#Review - Daughter of the Wind by Nora Carmody #Fantasy #Romance

Series: Riders of Earth and Sky trilogy #1
Format: 432 pages, Paperback

Release Date: April 14, 2026
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy, Romance

Darkness lurks in the shadows as a betrothed princess wrestles with a dangerous new magic that threatens her bond with her beloved horse—and a forbidden love for the enemy sworn to protect her.

Zara has never felt worthy of her title as First Daughter. Though next in line to lead her people, she hasn’t inherited what matters most—her mother’s sacred earth magic. While her people are tied to the land and their soul-bound horses, Zara has always felt a pull toward the wind.

As war rages against the enemy empire’s deadly Eagle Riders, her people edge closer to defeat. When a rider attacks Zara herself, she unleashes a wind magic strong enough to tear giant eagles from the sky. This power could turn the tide of the war—but at a terrible price: the slow unraveling of her psychic bond with her horse.

So when a marriage treaty is offered in exchange for peace, Zara agrees, sacrificing herself to protect her people. But the emperor’s palace is more treacherous than any battlefield. Hidden behind its gilded walls is a monstrous being long buried—and her power-hungry betrothed is determined to set it free.

Sworn to protect the future empress, Commander Talon soon realizes Zara is more than a political pawn—she’s the key to stopping the emperor’s dark ambitions. As their forbidden desire grows, they must face an ancient evil stirring beneath the throne. Even if it costs them everything.

Daughter of the Wind is the first installment in author Nora Carmody's The Riders of Earth and Sky series. This book is a debut that blends elemental magic, soul-bonded animal companions, political intrigue, and a slow-burning enemies-to-lovers romance. The story focuses on Zara, First Daughter of the Children of Earth, and Commander Talon of the hated Eagle Riders. 

Zara, the First Daughter and heir to the Children of the Earth, has never manifested the sacred earth magic expected of her lineage. Her people—nomadic warriors deeply connected to the land and soul-bonded to horses—face existential threat from the Zephyrian Empire's Eagle Riders, who dominate from mountain strongholds with giant eagles as their bonded partners. 

When war intensifies, Zara unleashes a rare and dangerous wind magic in a desperate moment, capable of downing eagles but at the cost of unraveling her psychic bond with her beloved horse, Shazeera. To secure peace for her people, she agrees to a political marriage with the enemy emperor. At the opulent yet treacherous Golden Eagle Palace, she navigates court dangers, an ancient evil stirring beneath the throne, and her growing connection to Commander Talon, the eagle rider sworn to protect her—who was once her enemy. 

The story explores themes of identity, sacrifice, cultural clash, the cost of power, and bonds (both human-animal and romantic). The soul bonds between riders and their horses/eagles form the emotional core. These telepathic connections feel heartfelt and central to the characters' motivations, especially to Zara and Shazeera's "heart sister" relationship.

The story starts strong with action but slows in the middle as it shifts to court life and world-building. The second half ramps up with palace conspiracies, a monstrous ancient evil (Ozul), family betrayals, and life-or-death choices. The finale delivers intense action, twists, and a compelling hook for Book 2. The slow-burning enemies-to-lovers dynamic between Zara and Talon builds gradually. Zara and Talon are likable and complex (Talon especially grows on readers), but side characters and some emotional beats can feel underdeveloped. 

Animal and magical beast lovers alike won't be able to resist the bonded animal companions and elemental magic at the heart of this story, which, combined with the accessible world-building, thrilling battles, and political intrigue, is sure to capture romantasy readers at large. With a heroine in her early twenties who must come to terms with her magic and identity and an angsty, slow-burning romance, new adult readers will likely flock to this angst-filled romantasy. The author and publisher plan another 2 books in this series, so if you want to wait until all 3 books are released, I would not try to change your mind in any way. 

1

Zara

There was something about living under the constant threat of violence that desensitized you. Maybe it was because there were only so many times I could wake up in a cold sweat in the night, sure that this night would be the one where the eagle warriors would descend and destroy everything I loved. Eventually, I had to shove all those fears to the very back of my mind for my own sanity.

After years of unending war, I had to trust that my mother's ability to keep our tribe hidden was everlasting. I never thought they would find us.

I should have known better.

As the morning dawned with a red-streaked sky, I traveled the short distance from our camp to a nearby stream. My blood bay mare Shazeera carried me at a leisurely gallop-we never walked when we could race across the plains, the long grasses parting for us like waves. The sky rapidly changed to blue as the sun rose. It was empty, for the moment, of clouds, making it easy to see that no enemy would swoop down on us.

Still, with a war that had raged for over a hundred and fifty years, we could never afford to let our guard down. Even within my mother's protective wards.

Wards that wouldn't last much longer if the queen's health was any indication. As her power waned, mine was meant to replace it. When it came to the powers that should be my birthright, though, I was completely useless.

Not useless. Shazeera interrupted my thoughts with a swish of her tail. It will come in time.

You may be the only one left who believes that, I thought.

She shook her head, her long black mane brushing the tops of my leather-clad knees. Considering I'm always right, isn't that all you need?

I laughed in spite of myself. I just wish there were some evidence of my supposed powers.

You come from a long line of First Daughters with powerful defensive earth magic. We wouldn't have bonded if you weren't meant for greatness.

I smiled inwardly at her proud thought. Shazeera was descended from not only the greatest endurance horses, but also the fastest.

She slowed to a springy trot as the stream came into view, and before I could even let out a yelp in surprise, she continued into the water with a powerful splash, carrying me with her. As the cold water droplets hit my bare arms, goose bumps immediately sprang up. The sun had just risen, and it was still unpleasantly cool outside.

Did you think I needed a bath, or what?

A little cold water might help clear your head, she replied, before shaking off and lowering her head to drink.

It's you who isn't seeing the situation clearly, I grumbled mentally as I jumped from her back onto the bank. I wanted to avoid getting my boots even wetter than they already were.

I crouched down and cupped water in my hands to drink, closing my eyes as the refreshing coolness slid down my throat. It always tasted better fresh from the source. Rising, I scanned the distant hills to the east, where a line of trees met the plains. Beyond that rose the mountains. I couldn't see them from here, but I imagined them soaring high above the foothills, just as they did on the map my mother-Ama to me, but Queen Rana, the Queen of All Queens, to everyone else-often brought out whenever General Isa came to talk strategy. In my mind, I could see the many clusters of triangles that represented the Angora Mountains to the east, where the Zephyrian Empire's capital city of Naharu and its palace clung to the highest peak of Crane Mountain.

As the sun rose higher, warming my dark hair, I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in the forest, constantly shaded. Out on the plains, the trees were few and far between. Generations ago my people's territory had expanded as far as the Black Forest to the north and the Ridgeline Foothills to the east. Now, the enemy's territory surrounded us on three sides. Shazeera and I had explored as far as the foothills, but that had been far more dangerous than I had anticipated.

Far, far away, a giant eagle screeched, and we both froze, as we'd been trained to do from a young age. A strange tension coiled in my chest, and I couldn't say it was entirely due to fear.

I reached out with my mind to feel for my mother's protective wards as she had taught me, but as usual, I could sense nothing at all. Even the weakest earth magic user could sense the protective shields that hid our people from our enemy. The fact that I couldn't was endlessly frustrating-especially to my mother. As First Daughter, how would I ever take over forming the wards if I couldn't even sense them?

The wards are still strong, Shazeera said gently. She knew how worthless I felt when I had to rely on her senses instead. The horses were born being able to sense earth magic-no training required. At least one of us could.

Her ears pricked toward the east as she listened for a moment, detecting another screech that I could barely make out. The eagle is flying away from us.

We both relaxed. It must have been a wild eagle, then. They were still dangerous, but not nearly as much as one carrying a Zephyrian rider. Our camp was currently only an hour away from the mountain foothills, where many wild eagles nested.

Just once, I would like to take a drink from this stream without worrying that a giant eagle was about to swoop down on my head, Shazeera said with an irritated swish of her tail.

Maybe none of them would be as hostile if it weren't for the Zephyrians.

The Zephyrians flew to our continent of Equnox on the backs of giant eagles a hundred and fifty years ago, from their much smaller continent of Darkhan-one of the four continents in our world. When they found our lands to be populated by mostly by peaceful tribes, they returned with battalions of highly trained infantry by ship. The Angorans of the eastern mountains were the first to fall under their rule, followed by the Nazcas of the northern forests, and then the Semalians of the western coastline. Only three tribes remain free.

Once, we had been known by our individual tribes, though we were all descended from the first six daughters who had been given magic by the Earth Mother. Out of necessity, we had banded together as the Children of Earth against our common enemy. And our numbers were dwindling.

Shazeera turned her head toward our camp, growing still as though concentrating.

What is it? I asked.

Nafalla has asked us to return.

I groaned. Nafalla was my mother's bonded mare. Ama wants to start training this early?

Considering I couldn't even detect the wards just now, I was sure it would go as well as it ever did.

Most considered it a useful ability that the horses could all communicate with each other mentally within a short distance, especially during battle. For me, though, it was just a way for Ama to track me down quickly.

I would say we could make a run for it, Shazeera said, stepping out of the stream, but Nafalla specifically said if we tried to skip training again, she would put me on foal duty for a month.

I thought you liked the babies, I said as I lightly grabbed hold of her withers and vaulted onto her back.

Only from afar, Shazeera replied. Up close, the little beasts bite and kick.

I smiled for a moment at that image. She wasn't wrong. The foals were like long-legged toddlers with boundless energy.

But Shazeera's amusing commentary could only briefly distract me before the dread pulled me down again. Nothing made me so aware of my inability as these training sessions with Ama. Especially since every one of them had ended in embarrassing failure.

Shazeera set the pace at a fast canter, and I tried to convince myself that maybe this time I would finally tap into the power that should be my birthright.

Before it was too late.

Shazeera slowed as we entered the camp, and many called out in greeting or simply stopped and bowed their heads as we passed. Our camp wasn't the largest of all the tribes, because of the frequency with which we had to pick up and move; the Queen of All Queens moved camp frequently to change the radius of the wards' protection. But of the ten tents here, all were large, with at least two rooms in each. The largest of all, though, was the pavilion, which had three distinct points to its top and golden thread woven amongst the bright colors. It was the queen's tent, and my home.

I stood before it now, breathing in the familiar scent of sage, which wafted from beyond the doorway of the pavilion.

Well met, daughter of my heart, Nafalla's greeting passed to me through Shazeera. She dipped her head to allow me to touch her velvety nose, the soft lamplight disappearing into the deep shadows of her onyx coat.

The pavilion soared above the tips of the horses' ears, supported by light wooden rods that were flexible and strong. It created a space large enough for everyone in the camp to fit inside the main room, which served as the throne room. There were bedrooms on either side, separated by vibrant blue silk drapery. The room to the left was mine, but I knew Ama would be waiting in the throne room.

Naomi, one of Ama's guards, quietly greeted Shazeera and me with a bow as we entered.

We found Ama sitting before a bowl of polished bone, filled with burning sage. Her dark eyes, heavily lined with kohl, lit up when she met my gaze. With a smile, she gestured for me to sit. Nafalla took her place beside Ama, while Shazeera stood by my side. I tucked my legs beneath me and joined Ama on the floor of the tent, where a plush rug of many colors had been spread.

"You were up early," Ama said to me as she handed me a cup of white flower tea. The bangles on her wrists jingled pleasantly, the sound as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

"I couldn't sleep," I admitted, taking a sip of the honey-sweetened tea.

Ama tilted her head sympathetically at me, her thick hair slipping off her shoulder. My own thick hair was tied back in a long braid. Everyone said we looked so much alike. That the blood passed down from First Daughter to First Daughter for generations was strong. We had the same golden-brown skin, deepened by the hot plains sun; high cheekbones; full lips. The same large eyes framed by dark lashes, though my eye color was a much lighter amber, where hers was a rich chocolate.

I may have looked like her on the outside, but I had none of the power given to her by the Earth Mother. At her full strength, she had been able to heal someone on the brink of death, from the inside out. She could even use her abilities offensively, by causing a wave of agony over a small battalion of soldiers, enough to cripple them.

But I couldn't even heal a scratch.

"I will admit that your power is taking longer to manifest than is common in our family," Ama said, reaching over to touch my hand, "but earth magic has always been strong in the Sorayan line. It will come. We just need to tap into it."

I glanced down at my cup with a frown. Ama believed that anything was possible if you just tried hard enough. And maybe she was right. Maybe I didn't put enough effort into it.

Nonsense, Shazeera said sharply. You tried so hard to connect to your abilities last time that your nose bled with the effort.

Yes, but I didn't pass out, so clearly I wasn't trying hard enough, I thought back with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Shazeera snorted beside me.

"Let's begin," Ama said, and with an inward sigh, I angled my body to face her. The horsehair mantle she wore brushed against my arms as she placed her hands on mine. It was as black as Nafalla's mane and tail, as it had been taken from them over the years, and dark as Ama's own hair where it wasn't streaked with silver. My own mantle, formed from the black hairs of Shazeera's mane and tail, was much smaller, as I hadn't had as many years to add to it. "Instead of trying again to sense the protective wards, let's try to access the healing side of your magic."

I shot her a confused glance. "Aren't the wards the most important?"

"Yes, but sometimes trying a different approach can help refresh your senses."

I nodded and tried not to argue, even though we had tried this months ago and it hadn't helped. Nothing did.

"The pulse points are where you can connect with the rivers and streams of blood within someone, following it to its source. The blood will always reveal what needs to be mended, whether it is sickness or injury. Now find my pulse with your fingertips."

I did as she asked. This part was easy. Anyone could feel a heartbeat in a pulse. Her wrists were warm, her heartbeat steady, as I pressed down gently with both hands.

"Close your eyes and go into the part of you that's connected to Shazeera."

In my mind, I reached for our bond, that gleaming chain of light that was unbreakable. I could sense Shazeera's emotions-hopeful and anxious that I would finally succeed. If I went deeper, I could even sense what she physically felt. Right now, the scent of the sage filled her nostrils, the smell so much more complex than I detected. Beneath the typically herbal scent were notes of rich loam and spicy peppercorn.

"Are you there?"

"Yes," I murmured, keeping my eyes closed tightly in concentration.

"I want you to reach into yourself where that same power comes from and reach for my pulse point instead."

But when I reached for my mother's life force, the one I should have been able to sense if I had healing abilities like her, there was only darkness.

"There's nothing there," I told her, barely able to keep the frustration from my voice.

"All you can do is try again," she said gently. "Our life force shines as brightly as the sun. With your inner eye, you should be able to detect the light radiating from my bloodstream. You must reach out with the part of you that's connected to the Earth Mother."

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#Review - Revenge Prey by John Sandford #Suspense #Crime #Thriller

Series: Lucas Davenport # 36
Format: 400 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: April 7, 2026
Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thrillers, Suspense

Lucas Davenport must track down a ruthless Russian hit team, in this latest thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author John Sandford.

Leonard Summers—not his real name—is on the run. A former high-ranking Russian intelligence officer who defected to the U.S. after providing critical information about Russian spies in U.S. government service, Leonard,  his wife Martha, and son Bernard have spent the past year holed up in a CIA facility near Washington. After the CIA makes a deal with the U.S. Marshal Service’s Witness Protection Program (WPP), Leonard’s family is transported to Minneapolis. The plan is to hide them in a wooded Minneapolis suburb that resembles their former home and dacha near Moscow.

The Summers are received at their destination by Lucas Davenport and fellow marshal Shelly White. Unbeknownst to them, the WPP group has been tracked by a Russian hit team. And while nobody in the WPP has ever been attacked…Leonard might be the first victim. As shots are fired and enemies dodged, Lucas must move quickly to uncover where the leak is coming from, before the hit team can strike again.

Revenge Prey is the 36th installment in author John Sandford's Lucas Davenport series. Lucas Davenport is a true maverick; whether he's working for the law or skirting procedure, he utilizes his exceptional ability to get inside the mind of a killer, along with his select contacts in the government, the media, and the criminal underworld to get the job done. He's worn many hats during his career in Minnesota—police officer, detective, BCA investigator, state troubleshooter—but his newest job takes him into the biggest arena of all. 

Leonard Summers (real name: Leonid Sokolov), a high-ranking former Russian intelligence officer, has defected to the U.S. after exposing Russian spies embedded in American government circles. He, his wife, Martha, and their son, Bernard, enter the Witness Protection Program and are relocated to a wooded Minneapolis suburb designed to resemble their old dacha near Moscow. U.S. Marshal Lucas Davenport and partner Shelly White are on hand for the handoff, alongside CIA involvement. 

Almost immediately, a Russian hit team—acting on orders from the highest levels—strikes. What follows is a relentless cat-and-mouse game as Lucas teams up with a sharp, sarcastic CIA agent named John Sherwood to hunt the assassins, plug a suspected leak in the protection apparatus, and keep the family alive. The story balances Lucas’s perspective with glimpses into the hit team’s operations, adding depth to the antagonists.

The novel starts with a bang (literally) and maintains high tension through multiple assassination attempts and chases. Brief appearances by Weather, Letty, and Virgil Flowers provide welcome continuity without overshadowing the main plot. John Sherwood stands out as a memorable new ally—snarky, competent, and a good banter partner for Lucas. The Russian hit team members are surprisingly well drawn: professional, under pressure, and humanized by their own motivations and moral gray areas (they’re targeting a man with a dark past). This avoids cartoonish villains. If you like gritty cop thrillers with spy-novel elements, moral complexity, and top-tier banter, Revenge Prey delivers. Just don’t expect revolutionary changes to the formula—Sandford knows what his audience loves and serves it up reliably.

1

She had long blond hair and was almost pretty, in the manner of tennis jocks and female gymnasts; too much muscle in the face and arms and butt for the smooth baby-fat look of fashion models or movie stars.

Because she wasn't one.

Despite the cold, she was lying on her parka, instead of wearing it, the better to anchor the rifle against her shoulder. She put the crosshairs on the target, took up the trigger slack, and squeezed. The recoil was sharp, but manageable.

The man lying in the dirt next to her, looking through a spotting scope, said, "Two centimeters high, a centimeter right. Once more."

She took her time and squeezed again. The spotter said, "Same hole."

She said, "I'm so fucking cold, I feel like a goddamned фруктовый лёд." In English, literally, a "fruit ice," or not so literally, a "Popsicle."

"Forget the cold," the man said. He had a hard, narrow face and black hair over black eyes. "Three rounds, fast."

The three rounds went out in less than three seconds, and he said, "All over the place, left right and high, all within six centimeters of the ten-ring."

"So it's good."

"Better than good. I've seen what it does to gelatin. If you hit the target anywhere above the waist, he's dead," the man said, rolling on his side to look at her. "These copper bullets won't defeat Level 4, but armor-piercing will. Shoots so flat . . . I want to take one home with me."

"If I could shoot as well as you do, I would find a way to do that," the woman said, handing him the rifle. "Maybe a custom barrel with handloads. The perfect weapon."

They were lying in a ditch ten miles west of the small town of Owatonna, Minnesota, an informal shooting range, located by their concierge, who was waiting nervously by the car.

"I wish it was suppressed," the woman added.

"You know the English proverb, 'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride'?"

Some wrinkles appeared in her forehead: "I'm not sure what that means . . ."

The proverb didn't quite translate, because they were speaking in Russian.

Because they were Russian.


A snaky blacktopped driveway led up a gentle slope to the hideout. Two other houses were fed from the same cul-de-sac, all three out of sight of one another, a carefully contrived privacy set in a suburban forest. Natural shingle siding, a gray-stone chimney, and high peaked roof gave the hideout the vibe of a Minnesota lake chalet, although the nearest big water was a mile away.

The marshals arrived in separate vehicles, Lucas Davenport pushing his Porsche Cayenne up the driveway, while Shelly White left her 4Runner in the street and walked up to meet Lucas.

"The guy gets this place for free? They just gave it to him?" White asked, peering squint-eyed at the house of her dreams, which were unlikely to be realized.

The afternoon light was draining away, a sullen, tangible gathering of gloom, as happens in Minnesota on overcast February days. "The way of the world, sweetheart. You get big enough, you get bad enough, they hand you the fat stacks."

The hideout was one of twelve houses nestled on four back-to-back cul-de-sacs. Seen from a satellite, the cul-de-sacs resembled a four-leaf clover, set down in a winter landscape of barren broad-leafed trees and evergreens that appeared black in the murky afternoon light.


Shelly White looked like a semi-starved Depression-era farm wife, maybe caught on black-and-white film rattling out of Oklahoma, six snot-nosed kids in a broke-down Model T Ford. She had the knife-edge cheekbones, the pale gray eyes fixed in a thousand-yard stare, the parched lips held in a tight straight line.

White had never been in Oklahoma, wasn't starving, and she drove a Toyota SUV much too fast for the crappy suspension. She was a deputy U.S. Marshal who'd grown up in East Grand Forks, Minnesota, looking across the Red River at North Dakota. Four years as an Air Force cop and a degree in criminology got her a job with the U.S. Marshals Service.

She and Lucas, another deputy marshal, hadn't particularly liked each other when they first met, but they got along, and after a couple of years, had warmed up. Lucas had three natural children with two different women, plus an adoptive daughter; White had three children with two different men, so they had blended families to talk about. Along with guns, fugitives, and mandatory overtime.

White was on the short side, thin and tough as a razor strop. A Glock 9mm hung on her right hip. Below that hip, out of sight beneath her winter cover-ups, she had a massive scar on her thigh where she'd been shot with a fast-expanding jacketed hollow-point bullet from a deer rifle.

Just . . . life in the Marshals Service.

As they stood side-by-side, Lucas loomed over her, a substantial opposite, with expensively cut dark hair threaded with gray and crystalline blue eyes. He was tall, wide across the shoulders. A hairline scar tracked across his left eye from his forehead to his cheek, a relic of a fishing trip. Another puckered scar sat on his throat, where a teenaged girl had shot him with a piece-of-crap .22 that he hadn't seen coming. He had a nonstandard Walther 40 S&W on his left hip, in a cross-draw holster, for easier access under a suit coat.

Lucas had a tendency toward depression, exacerbated by the gloom of winter, and by the sporadic violence of the job. White shared the depressive gene, and they sometimes compared notes. When Lucas was younger, he hadn't worried about it. Now, in his later fifties, he had a tendency to think he'd been shot too often and to brood about the near-death experiences. About what he'd miss, if he were dead; about not seeing his younger children grow into adults.

White had thoughts that ran down in the same trench.

Still, they both were hunters, trackers. They liked the intensity of the work, if not always the consequences, because the intensity went some way toward offsetting the blues.


“I don’t know why they put us out here,” White said, looking around like a curious cat, her nose twitching in the wind. Although she was wearing a down parka, ski gloves, and a cashmere watch cap over her streaky brown hair, she shivered. They were standing at the top of the driveway, in a grove of paper birches, the kind the Ojibwe once turned into canoes.

The ground, hard as pig iron, was covered with half an inch of crunchy snow. There'd been almost no snow over the winter months, but they'd gotten all the usual cold weather. The temperature, according to Lucas's weather app, was six degrees and falling, and a persistent breeze whipped the steam away from their mouths. "I'm not a babysitter," she added.

"This guy is no baby," Lucas said. He coughed once, covering his mouth with a gloved fist. He wasn't sick; the bitter cold set him off. He could feel his lips cracking, and he'd left his ChapStick sitting on his dresser. "He was in some kind of enforcement branch of the Russian spy agency. He's probably killed more people than the Marshals Service."

"Yeah, but why us in particular?" White asked. "Why not Remy, or that asshole Clark? They'd jump at it, hanging out with headquarters guys."

"Because I'm the smartest guy in the office, and you're a close second? They thought the job might take some brains."

"You're almost smart enough to get that almost right," White said, shivering again. She'd been a National Merit Scholar in high school and Lucas hadn't been; but then, he'd been a hockey jock, and what could you expect from somebody who'd been hit in the head with a puck, and more than once? "But really?"

"Because Witness Protection doesn't babysit, either," Lucas said. "They plug a guy into a hideout and that's it. This guy . . . The Russians would like to get at him. They need somebody with guns close by, or think they do. That's not usually Witness Protection."


“All right,” White said. She’d done time with fugitive task forces and considered her Glock to be a species of musical instrument. Lucas had a reputation as a shooter, which he didn’t entirely appreciate, because it suggested he was too fast on the trigger. He felt he was barely fast enough, and he had the scars to prove it.

At the moment, White was in the Minnesota winter stance, shoulders squeezed tight, elbows to rib cage, fingers pulled out of the fingers of her gloves, hands clenched in fists. "Why aren't you cold? You're standing there in your plutonium suit and tie . . . and that coat. What's that coat made of? Pubic hair from virgins? What?"

"Wool, from goats, but highly refined, college-educated, Italian goats," Lucas said. He was a hopeless fashion plate. He leaned toward White: "Don't tell anyone, but I'm also wearing long underwear. Smartwool. Of course, if I have to pee, I'm in trouble."

"Well, that's it: you are smarter than me. I'm wearing cotton bikini briefs." White looked at her watch: "They're late. Jerks left us standing out here freezing our balls off."

"Not mine. They're like two chestnuts roasting on an open fire."

White: "Hey: you don't have to top me every time, okay?"


Lucas’s cell phone buzzed. He dug it out of the pocket of his coat, looked at the screen: “Now they’re going to tell us why they’re late.”

He answered, listened for a moment, and when the person on the other side stopped talking, he said, "Okay. We'll take a look around here," and rang off.

White: "What?"

Lucas said, "They're still half an hour out. They had to find a suitcase. Knowing the Marshals Service, they probably flew last-class on Trans-New Jersey Airways."

"If we had a key . . ." White looked wistfully up at the locked and alarmed house, furnace steam puffing from a rooftop chimney. The place had what were once called "grounds." Nothing rural about it, a four-acre fenced lot heavy with white-trunked birches and brooding blue conifers and maples, a few red leaves still attached to the maples. A line of bare-naked bridal wreath bushes were strung along the driveway, while leafless lilacs waited in the dooryard for spring.

"We could sit in the truck, but I'd like to take a look around," Lucas said. "You know, in case we ever had to come back out here."

"Not a bad idea. We can at least see through the woods right now," White said. "Gotta be pretty dense in the summer."

"Let me change my shoes . . ."

Lucas popped the back of his truck and took out a pair of Sorel Caribous, pulled them on, tucked in the bottom of his suit pants, and carefully placed his John Lobbs on the truck's floor.

Together, they marched around the lot, past a frozen picnic table that sat next to a frozen firepit made with frozen stones with frozen logs next to it, through the maples and pines and birches and around the withered shrubs. They found a hard-frozen coiled hose that somebody had forgotten under a dwarf mugo pine, two wickets from a croquet set that somebody had forgotten to pull, and, at the back of the yard, a shovel with a rusted blade and a broken handle. Having crisscrossed the yard, they went out a gate at the back.

They discovered that the hideout was on one of four circles, which they hadn't known, with a narrow, frozen creek winding through the common area between the circles. They stumbled across whitetail deer beds tucked under balsams and racoon and coyote tracks along the iced-over creek.

There were three houses on each of the four circles. All of the houses were showing furnace exhaust, and two had older cars in the driveways, which White thought must belong to housekeepers. Nobody with common sense would park outside in this cold, if they had a heated garage.

"If the guy's a bowhunter, he could put up some venison," White said, checking out a line of deer tracks. She scuffed at one of the bigger prints and said, "Nice buck."

They were puffing out clouds of steam, and tiny icicles were forming on the tips of White's hair.

"Given his reputation, I'm pretty sure he ain't a vegetarian," Lucas said.


They’d just gotten back to the house when two SUVs pulled into the driveway, both Ford Explorers, both with the tired look of rental cars. A bulky marshal, head like a half-gallon milk jug, climbed out of the first vehicle, saw them: “Davenport and White?”

"Davenport and White," Lucas answered. "Are you Derrick?"

"Yeah. You look like your pictures. You guys check out the site?"

"We did," White said. "There are four cul-de-sacs back-to-back, three houses on each circle, a common area in between them. Looks like all the lots are about the same size, three or four acres each, all fenced. Nothing but animal tracks in the snow."

"Excellent." Derrick Beard turned back toward the SUVs and waved. Seven more doors popped open, and seven more people got out. Three were marshals, all in tactical winter wear, all from Washington, as was Beard.

Another of the arrivals, an American, but not a marshal, was thinner, taller, quicker, wearing a wool knee-length camel coat with matching wool-and-leather gloves. He sported black rectangular sunglasses and a brown Borsalino hat. The clothes were well cut and subtly aristocratic. Looking at them, Lucas, the fashion plate, was stroked by the feather of jealousy. He liked browns, admired them, but given his coloring, couldn't wear them.


The final three to get out of the trucks were a short sixty-year-old gray-haired man with broad shoulders, a stub nose, and ruddy face, in a blue L.L.Bean parka. He was followed by a scowling fortysomething woman with tight-cut blond hair, small gold earrings, and narrow shoulders; she was several inches taller than the man Lucas presumed was her husband. She was also wearing a blue Bean parka.

The third was a tall youngish man, midtwenties, whose face resembled the woman's. His dishwater-blond hair fell to his shoulders and his face was covered with dishwater blond fuzz, like a holy card Jesus. Despite the cold, the son was wearing tight fashion jeans and a hip-length black leather jacket worn open.

"Hope to God somebody has a key," Lucas said.

"We're good," Beard said. "Let's get inside. I'm already numb."

The older man said to the woman, "Look at the birches, Martha, like home. I told you." His face looked carved, rather than grown, with snarl lines starting beside his nose and extending to the corners of his mouth. The quarried look of his face was matched by that of his wife.

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#Review - Don't Say a Word by Allison Brennan #Thriller #Suspense

Series: Angelheart Investigations # 2
Format: 401 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: September 16, 2025
Publisher: MIRA
Source: Library
Genre: Thriller, Suspense

In the second Angelhart Investigations thriller from New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan, when a teenager is killed and his mother doesn't believe it was an accidental overdose, the Angelharts have to solve the case before someone else ends up hurt.

The police ruled Elijah Martinez’s death an accidental drug overdose, but the teen’s grieving mother isn’t convinced. With the case officially closed, Angelhart Investigations is the only one who can help her find the truth. Margo Angelhart’s sure this will be an easy solve—she’ll talk to Elijah’s friends and employer, retrace his steps, and figure out what happened in his final hours.

Except none of his friends believe he did drugs, and the teacher who’s been vocal about the police mishandling the case turns up dead. Every thread Margo pulls leads back to a dangerous drug ring that once ran through the school.

When Margo’s brother Jack, a former cop, can’t get straight answers out of the police, they don’t know if it’s because of an active case…or a cover-up. Margo’s only sure of one thing—she has to find out what really happened to Elijah before more teens become pawns in a twisted scheme.

Don't Say a Word is the second installment in author Allison Brennan's Angelheart Investigations series. The story opens with the death of Elijah Martinez, a promising high school honor student found dead from what police quickly rule an accidental fentanyl overdose. His grieving mother refuses to accept the official conclusion—Elijah had no history of drug use, excelled academically, and had a bright future ahead. With the case closed, she turns to Angelhart Investigations in Phoenix, Arizona, for answers. 

Margo Angelhart, now fully committed to the family PI firm after a 3-year absence due to her own father's curious choice, takes the lead. She expects a straightforward investigation: interview friends, talk to his employer, retrace his final hours. But Elijah’s friends and acquaintances insist he never touched drugs. As Margo digs deeper, she uncovers links to a prior drug ring that operated through the school. A vocal teacher who questioned the police handling of the case turns up dead, raising the stakes dramatically. 

Margo’s brother Jack (a former cop) hits a wall when seeking information from his old department, sparking questions about whether it’s an active investigation or a cover-up. The Angelhart family—including sister Tess (a research whiz), their mother (a former prosecutor), and extended law-enforcement connections—pools their skills. The case touches on timely issues like the opioid/fentanyl crisis, teen vulnerability, institutional failures, and buried community secrets. 

Personal stakes rise as the investigation endangers witnesses and forces Margo to confront family dynamics and her own past. Margo is a tenacious, relatable protagonist—sharp, driven, but still working through family rifts (especially with her mother) and the shadow of her father’s imprisonment for a murder many doubt he committed. Supporting characters, including Elijah’s best friend Angie and potential romantic interests, add layers. The Angelharts feel like a real, messy family with history, banter, and loyalty. 

Brennan excels at blending detailed investigative work with emotional depth. The procedural aspects feel authentic—interviews, dead ends, evidence gathering, inter-agency tensions—without getting bogged down. Family collaboration shines: each member’s expertise contributes meaningfully, making the team dynamic a highlight. If you enjoy smart, family-oriented crime procedurals with emotional undercurrents (think authors like Kendra Elliot, Melinda Leigh, or Brennan’s own backlist), this is a must-read. It works well as a standalone but rewards readers familiar with the Angelharts. The overarching family mystery (around the father) adds intrigue for future books.

Angelhart Investigations

Novella 0.5: Into the Fire
Book 1: You'll Never Find Me
Novella 1.5: Out of the Shadows
Book 2: Don't Say a Word

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#Review - The King's Ransom by Janet Evanovich #Mystery #Suspense

Series: Recover Agent # 2
Format: 346 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: November 11, 2025
Publisher: Atria Books
Source: Library Book
Genre: Mystery, Suspense

Gabriela Rose, recovery agent extraordinaire, can find just about anything. Too bad she can’t seem to lose her gorgeous-but-infuriating ex-husband Rafer Jones. And now he needs her help. His cousin, Harley, is in trouble…big trouble.

As the president of a too-big-to-fail bank, he invested an astronomical amount of money in insuring some of the world’s most priceless artifacts at the urging of his board. It seemed like a low-risk, high-reward business move, so he jumped in with both feet. But recently, these insured pieces started going missing and worse, there’s no paper trail of Harley being directed to make these risky investments. Unless the artwork can be recovered soon, it looks like Harley is going to be heading to jail as the fall guy for an ingenious crime.

Gabriela knows what she must do: travel around the world with Rafer to find the missing works of art, keep Harley out of jail, and save both his skin and his bank. Along the way, she’ll encounter corruption, threats, murder, mysterious dark forces behind a global conspiracy to destroy the world’s wealth, and a nefarious villain who will stop at nothing to bring the world to the brink of ruin.

The King's Ransom is the second installment in author Janet Evanovich's Recovery Agent series. Gabriela Rose, a highly skilled recovery agent who excels at tracking down lost or stolen treasures, is pulled into a personal and professional crisis when her exasperating but gorgeous ex-husband, Rafer Jones, shows up with his cousin Harley Patch. 

Harley, president of a major bank, has been set up as the fall guy in a massive insurance fraud involving billions in priceless artifacts (think items like the Rosetta Stone and a golden coffin). These treasures have mysteriously vanished, leaving Harley facing jail time unless Gabriela can recover them. What starts as a rescue mission spirals into a worldwide hunt across London, Cairo, Italy, Florida, and more. 

Along the way, Gabriela and Rafer tangle with corruption, murder, shadowy henchmen, and a nefarious conspiracy involving elite villains (referred to as “The Kings”) who aim to create broader chaos. Expect locked-room theft puzzles, daring escapes, cultural detours, and plenty of tension between the exes. The book moves at a breakneck speed, with short, to-the-point chapters. Gabriela is a standout protagonist—resourceful, confident, martial-arts-trained, stylish, and driven. 

Unlike the more chaotic Stephanie Plum, Gabriela feels competent and proactive, making her an empowering lead in action scenes. Her skills shine in research, improvisation, and handling danger. The plot occasionally sags when trails go cold, relying on escalating villains and misdirection that some find over-the-top or formulaic. Brand-name dropping (clothes, cars, food) and junk-food consumption get noticeable mentions. Character development is light—typical for Evanovich’s plot-heavy approach—but secondary figures can blur together. 

A few plot threads (side characters’ fates) feel unresolved. It’s escapist entertainment rather than deep literary fiction; if you want gritty realism or profound themes, look elsewhere. For true fans of this author, it appears the author and publisher will alternate between Stephanie Plum and Gabby for the foreseeable future. 

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE
Gabriela Rose sipped her champagne and looked around the room at the 156 people who had each paid $5,000 to participate in a political fundraiser hosted by Eldridge Parker Rollings. Their contributions had gotten them through the elaborate gated entrance, up the short driveway to valet parking, and through the oversized mahogany front door of Rollings’s Montecito mansion. Once inside they were treated to bargain basement champagne and vegan appetizers. If they wanted their picture snapped with Barry Burlew, a Ringo Starr look-alike and candidate for the California State Assembly, it would cost them another $2,000.

Gabriela was here for reasons other than warm champagne. She’d bought her way onto the guest list because it gave her a unique opportunity to get her hands on a sack of shiny baubles that were worth $13 million, give or take a few cents. This was the first time Gabriela had been in the sprawling Spanish Colonial Revival mansion, but she’d studied photos from a realtor website, and floor plans from blueprints her assistant had provided. She had Google Earth photos and drone videos of the grounds. As it turned out, the videos of the grounds would be the most useful.

In ten minutes, the candidate was going to speak to the crowd and thank them for their support. When everyone was focused on the candidate, Gabriela would leave through an open patio door and slip out into the dark yard. Her only obstacle was Rollings. He was currently standing by the double door, exchanging pleasantries with an elderly couple. Rollings’s girlfriend du jour was plastered against him, reveling in her girlfriend status, basking in Rollings’s wonderfulness.

Rollings and his Russian-born wife, Olga, had bought the house seven years ago, during happier times. Now they were in the final stages of a contentious divorce. Rollings was going to keep the Montecito property, and Olga would get the slope-side Aspen house plus the Bentley and the Malibu beach house. Somehow $13 million in jewelry had disappeared during all the shouting and finger-pointing that had preceded Olga’s final departure in the Bentley. Theft was suggested but never proved.

Rollings submitted an insurance claim and as a result, Gabriela Rose was on the scene, drinking warm champagne, on the clock for the insurer. Insurance Fraud Investigator was printed on her business card, and she had an international reputation for excellence in the field. Most of her jobs had one thing in common. Something needed to be found. And it was a fact that where others had failed, Gabriela was known to succeed.

Gabriela left her secluded corner and pushed through the crowd to join Luis Salazar. He looked bored, standing next to a potted palm in the back of the room. He was retired LAPD. Forty-three years old. Slim and fit. Handsome enough to get bit roles when a film needed a Latino extra. He was also available for freelance security jobs. He knew how to keep a secret, and his morals were flexible. Gabriela had used him on previous jobs when she needed a little extra muscle.

Luis nodded at Gabriela when she approached. “You aren’t actually drinking that piss water, are you?” he asked, looking at the glass of champagne.

“No. Do you want it?”

“Sure. What the hell.” Luis polished off the champagne and set the empty glass in the palm tree’s massive midnight-blue ceramic pot. “When’s showtime?”

“In five minutes, when everyone’s attention turns to the candidate. He’s supposed to address the audience from the platform they’ve placed on the other side of the room. We’ll make our move when he starts to talk.”

“What about Rollings? He’s standing in front of our door.”

“He’s going to introduce the guest of honor,” Gabriela said. “Here we go. He’s checking his watch.”

“And he’s on the move,” Luis said, “along with the woman who’s surgically attached to his hip.”

Rollings stepped onto the stage, the crowd gravitated toward him, and Gabriela and Luis stepped outside, onto the broad, tiled lanai that was lit with vintage gas lanterns. Beyond the lanai was a sloping lawn that quickly disappeared into the dark night. Gabriela knew that a small cottage was sitting in that darkness. It had been the original structure on the property and was now simply a picturesque relic. And beyond the relic was a kitchen well that had also been passed over by time.

Gabriela knew that all of Rollings’s security was concentrated on the front of the house tonight. They were policing the gated entrance and checking IDs at the front door. No one was watching the cameras in the back of the house. And if they were watching, they would see two lovers stealing away, into the dark, to do whatever. And one of them would be carrying her Louboutin slingbacks and walking barefoot.

“I can’t see anything,” Luis said. “I can’t see you next to me. You’re next to me, right?”

“Right,” Gabriela said, reaching out and grabbing him by his jacket sleeve.

It was a moonless night. Gabriela was navigating by periodically looking over her shoulder at the brightly lit mansion. She knew if she continued to walk straight ahead, she would come to a hedgerow and then the cottage. Luis also knew about the cottage because this morning he’d talked his way in as part of the gardening crew. He’d left a pair of rubber boots, a length of rope, a pry bar, and two PVC pipes behind the cottage.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” Luis said, “but what the hell are we doing? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were bringing me back here to tie me up and have your way with me. Or maybe to kill me.”

“Neither of those,” Gabriela said. “I need you to help me get the two-hundred-pound capstone off the well and to secure the rope when I rappel down.”

“I assume you have good reason to go into an abandoned well at night?”

“I have a reliable source who, after too many shots of Don Julio, told me that Rollings dumped his wife’s jewelry into the well. Rollings told him that Olga got the Bentley and two houses, and he’d go to his grave before she got her hands on her jewelry.”

“He didn’t trust a safe-deposit box?”

“Not for a second.”

“I like it. I’m guessing you aren’t going to keep the jewelry,” Luis said.

“Tempting, but no.”

Gabriela suddenly stopped short but Luis crashed into the shrubbery.

“Shit,” he whispered. “What the fuck?”

“Good work, you found the hedgerow,” Gabriela said.

They carefully walked past the hedge and around the cottage. The well was in the shadow of the cottage and wasn’t visible from the main house, so Gabriela took a penlight out of her Birkin bag and clicked it on. She dropped her shoes and her bag onto the ground and stripped her little black dress off over her head and handed it to Luis. She had black techno tights and a rash guard on under her dress. She unrolled the legs of the tights to just above her knee and stepped into the boots Luis had brought earlier.

“I feel overdressed,” Luis said.

“You don’t have to go into the well. And you aren’t wearing a two-thousand-dollar dress.”

“All good things,” Luis said.

They pried the capstone off the well and moved it to the side.

Gabriela flashed the penlight down the shaft. The walls of the well were stone, covered in slime. She judged the width to be three feet and the depth to be thirty to forty feet. It looked like there was water at the bottom. She hoped it wasn’t too deep. Her boots only went to midcalf. Luis gripped the rope and Gabriela rappelled down. She splashed into about two inches of water at the bottom and then it was soft muck. No visible snakes. No frogs. Just disgusting muck. She kicked around and felt something solid underfoot. Her heart skipped a beat. She put her hand into the muck and pulled out a plastic ziplock gallon freezer bag filled with jewelry. She continued to slosh around and push through the muck with her hand to make sure there were no more bags.

“What’s going on?” Luis called down. “Everything okay?”

“I found it. I’m coming up. Hold tight.”

In less than a minute she was out of the well with the bag tucked into her tights.

“What were you in a previous life?” Luis asked. “Marine commando? Where’d you learn to climb like that?”

“I’ve had some tactical training. Comes in handy.”

“No shit.”

Gabriela kicked her boots off and took stock of the tights and rash guard. “These are going to have to go,” she said. “They’re muddy and slimy.”

She peeled them off and was left in her La Perla bra and panties.

“I love this job,” Luis said, handing her the dress.

She slipped into the dress and took a plastic bag out of her purse. She emptied the jewelry into the clean bag, dropped it into her Birkin, and stepped into the boots.

“What about your muddy clothes and the equipment?” Luis asked.

“Leave everything here. And we’ll leave the capstone off. The police will be here in the morning. They can re-cap the well. I’ll shuck the boots when we get closer to the house.”

“Going back will be easier,” Luis said. “We just head for the lights and the noise.”

Gabriela agreed. Nothing in front of them but lawn and party house. She forged ahead in total darkness, carrying her shoes and Birkin bag. The lawn close to the house was perfectly manicured. The lawn further out, closer to the hedgerow, was thick and unruly, going to seed. Luis was walking slightly ahead of Gabriela. She heard his foot connect with something, there was an ungodly shriek, and a creature jumped out of the high grass and attacked Luis.

He was close enough to the house for some ambient light to show him in outline, all flailing arms and a large winged creature hopping on him, beating him with its wings. Gabriela ran to help, and in an instant, the creature turned on her, screaming and attacking, slashing her dress with its talons, pecking at her Birkin.

“Stand back and I’ll shoot it,” Luis said.

“It’s a peacock,” Gabriela said, swatting at the bird, trying to keep it away from the Birkin. “You can’t shoot a peacock.”

“The hell I can’t,” Luis said.

The peacock left Gabriela and returned to Luis, gaining some altitude before it dive-bombed him. Gabriela threw her shoe at it. The bird caught it midair and awkwardly flapped away.

“What the hell?” Luis said.

“I didn’t see that coming,” Gabriela said, plucking a large feather from her hair. She got the penlight out and looked at the feather. “Definitely peacock.”

“No way. You’re kidding, right?”

“You must have stumbled onto her nest.”

“This is embarrassing,” Luis said. “I just came out on the losing end with a peacock.”

“It took my shoe!”

“Sorry about the shoe. I hope it was one you didn’t like.”

“It was a Louboutin slingback.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I appreciate the effort you made to save me from death by peacock,” Luis said. “Am I going to get combat pay?”

“No, but I’ll buy you a new suit.”

They skirted the back of the house, entered through the kitchen door, and went straight to the front foyer and valet parking.

“Whoa,” the valet said when Gabriela and Luis stepped forward. “That must be some party in there.”

Their clothes were shredded. Hair was scarecrow. Gabriela was in rubber boots, carrying a single slingback.

“We stepped outside for air, and we were attacked by a peacock,” Gabriela said.

The valet nodded. “Yeah, they’re vicious at this time of the year. They lay their eggs all over the backyard. They’ll peck your eye out. I guess you didn’t get the peacock memo.”

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