#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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#Review - Witches of Dubious Origin by Jenn McKinlay #Cozy #Fantasy

Series: Books of Dubious Origin # 1
Format: 358 pages, Paperback

Release Date: October 28, 2025
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Cozy, Fantasy

When a librarian discovers she’s descended from a long line of powerful witches, she’ll need all of her bookish knowledge to harness her family’s magic, in this enchanting cozy fantasy from New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay.

Zoe Ziakas enjoys a quiet life, working as a librarian in her quaint New England town. When a mysterious black book with an unbreakable latch is delivered to the library, Zoe has a strange feeling that the tome is somehow calling to her. She decides to consult the Museum of Literature, home to volumes of indecipherable secrets, some of which possess dark magic that must be guarded.

Here, among their most dangerous collection, the Books of Dubious Origin, Zoe discovers that she is the last descendant of a family of witches and this little black book is their grimoire. Zoe knows she must decode the family’s spell book and solve the mystery of what happened to her mother and her grandmother. However, the book’s potential power draws all things magical to it, and Zoe finds herself under the constant watch of a pesky raven, while being chased by undead Vikings, ghost pirates, and assorted ghouls.

With assistance from the eccentric staff of the Books of Dubious Origin department—including their annoyingly smart and handsome containment specialist, Jasper Griffin—Zoe must confront her past and the legacy of her family. But as their adventure unfolds, she’ll have to decide whether or not she’s ready to embrace her destiny.

Witches of Dubious Origin is the first book in author Jenn McKinlay's Books of Dubious Origin series. Zoe Ziakas leads a quiet, orderly life as a reference librarian in a small New England town in Wessex, Connecticut. She's pragmatic, fact-driven, and has deliberately distanced herself from any hints of the supernatural—especially after the personal loss of her own mother a month ago. Her routine shatters when a mysterious black book with an unbreakable latch arrives at the library. 

The tome seems to call to her in an inexplicable way. Curious (and a bit unnerved), Zoe, with help from Agatha Lively, seeks answers at the prestigious Museum of Literature in New York City, home to the special collection known as the Books of Dubious Origin—volumes filled with secrets, some laced with dark magic that require careful guarding. After meeting with key characters who will be her guides along the way (Jasper, Olive, Tariq, and Miles), she learns a stunning truth: she is the last descendant of a powerful line of witches, and the insistent black book is none other than her family's sentient grimoire.

What follows is Zoe's reluctant journey into a hidden world of magic, where she must harness her inherited powers (with a strong necromantic bent), decode dangerous spells, and navigate threats from both the living and the undead. Along the way, she encounters undead figures (think Vikings and other surprises), a pesky raven, ghost pirates, and a found family of witch-librarians at the museum. A shadowy, dark witch lurks as the primary antagonist, tied to Zoe's family history in tragic ways. 

The story mixes cozy vibes with higher-stakes adventure, including elements of mystery and a light romantic thread with a sexy mage. The Museum of Literature and its "Books of Dubious Origin" collection feel like a dream destination for any book lover—enchanted grimoires, indecipherable tomes, and the idea that certain books need literal guarding add a delightful layer of whimsy. At 36, Zoe is a refreshingly adult heroine—practical, a bit repressed about her magic, and initially resistant to the chaos. 

Her growth from denying her heritage to embracing (and cleverly using) her powers, often through bookish knowledge rather than raw talent, is satisfying. The magical elements stand out for their variety and fun integration. Sentient books, necromancy with a twist, undead characters, and creative spellwork tied to literature make the world feel fresh rather than generic. The book isn't without minor flaws.

The first half can feel repetitive as Zoe processes her revelations, and the central conflict follows a somewhat predictable cozy trajectory (with the big showdown arriving late). The higher-stakes elements (murder in the family history, a vengeful dark witch) occasionally push against the "cozy" label, though they don't tip into grim territory. World-building is strong but might feel info-dumpy in spots as Zoe learns the ropes.

McKinlay’s first foray into the fantasy genre delivers a satisfying romance wrapped in a warm, magical story with a sharp-witted, bighearted witch at its core. Will likely continue as it appears that the author has plans for writing more books featuring Zoe and crew. 

1

Package for you, Zoe." Bill Reed, my coworker at the Wessex Public Library, dropped a thick padded envelope, clearly holding a book, onto my desk. I glanced up at him. I was the reference librarian. He was acquisitions. Generally, book purchases went right to him.

Bill shrugged at the confusion on my face. "I know, but it's addressed to you and stamped Personal."

I glanced at the brown envelope. Sure enough, there was the stamp in an imperative shade of red right above the handwritten name Zoanne Ziakas-my name-and the library's address. Weirdly, there was no postmark or stamps or anything to indicate it had been delivered the usual way through the post office.

"Be careful opening it." Bill's eyes narrowed behind his wire-framed glasses. "It could be-"

He paused. Clearly his imagination had run out or he was hesitant to say bomb or poison or whatever nefarious thing could possibly be stuffed into a nine-by-twelve-inch padded envelope. Bill had the pasty complexion of a man who'd spent his adult life under fluorescent lighting. He was in his fifties, happily married to his wife, Meredith, of thirty years. They had two kids in college and spent most of their time dreaming about retirement. There wasn't much that disturbed Bill, so I was surprised by his unusual caution.

"Could be what?" I prodded.

"I don't know." He ran a hand over his thinning hair in a self-soothing gesture. "I just have a bad feeling about it."

"It's probably a catalog from a publisher or a library supply company that got misdirected to me," I said. Although, when I studied the loopy script of my name written in felt-tip pen, I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle, and a flutter of alarm tickled my insides. I knew this handwriting. It was my mother's.

No, it couldn't be. My mother had passed away a month ago. There was no way she could have addressed this envelope from beyond the grave. It was just an unfortunate coincidence. Shaking off the unsettling feeling, I grabbed my scissors and sliced the envelope open. It didn't explode. No plume of poisonous smoke was emitted. Instead, out fell a thick black book encircled with a half-inch metal band that was engraved with a series of interlocking lines similar to a Celtic knot. The band latched into a decorative hexagon on the front cover. Fancy.

"Well, that underwhelms," Bill said. He appeared visibly relieved. "Looks like a journal of some sort. You were right. It's probably a promo item from a publisher."

I set the book down and glanced into the envelope. There was no note explaining what the book was, no flyer, nothing. I put the envelope aside and picked up the book. I pressed on the hexagon, thinking that might open the band. It didn't work. I tried turning the hexagon. It didn't budge.

"It's a pretty pricey item for a promo," I said. "Especially since I can't open it."

"Do you want me to try?" he offered.

"Go for it." I handed him the book.

Bill did the same pressing and twisting that I had. He tried to tug on the band but it was secured too tightly to give him any leverage. He handed it back and I returned it to its envelope for safekeeping.

"What we have here is a very decorative paperweight," he concluded.

I laughed. I opened my desk's bottom drawer and dropped the book inside. "I'll look at it later."

Bill headed back to his office, and I returned to my weekly report, forgetting all about the strange black book.


October was my favorite month, when the sticky humidity of summer departed and jeans-and-sweater weather returned. As I walked the half mile from the library to my cottage, I reveled in the chilly temperatures, the scent of wood fires on the air, and the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet.

The village of Wessex, where I lived and worked, was nestled between the Appalachian Trail and the Housatonic River, in the northwestern corner of Connecticut. It was a small community known for the private boarding school that resided on the west side of the river. I had attended that school before leaving to go to university in New Haven and then doubling back here to the only place that had ever felt like home.

As soon as I stepped inside my cottage, I slipped into my pajamas while I microwaved a big bowl of mac and cheese. I flicked on the television and scrolled through the streaming channels until I found a mystery series I had yet to watch. I preferred the British ones because I loved that the actors and actresses in them looked like real people, as opposed to American television shows, where everyone looks like a supermodel pretending to be a real person.

I was halfway through my bowl of cheesy goodness and a third of the way through the first episode when I heard a thump on my front porch. I paused the show and stopped chewing, listening intently. Living in Wessex, where everyone knew everyone, I wasn't as worried about crime as I was about a neighbor dropping by to chat. It wasn't that bad things didn't happen here-of course they did-it was just that it was very rare, and usually the person who did the crime was known for having a dented moral compass, so it wasn't a big surprise.

Thump!

The noise sounded again, only more forcefully. Putting my bowl down on the coffee table, I shoved my chenille throw aside and crossed the room to the front door, switching on the outside light. I peered out the side window that looked onto the porch before opening the door. If it was a rabid raccoon looking for food, I didn't want to get into it with him. The porch was empty.

Just to be certain everything was all right, I opened the door and poked my head out. I glanced from side to side, seeing only my large potted geranium on one side and my small wicker table and two chairs on the other. Satisfied, I went to close the door and glanced down at the doormat. I gasped. Placed on the center of the mat was the same envelope that Bill had delivered to me at work. But I knew I had left it in my desk drawer. What the hell was it doing here?

I glanced around the porch to see if someone was lurking in the shadows, playing a prank on me. It wasn't really Bill's style-he was more of a dad-joke type of guy-but he was the only person who knew about the book, so logic dictated it had to be him.

"Not funny, Bill!" I called into the darkening evening. There was no answer. No one was there.

I picked up the envelope and pulled the book out, experiencing the same twinge of unease I'd felt before. A flash of green lit the porch as the envelope was immediately engulfed in emerald flames. I yelped and dropped it. In seconds the envelope was gone, leaving no ash or smoke behind. I examined my hand and noted that the weird neon fire hadn't even felt hot.

I glanced out at the street, making certain no one had seen what had just happened. Ever since my childhood, unexpected magic had always made me anxious.

I took another look around the porch and yard before I went back inside, then locked the dead bolt. I studied the aged volume more closely. It was a shade of black so matte it seemed to soak up light. The edges of the pages were jagged and uneven. And the book's hexagonal metal latch was rusted from humidity or lack of use, I couldn't tell which. I brought it to the kitchen, thinking I could open it with a knife.

Not wanting to lose a finger, I chose a butter knife. I slid it under the decorative metal band and tried to pry it loose. The metal didn't budge. I tried to pop the hexagon with the blade as well, but it held fast. I set down the utensil and glanced at the door. If it wasn't Bill who had dropped the book off and made the envelope go poof . . . nope. I refused to go there.

The pin pricked my finger and blood beaded up out of the wound. I yelped and dropped the pin. Drops of blood dripped from my middle finger and I pressed my thumb to the tip to stop the flow. Had I just stabbed myself with a pin . . . on purpose? I blinked. I glanced down, noting that I was wearing my pajamas.

Relief whooshed inside me. It was okay. It was just a dream. An awful, stupid, painful dream. I shook my head, trying to wake myself up. It didn't work. It couldn't . . . because I was already awake.

I glanced down at my kitchen counter, where small splats of blood marred the smooth surface. The battered old book that I had tucked into my shoulder bag earlier sat on the granite beneath my pricked finger.

Shit! I had almost bled on the book. I spun away from the counter and rinsed my finger in the sink. What the hell had just happened? Sleepwalking? Night terrors? Had I actually pricked myself with a pin? Why?

Grabbing a paper towel, I wiped the blood off the granite. I rinsed off the pin and returned it to the container I kept in the utility drawer at the end of the counter. I threw the towel in the trash and stood, staring at the book in confusion. What was the book doing on the counter when I was certain I had put it in my bag?

Insistent whispers sounded at the edge of my mind. Like shadows that faded as the sun rose, the words weren't quite loud enough for me to make out, but I knew. I knew without a doubt that those whispers had been in my dreams and that they had instructed me to stab myself with the straight pin. I glanced down. Goose bumps raised on my forearms as I gazed at the black book. I ran an uninjured finger over the cover, half expecting it to be absorbed into the black leather, as if it could pull me in just as it seemed to soak in the light. It didn't and I lifted my hand and noted my fingers were trembling.

I'd had a strange feeling about this mysterious volume from the moment I'd first touched it, and I knew of only one person who might be able to help me.

2

You think grief is making me lose it," I said.

During the month since my mother had passed away, Agatha Lively-my friend, mentor, and auntie all rolled into one loving yet bossy package-had repeatedly encouraged me to go to grief counseling, even though my mother and I had been estranged for years. I'd refused, feeling that I couldn't grieve a woman I didn't know. In my heart I understood that the only thing I mourned was that any chance at a relationship with my mother was now gone forever. Okay, so maybe some counseling wouldn't have been completely out of order.

"I didn't say that, Zoe." Agatha lifted the crocheted cozy that resembled a fat white goose off the delicate Haviland teapot and poured me a cup of rose hip tea. She was a big believer in its antioxidant properties. "I merely pointed out that you haven't slept properly since your mother's funeral, and this might be because you're sleep-deprived." She gestured at my finger with the Mickey Mouse bandage on it with a pointed look.

"No judgment, please. I am a meagerly paid public servant and these were on sale."

"I don't remember you being a sleepwalker. Is this a new development?" She ignored the explanation of my choice of bandage, which I wouldn't have needed except that the pinprick had been pretty deep. I was relieved to be up on my tetanus vaccination.

"No, as far as I know I've never done anything like this before." I took the teacup she offered. We were seated in the cluttered front parlor of Agatha's house. It was an old Victorian that sat prominently on the Wessex town green and had been in the Lively family for generations. Agatha was the last surviving Lively, and the house was packed to the rafters with her family's odd heirlooms, treasures, and tchotchkes. None of which she would consider parting with despite the collective mess. Having lived with her during my school vacations, I had tried to declutter it to no avail.

Sometimes I worried that Agatha would be done in by a falling stack of books or she'd trip on the variety of small cauldrons that lined the outer edge of the steps on the central staircase or, even more horrifically, she'd be eaten by one of the many sundew plants in the greenhouse. Yes, they were carnivorous and they gave me the heebie-jeebies. Although, to give credit where credit was due, she never seemed to have a problem with insects of any kind.

Agatha was short and curvy, with a deep brown complexion, white hair that fell in orderly ringlets to her shoulders, and professorial dark-rimmed glasses, which she lowered so she could peer at me with her direct deep brown eyes when she asked, "Have you tried taking valerian root?"

"Is it candy?" I met her gaze and she sighed.

"Of course you haven't. How you have survived to almost forty years of age from the nutrition found in a vending machine is beyond me."

I smiled, mostly because it was true. Not only had Agatha been my legal guardian since I was fourteen, she had also been my first boss. Like her, I was a librarian and Agatha had hired me fresh out of library school fifteen years ago when she was the director of the Wessex Public Library.

She had witnessed firsthand how I'd cobbled together my meals of Rice Krispies Treats (breakfast), Cheez-Its (lunch), and Snickers (dinner), preferably with a cola, not diet, on the side. Of course, I ate other stuff, but those were my mainstays.

"Ignoring my poor nutrition for the moment, what do you think of the book?" I asked.

Agatha sipped from her cup as if bracing herself. She set it down on its saucer atop an impressive stack of magazines. I'd sat in this room thousands of times over the years and I still had no idea what the coffee table beneath all the magazines and books looked like.

"You absolutely can't open it?" she asked.

"No. Whatever sort of lock is on it, it's impossible to crack. Believe me, I tried everything." I took the book out of the canvas bag at my feet and handed it to her.

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