#Review - Gods Beneath the Ice by Alexandra Kennington #Fantasy #Romance

Series: Blood & Souls Duology
Format: 464 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: February 17, 2026
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy, Romance

Heartbroken and grappling with unwanted powers, Revna must work with the person she swore to forget if she’s to lead her people and unravel the secrets behind her new magic in this page-turning conclusion to the Blood & Souls Duology.

After winning the Bloodshed Trials, Revna has the crown she wanted. What she didn’t want was the newfound Lurae abilities she manifested. Still, she’s determined to bring equality to her people and end the holy war draining her kingdom’s resources. But the godtouched fear her, the godforsaken don’t trust her, and her best friend doesn’t know the truth she’s been hiding. When the war-ending treaty is signed, Revna will reveal her secrets and finally put the Hellbringer behind her.

Except the Kryllian Queen refuses to sign the treaty when she discovers how volatile Revna’s bloodsinging is. Desperate for any alliance, Revna begrudgingly agrees to the queen’s proposal: if Revna can learn to control her magic in three weeks, negotiations will resume. But there’s a catch—the queen’s general will be the one training her.

Revna will work with the Hellbringer once more, though she won’t make it easy. But when the general discovers that the dead are unable to pass on, they realize there’s more at stake than their tangled relationship. Ancient, powerful secrets tie the realm—and Revna and the Hellbringer—together, and their only hope of lasting peace is to unweave them.

Gods Beneath the Ice is the second and final installment in author Alexandra Kennington's Blood & Souls duology. This is a series inspired by Norse Mythology. A romantasy duology that follows a princess who, after winning the crown, must grapple with what it means to rule. The story picks up with Revna, our fierce and complex protagonist, now burdened by newly emerged, unwanted powers after the dramatic events of the first book. 

Heartbroken and still reeling from betrayal and loss, she finds herself forced into an uneasy alliance with the very person she vowed to erase from her life. She's keeping secrets about murder from her best friends, and she's mourning her favorite brother. However, everything changes when she sees the Hellbringer again while trying to negotiate peace with the neighboring Queen. 

This forced proximity reignites the slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers (or perhaps more accurately, rivals-to-lovers) tension that was one of the standout features of the duology. The narrative centers on Revna's struggle to lead her people amid political upheaval, uncover the ancient secrets tied to her magic, and confront the lingering gods and souls that haunt this frozen world. 

The wintry, Norse-inspired setting—complete with icy landscapes, ancient rituals, blood magic, and divine interference—feels fully realized and immersive. The lore surrounding the gods, souls, and the mysterious powers feels richer, with revelations that tie back cleverly to threads planted in book one. The politics of rival kingdoms, succession struggles, and the clash between traditional faith and forbidden magic add satisfying layers of intrigue and stakes. 

Revna's growth from a rebellious, justice-driven figure to a reluctant leader grappling with power she never wanted is portrayed with nuance and realism. Her internal conflict—balancing duty, grief, anger, and vulnerability—makes her deeply relatable. The romance, while angsty and devastating at times, earns its payoff through earned moments of trust, vulnerability, and hard-won understanding. 

There are numerous reasons for my rating, including the author's own personality, but I am not going to discourage others from reading this book. Overall, Revna got on my nerves a lot with her whining about everything. I found Revna's responses to be obnoxious at times. At first, she was just plain bull-headed & childish & thinking only about herself, all the while parading it as if she was really thinking about her kingdom or friends. I could not stand how she was justifying her anger at others & making all these excuses for herself while making the worst decisions. 

The self-sabotage was bordering on absurd, & I started to get really annoyed with her. Trust me, others have had a harder time than you. A few plot threads resolve a bit neatly, and certain secondary arcs could have benefited from more space. Although I skipped a large part of the second half of this book, I think the romance really saves Revna, as does the plot & most definitely the middle of the book.

1

Revna

I looked out at the crowd of exhausted soldiers, tense Nilurae, and scowling citizens and clenched my jaw as my thoughts told me again what I already knew to be true: every person here today hates you.

My eyes caught Freja's where she stood, just in front of the temple steps. Her foot tapped a steady, anxious rhythm against the cobblestones and she tried to muster a smile. It was a poor attempt-the result was far more grimace than anything else. I swallowed down the lump in my throat and tried not to think about how much more she would hate me tomorrow, when the treaty with Kryllian was officially signed and I told her the full truth of everything I'd been hiding.

The thought was another chip out of my carefully constructed, utterly porcelain armor. I winced as the slipup of my thoughts avalanched into something far worse.

Music.

My mother's lullaby was never far from the surface, but today, I'd shoved it down as far as possible. Now, of all times, was not an option for breaking. It was too late, though. The thud of my own heartbeat in my ears was now echoed by dozens, hundreds more as thin threads, invisible to everyone but me, stretched from my chest outward to latch my Lurae to everyone present.

Start the speech, I told myself, shuffling the papers in front of me on the podium we'd had carted down in front of the temple dais. My face itched, but I didn't scratch. The scars left by Björn three weeks ago were nearly healed now. That didn't keep them from pulling the skin of my cheekbones and forehead taut, leaving me constantly aware of the way my features were now mangled. Focus on the people. The Nilurae. You're here for them.

I opened my mouth. Words emerged, the product of nothing more than hours upon hours of rehearsing until I knew the speech better than I knew the foreign magic that was somehow a part of me now. But even as I spoke, the song of my Lurae crooned in my ears, and I heard none of what I said.

As I continued to read, more rote than anything else, I scanned the crowd again until I saw Volkan. My ex-fiancé stood at the back, arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed with concentration as he listened.

My thoughts hissed, unwanted. How long until he looks disappointed in you again? Or worse-afraid?

My hands gripped the edges of my notes hard enough to nearly crumple them. And still, I kept speaking, allowing the memorized words to flow from me. Platitudes about peace and community despite our differences, congratulations to the soldiers for their valiant efforts in the war against Kryllian. The latter rang false, I was sure of it. Volkan had insisted on putting them in.

And still, the familiar melody in my mind had hold of me. My Lurae crept over my skin with every shuddering breath, desperate to take hold of the threads gathered in front of me and pull until the bodies in the crowd were broken and lifeless and-

"As we readjust to life without a looming battle around every corner, only generosity and a willingness to see each other as equals will allow Bhorglid to become the blessed land it longs to be. Thank you."

The end of the speech was so rushed, I would be amazed if anyone could decipher it. But it was over. I stepped down, away from the podium, and into the shadow of the temple rubble. Behind me, I heard the murmurs of the crowd grow louder as everyone chatted and caught up with their friends and loved ones returned from the front.

The song quieted a bit, but it was an ever-present grip along my spine now. There was no ridding myself of it. I allowed myself to rub my fingertips softly over my scars, easing the itch slightly, and looked up at the towering statue before me.

Aloisa. She was the only remaining statue from the pantheon of gods our country worshiped at the command of the priests. Ironically, her statue had refused to fall when Halvar and the other rebels took hammers to them all.

Before the Trials, Aloisa was the only deity I related to at all. I'd wondered whether she was lonely, the only woman in a room full of men. Even my freshly forged sword, only a couple of months old, was named after her.

Now, though, I found myself looking to the statue for any small semblance of comfort more often. Loneliness didn't even begin to cover the gaping hole living inside of my chest, caving in more and more every day. Once, it had been filled with purpose, with anger, with my mind-reading older brother and his endless jokes.

"She's not real," I whispered to myself as the crowd continued to disperse behind me. I knew some of the Nilurae had set up shopping stalls around the courtyard, hoping to capitalize on the returning soldiers' hunger for familiar fresh-baked goods. Plenty of people would linger. I straightened my shoulders and shoved a new piece of porcelain over the spider-webbing crack forming in my fragile armor.

"Everything okay?"

I turned as Volkan approached, his face carefully unreadable, and offered him a tight smile. "Good enough for now."

He hummed, hands in his pockets, and a bit of a wry note took residence in his voice. "I'm sorry to break it to you, but there's no prize for giving the speech as fast as possible. Even if you likely broke your own personal record."

A huff of laughter escaped me. "Maybe we can race next time. Start the speech simultaneously and see who finishes first."

Freja joined us on the dais, far less amused. Next to her was a woman around our age-early twenties. Her dark black hair was cut just above her chin, and her eyes radiated wariness. She rubbed one of her hands against the opposite wrist, and I noticed the grooves dug into the skin there. Only years of being handcuffed frequently chafed in such a way.

I knew exactly who this woman was. My shoulders tensed and the song in my head perked up with awareness, eager to latch on to another instance of conflict between Freja and me. But I took a deep breath and forced my voice to remain calm when I turned to her, lowering my voice as I said, "We talked about this."

Freja crossed her arms. "No. I talked and you argued. How else are we going to get to the Kryllian palace in the morning? If we were going to travel on foot, we needed to leave three days ago. A teleporter is our only option now."

I clenched my hands into fists, nails digging into my palms. I reminded myself that the square was still full of people-all of whom wanted to watch me fail, all of whom were waiting for me to slip up. I was no longer magic-less enough for the Nilurae, the people I'd fought for. And my Lurae abilities manifesting so late marked me as an impostor to the pompous upper class of Bhorglid. My taut leash on my magic was stretching thin, and the melody of my mother's lullaby twisted on a sharp note that made my ears ring.

Freja waited until now to ambush you with this, my thoughts whispered. She knew you weren't going to agree otherwise, and this is her revenge for your decision to bring the army home despite her arguments against it.

"And," Freja continued, lowering her voice and stepping closer to me, "we can't afford to waste our time on logistics tomorrow. Not when we know Queen Anja wants something from us, but we aren't sure what it is."

I stiffened. "I'm well aware." It was all we'd talked about over the last three weeks: her, Volkan, and me running over the possibilities again and again, trying to parse what we had to offer Kryllian to persuade them a treaty was worth it. None of us understood why the queen had put so much effort into securing my spot on the throne.

Volkan stepped up next to me and smiled at the woman, who had said nothing but was studying us all intensely. He extended his hand. "My name is Volkan. You're Astrid, right? Freja has told us a lot about you."

Indeed she had. Freja had spent more than six weeks in prison while I trained with the Hellbringer in the northern wastes and my family continued fighting the war against Kryllian. But her time in a cell hadn't been lonely. She'd been released with new friends-namely Valen, a Seeing One, and Astrid, a Lurae woman locked away for refusing to fight in the war.

I hadn't realized until a few days ago just how close Freja and Astrid had grown. When I'd mentioned we probably needed to find a teleporter loyal to our cause to ferry us to the upcoming treaty negotiations, Freja had volunteered Astrid immediately.

Astrid shook Volkan's hand quickly, but pulled back. I waited for her to speak, but instead, her hands moved as she signed her response. Blinking, I attempted to follow what she was saying, but it had been years since Halvar had taught us the basics of sign language to communicate without alerting the priests to our plans. Over time, we'd stopped using it as consistently, but Freja and I had been nearly fluent for a while.

I managed to catch a few words. War. Lurae. Deaf. Loyal. Queen.

Desperate, I waved my hands and she paused. "Slow down?" I signed. "Please?"

A half smile and a nod as Astrid acquiesced. "The war was wrong. I did not want to fight. If I was a soldier, my needs would never have been accommodated. My Lurae peers made my childhood miserable. Prison was a luxury, one I accepted happily."

There was nothing disingenuous about her movements or her body language-it all spoke of sincerity.

Still, I was wary. After the Trials, after the betrayal, I had to be.

My Lurae hummed at the thought of my brother's body frozen in the snowy wastelands, the melody of my mother's lullaby dancing tantalizingly just out of reach. I imagined myself pulling it back, strangling it, squeezing the life out of the magic.

I could not afford a mistake. Not here. Even now, I felt eyes on me from all sides. People watching, waiting for me to show weakness.

I studied Astrid for a long moment. Her gaze remained sharply on mine, never wavering for a second to ogle my scars.

My gut instincts? They told me she was trustworthy. But my instincts had done irreparable damage to me recently-the sting of the Hellbringer's betrayal still flooded my mind every time I allowed my thoughts to wander. And with everyone in the country calling for my head on a pike, trusting a Lurae was not easy.

Trusting anyone was not an easy task.

But Freja and Volkan were right, as much as I wanted to deny it. The meeting to sign the treaty between our warring nations was tomorrow, in the Kryllian palace. We needed a teleporter to get there on time. I didn't want to bring another person into my small circle of trust. But there was no other option.

I signed, stumbling over my words, "You must be loyal. Sharing secrets... not allowed."

A smile cracked across her face, brightening her features. She nodded enthusiastically.

"The war is over," I continued. "We plan to make the Lurae and Nilurae equals. We need a teleporter to join our cause."

"I will do it." Her jaw set with determination, and a flicker of something like excitement grew behind her eyes. "Just tell me what-"

Her attention flickered past me, to the desecrated remains of the temple.

Astrid lunged for me, wrapped her arms around my middle, and threw me to the ground. I may have been suspicious of her, but I was fully unprepared for her to tackle me. The back of my head slammed against the ground, and black spots danced in front of my eyes. Astrid's entire body weight pressed me into the ground. Freja was screaming something unintelligible, and cries of shock echoed across the buildings, bouncing back and forth to twine with the song of my Lurae.

My magic woke with a vengeance, moving without my permission. It latched on to Astrid and tossed her off me. She landed heavily with a grunt and a groan but didn't move. I spared half a thought to feel guilty, but my head was spinning.

When I sat up, my dress was covered in blood. Wounded. I was wounded. Shit. I ran my palms down my front, searching for the open gash I couldn't feel. Was I in shock? There was no other explanation for why I couldn't-

Freja's voice solidified. "Volkan! Help her!"

My best friend knelt beside Astrid, whose hands clutched her abdomen on the right side. The hilt of a dagger peered out from them, and I realized suddenly that it had been meant for me. Astrid had seen the danger and attempted to push me out of the way.

I stood and the world swayed around me. An assassination attempt. I wanted to laugh, but my head throbbed so painfully I almost collapsed again. The perfect timing for a true test of Astrid's loyalty-one she'd passed with flying colors.

The song of my Lurae swelled, taking over until I could hear only the melody. It moved in tempo with my rushing heartbeat. I watched Volkan run over to Astrid, kneel beside her. The threads stretching from me yearned to move closer. There, there, where the blood is pooling on the ground-

I forced myself to my feet. I couldn't look out at the crowd of once-friendly Nilurae and returned Lurae soldiers, not when I already knew the variety of expressions that would face me. Instead, I focused on Freja's tear-strewn face, Volkan's concentrated expression as he ran his hands over the wound. He grimaced when he grabbed the blood-slick hilt and wrenched the dagger from Astrid's flesh. She groaned, the sound making its way straight to me.

Someone had tried to kill me. To remove me from the throne permanently. And in the process, they'd hurt an innocent person instead.

The song in my veins rose in a crescendo.

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#Review - Antihero by Gregg Hurwitz #Thriller #Suspense

Series: Orphan X # 11
Format: 416 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: February 10, 2026
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thriller, Suspense

In the latest in this New York Times best-selling series, Evan Smoak takes on his most complex mission yet—one where he has to find a way to balance vengeance with mercy.

Once a black ops assassin for the government known as Orphan X, Evan Smoak broke with the program and went deep underground, using his operational rules and skills to help the truly desperate with nowhere else to turn.

When Luke Devine, one of the most powerful men in the world, has a psychological crisis, Evan flies to the East Coast to meet Luke. While there, he learns of a young woman who was kidnapped off the New York City subway, clearly in danger and in need of aid. With no name and few clues, Evan and his team track down the missing woman, who was assaulted and abandoned. Evan offers his help—and sets out tracking down the young men responsible. But the woman insists that Evan abandon his usual methods—no vengeance and, in particular, no killing. Which will prove no easy feat, given the mounting incoming threats from all sides. In a mission that takes Evan from coast to coast, from the poorest corners of society to the richest, Orphan X must figure out a way to protect the innocent, avenge the victimized, and balance justice with a measure of mercy.

Antihero is the 11th installment in author Gregg Hurwitz's Orphan X series. In this latest thriller, Evan Smoak—once the government's black-ops assassin known as Orphan X, now operating as the shadowy "Nowhere Man"—takes on what may be his most morally complex mission to date. The story begins with Anca Dumitrescu, a Romanian-American with a condition that causes her to have two seizures a day. She wears a sign around her neck to ask for help in public, giving care instructions and asking her good Samaritans to stay with her until she wakes. 

She asks a young girl for help as she goes into a seizure, but her possible savior leaves the subway just as four predatory young men enter. This leads Evan, accompanied by Joey, to Luke Devine, one of the world's most powerful (and unstable) figures, during a severe psychological crisis. A man whom he was previously sent to kill, but he let him live. What begins as a rescue operation evolves into a quest for justice and vengeance against those responsible, forcing Evan to confront difficult questions about mercy, punishment, and the line between heroism and vigilantism. Anca wants justice, but not the justice that Evan tends to mete out when someone crosses the line. 

Evan also makes an effort to reach an understanding with Naomi Templeton, who has tried hard to bring Evan in for the things he's done in the past. Still reeling from the events and the major loss of a friend in the previous book (Nemesis), he grapples with grief, self-doubt, and the challenge of evolving beyond his assassin instincts. Key supporting characters like Joey add layers of tension and heart—Evan's protective instincts clash with his need to let those he cares about step into danger—while new figures like Anca and Devine bring fresh emotional weight and nuance. 

There are some other curiosities as well, namely Mia Hall and Candy McClure's relationship with Evan. When you try to diagnose the dynamics, you have to step back and marvel at how many curious women Evan has in his life, including Joey and Naomi. The pacing is relentless, starting with a gripping, violent opener and building through coast-to-coast chases that span gritty urban underbellies and elite corridors of power. Plus, the author adds a few side missions to handle, which means Evan has a plate full of things to deal with.

It seems as though after every book in this series, I ask the same question. How much more can Evan take? He's lost one of his best friends, and he's walking a tightrope between being caught by federal law enforcement and helping people who need it badly, like Anca and several others. Plus, at one point in this book, Evan ponders all the people he has helped throughout the series, which makes me curious about how many more books will be written in this series. The dynamics between Evan and Candy are an interesting idea, as is the recurring relationship with Mia Hall.   

1All Fight. No Flight.

Shiny penny-sized blood drops on the white tile floor of the East Los Angeles bodega reflect back the sterile fluorescent lights above. In the immediate wake of the violence, the bodega is deserted, aside from the clerk who clutches his chest with one hand and covers his mouth with the other. His ancient sun-beaten skin is paper thin, and he is frail, bones tenting the fabric of his off-brand polo. He has seen a lot of violence in his day. But nothing like this.

A finger, cleanly sliced off, has landed on the cloudy plastic mat beside the cash register. An arm, severed just below the elbow, rests on the floor a short distance from the checkout counter. The wrist, grotesquely, still wears a retro Pac-Man watch. The clerk is incapable of tearing his gaze away.

A display of Hostess desserts is knocked over from the post-ambush struggle, Ho Hos, Twinkies, and Sno Balls strewn across the spattered floor. Ghostly crimson footprints choreograph the struggle where five grown men attacked Lesandro, a fifteen-year-old boy they had mistaken for a rival gang member.

The revelation of Lesandro’s mistaken identity came only after half of his limb was cleaved from his body in a single hack. In an instant the boy had been transformed from mistaken target to innocent to witness capable of testifying against his five attackers, his own disfigurement ensuring the hit on him had to proceed. In the momentary confusion, Lesandro had managed—barely—to flee.

A bloody handprint mars the glass of the single automatic door, which bangs open and shut against Lesandro’s shed Air Jordan, which lies trapped in the threshold. Night air blows through in sporadic puffs, tasting of car exhaust, oil, carne asada on a distant grill.

If you ease through the oscillating gap into the chill black night, you can follow various footprints for a half block until the red fades away. After that, a convenient trail of dribbled blood continues to mark the way. You might catch up, if not to Lesandro, panting and wild-eyed, then at least to the five men in pursuit of him.

A half block behind him but closing the gap, they wear wifebeaters or white T-shirts with blocks of blue, red, and green. They wear headbands or backward baseball caps with flat brims. They wear expressions of teeth-bared malice and flecks of blood on their cheeks.

You might not believe there is a gang as vicious as MS-13, but that speaks only to the limits of your imagination. The decades-old Trinitarios were birthed in Rikers Island to protect Dominican inmates from the Salvadorans, Latin Kings, Bloods, and other predators feeding inside the lethal prison ecosystem. Their weapons of choice are machetes because, they are fond of saying, a gun runs out of bullets but a blade never does. Torture and murder, home invasions and drug running, they do it all. So vicious are they that the gang itself splinters and those splinters splinter until they are a rageful disintegration of packs turning on themselves, maiming and killing indiscriminately.

An East Coast gang, they have recently spread to make inroads on the left coast, a murderous manifest destiny. These five Trinitarios are at the forefront, franchise openers for East L.A.

Right now they are picking up steam.

Lesandro is losing steam. Understandably so.

His sock flops from his shoeless foot. He stumbles and weaves along the sidewalk, occasional passersby darting to safety in doorways or sprinting across the street. His face is pale, lips dry and cracked, flaked with cotton in the corners. Now he can hear the footfall behind him, quickening.

Cupping his stump, he bolts up a narrow and dark side road, the streetlights flickering or shot out overhead. On either side of the potholed stretch of asphalt loom long-abandoned places of business—a graffiti-covered mechanic shop, a shut-down textile-processing plant, a low-income housing unit scorched through with arsonist’s fire. Jagged mouths of window openings sip in the night. Discarded furniture rises from dumpsters.

As Lesandro casts a frantic glance over his shoulder, he staggers into a parking meter, which knocks him across the curb and into the street.

A truck bears down.

Not just any truck.

A discreet-armored Ford F-150.

Behind the wheel sits a shadowed form of a man, ordinary of size and bearing.

The truck halts abruptly, veering sharply to barely avoiding finishing what the Trinitarios started in the bodega.

Lesandro slams into the passenger-side door of the truck. Internally lined with bullet-resistant Kevlar, it does not dent. He takes a few wobbly steps up onto the curb and leans against a rough brick wall beside a blown-out window. Breath heaves from him.

His pursuers near, backlit. Their shadows pull high up the dilapidated buildings, a convoy of ghouls. If you squint, you might make out the silhouettes of machetes at their sides, dancing along the wall.

Lesandro is a sweet boy with Gauguin eyes and a broad, pleasing nose. He sags against the brick rise, his face tilted down. He is drooling. At his side, wind sucks through the broken pane, a wail that underscores his own labored breathing.

The men rush forward, closing in on Lesandro.

The truck’s passenger door flies open, catching the first in line squarely.

He body-slams into the door, his nose meeting the laminated armor glass of the window. The glass does not crack, but one cheek and two ribs do. The man emits not so much a grunt as an ejection of air, and collapses onto the street. Inside the truck, the dark form in the driver’s seat leans over once again, and the door pulls shut above the unconscious body.

The other four men halt in the darkness of the street, weapons dangling at their sides, breath huffing in the February air. Three of the men wield machetes. One holds instead a slender steel pipe. Silence befalls the street.

The driver’s door opens.

An Original S.W.A.T. tactical boot sets down onto the street.

The man emerges.

He is known by different names—Orphan X, the Nowhere Man, Evan Smoak.

He removes a rugged-looking phone from his pocket and dials three numbers, gazing calmly at the men. “Yes, hello. Please send ambulances and PD to this location. I’ll text decimal coordinates now. There are six injured parties.”

The Trinitarios look at him, more perplexed than angry, their heads tilted in comical unison.

“Yes, six,” Orphan X continues. “The most acute is a young man with a severed left arm and a finger missing from his right hand. The wound has just been stabilized and I’ve started fluids. The arm is likely gone but please bring a waterproof bag and ice container for the finger in case it can be located.”

“Hey,” one of the gangsters says. And then, louder, “Hey!”

Orphan X holds up a just-a-sec finger to him, listening to the question over the phone. “The other injuries? Those have yet to be ascertained.”

On the ground by the passenger door, the fallen man releases a moan of pain before falling unconscious again.

“Rapa tu mai,” one of his cohorts hisses at Orphan X through irregular gold teeth.

“Depending on how this goes,” Orphan X says into the phone, “you may want to send a hearse as well.”

He hangs up. Frowns at the screen. Thumbs once. A bloop sound effect confirms the conveyance of coordinates to 911.

Casually, he circles the back of his truck, passing within feet of the poleaxed gang members as he walks over to Lesandro. Blood drools from the stump through the thumb and remaining three fingers of the boy’s good hand. His teeth chatter.

Orphan X takes the boy gently by the shoulders and slides him down the wall to sit. A breeze whines across the broken glass of the pane to their side. A weathered mural of a young mother and her younger girl remains faded on the brick near them, dates bookending too-short lives, a memorial for the Trinitarios’ last innocent bystanders.

Lesandro’s teeth chatter some more. “My watch,” he says. “I c-can’t find my watch.”

Crouching over him, Orphan X says, “It’s okay. We’ll get it soon enough.”

“Yo,” one of the attackers says, stepping forward. “What the fuck, mamagüevo? You know where you are right now?”

The machete tap-tap-taps the outside of his thigh.

Orphan X turns to appraise the man in full. His white T-shirt looks useful.

Orphan X’s left hand blurs and a Strider folding knife lifts from his pocket, snapped open by the very gesture. The machete has no chance to lift from the man’s side before Orphan X steps forward and punches the knife into the intercostal space between the man’s second and third ribs. Air hisses out as the lung collapses.

Orphan X push-kicks him in the hip, spinning him around, grabbing a fistful of shirt at the back collar, and whipping the Strider upward to rake through the fabric.

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#Review - Secondhand Luck by Kim Harrison #Fantasy #Paranormal

Series: The Shadow Age #2
Format: 480 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: February 10, 2026
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy / Paranormal

Against an ancient shadow with a deadly agenda, Petra Grady’s luck may be about to run out, in the next book in the enthralling contemporary fantasy series from the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling Hollows novels.

It’s been months since Petra Grady bonded with the shadow Pluck. With the help of researcher Benedict Strom, she has made a place for herself at St. Unoc University as the first weaver to use shadow magic in a thousand years. But some are not happy to acknowledge the new shadow/weaver pair, and Petra and Pluck aren’t surprised when they’re blamed for every recent trouble.

When a new weaver is drawn to St. Unoc, Pluck quickly realizes the novice magic user has not come alone. Trailing her is Thoth, a devious shadow responsible for betraying his own kind and setting mage against weaver thousands of years ago. His goal hasn’t changed, and when Thoth turns both the mage courts and the university against Petra, she and Pluck must risk everything to uncover a truth that even Pluck has forgotten.

Shadows, though, have earned their terrifying reputation, and if Petra can’t prove her and Pluck’s innocence and capture Thoth, any hope of balance will be gone—taking Pluck and her with it.

Secondhand Luck is the second installment in author Kim Harrison's The Shadow Age series. This contemporary fantasy novel continues to explore a fascinating world where luck is a tangible resource, "dross" (bad luck) must be managed, and ancient shadows hold immense power. This is the sequel to Three Kinds of Lucky, which launched a new paranormal series featuring a terrific female main character, a touch of romance, a lot of action, and Kim's trademark sense of humor, sure to appeal to fans of the Hollows. 

Months after the events of the first book, Petra Grady has settled into her groundbreaking role at St. Unoc University as the first weaver in a millennium to bond with and wield shadow magic—thanks to her irrepressible shadow companion, Pluck. Petra finds herself working with Lev and the militia, using her skills as a weaver alongside her shadow Pluck. Her new goal is to try to find more weavers in the world for all the lost and unbonded shadows. But acceptance is fragile. When troubles arise on campus and beyond, fingers quickly point to Petra and Pluck. 

The arrival of a new weaver named Marty brings complications: she's trailed by Thoth, an ancient and treacherous shadow with a long history of betrayal and a vendetta against balance between mages, weavers, and shadows, something Petra and Pluck have been trying to manage while dealing with Marshal Cameron Owens who thinks that Petra is at the center of all the trouble that follows. Petra must navigate prejudice from mage courts, the militia, separatists, and university authorities while racing to expose truths long buried—even from Pluck himself. 

The stakes feel personal and world-altering, as failure could destroy the fragile harmony Petra has begun to build. The story is action-packed and intense, blending mystery, political intrigue within magical factions, and high-stakes confrontations. It expands significantly on the lore introduced in book one, deepening our understanding of the hierarchy of magic users, the nature of dross, and the shadowy history that shaped this society. 

Petra remains a standout heroine—resourceful, determined, and endearingly flawed as she grows into her powers and beyond what she thought she was capable of. Her bond with Pluck, who can take the form of a dog and a man, is the heart of the series: Pluck's witty, loyal, and slightly chaotic personality provides both comic relief and emotional depth, making their partnership one of the most enjoyable duos in recent fantasy. A very curious ending to this story, which I hope means we will get a sequel. There are too many questions as to what Petra has become after her confrontation with Thoth. 

1

The coffeehouse was a familiar mix of shoppers grabbing a quick bite and silent, focused people working on their laptops, gazes fixed and lukewarm cups of coffee beside them. The Chicago River was only a few blocks off, and I stifled a shiver when the wind drove pellets of snow against the wide windows, pattering like rain. It felt good to be out of St. Unoc-even if my thin Arizona blood couldn't handle the cold-and I hunched deeper into my admittedly lightweight coat as I waited for Lev to come back with coffee.

All the better to fit in with, my dear, I thought as I scanned the café for our target. Chicago had a decent-size mage population, which meant glittery dross hung in the corners like bits of straw paper and discarded stirring sticks-and my nose wrinkled in disgust at the waste created by magic use. Unlike mundanes, mages, sweepers, and Spinners could all see the latent, dangerous energy to some degree, but only sweepers and Spinners could physically handle it without issue.

It wasn't illegal for mages to discard their dross at the point of magic; in fact, I harbored the belief that most mages did it for the amusement factor, getting a kick out of watching an oblivious mundane step in it like dog doo, where it invariably fractured into bad luck. I'd always thought the practice criminally risky. Too many accidents might break the silence of our existence and expose us. Everyone was supposed to work to keep the silence. Most mages equated that with sweepers cleaning up after them.

I wasn't a sweeper anymore, having found my true potential as a weaver, but it was hard to let go of the feeling of passive discrimination, and I risked a glance at Benedict sitting with a smiling woman at the far end of the store. He was the bait in this bad-mage trap-clearly the most affluent of our four-person team. It was a good bet that, as innocuous as the woman seemed, we had found our target.

Lev's militia intel hadn't included a description, other than it was a woman who had been magically mugging both human and mage alike for the last three months. Three months, and all they had was that she was an ether mage, stealing everything in her take's wallet, both physical and phone. She blotted out the incriminating memories, leaving her victims oblivious until after the fact. All we had was that she tended to pick up her marks around here. Sloppy.

But I suppose if you could magic the memory of yourself right out of someone's mind, you could afford to be a little sloppy.

The door chimes rang, and I pulled my collar closer when two men came in, coats open as if oblivious to the cold. So unfair, I thought when the draft hit me. "You okay, Pluck?" I whispered as I fingered my lodestone, safe around my neck.

A deeper cold tingled against my fingertips, the sensation somehow carrying a feeling of mirth. I am the cold, sifted dryly through my mind, and I smiled as I tucked the rough, semitransparent, greenish-black crystal behind my sweater, where it made a cold spot against me. Living shadows did best in the dark, and though Pluck could tolerate light if he took a form, a sleek hairless dog the size of a Doberman would attract a lot of attention. His snake aspect would be even worse. I usually discouraged him from hiding in the wire-wrapped chunk of moldavite, but the longer he was in it, the more dark matter accumulated in it-and the stronger my magic was.

I was pretty sure that was our coffee sitting at the take-out counter, and still Lev chatted up the barista, either to make sure she wasn't the mage we were looking for or, more likely, because the trim woman was very much his type. Lev was the lead on this, being mage militia-our clandestine police force in a world where magic wasn't supposed to exist. His recent promotion put him as Master Ranger Lev Evander, but bunnies would lay eggs before I'd call him that, especially when the promotion had been so he could better babysit Pluck and me.

Agreeing to work with-not for-the militia had been the best of my bad choices, and until I found a way out of my agreement, I was splitting my time between the militia and working for St. Unoc University, one of a few mage schools of higher learning. Both the university and the militia wanted to know if a living shadow could overpower ether magic-which was why I was here, freezing my toes off in Chicago in November.

And where I went, Dr. Benedict Strom, my boyfriend and one-time darling of St. Unoc University, pulled strings to find a reason to follow. If we were lucky, we'd snag the thief this afternoon, giving Pluck and me time to check out the local high school for a possible weaver hiding among the sweeper population. Catching a badly behaving ether mage would put some money in my pocket, but finding a weaver was my true goal. That, and a really good pizza.

This is taking too long, I thought as Lev finally gathered our coffees and headed over. St. Unoc had an artificially high ratio of magic users to mundanes. Though still covert, magic was an everyday occurrence at the university. Here, in downtown Chicago, any blatant show of the paranormal would get everyone in trouble. We had to be fast and subtle. Fast I could handle. Subtle . . . not so much.

"The barista is clear?" I asked when Lev set a coffee in front of me, and the young man with his intentionally too-long hair nodded. Cold, I wrapped both my hands around the paper cup to try to warm them. Steam rose between me and my view of Benedict and the possible suspect.

Jealousy flickered, soothed by Pluck's confident thoughts twining about mine. Once, sharing mental space had given me a migraine. Not bad considering anyone else but a weaver would be driven insane by it. That had been months ago, and now all that remained was a faint sense of fizzing, the cold of pure energy diving deep in my mind whenever we touched.

Lev dragged a stool closer to the high table, the slim, shorter man easing himself onto it with a casual hip shift. He was wearing a tatty cloth coat and worn knit hat, but he still looked military to me, even slouched as he was. It was something in the eyes, the walk: steady, observant, not a flinch when a crash came from behind the counter. A lodestone glittered from one ear, the glass more precious than the diamond it was trying to mimic. He was a mage, obviously, but I'd never felt slighted in his presence, not even once, and I trusted him, had trusted him, with my life.

"I got some of those little scones," he said as he unwrapped the brightly patterned paper. "You want one?"

I shook my head, too nervous to eat. "To better blend in?" I guessed, and his smile widened into a grin.

"Because I'm hungry," he said as he shoved an entire scone into his mouth. "Don't look at them," he said, his words garbled.

I grimaced, knowing he was right. Much to my surprise, Pluck ghosted out of the moldavite lodestone. The shadow was careful to remain in a near pure-energy state that would be hard to see, his hazy, tingling wash of presence slipping down my arm like an icy aura until he coalesced into a wispy snake wrapped around my wrist. Large dog, small snake: the living energy was what he wanted to be.

"It's got to be her," I said, annoyed at how close their heads were when Benedict showed the pretty brunette something on his phone and she giggled.

An unexpected wave of amusement hit me. Pluck's, obviously. If you want him to do more than kiss you, you should mention it. Good men require an invite, the shadow suggested.

Oblivious to our silent conversation, Lev nudged his plastic cup lid to the floor to use the excuse of picking it up to glance at them. "It's her." Lev resettled himself, his arm wrapped protectively about the bag of scones. He had shifted position, though, and it only took a slight tilt of his head to see them. "The barista says she's a regular."

I sipped my coffee, eyes almost closing as the nutty warmth slipped down. "She didn't show any interest until Benny added two hundred dollars to his coffee card."

"You noticed that, too?" Motions languid, Lev stretched, the small man ending the motion by taking the phone from his pocket. "Hey, her intel came in." Brow furrowed, he scrolled. "She's a Ms. Fawn Nates. Works in retail a few blocks down. Mage, but it doesn't say what she specializes in. Ah! Here it is. Her father was a professor of ether studies out on the East Coast." His eyes met mine. "Deceased."

A quiver ran through me, making ripples on the coffee in my hand and pulling Pluck's hooded head up from my wrist. Most magic users learned from their parents. St. Unoc went beyond, teaching the skills to use magic in your mundane job for better effect and not get caught.

I snuck a glance, not liking that she saw Benedict as an easy mark. Lev wadded up his empty bag, clearly amused. "You want to hold hands? Make him jealous?"

Pluck's interest snapped to my forethoughts from where he'd been watching the electrons haze the overhead lights. You do and I'll freeze his fingernails off.

"Ah, no," I said, adding a mental rebuke: Pluck, relax. I'd known Lev for a few years, but until recently he'd been the neighbor down the hall, fixated on my roommate with a sweet, puppyish attraction. That he'd actually been surveilling her as a suspected separatist mage had come as a nasty shock. Now that Ashley was in mage prison, Lev and I occasionally spiraled together to bust our respective boredoms. Benedict had been giving me more space than I needed or wanted. I think he was worried he would come between Pluck and me, but Pluck was my shadow, and Benny? Benny was the best thing since smartphones.

I snuck another glance at Benedict over a sip of coffee, grimacing when his hand touched that woman's shoulder for a telling second when he stood. "He's moving," I said softly, and a small noise slipped from Lev. "She's not. He's going to the register."

"Uh-huh." Lev chuckled. "Don't look at her. She's spelling."

The sensation of Pluck around my wrist grew icy cold. It was all I could do to not turn.

"Nice tidy field," Lev murmured, head down as he pushed a drop of spilled coffee into a spiral. "Her lodestone is in a ring. Right hand."

"Right hand. Check." I stared at my coffee. If we snagged her lodestone, she couldn't spell anyone into forgetting anything. That is, if she only had the one. Ashley had usually carried three, but she was a separatist mage hell-bent on exterminating weavers-which had really put a crimp in our friendship when we realized I was one. Pluck?

Pluck's thoughts fizzed sourly in mine. I knew he didn't like Benedict, but I did, and the whole point of us being here was because Pluck said ether magic didn't affect shadows.

"Curious." Lev shifted in his chair. "She didn't throw the spell. She's left it on his chair."

"Like, for him to sit on?" Pluck, I tried again, only to get a sensation of obstinate defiance. The shadow snake wasn't interested in helping Benedict, only in keeping me safe. "Can you tell if it's ether magic?"

Lev shook his head. "Not by looking." His frown deepened as his eyes met mine. "She made a shitload of dross, though. Hey, is that shadow dog of yours ready?"

Pluck, if you don't show your value, they won't let us leave St. Unoc again.

Immediately his fizzy, icy presence sharpened in mine. It's a memory charm. It will take a few moments to mature after contact. Once it does, he will not remember the afternoon.

I took a slow breath, nervous. I was used to handling problems no one else could, quietly and with a practiced precision. This covert stuff was not my go-to. "It's her. Pluck says it will erase Benny's memory."

You want to see her without turning your head? Pluck asked, and before I could answer, his cold presence slithered deeper into my mind as if it were his own. I blinked at the table, dizzy with a confusing double vision until I submitted and Pluck's awareness took precedence.

With a subliminal whoosh, every single haze of dross in the room brightened into a threatening sparkle. It was how Pluck saw the world, and his fear of the unstable energy drifted about my thoughts as our minds became one. My entire outlook became crystalline almost, older, sharper, slower, and having a lot more complex feelings.

That said, Pluck moved on emotion, not logic. Most shadows did, or at least the few I'd talked with. It made them unfortunately easy to manipulate by those who knew. 'Course, if you did a shadow wrong, you'd likely end up driven insane by something alien and subversive in your brain.

This, though, was marvelous, and I relaxed as Pluck filled my mind. It was like training your brain to decipher a stereogram, and suddenly I was seeing both my coffee before me and Fawn Nates halfway across the store. Such finesse would have been impossible even a few weeks ago, but Pluck was getting better at working with my senses and I was getting better at trusting him. The scintillating cold carrying the scent of the universe felt almost comfortable.

Lev was right. A huge drift of dross hazed under the table like a heat distortion, and the prim woman pulled her feet in to avoid it. "Bizarre," I whispered, letting Pluck settle deeper into the folds of my brain.

I saw most spells as a glow or aura-like haze. Pluck, though, saw the charm waiting on Benedict's chair as a glittering lacework of potential energy, far more organized than dross. The latticelike pattern was more complex than I could see with my mundane eyes, and for a moment, I simply stared, fascinated. This is amazing, Pluck. How do you know what it does?

His flash of pleased amusement raced through me. You can read a menu, can't you?

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#Review - The Last Wish of Bristol Keats by Mary E. Pearson #Fantasy #Romance

Series: The Courting of Bristol Keats (#2)
Format: 448 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: November 13, 2025
Publisher: Flatiron Books
Source: Library
Genre: Fantasy / Romance

Everyone needs something to hold onto, even if it’s a lie.

After Bristol Keats nearly loses her beloved King Tyghan to the monsters her mother had unleashed, their love deepens to a whole new level. Together, Bristol and Tyghan work to understand and reconcile their differences, moving forward with their common goal of saving Elphame. But when a daring rescue attempt turns into a disaster, and a beloved knight dies, Bristol is forced to confront the fact that her mother is more powerful than she could have ever imagined—and more dangerous. Meanwhile, Tyghan’s heart is laid bare when he encounters his former best friend and betrayer again, Bristol's own father, and must wrestle with a new secret that throws everything he thought he knew about his past into question.

Bristol is Elphame’s last chance for survival, but where do her loyalties truly lie? If she fully embraces the magic that has always been her birthright, she could become a different kind of monster from her mother. Is she willing to risk losing the people she loves most, if it means keeping them safe?

Brimming with dark secrets, lush world-building, and addictive romance, The Last Wish of Bristol Keats is the unforgettable conclusion to New York Times bestselling author Mary E. Pearson's first adult series.

The Last Wish of Bristol Keats is the second part of a two-part duology by author Mary E. Pearson. The Courting of Bristol Keats is her adult debut series. Picking up immediately after the cliffhanger of book one, The Last Wish of Bristol Keats follows Bristol Keats, a young woman thrust into the dangerous faerie realm of Elphame, leaving her sisters behind in hopes of bringing her family back together. Having narrowly saved her love, King Tyghan, from monstrous threats tied to her own family's dark secrets, Bristol must now navigate deepening betrayals. 

Her mother, Maire, emerges as a formidable antagonist, wielding power that threatens the entire realm, while Tyghan grapples with revelations about his past and a treacherous former ally. Bristol, revealed as Elphame's potential savior, faces an impossible choice: fully embrace her inherited magic—which could turn her into something monstrous—or risk losing everything she holds dear. The story weaves political intrigue in fae courts, daring rescues, tests of loyalty, and themes of found family, self-discovery, and the cost of power, including trying to save not only her mother from being controlled but also her father, who isn't exactly well-liked in Elphame. 

For the most part, the romance between Bristol and Tyghan is a standout—sweet, spicy, and refreshingly communicative. Unlike many romantasy tropes heavy on miscommunication, these two talk through their conflicts, reconcile differences, and build a partnership that feels earned and satisfying. Their chemistry provides genuine heart amid the chaos, with steamy scenes that fit naturally into the adult shift without feeling gratuitous. Themes of family secrets, betrayal, and redemption add layers, especially through Bristol's complex parental ties. 

Multiple POVs offer perspectives from side characters, and deepen the sense of a broader threat. For fans of found family dynamics, the bonds among Bristol's allies deliver warmth and heartbreak in equal measure. Bristol faces limited real resistance in key conflicts, reducing tension for those craving high-adventure stakes. Multiple POVs, though insightful, occasionally dilute focus or add confusion. There is plenty of loss in this book, and I don't blame Bristol for her choices in the end. I would dare anyone to say they wouldn't have made the same choices. 

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