrice did—she sent me away?” Nobody answered her.

Right, and how would she do that?

How much time have I lost?

Where on earth am I?

She fought down the panic by focusing on the pouch again. The last thing in it was a dried chrysanthemum, carefully wrapped in waxed paper. More than half of its petals had been plucked.

She opened the paper, catching a faint whirl of peppery scent and dust. Just a flower, then.

“No answers here.” She replaced everything but the cell phone, taking one last look at the photograph as she closed the flap of the watertight leather satchel …

… which promptly chomped itself back together.

Sophie let out a little squeak as the ivory zipper teeth sealed, the leathery lips of the purse tightening over them. She nudged her finger between them again, feeling for wires, and the movement reversed. It sighed, again, as it flapped open.

She closed the purse, and it zipped itself shut.

“Oh, wow. You guys seeing this?”

Sullen glares from the sailors. They were probably deciding whether to tie the anchor to her ankles or her head when they dropped her in the drink.

At least they’d fed her first. She tightened her grip on the blanket, and drank more of the broth. Her shoulder and wrist were working up a deep ache that matched the rhythm of her heartbeat.

The skipper reached a decision. She clapped her hands and the ship disentangled itself from the fishing effort. A teen used tattered white flags to signal to the next ship. Turning to port, they set sail for the island, whose cliffs were outlined in starry white by the survivors of the moth migration.

They made good speed—the wind, at their backs, was rising.

Sophie tucked the clamshell pouch into her camera bag, and held Gale’s limp hand. Her pulse was faint but steady. She fought back a sense of wrongness as she did so, a weird feeling of falseness, as if she was pretending to be attached to this woman and all these people knew better. Head down, she rested, breathing slowly, monitoring her surroundings and not quite dozing. The ship sailed around the moth-starred edge of the escarpment and into a shallow bay.

Sophie’s relief at being in port—despite all evidence to the contrary, she had been imagining a hospital for Gale, phone service and Internet access—was short-lived. The people coming out to meet them looked as emphatically poverty-stricken as the sailors. Their village—a collection of shacks made of scavenged ship beams and driftwood, mortared with seaweed-colored muck—ringed the rise of land sheltered by the bay. There wasn’t a single electric light or cell tower; what illumination there was came from crude torches. Gaps and breaks in their teeth suggested they had little access to modern medicine.

The skipper had Gale transferred to a lifeboat, and gestured to indicate that Sophie should follow. The others were unloading, packing seaweed, fish, and barrels of brined moths into other boats. They were careful but hurried, moving with an air of urgency.

Sophie didn’t need to speak the language to know they were spooked by the storm—it was blowing up out there—and concerned about the other fishers. The kids were ordered ashore. A couple protested, and were overruled.

Hostility brimmed in the glances everyone was giving her.

The skipper grasped Sophie’s hand briefly before she clambered aboard the rowboat. “Feyza Stele kinstay,” she said. Gibberish, but her tone was reassuring.

“Thank you,” Sophie replied. She put her hand on her heart and the message seemed to get through. Straightening, the captain replied with a formal-looking bow. Then she was on the choppy waters of the bay, in a rowboat with her injured aunt and four burly sailors.

“Do you want me to…?” Tapping the nearest sailor, Sophie mimed a willingness to row. He pointedly set his foot on the spare oar.

Face it, Sofe, nobody wants anything from you.

“Be that way. My arm’s hurt anyway.” Behind them, the preteen kids were rowing themselves ashore. People were waiting, on the beach, to meet them.

They pulled up onto the sand, the sailors leaping out to tow the rowboat up beyond the reach of the waves. The biggest of the men lifted Gale like a baby.

“Watch her injury—” But one of the others had clamped onto Sophie’s elbow, manhandling her in the opposite direction.

“Ow! I want to stay with her! Where are you taking me?”

No answer. He hurried her along, up to a boardwalk, then a crude staircase cut into the rock. His grip on her elbow was like a granite cuff; struggling just ground her bones against each other.

What now?

Not drowning had been such a relief she hadn’t even thought about who her rescuers might be, what they might want. She fumbled for Gale’s pouch—if I flash that badge, or offer him the coins …

She stumbled as her escort jolted to a stop in front of the biggest of the shacks.

“Bastien,” he boomed.

Sounds from within. A willowy man with limp flaxen hair and gapped, soft-looking teeth opened the door, spilling candlelight out into the rising breeze.

The man looked from the sailor to Sophie, then past them to the sky, the signs of the rising storm. He uttered a single phrase, in a soft voice, and the sailor let Sophie go.

She didn’t wait for an invitation, plunging past them both on shaky legs, collapsing onto a bench on the far wall. The men conversed in the doorway; then the sailor left, and she was alone with the blond.

Him I can fend off. Even by the starved standards of these islanders, he was twig-thin, unhealthy-looking, pale where they were weathered.

He looked at Sophie, assessing her. After a moment he opened a trunk, pulling out a slate and a piece of chalk.

“Bastien,” he said, pointing at himself.

She felt a trickle of relief. “Sophie.”

“Bastien,” he said again, and now he wrote it: “Bastien Tannen Ro.”

He offered her the chalk.

Sophie wrote her first name.

“Sophie…?” He tapped the two names after his first.

“My whole name?”

He tapped again. “Zhillscra.”

Feeling stupid, fighting tears, she wrote: Sophie Opal Hansa. Age twenty-four, lost at sea, she added mentally.

“Tanke, Sophie,” he said. “Din sezza—”

“No, I don’t know your damned Flitspak,” she snapped. “I’ve got three languages, bits of anyway. You can’t speak any of ’em? I mean, you look like you’re the educated guy, right? Teacher? Scientist? You should be speaking English and applying for foreign aid and … I’m ranting now, aren’t I?”

Why not rant? She wasn’t in danger of drowning anymore. She was lost, miserable, and, apparently, a prisoner. Gale might be dying.

Outside, the wind howled, louder now.

“Seriously. You need Yankee dollars,” she told him. “Those leaky, scavenged-wood tubs … nobody should be out chasing fish in this weather.”

He gave her bad shoulder a sympathetic pat, then threw a brick of what looked like pressed kelp on his smoky, makeshift hearth. He made a thin tea, putting it before her in a shallow black bowl.

She took a sip. Whatever it was, it was bitter enough to make her sputter and spit it back. Bastien promptly took it away, setting the bowl on a marble table next to his trunk.

“Look, I—”

He held up a hand—wait. Then, opening a tiny larder, he came up with a carved wooden cup of water and an earthenware jar of pickled moths.

Sophie shook her head. “Not hungry.”

He pointed at a rough bed in the corner. “Fezza dorm?”

She retreated there, curling up near the stove. Bastien fussed with her confiscated tea, dropping in dust from a vial of saffron-colored powder, then grinding golden, beeswax-scented granules into the mix.

Could be worse. He doesn’t seem to want to “fezza dorm” together. She checked the cell phone she’d found in Gale’s purse. Still no service. She punched in Bram’s number, an oddly comforting ritual, and composed a text message:

Losing my mind. Send doctors with straitjackets and Haldol. LOTS of Haldol. Sofe.

The phone generated an immediate reply:

Message will be sent when you return to service area.

She’d last seen her brother five days ago, after the two of them put their parents on a plane to Italy.

Sophie had decided their vacation was a chance to take another good look through Mom’s stuff, to see if she could find any clues that might lead back to her birth family. She had assumed Bram would want her to drop him off so he could go dive into the latest pile of research.

Instead, he’d just finished a paper and was restless.

Bram in a mood to play was too much of a temptation to pass up. They’d gone for burgers, and then he’d wanted her opinion on a mountain bike he was thinking of buying, and by the time they’d chewed over the pros and cons of that he’d run into a couple friends who were doing a stand-up comedy show as a benefit for a neighborhood family who’d lost their house in a fire.

The two of them had agreed to be the comedy test audience for the show’s final rehearsal. That turned into Sophie getting pressed into providing musical backup—she’d taken guitar for a while, in school. They were at the comedy club all night, with her strumming and Bram alternately waiting on tables and “playing” the tambourine.

Wind slammed the flimsy wall of the shack with the strength of an angry bear, jolting Sophie back to the here and now. The storm was building.

She traced a finger over her case. There was no point in taking the camera out: the light was bad. She could click through her shots from the past three days, two hundred stalker pics of Beatrice, her husband, and Gale. But that would waste battery power. Tomorrow—if she didn’t get put to sea in a raft or forcibly married to the King of the Starvelings—she might get a shot of one of those moths in its pre-pickled state.

Power down. Years of hiking, sailing, caving, and climbing had taught her to catch up on her rest when there was nothing else useful she could do. She closed her eyes, made a halfhearted attempt to meditate, and drifted into dreamless sleep.

Clinking woke her. She opened her eyes to see Bastien had finished measuring and mixing the contents of his tea bowl. He flipped an hourglass-shaped timer and stared at the chalkboard with Sophie’s name on it. Humming, he sketched letters from the unfamiliar alphabet below the letters of her name. Translating it? His lips moved as he worked. “Zooophie. Nuh. SSSSohhhfeee.”

When he was satisfied, he dug in the trunk, this time coming up with a conch shell about the size of a softball and a tool—was it made of ivory?—that reminded her of a dentist’s pick. He lit two lanterns, brightening the room around the table. Then, taking a deep, meditative breath, he began to carve.

Great. Now it’s hobby hour?

“Bastien—”

“Shhh!”

She took out Gale’s purse again, touching the zipper and watching it open itself. She dumped its contents, examining the seams, looking for wires or magnets, feeling the weight of it, listening to the purr of its teeth locking together. She’d have to cut the thing up to figure out how it worked.

She examined the gold coins. They were a set, of sorts—each had a ship on one side and an unfamiliar flag on the other. Words, too, in the Latin alphabet: Sylvanna, Tiladene, Redcap, Ualtar, Wrayland …

Land, she thought. Names of states? Towns?

Places she hadn’t heard of. Coins she’d never seen before. They had the weight and softness of real gold, but who minted with gold these days? How remote would these places have to be—Viemere, Tiladene—for her to have never heard of any of them?

There was so much here she didn’t recognize—wildlife, cash, these place names, if that’s what they were. She knew what Sanskrit looked like, and Arabic; she could recognize Cyrillic text and Chinese characters even if she couldn’t read them. But Bastien’s alphabet—the one stamped onto the satchel, the alphabet he was using, even now, to score beautifully calligraphed words onto the conch shell—she’d never seen those characters.

She saw he’d inscribed the translated version of her name onto the shell.

That can’t be good. Maybe it was a bridal gift. She eyed the flimsy wooden fork he’d stuck into the jar of moths. That nice sharp pick might make a better weapon if she had to defend her virtue.

It was a silly thought. Frail as he was, one good swing of the camera case would snap him in half.

These people are poor, but the stuff in his trunk, the hobby tools, they’re finely worked—expensive. She looked at the purse. The weird alphabet goes hand-in-hand with premium stuff.

Which was maybe a decent observation, if it proved out, but what did it get her?

The outer surface of the conch shell was brown, a complex mix of sand and driftwood hues. Bastien had scored through to a deeper layer, revealing creamy calcium beneath.

Sophie closed the satchel, watching it zip itself yet again. What could do that? Nanotech? Robots? That was the stuff of science fiction. She opened it, stuck her fork half in and half out of it, and tried to close again. Its lips curled, closing on the stem, delicately pushing it out onto the table. Then it clamped shut.

Bastien scraped at the shell, scritch, scritch. It seemed to be getting louder.

Everything was getting louder. The creak and the groan of the wood walls of the shack as it shuddered in the wind were multiplied. She realized she could hear the shack next door rattling, too—and the one beyond that. Sand grains gristled, rubbing each other as they passed through the neck of Bastien’s egg timer. His breath gurgled.

Outside, stones clattered, thrown up the beach by the surf outside. She heard the whispers of mothers, comforting their children, the whimper of a storm-scared dog, air popping in lantern wicks. Out in the insufficiently sheltered bay, a ship’s sail was tearing.

And now a light, squeaky rub—Bastien was polishing the shell with fluid from the black bowl. The liquid he’d mixed was a waxy yellow substance, and the carved letters glowed copper as he filled them. The surface of the shell buffed up to a deep walnut glow.

So much sound.

Sophie touched Gale’s pouch again and the reptile-leather lips over the zip pulled back, like muscles flexing, no wires, and the thought she’d been holding back broke through: It’s magic, has to be magic, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Sofe.

She pushed the pouch away, clutching her camera case and Gale’s cell phone, hugging them to her chest, as if they could help.

Bastien finished rubbing in the last drop of lambent beeswaxy ink. The text on the conch shell glowed. The cacophony cranked up another notch. Sophie heard shouts and the bustle of sailors, far out at sea, the fishing fleet trying to get their ships in, fighting to save the crew of one rattletrap boat that had already gone under. “Grab this, grab this!”

It hurt. She closed her eyes, breath hitching in a sob.

Then the cries—all the noise but for the storm outside and the crackle of the fire in Bastien’s clay stove—faded.

“Kir Sophie? Do you understand me now?”

Her eyes flew open. “You bastard! You do speak English!”

Magic. She clapped her hand over her mouth. What had come out of it, in an enraged yelp, was this: “Zin dayza Anglay!”

“No, no, it’s you,” Bastien said unnecessarily. “I’ve taught you Fleetspeak.”

CHAPTER 3

She understood him. It wasn’t English, or Spanish: Bastien was speaking the same language he’d been using all night, and now Sophie understood every word.

She leapt to her feet, quivering, torn between outrage—this snaggle-toothed stranger has rewired my brain!—and excitement—that is so cool—when he spoke again. “Zophie, Sophie, yes? I apologize for inscribing you, but we must talk.”

“Yes, of course. Right. You’re right. Wait—inscribing?”

Before Bastien could say more, there was a quick tap at the door. A bent, rain-drenched woman let herself in.

“This is Dega,” he said. “Our herbalist.”

“Hi,” Sophie said. At first glance, Dega seemed ancient, but as she shed her cloak, Sophie decided she might be no older than forty. Maybe she’d been prematurely aged by hardship. Sanded down.

“You guys have magic powerful enough to teach me a language,” she said, “But it must have serious limits, or you wouldn’t be living on pickled moths.”

“Stele Island is no wealthy nation,” the woman agreed.

“We keep our place in the Fleet,” Bastien added with an asthmatic wheeze. He sank down by the stove, shivering, and Dega handed him the hunting knife that had been in Gale’s chest. He examined it with an expression of deep concern.

“You’re the doctor, Dega?” Sophie said. “Can you tell me how my aunt is doing?”

“The Verdanii is your kinswoman?”

What’s a Verdanii? “She’s my mother’s sister.” Sophie waved the magic satchel. “The name on her Amex is Gale Feliachild.”

Dega scowled. “That is a government courier pouch.”

“It’s Gale’s. Can’t you tell me if she’s okay?” Maybe I just think I understand them. Maybe I’m standing here jabbering.

Dega said: “You hold the Feliachild pouch?”

“You can see I am,” Sophie said.

“It opens for her,” Bastien put in.

“Will she live?” Sophie demanded.

The woman’s expression softened. “It’s not certain yet, I’m sorry. As her kinswoman, you may have to say whether Bastien should scribe her. If she worsens.”

Kinswoman. That sense of being dishonest, an impostor, washed through her again. “Bastien can heal her?” Why were they even asking? “Would that be a problem?”

“If she can recover normally, it is better.”

“Why?” A dozen questions occurred to her, among them, OMG, seriously, magic? But she made an effort to stay on point. “Does magic have … side effects?”

Dega nodded, as if this was obvious.

“One can only bear so much intention,” Bastien said.

“There’s a limit on how much you can take?”

“Yes.”

Magic with a … would you call that a load limit? Wow. “This is why you apologized for … scribing me, was that what you called it?”

He set the knife aside gingerly. “This is an emergency.”

She thought that over. “It was a first for me.”

“You’ve never been scribed?”

“I’m not from around here,” she said, adding the worrisome question of magical limits and side effects and how soon could she get an MRI to a growing list of things to follow up. “But you think Gale has been? Scribed? And if you heal her—”

“We can’t know unless she wakes and tells us. And there are other urgent matters,” Dega said.

“Matters?”

“I must assist the others.” Bastien had brewed himself a hot drink. He broke a white egg with dark brown speckles into it and gulped the whole thing down. Taking his tools and a small, leather-bound book, he wrapped himself in Dega’s sailcloth poncho and disappeared outside.

As he closed the door, Sophie settled at his ramshackle table. “What’s the issue, Dega?”

“Who stabbed Kir Feliachild?”

“You don’t think I stuck that—” she indicated the hunting knife “—in her chest?”

The woman shook her head. “If you wanted her dead, you’d have let her drown. What happened?”

“Two guys attacked her about a block from my mom’s place—”

“On Verdanii?”

“Uh. San Francisco.”

Blank expression.

“Not the point, okay? There were two of them, both Caucasian. I noticed their clothes first: they were cut like medical scrubs, almost institutional, but the fabric was heavy and their pants were pressed. Good quality, you know?”

“I don’t know scrubs, or Caucasian. They were wealthy, these men? That blade … it is outlander material, I think.”

“It’s just steel.”

Dega shuddered a little, as if Sophie had said “radioactive.” “Did the ruffians say anything?”

“Not in English.” Sophie shook her head. “I caught a few words. “Tempranza … Yacoura? And Gale laughed. That’s when everything got all brawly.”

“Yacoura is lost.” The woman looked outside. The storm had abated as suddenly as it began. “You should rest. I’ll come for you if she wakens.”

Sophie eyed Bastien’s filthy-looking cot and then checked her watch. It was barely evening in San Francisco. “Isn’t there anything I can do to help out?”

“Our fishers were caught in the storm. We’re sending boats out to assist them.”

“I can sail. I can row. I’m a great swimmer.”

“No, Kir. Your aunt may want you.”

Fat chance of that, Sophie thought. “I can gut fish, cook, tie nets, gather specimens, pound nails … um, hang-glide. Come on, you’re in a jam. You must need able bodies.”

At length, Dega nodded. “Come with me.”

She led Sophie down to the mudflats by the beach. The teens they’d put ashore earlier were prepping a flimsy-looking fishing boat for launch, loading up tools, rope, and buckets of steaming violet-colored goo—to patch leaks, Sophie guessed. As she and Dega appeared, their already sober conversations stopped. Silent anger raked at her.

“Ralo!” Dega summoned a stringy teenaged boy with a leg splint and crutches. “This is Kir Sophie Feliachild of the Verdanii.”

“Actually, I’m not sure—”

“She’s to help you today. San can go out with the boat.”

“Zophie,” the boy said. Sophie noted, with a thread of amazement, that he sounded to her ears as though he had an accent. Did she speak better Fleetspeak than he did?

“Go with Ralo, Sophie. He’s in charge, nuh?”

“I understand.”

“I’ll fetch you when your aunt wakes.” With that, Dega toiled away.

This is me, pitching in. Sophie gave the boy a bright smile. “So—Ralo. What are we doing? Coordinating the rescue boats? Signaling for assistance? Breaking out the emergency supplies?”

“Over here,” Ralo said. He led her down the beach, over the wrecked remains of driftwood houses and the storm-thrown flotsam on the sand. Gulls—mining for edible bounty—swirled and scolded as they passed.

They reached an open hut that was as ragged as all the rest. The seaweed weave of its roof had been shredded by the wind. In the shade of the one relatively intact corner, a young woman rocked a bundled infant. A quartet of heartbreakingly thin little kids, maybe three or four years old, ran up and down the beach under her supervision. The children were scavenging, competing with the seagulls for whatever protein had washed up on shore.

“San,” Ralo called. He gabbled incomprehensible words.

Was the Fleetspeak spell wearing off? Did that happen? No, she decided; this must be a local dialect. The language Bastien had taught her must be a trading language … something sailors and merchants might use?

She hoped that was a good conclusion, and not merely wishful thinking.

The woman handed Sophie the baby, then stalked back to the wharf. The child immediately began to scream.

“We’re babysitting?” she said. Its mother didn’t turn back.

“You, me, we watch littles,” Ralo agreed. He started gathering the broken pieces of the shelter roof.

This is what I get for saying I’d do anything, she thought glumly. “I don’t think this kid likes me.”

“Walk with him,” he said. “Bounce.”

She did as he suggested, snuggling the tiny body against the shoulder that didn’t hurt. “You don’t scare me,” she whispered. “I’ve done dives in sharky water.”

Baby notched up the wails. Sophie put more boing in her step, pacing the beach, making what observations she could, if only to stop her inner monologue from running where am I, where am I where the hell am I? in an endless, anxiety-cranking loop.

The kids first: They were tanned, and their hair ran the gamut from nearly blond to strawberry roan. No blue eyes; she’d characterize their skin as olive.

She’d seen children elsewhere in the developing world, in places as poor as this one seemed to be. They’d been clad in T-shirts provided by aid workers, their little bodies serving as billboards for donor NGOs or Coca-Cola or, lately, trendy cartoon characters. But these kids wore hempy-looking tunics, clothes hand-woven from unbleached, undyed fabric, same as the sandpapery blanket the baby was wrapped in.

The baby who was, finally, quieting.

If someone out in the wider world was giving aid to these islanders, there was no obvious sign of it, Sophie thought.

She bounced her way to a tidal pool. It held two familiar-looking hermit crabs and a proliferating anemone. She could identify one broken piece of coral—large polyp stony coral, she thought.

There was a second anemone species she didn’t recognize, but that might not mean anything. She’d dived a lot of reefs, but that didn’t make her a search engine.

Across the water in the direction the boats were taking, the sun was just clearing the horizon. Sophie turned her back on it, studying what she could see of the darker sky to the west. The sun was just high enough to have blotted out the stars.

But it had been light last night; Sophie remembered wondering about the moon as she hauled Gale through the waves.

As if they’d caught her thought, the thinning clouds separated, revealing a pale, familiar disk.

Tears pricked her eyes. “There’s the Sea of Tranquillity.”

However far off the beaten path she’d come, whatever magic had been used to move her here, she was still the same distance from the moon. The thought was comforting.

“I wish Bram was here,” she whispered.

The baby had drifted off. She returned it to its pallet. Ralo was plaiting dried seaweed into rope.

“I could help with the roof,” she said.

He shook his head: Why would he believe she was capable when nobody else did?

“Just watch them.” He indicated the little ones, who were running up and down the beach turning over branches and scooping up the occasional mollusk.

Sophie opened her camera case. It was shockproof and waterproof: A fine scratch marked the path of one of the daggers across its surface, but smashing one of Gale’s attackers across the face with it hadn’t done any real harm.

She’d never been in anything resembling a fight before.

That wasn’t a fight, it was attempted homicide.

It was the fight that had caught her attention. She’d seen Gale go into Beatrice’s house and hadn’t noticed the two older women’s resemblance; hadn’t thought much of her at all. Even when she’d spotted the two men loitering across the road, watching the house and muttering, it was Beatrice and her husband she’d worried about.

She was debating whether to call the police, was imagining explaining to a 911 operator: Hi, I’ve been parked outside my birth mother’s house for a couple days. Now someone else seems to be stalking her, too … and I hate competition.

When Gale had come out, heading down the street, the two guys had perked up and begun following her. It had been an Aha! moment: Hey, that woman looks like Beatrice! And hey, those guys are after her!

Knife-wielding, grim-faced men … She shuddered.

“Don’t obsess,” she muttered. “Stick with the here and now.”

The DSLR camera inside the case was undamaged, as was the housing that let her shoot underwater. Easing it into the housing, Sophie tipped the lens into the tidal pool, taking a few shots of the unfamiliar anemone. The snapped-off bit of coral went into the case itself, next to Gale’s magical courier pouch. She shot an image of the moon and then the mud village.

Look at the beach, Sofe! Not one candy wrapper, no plastic bottles or grocery bags, not even a scrap of a condom.

How remote would this island have to be for there to be no litter, no SAT-phones? Her battery warning came on and Sophie powered off the camera immediately. The spare was in her car, recharging. She’d shot over two hundred frames of her birth mother, and suddenly she regretted them all.

She’d have to restrict herself to species she didn’t recognize; if she was careful, she might coax thirty more shots out of the battery. She took one frame of a bat sea star, because it had a fine spiderweb pattern in black on its back, something she hadn’t seen before in Asterina miniata.

“If I wanted one of those moths, would I be able to get one?”

“You’re hungry?”

“Hungry? Oh, the pickles. No, I want a live one.”

“They’re sour when they’re fresh.”

She wasted a few seconds of battery power to show him the photos she’d taken so far. The little kids crowded around, asking questions.

“They ask if your lightbox is magical.” Ralo indicated the camera.

“It’s a machine.”

“Mummery?” Ralo said.

At the word, two of the eldest kids stepped back, putting some space between the camera and themselves, and tugging on the younger children. The expression of distrust on their faces was much like Dega’s had been, when she was eyeing up the steel hunting knife.

“It’s a completely safe and pretty cool machine, as it happens,” Sophie said. Was it silly to be insulted?

“Then you’re not a spellscribe?”

“What? Like Bastien? No.”

“Or Sylvanner?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

A little kid tugged on her skirt, offering her an ordinary clamshell and pointing at her camera.

“Only if I don’t recognize it,” Sophie said firmly. “That’s a ribbed limpet.”

“Children don’t Fleetspeak.” Ralo said a few words and the children sprinted back to the beach, chirruping and scanning the sand.

Suddenly I’ve got an itsy bitsy research team, Sophie thought. “Ralo, can you explain about … Sylvanner?”

“They like to write new spells,” he said, swinging a repaired mat of thatch onto the shelter roof. “Earn coin.”

“They’re a … people? A corporation?”

“Sylvanna is one of the great nations.”

“Oh! Dega asked if I was Verdanii. Is that another nation?”

He nodded, clearly amazed at her ignorance.

Nations she’d never heard of. She pondered that. If Stele Island and Sylvanna and the others were part of an archipelago of small islands, tucked into … which ocean was most likely? She wouldn’t have believed they could escape notice, but for the magic.

They must use it to conceal themselves. That’s why I don’t know where I am.

It was a strangely reassuring thought, one that made her feel as though she might not be that far from home after all.

A cry of triumph from the kids. One skinny four-year-old dashed up, holding one of the float pods for the ubiquitous seaweed. Inside the pod was a crimson eel, barely wider than a strand of spaghetti, and it was brooding over a clutch of red granules. Eggs?

“Good!” Sophie set it up so the sun was shining through it, exploiting the natural light, and took a macro shot. She let the kids look at the resulting image for three seconds before shutting the camera down again.

“So Sylvanna does … they research new magical spells?” Sophie asked Ralo.

“Yes.”

“This is bad because—”

“They are crooks,” Ralo said. He pointed at the sea pod, struggling with either the concept or the translation. “This eel are ours. If they uses them in a new scrip, the scribing, they should pay.”

If this was a delusion, it was getting complex. International politics and conflicts about resource use? And magic that seemed to operate under something like patent law. “Could any of this be tied to the attack on my aunt?”

Ralo gave a peculiar little shrug, indicating, she figured, indifference.

The morning passed. The kids found her a shell with an interior that was crimson-colored mother-of-pearl. She set it on a board next to the body of a seagoing bat, collecting specimens she could photograph in a group. They led her to a stand of delicate orange flowers that looked like miniaturized helliconia. Using signs, she asked them about the moths. They pointed at the cliff tops. Too far away.

At midday, Ralo broke out bowls of seaweed and fish broth, carefully dividing the mushy lump of one cooked dumpling among the children. He and Sophie got the soup without dumplings. If anything, the broth made her hungrier.

The woman, San, returned to nurse her baby. She looked half dead with exhaustion. She spoke to Ralo in the islanders’ dialect, pointedly excluding Sophie.

Sophie gave them some space, sitting in the sun with one of the kids. If she could get home, she’d pick up some proper equipment—her diving rig, the video camera. She could give her little collection of shells to one of her bioscience buddies—maybe the USC team, or the guys at the Scripps Institute.

She wondered if the rest of these magic users were as backward as the people on Stele Island.

That wasn’t likely, was it? The scarf in Gale’s pouch was a fine silky fabric, and there were the gold coins. Wherever this subculture was hidden, it had its rich and poor, same as anywhere else. Sylvanna, Ralo had said. A great nation. Scientists. Crooks.

She turned the shell over in her hands. The possibilities for exploration were mind-boggling even before you got to the existence of magic.

Magic. Every scientist on the planet was going to freak out. Bram was going to lose his mind.

Ralo broke into her thoughts: “Dega’s calling you.”

Sophie scrambled to her feet and ran to Dega, saving the older woman the effort of crossing the distance between them.

“Your aunt is awake, Kir Sophie.”

“Just Sophie’s okay,” she said.

“If you wish.” They crossed the wharf, where a crowd of villagers had gathered around four bodies, fishers who’d been recovered from the sea. They glared as Sophie passed.

“Am I bad luck or something?”

“The storm was unexpected.”

“It’s weather.”

“Kir Feliachild was nearly murdered,” Dega said. “You’re Fleet Couriers; the storm pursuing you was unnatural—”

“The storm might have been magical? Seriously?”

“The moths migrate on windless nights, always windless.” Dega ushered her into a shack that seemed to serve as their infirmary. “Kir Feliachild, your niece is here.”

Gale looked about ready to expire—she was pale, her chest was bandaged, and her breathing was raspy. She opened her eyes, took in Sophie, and closed them with a pained expression.

Nobody was glad to see her. Exploring the beach with the adorable moppets had cheered Sophie, but now rejection by her birth family struck again with the force of a slap.

She perched by Gale’s bedside. It was little more than a pallet covered in shreds of grubby blanket. “They said they can … spellscribe you if you aren’t healing.”

“No scrips!” Gale looked past her to Dega. “There must be ships coming to assist you.”

“Our light is signaling for help. Someone might arrive tomorrow, if winds are fair.”

“You want to be rid of us; we want to go,” Gale said. “The girl’s to catch the first respectable ride to the Fleet.”

“Yes, Kir. And you?”

“Give my ship, Nightjar, until tomorrow evening. If she hasn’t arrived, send me to Erinth, whether I’m conscious, half dead, or a corpse.”

“Understood, Kir Feliachild.”

“Well, I don’t understand,” Sophie said. “How can you send me off on my own?”

“I’ll leave you.” Dega bowed and let herself out.

Gale struggled for breath. “I must get you back to your home world—”

“World?” Sophie interrupted.

She’d broken her aunt’s train of thought: She got a blank stare.

“It’s not another world,” she said. “The moon’s the same.”

“You must go home,” her aunt repeated.

“Eventually, yeah. But you’re hurt—” Her mind was spinning. World? Another world?

The older woman shook her head. “You can’t stay.”

“Someone tried to kill you,” Sophie said. “These islanders think they’ll try again. You can’t sail off by yourself.”

“You’re my bodyguard now? What do you do back on Erstwhile—are you a cop?”

“Well, no. I’m…” She felt a rush of embarrassment. She’d spent the past four years bouncing between teaching diving classes, guiding mountain-climbing gigs, and going on short-term video shoots aboard scientific research vessels.

Adventuring, her brother called it. Frittering, her father said.

“I guess mostly I’m a marine videographer.”

“I feel so much safer,” Gale wheezed.

“You need help,” Sophie insisted.

“If they come after me, what can you do, besides get hurt?”

“I don’t know. Make some burly sailor guard your cabin door? Scream my head off?”

A weak smile. “They’d have killed you, girl.”

Don’t thank me or anything. Sophie bit her tongue. “Okay. Yes, those guys scared the crap out of me. I don’t want to be in another brawl. If something’s gotta try to kill me, I prefer it to be an avalanche or … I dunno, hantavirus.”

“Something impersonal.”

“You’re helpless. I’m responsible for you.”

“Responsible…” Gale closed her eyes, long enough that Sophie wondered if she might have passed out. Then she spoke, voice cold. “You saw the bodies, the drowned fishers?”

Sophie nodded.

“We brought that on them, you and I. They lost villagers, and half of a critical harvest. Even with aid, they’re going to have a terrible year.”

“The storm might have been magical? Seriously?”

“The moths migrate on windless nights, always windless.” Dega ushered her into a shack that seemed to serve as their infirmary. “Kir Feliachild, your niece is here.”

Gale looked about ready to expire—she was pale, her chest was bandaged, and her breathing was raspy. She opened her eyes, took in Sophie, and closed them with a pained expression.

Nobody was glad to see her. Exploring the beach with the adorable moppets had cheered Sophie, but now rejection by her birth family struck again with the force of a slap.

She perched by Gale’s bedside. It was little more than a pallet covered in shreds of grubby blanket. “They said they can … spellscribe you if you aren’t healing.”

“No scrips!” Gale looked past her to Dega. “There must be ships coming to assist you.”

“Our light is signaling for help. Someone might arrive tomorrow, if winds are fair.”

“You want to be rid of us; we want to go,” Gale said. “The girl’s to catch the first respectable ride to the Fleet.”

“Yes, Kir. And you?”

“Give my ship, Nightjar, until tomorrow evening. If she hasn’t arrived, send me to Erinth, whether I’m conscious, half dead, or a corpse.”

“Understood, Kir Feliachild.”

“Well, I don’t understand,” Sophie said. “How can you send me off on my own?”

“I’ll leave you.” Dega bowed and let herself out.

Gale struggled for breath. “I must get you back to your home world—”

“World?” Sophie interrupted.

She’d broken her aunt’s train of thought: She got a blank stare.

“It’s not another world,” she said. “The moon’s the same.”

“You must go home,” her aunt repeated.

“Eventually, yeah. But you’re hurt—” Her mind was spinning. World? Another world?

The older woman shook her head. “You can’t stay.”

“Someone tried to kill you,” Sophie said. “These islanders think they’ll try again. You can’t sail off by yourself.”

“You’re my bodyguard now? What do you do back on Erstwhile—are you a cop?”

“Well, no. I’m…” She felt a rush of embarrassment. She’d spent the past four years bouncing between teaching diving classes, guiding mountain-climbing gigs, and going on short-term video shoots aboard scientific research vessels.

Adventuring, her brother called it. Frittering, her father said.

“I guess mostly I’m a marine videographer.”

“I feel so much safer,” Gale wheezed.

“You need help,” Sophie insisted.

“If they come after me, what can you do, besides get hurt?”

“I don’t know. Make some burly sailor guard your cabin door? Scream my head off?”

A weak smile. “They’d have killed you, girl.”

Don’t thank me or anything. Sophie bit her tongue. “Okay. Yes, those guys scared the crap out of me. I don’t want to be in another brawl. If something’s gotta try to kill me, I prefer it to be an avalanche or … I dunno, hantavirus.”

“Something impersonal.”

“You’re helpless. I’m responsible for you.”

“Responsible…” Gale closed her eyes, long enough that Sophie wondered if she might have passed out. Then she spoke, voice cold. “You saw the bodies, the drowned fishers?”

Sophie nodded.

“We brought that on them, you and I. They lost villagers, and half of a critical harvest. Even with aid, they’re going to have a terrible year.”

Copyright © 2014 by A. M. Dellamonica

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Learn more about the world of Stormwrack in “The Ugly Woman of Castello di Putti” and “Among the Silvering Herd,” both available to read for free on Tor.com.

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Fantasy Firsts Sweepstakes

Welcome back to Fantasy Firsts. Today we are offering the chance to win these fantastic titles on Goodreads! For details on how to enter, please click on the cover image of the book you are interested in.

Child of a Hidden Sea by A.M. Dellamonica

Child of a Hidden Sea by A.M. DellamonicaOne minute, twenty-four-year-old Sophie Hansa is in a San Francisco alley trying to save the life of the aunt she has never known. The next, she finds herself flung into the warm and salty waters of an unfamiliar world. Glowing moths fall to the waves around her, and the sleek bodies of unseen fish glide against her submerged ankles.

The world is Stormwrack, a series of island nations with a variety of cultures and economies—and a language different from any Sophie has heard. Sophie doesn’t know it yet, but she has just stepped into the middle of a political firestorm, and a conspiracy that could destroy a world she has just discovered…her world, where everyone seems to know who she is, and where she is forbidden to stay.

The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan

The Eye of the World by Robert JordanThe Eye of the World is book one of The Wheel of Time®, Robert Jordan’s internationally bestselling fantasy series.

The Wheel of Time turns and Ages come and go, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth returns again. In the Third Age, and Age of Prophecy, the World and Time themselves hang in the balance. What was, what will be, and what is, may yet fall under the Shadow.

Royal Street by Suzanne Johnson

Royal Street by Suzanne JohnsonAs the junior wizard sentinel for New Orleans, Drusilla Jaco’s job involves a lot more potion-mixing and pixie-retrieval than sniffing out supernatural bad guys like rogue vampires and lethal were-creatures. DJ’s boss and mentor, Gerald St. Simon, is the wizard tasked with protecting the city from anyone or anything that might slip over from the preternatural beyond. Then Hurricane Katrina hammers New Orleans’ fragile levees, unleashing more than just dangerous flood waters.

The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson

The Way of Kings by Brandon SandersonIn The Way of Kings, #1 New York Times bestselling author Brandon Sanderson introduces readers to the fascinating world of Roshar, a world of stone and storms.

It has been centuries since the fall of the Knights Radiant, but their mystical swords and armor remain, transforming ordinary men into near-invincible warriors. Men trade kingdoms for them. Wars are fought for them and won by them.

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On the Road: Tor/Forge Author Events in February

A Gathering of Shadows by V.E. SchwabTruthwitch by Susan DennardRiders by Veronica Rossi

Tor/Forge authors are on the road in February! Here is the info on all of our upcoming author events. See who is coming to a city near you!

  1. Thursday, February 4
    Skylight Books
    Los Angeles, CA
    7:30 PM
  2. Tuesday, February 23
    Green Apple Books
    San Francisco, CA
    7:30 PM
  1. Tuesday, February 16
    Powell’s Books at Cedar Hills Crossing
    Beaverton, OR
    7:00 PM
  2. Saturday, February 20
    Borderlands Books
    San Francisco, CA
    3:00 PM
  1. Saturday, February 13
    Barnes & Noble
    Bensalem, PA
    In conversation with Sarah J. Maas
    7:00 PM
  2. Wednesday, February 17
    Schuler Books & Music
    Lansing, MI
    Also with Veronica Rossi
    7:00 PM
  3. Thursday, February 18
    Bethesda Library
    Bethesda, MD
    Also with Veronica Rossi
    7:00 PM
  4. Friday, February 19
    Mysterious Galaxy
    San Diego, CA
    7:00 PM
  5. Wednesday, February 24
    Books & Books
    Coral Gables, FL
    Also with Veronica Rossi
    7:00 PM
  6. Thursday, February 25
    Malaprops
    Asheville, NC
    Also with Veronica Rossi
    7:00 PM
  7. Saturday, February 27
    Montgomery County Book Festival
    The Woodlands, TX
    Also with Veronica Rossi
    All Day
  8. Sunday, February 28
    Morton Ranch High School Commons
    Katy, TX
    Also with Veronica Rossi and Sophie Jordan
    6:00 PM
  9. Sunday, February 28
    Morton Ranch High School Commons
    Katy, TX
    Also with Veronica Rossi and Sophie Jordan
    6:00 PM
  10. Tuesday, March 1
    Half Price Books
    Dallas, TX
    Also with Veronica Rossi and Kathleen Baldwin
    7:00 PM
  1. Monday, February 1
    Warwick’s Books
    Bensalem, PA
    7:30 PM
  2. Tuesday, February 2
    Book Carnival
    Orange, CA
    7:00 PM
  3. Friday, February 5
    Mysterious Galaxy
    San Diego, CA
    7:30 PM
  4. Tuesday, February 16
    Murder by the Book
    Houston, TX
    6:30 PM
  5. Wednesday, February 17
    Poisoned Pen
    Scottsdale, AZ
    Also with Mark Greaney
    7:00 PM
  1. Tuesday, February 16
    University Bookstore
    Seattle, WA
    7:00 PM
  2. Wednesday, February 17
    Powell’s Books
    Beaverton, OR
    7:00 PM
  3. Thursday, February 18
    Grass Roots Book & Music
    Corvallis, OR
    6:30 PM
  4. Friday, February 19
    Copperfield’s Books
    Petaluma, CA
    7:00 PM
  5. Saturday, February 20
    Borderlands Books
    San Francisco, CA
    7:00 PM
  6. Sunday, February 21
    Mysterious Galaxy
    San Diego, CA
    2:00 PM
  7. Wednesday, February 24
    Third Place Books
    Lake Forest Park, WA
    7:00 PM
  8. Friday, February 26
    Barnes & Noble
    Silverdale, WA
    6:30 PM
  9. Saturday, February 27
    Village Books
    Bellingham, WA
    7:00 PM
  1. Friday, February 26
    The Last Bookstore
    Los Angeles, CA
    7:00 PM
  1. Monday, February 1
    Madame X
    New York, NY
    7:00 PM
  1. Wednesday, February 17
    Schuler Books & Music
    Lansing, MI
    Also with Susan Dennard
    7:00 PM
  2. Thursday, February 18
    Bethesda Library
    Bethesda, MD
    Also with Susan Dennard
    7:00 PM
  3. Wednesday, February 24
    Books & Books
    Coral Gables, FL
    Also with Susan Dennard
    7:00 PM
  4. Thursday, February 25
    Malaprops
    Asheville, NC
    Also with Susan Dennard
    7:00 PM
  5. Saturday, February 27
    Montgomery County Book Festival
    The Woodlands, TX
    Also with Susan Dennard
    All Day
  6. Sunday, February 28
    Morton Ranch High School Commons
    Katy, TX
    Also with Susan Dennard and Sophie Jordan
    6:00 PM
  7. Tuesday, March 1
    Half Price Books
    Dallas, TX
    Also with Susan Dennard and Kathleen Baldwin
    7:00 PM
  8. Saturday, March 5
    Austin Book Fest
    Austin, TX
    All Day
  1. Wednesday, February 3
    Park Road Books
    Charlotte, NC
    7:00 PM
  2. Thursday, February 4
    Flyleaf Books
    Chapel Hill, NC
    7:00 PM
  3. Friday, February 5
    Quail Ridge Books & Music
    Raleigh, NC
    7:00 PM
  1. Tuesday, February 23
    Parnassus Books
    Nashville, TN
    6:30 PM
  2. Wednesday, February 24
    Blue Willow Bookshop
    Houston, TX
    7:00 PM
  3. Thursday, February 25
    One More Page Books
    Arlighton, VA
    7:00 PM
  4. Friday, February 26
    Rediscovered Books
    Boise, ID
    7:00 PM
  5. Saturday, February 27
    Borderlands Books
    San Francisco, CA
    3:00 PM
  6. Sunday, February 28
    Barnes & Noble
    Huntington Beach, CA
    2:00 PM
  7. Monday, February 29
    Mysterious Galaxy
    San Diego, CA
    7:00 PM

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Stormwrack: Changing the Channels of Time

A Daughter of No Nation by A. M. Dellamonica
Written by A. M. Dellamonica

In L. Sprague de Camp’s classic alternate history novel Lest Darkness Fall, Martin Padway is transported to fourth-century Rome, where he changes the course of history by importing advanced technology into his new home timeline.

It’s a common enough plot, but what I love about this particular novel is that Padway’s not an engineer. He doesn’t fall into the past fully equipped to refine iron into steel or sketch out the blueprints for an Edsel. His first ‘inventions’ are brandy, Arabic numerals (including the all-important zero!) and double entry accounting. And brandy is awesome, of course, but the latter two imports may sound boring as hell. Sure, it’s nice to do math and keep your accountant from cheating you, but—

Exactly. But! It’s math! In every sense, the zero is a game-changer. It weighs nothing, and most of us have some grasp of how it works in our brain’s back pocket. Given enough time, a willing audience, and possibly a little brandy, most of us could explain it.

It is a popular conceit to imagine that we non-engineers are too distanced from humanity’s inventions to reproduce them. To assume that if one of us was transported to the far past, our inability to scrape together an iPhone from scratch would make us, somehow, technologically pathetic. We are the guys for whom science might as well be magic, the thinking goes. A 21st century arts graduate couldn’t really trigger a scientific revolution.

I disagree. We all have weird pockets of exploitable knowledge, picked up in classrooms but also in more mundane places. If you’re committed to the idea of meddling in time at all, the key is, perhaps, in knowing what you could usefully bring to the past you’re in.

Which brings me to A Daughter of No Nation. Sophie Hansa is a trained wildlife biologist, but over the course of this second Hidden Sea Tales novel she discovers that the two things she’s most likely to end up importing into the culture of the world of Stormwrack are ideas. One is the scientific method. The second is criminal forensics…as learned from TV.

Sophie, like me, is fannish. She watches Castle. She loves Veronica Mars. She grew up in twenty-first century North America and has seen hundreds of hours of crime and cop shows. She’s seen quasi-realistic stuff like Law & Order and Criminal Minds, and implausible set-ups like The Mentalist. She’s even watched some really weird things like Vexed (whose cop protagonists work out of a coffee shop).

In our world, it would be disastrous for an ordinary civilian to try to apply dumbed-down TV-style detective procedures to real-world crimes. But Stormwrack is a world apart, and it’s one where most of the people don’t have the mental habit of analytical reductionism (approaching a new phenomenon by mentally breaking it into components, and then pushing them around to see how they might be understood). Sophie doesn’t have to have years of training in the physics of analyzing blood spatter. She just has to pass on the idea to a motivated cop. Even the concept of preserving a crime scene is every bit as radical, on Stormwrack, as double-entry accounting was to de Camp’s ancient Rome. It was a radical idea here, too, at one time. Now it’s just standard procedure.

Sophie does have an advantage that many of us wouldn’t if we were inventing modern police procedure in a world trapped in the Age of Sail…she has some grounding in biology and chemistry. But when she’s asked if she might consider doing this, importing this particular piece of earth technology, she’s drawing as much on Sherlock Holmes and Blue Bloods as on anything she learned in a classroom.

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