#Review - Blind Fear by Brandon Webb, John David Mann #Thrillers / #Suspense

Series: The Finn Thrillers  (#3)
Format: Hardcover, 416 pages
Release Date: July 11, 2023
Publisher: Bantam
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thrillers / Suspense

Haunted by the death of his best friend and hunted by the FBI for war crimes he didn’t commit, Finn lands on an island paradise that turns into his own personal hell in this gripping follow-up to Steel Fear and Cold Fear—from the New York Times bestselling writing team Webb & Mann . . .

By day, AWOL Navy SEAL Finn is hiding out on Vieques, a tiny island paradise off the eastern coast of Puerto Rico, living in a spare room behind a seafood restaurant owned by a blind local. By night he scours the dark web, hunting for the rogue officer responsible for the crimes he is accused of committing.

But Finn’s world is about to be turned upside down by a new nightmare, when his employer’s two grandchildren go missing. To find them, he’ll have to infiltrate the island’s dangerous criminal underbelly and expose a shadowy crime network known as La Empresa—even if it means exposing himself in the process.

As the children go on their own harrowing odyssey to stay one step ahead of a cop-turned-killer, a hurricane batters the coastline, cutting Puerto Rico off from the rest of the world. Taking his pursuit to the sea, Finn’s skills and endurance will be tested to their limits to rescue the lost children and escape his own pursuers before the clock runs out. No one is to be trusted. And those who are seemingly his friends might be the most dangerous foes he’s faced yet.

Blind Fear, by co-authors Brandon Webb & John David Mann, is the second installment in the Finn Thrillers series. Ever since Navy SEAL sniper Chief Finn left the USS Abraham Lincoln after being warned by his friend Carol to run, he's been a hunted man. Hunted because someone high up on the chain of command has put a target on his back as a war criminal who slaughtered a village in Yemen. His memories of that night are fuzzy, but he does know that neither he, or his team leader and friend Lieutenant Kennedy had nothing to do with a rogue element that actually did commit the atrocity. 

 

8 months ago, Finn fled Iceland and ended up in Vieques, Puerto Rico. By day, Finn lives in a spare room behind a seafood restaurant owned by a blind local named, Zacharias. By night he scours the dark web, hunting for the rogue officer responsible for the crimes he is accused of committing. But Finn’s world is about to be turned upside down by a new nightmare, when his employer’s two grandchildren (Pedro and Miranda) go missing. To find them, he’ll have to infiltrate the island’s dangerous criminal underbelly and expose a shadowy crime network known as La Empresa—even if it means exposing himself in the process.

 

As the children go on their own harrowing odyssey to stay one step ahead of a cop-turned-killer, a hurricane batters the coastline, cutting Puerto Rico off from the rest of the world. Finn's troubles get even more darker when former Abraham Lincoln pilot now Navy JAG officer, is hot on his tail, and she is like a bull dog searching for its bone. Taking his pursuit to the sea, Finn’s skills and endurance will be tested to their limits to rescue the lost children and escape his own pursuers before the clock runs out. No one is to be trusted. And those who are seemingly his friends might be the most dangerous foes he’s faced yet.

 

Thoughts: This story takes place entirely on the Islands of Puerto Rico, including places where the Navy used to test their bombs. Finn not only has to find two children who are trying to not only stay alive, but avoid being captured by criminals who are into drugs and human trafficking, and Monica and her partner who have orders to kill Finn on sight. The authors once again tempt readers with Finn's background which is not exactly warm and fuzzy. It's dark and sad. In all fairness, I would hope to see or meet the mysterious Carol who seems to know what is actually happening.

1

Nico Santiago had a dream. He envisioned a thriving, dazzling Puerto Rico, envy of the States, jewel of the Caribbean, a transformation people would be talking about a hundred years from now, a metamorphosis that all started with his beloved city—­San Juan, pride of the commonwealth.

Why not? Look what they’d done with New York City in the nineties. Clean up the street crime, purge the corruption. Lance the boil! Drain the infection!

Which meant taking down the Devil.

Yes, Nico was only one guy, a lowly homicide cop. But hey, every revolution started with some nobody who cared enough to act, right?

Which was why, at that moment, he was jumping over two toppled trash bins in the middle of the night, slipping on the grease-­covered garbage that spilled over the cobblestones, and falling on his ass in an alley in La Perla, the sketchiest neighborhood in the city.

“¡Mierda!”

Nico swore under his breath as he scrabbled to his feet and kept running. Down a set of crumbling cement steps, across a narrow cobblestone street, hopping a chain-­link fence, he ran on, straining to catch any scraps of sound beyond the slow pounding of the surf below and his own ragged breath.

There! A scuffle of footsteps, dead ahead.

Ha. The puta was heading for the shoreline—­as if the rocks and seawater could save him! Just like he’d thought he could shake Nico in the first place by trying to disappear down here into the city’s coastal underbelly.

La Perla: America’s oldest shantytown. A shunned strip, third of a mile long, jammed outside the city walls down on the rocky Atlantic shore. Built over the ruins of a slaughterhouse, abutting the city’s graveyard, original home of the homeless, the slaves, the non-­white servants. La Perla was everything Nico loved and hated about his homeland. The uncrushable spirit of its people. The legacy of oppression, poverty, and crime.

The place where they shot “Despacito,” the greatest music video ever made.

The one place in the city where, if you got into trouble at night, the police wouldn’t come for you.

But I’m coming for you now, puta. And you are in one shit-­pile of trouble, aren’t you?

He heard the man’s feet hit the cement boardwalk and go bolting off to the east. Nico followed, sprinting full-­out . . . three hundred feet . . . five hundred feet . . . 

He should have called his partner, shouldn’t be out here on his own, shouldn’t have been stalking this pendejo by himself. His superior officers had nixed the stakeout, nixed the whole investigation, in fact. Too hot, they said. Not worth the risk.

But it was worth the risk. Nico knew this in his gut. Nail this one guy and he could crack open the whole pineapple. Unmask the Devil himself and end this horrific reign of terror. He wouldn’t risk his partner’s badge, but he was fine with risking his own. So he’d laid the trap all by himself—­and he’d caught a rat.

A thousand feet . . . 

Only he’d gotten just a shave too close and spooked the mamabicha.

At the end of the strip, where it landed at the foot of the old stone castle that marked La Perla’s eastern terminus, his quarry took a hard right, darting back into the tangle of shacks, a rabbit making a desperate dash for safety in the heart of his warren.

Nico didn’t bother shouting Stop! or Police! or You’re under arrest! Didn’t waste his breath. Just took off after him.

And then everything went silent.

He skidded to a halt at the mouth of another narrow alleyway. Heard no fleeing footsteps, no scrambling over cobblestones. Only a dog barking and the distant curses of locals rousted from a hungover sleep.

The fine hairs on Nico’s arms stood at attention.

He had to assume the man had a gun.

These days it seemed like everyone in Puerto Rico had a gun.

He couldn’t see far enough into the alley to locate the man, was pretty sure the man couldn’t see him, either. But they were both there, still and silent, each trying to get the drop on the other.

There was no nearby exit up through the city wall. The man was cornered.

But so, for all practical purposes, was Nico.

Suddenly Nico felt an irrational chill shiver through him.

Behind him, far above in the dark, stood an old castle guard sentry-­box. According to superstition, every guard who entered there would mysteriously vanish, never to be seen again. La Garita del Diablo, they called it. The Devil’s Tower.

Focus, Nico.

He drew out his sidearm, took a few steadying breaths, and crouched down low to crawl his way into the alley, listening as hard as he could, straining to catch any telltale sounds of breath or movement from the other man, hearing nothing.

He began to crawl.

An endless minute ticked by. Then another.

A quarter of the way through.

Inch by agonizing inch.

Three minutes.

Halfway through.

And then a deep voice boomed out from the far end of the alley, shattering the silence.

“¡Quieto, cabrón!” Freeze, asshole!

Nico let out a harsh, ragged breath and felt his shoulders relax.

Caleb. His partner.

He almost laughed. No jodas . . . Caleb! That rum-­smooth, James Earl Jones voice, the reason they called him “Calypso.” Nico could pick that voice out of a crowd in the middle of a hurricane.

Gracias a Dios.

He took another hard breath and straightened from his crouch, letting the tension drain from his back muscles as the adrenaline flood receded, leaving behind its wreckage of ravaged nerve endings.

He had no idea how Cal had known he was here, why he was out here in the middle of the night when he ought to be home in bed or out drinking like any sane off-­duty cop.

Didn’t know, didn’t care. He was just grateful his partner had showed. The chase was over. They were actually arresting this piece of shit, this stain of corruption—­and with what this one guy knew, they could bring down the whole house of cards. His investigation was about to be vindicated. Puerto Rico, his homeland, would be cleansed of this plague, given a fresh start.

This night would change their lives, forever.

We did it, Lucy. We really did it.

He walked toward the end of the alley, where a shaft of moonlight revealed the enormous figure of Cal, feet spread apart, gun held out in a two-­handed stance. The man Nico had been pursuing now knelt on the filthy alleyway floor, hands clasped behind his head.

Nico smiled.

“That’s no ordinary asshole,” he called out as he approached. “That particular asshole is deputy director of AP.” Autoridad de los Puertos: Ports Authority. In charge of all seaports in Puerto Rico. “That particular asshole runs the docks. And also happens to work for the Devil. A direct report, Cal! Ave María purísma, a direct report!”

Cal threw him a quick glance, eyebrows raised.

“This puta can ID the son of a bitch!” Nico added, just to make the point abundantly clear. He’d been right all along. His stakeout had paid off. They were about to bring down the Devil.

Cal looked down at the kneeling man. “That true?”

The man said nothing.

Cal nodded, impressed. “Damn.” He looked back at Nico. “Nice work. Stellar.”

Nico grinned and put up his palm for a high five.

Cal raised his weapon and shot Nico point-­blank in the face.

“¡Jesús!” The kneeling man nearly fell over. He stared up at Cal, his eyes wide as silver dollars. Then his face relaxed. He let out a rush of breath and broke into a grin.

“Gracias, compadre.”

He got to his feet, shakily, brushing the filth off his knees. Grinned up at the big man.

“De nada,” said Cal, and he plugged the man between the eyes.

The second pistol shot reverberated through the dark streets and died away in the surf.

Cal waited.

Listened.

Nobody came.

He holstered his 9mm. Reached into a back trouser pocket, withdrew a handkerchief, and wiped his face with it. Held it out and looked at it without expression. In the faint moonlight the smear of Nico’s blood looked black.

He pocketed the cloth, then reached into an inside jacket pocket and slipped out a small leather case, the grain worn smooth. Zipped it open. A glint of moonlight flashed off the stainless steel.

One by one, he began removing his precision tools.

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#Review - The Book That Wouldn’t Burn by Mark Lawrence #Fantasy

Series: The Library Trilogy  (#1)
Format: Hardcover, 576 pages
Release Date: May 9, 2023
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy / Epic

Two strangers find themselves connected by a vast and mysterious library containing many wonders and still more secrets, in this powerfully moving first book in a new series from the international bestselling author of Red Sister and Prince of Thorns.

The boy has lived his whole life trapped within a book-choked chamber older than empires and larger than cities.

The girl has been plucked from the outskirts of civilization to be trained as a librarian, studying the mysteries of the great library at the heart of her kingdom.

They were never supposed to meet. But in the library, they did.

Their stories spiral around each other, across worlds and time. This is a tale of truth and lies and hearts, and the blurring of one into another. A journey on which knowledge erodes certainty and on which, though the pen may be mightier than the sword, blood will be spilled and cities burned.

Mark Lawrence's The Book That Wouldn't Burn is the first installment in the authors Library Trilogy. This is a fantasy series that revolves around an ancient and mysterious library. The story mostly takes place in and around Crath City. The two key players in this book are Livira and Evar. Livira is a girl from the Dust, the poverty-stricken land outside the city where people barely have enough food and water to survive. As the novel opens, Livira’s village is attacked by a group of vicious doglike soldiers known as sabbers.

After being saved by a group of soldiers led by Malar, Livira and the survivors are taken to Crath City where they will be placed in various allocated jobs which they will be stuck with for the rest of their lives. Dust people basically have no rights, and are despised by the King and others. For some reason, or the other, Livira ends up being sent to the library where she quickly learns her way around and ends up navigating chambers filled with danger and mysteries and millions of books where she will eventually meet up with Evar in what appears to be an alternative timeline. 

Evar Eventari is a young man in his early 20s who has spent his entire life trapped in a chamber of an enormous library, together with his four adopted siblings (Kerrol, Starval, Clovis, and Mayland) and endless towers of books. Evar has been raised by one of the library’s Assistants, a porcelain-looking android-type figure, and protected by a curious looking Soldier who may or may not be an automation. When Evar decides he's had enough of the secrecy behind his missing brother, he goes on an expedition that will see him cross paths with Livira over the course of 8 years. 

The story's world building begins with the bible. Athenaeum, the legendary library was founded by Irad, the great-grandson of Adam and Eve and the grandson of Cain, the inventor of fratricide. Irad fought with his own brother, Jaspeth, who considered the Athenaeum to be a temple to the sin of knowledge. Jaspeth was determined to tear down the library as atonement for the original sin of Adam and Eve, i.e., disobeying God by eating fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. 

The struggle between Irad and Jaspeth has been passed down from generation to generation, with Jaspeth, the enemy of knowledge, reflected in figures such as King Oanold, casting the epic struggles of humankind as a battle between knowledge and ignorance. One can call this the struggle between good and evil, but which is good, and which is evil? The story itself is so twisted, that when certain aspects are revealed, you have to go back and re-read the section just to make sure you were hallucinating or doing doing Crack Cocaine with Hunter and Ashley.

Both Livira and Evar's viewpoints are intriguing to follow as the mysteries of Crath, the dust, the grand library, and the wider world are unraveled to the reader. Honorable mentions for supporting cast members go out to the librarian Yute, the soldier Malar, vengeance-driven Clovis, and Wentworth the humongous cat. In addition, the author presents a clever science-based magic system that has clear rules and consistency. Elements such as ghosts, time travel, world-hopping, library beings that may transcend time, and a book that will not burn will give an idea of some of the concepts featured here.

Chapter 1

Livira

They named Livira after a weed. You couldn't grow much in the Dust but that never stopped hungry people trying. They said livira would grow in places where rocks wouldn't. Which never made sense to Livira because rocks don't grow. Unfortunately, not even goats could eat the stuff and any farmer who watered a crop would find themselves spending most of their time fighting it. Spill a single drop of water in the Dust and, soon enough, strands of livira would come coiling out of the cracked ground for a taste.

Her parents had given her a different name but she hardly remembered it. People called her Livira because, like the weed, you couldn't keep her down.

"Come on then!" Livira picked herself up and wiped the blood from her nose. She raised her fists again. "Come on."

Acmar shook his head, looking embarrassed now that a ring of children had gathered. All of them were dusty but Livira was coated in the stuff, head to foot.

"Come on!" she shouted. She felt woozy and her head rang as if it were the summoning bell and someone kept beating it.

"You're twice her size." Benth broke into the circle and pushed Acmar aside.

"She won't stay down," Acmar complained, rubbing his knuckles.

"It's a draw then." Benth stepped between them, a broad-shouldered boy and handsome despite his broken nose. Seeing Livira's scowl he grabbed her hand and raised it above her head. "Livira wins again."

The others cheered and laughed then broke and ran before the advance of a tall figure, dark against the sun's white glare.

"Livy!" Her aunt's scolding voice. Fingers wrapped her wrist and she was being jerked away towards the black shadow of the family hut.

Aunt Teela shoved a cracked leather bucket at her. "The beans need watering."

"Yessum!" Livira had always loved the well. She spat a bloody mess into the dust then grinned up at her aunt before hurrying off with the bucket. Her aunt shook her head. You could put Livira down but you couldn't keep her there.

Livira's hurrying didn't last long. She slowed as she passed Ella's shack. The old woman collected wind-weed, or rather the kids chased and caught it for her, racing over the hardpan in pursuit of the tough, fibrous balls. The things were almost entirely empty space and Ella's cunning fingers could coax the randomness of their criss-crossed strands into meaning that pleased the eye. Deft twists could render a horse or man suspended in a network of threads within the outer sphere that was itself just a lattice of thicker strands.

Livira watched Ella work. "I wish I could do that."

Ella looked up from her task and held up her current piece on the palm of one wrinkled hand. "For you."

Livira picked it up, a small sphere of wind-weed just five or six inches across.

Immediately Ella took up a replacement and began anew.

Livira studied her unexpected prize. It looked half-finished, the mass of fibres compressed towards the middle seeming like just a clotting of many threads that wove nothing. But as she rotated the ball a shape emerged within it, still vague, like a man approaching through a dust storm, indistinct but definitely there. A young man or maybe a boy. Though if asked how she could tell his age or sex, Livira would have no answer. And it seemed to her that she knew him, or rather that she recognised him.

"I wish I could do that," she said again, cradling the ball in both hands.

"You have other talents, dear." Ella didn't look up from her task. Livira's past efforts with the wind-weed had been comically bad and part of her thanked Ella for not offering false hope that she would get much better.

"Talents?" Livira kicked at the dust. A memory like a steel trap seemed more of a curse than a blessing. A poorer memory, one that ran the dry glare of one day into the next, might stop the time weighing so heavily even on young shoulders. And she was pretty much unbeatable at the game of hollows and stones, but it seemed to make the old men angry rather than pleased. She also understood the odds when the younger men gambled on the game-better than any of them did-but none of them were interested in her advice. "All my skills are useless."

"There are no useless skills, girl. Only talents that have yet to find an application."

"Well . . . Acmar can fart a tune."

Ella looked up at that, lips pursed, dark eyes unreadable. Livira glanced down, noticed the bucket at her own feet, and, thus reminded of her task, opted to skip away.


The well was a yard wide and a hundred yards deep. Livira had asked a thousand times how they ever managed to dig it. She’d scratched holes in the hardpan herself and never got deeper than the width of a hand. The well lay outside the settlement, beyond the bean rows. The scent of water attracts all sorts in the Dust, and rarely the sort you want wandering around your huts at night.

There was a wetness in the air above it, as if the well itself were a great throat. Livira could feel the dampness of its breath on her skin. She liked to lie on her belly with her head over the edge and stare down into the blackness. The children said Orrin had fallen in and that's where he went last month. But the water had stayed clear and sweet. Livira thought that a dust-bear had taken Orrin. The boy had never looked where he was going. And whilst that might lend credence to the idea that he could have walked into the well, there were, Livira said, many more dust-bears waiting just beneath the surface than wells.

Livira cranked the windlass, lowering the attached bucket towards the unseen water. She liked the well because it kept them all alive, but that wasn't the only reason. In her mind it was a connection to another world, out of reach but most definitely there. A world where what they needed most was commonplace, a world of darkness and flow, full of its own secrets, home to wet things that swam in blindness, tasting their way through unknown caverns.

"What you doing?"

Livira jumped, startled out of her daydreaming. She saw it was Katrin in her shapeless, dusty smock, hands crimson from shelling jarra beans. "I'm juggling elephants."

Katrin frowned, considering the statement. Katrin was loyal, kind, but really quite slow sometimes. "You're not ju-"

"It was a joke." Livira rolled her eyes and spun the windlass. "You can see what I'm doing."

"Oh." Katrin's frown deepened. "Why did you fight Acmar?"

Livira kept turning the handle. The rope spooling off the windlass was darker now-the new length that Old Kern had added so that the bucket would be able to reach the water again. The level had been sinking ever since Livira could remember. "He called me a weed."

"But . . . we all call you Livira."

"He called me weed." Livira shook her head. "It's not the same."

That had been part of the reason, the spark that had made her throw the first punch. But the real reason was that he had tried to snatch her scrap from her. That's what Aunt Teela had called it when Livira showed it to her. A scrap of paper. The wind had revealed this treasure to Livira months earlier, pushing aside the dust to expose a corner. A torn triangle, no larger than the palm of her hand and, like an old man's skin, thin, wrinkled, discoloured by age. Dark marks patterned it. Her aunt had shrugged when Livira showed her and had grown inexplicably angry when Livira persisted in asking about the marks, saying at last, "They're just scribbling. Tally marks for counting beans at market."

"But-" Livira had wanted to protest that there were so many different marks, they were too beautiful just to be counting, but Teela had cut her off and had set her to her least favourite chore: cleaning out the cookpot.

Livira shook off the memory. "See what Ella gave me!" She lifted the wind-weed that she had tied to her belt with a cord.

Katrin narrowed her eyes at it. "It looks like what we give Ella in the first place. Did it go wrong?"

"No!" Livira started to rotate the ball, searching for the best angle, but Katrin looked away.

"Did it hurt," Katrin asked, "when Acmar hit you?"

"Yes." Livira scowled and let the ball drop. "Lots." The windlass had run out of rope so she began to wind the bucket back up. After a few turns the reassuring resistance told her that the bucket had filled. Every time she carried out the task a small part of her held its breath, thinking that one day there would be no resistance. One day the water would simply not be there. An even smaller part of her hissed its disappointment when the turn of the handle revealed that new weight. When the water was gone there would be a change. Not a good change. But a change nonetheless. And sometimes, in the dark of the night with the hollow sounds of the Dust all around and the bright stars cold in their heaven, sometimes what scared Livira more than the water running out was that the water would not run out and that this would be her life. Dust, and beans, and dry-wheat, and the wind, and the little huddle of huts like stones gathered in the vastness of the empty plain, until she ran out rather than the water, and she joined the dust, and the wind carried her away as if she had never even drawn breath.

"I like Acmar," Katrin said.

Livira made a face and put her back into the winding. All the girls liked Acmar, at least to look at. Livira had never been able to put into words quite why he made her angry. It was to do with the way he didn't value any of the things she valued most. And all that lack of interest did was make him spokesman for the settlement, because none of them cared about those things really, not even Katrin or Neera, who said they were her best friends.

"You can have him," Livira grunted, her arms growing tired, her hands sore. "I'm going to the city soon. And you can all live in the dust while I . . . while I . . ." She didn't really know what they did in the city. She thought perhaps her scrap had come from there, stolen from the city folk by the wind. All she'd ever seen of the city were its walls, as a low smudge in the distance. She'd had to walk half a day even for that view, climbing the ridges to the west, returning to the settlement parched and dusty late at night to a frantic Aunt Teela. People said that the city was full of marvels with new ones added every week. But none of them had ever been there or even seemed interested in trying.

"I'm going to the city," Livira repeated.

"They won't let you in, silly." Katrin put out her tongue. "Even the dust doesn't get past their gates without permission."

She was just quoting what came out through Kern's grey beard, but it made Livira angry because she feared it might be true. "What I think is-"

Livira's hot reply faded from her lips and she rested against the windlass handle staring out to the east. There it was again, distant and dancing in the heat haze. A figure. "What I think . . . is that someone's coming!"

. . . and other doubters. The historian must ensure that all their work is plainly marked as such, for if it were presented as a work of fiction its readers would clamour that it lacked sense, the events too implausible, too random, and too cruel. Truth will set you free . . . from certainty, comfort, and the beliefs upon which we rely for sanity . . .

A History of Histories, by William Ancrath

Chapter 2

Livira

People never came to the settlement. Livira hadn't ever seen a visitor, had never met a single person who hadn't grown among the four dozen souls who sheltered in the huddled shacks. It was the sort of place that you went from, not to. Kern went from it to the dust markets. The patched waistcoat he was so proud of allegedly came from the city, purchased at great cost from a dust-market stall. What he bartered on his trips might then go on to bigger markets or to the city itself, but Livira had always had to take the existence of these places and people on faith. Now-someone was coming!

"Stranger!" Livira let the bucket fall and charged back through the bean rows, shouting her news, Katrin hard on her heels, eating dust. "Stranger!" She raced along the rows, rattling the drying beans in their pods. Only this morning she'd been watching the old men play stones and hollows, dreaming of an escape to something more, to a world that lay beyond the haze. Now that world was coming to her. "Stranger!"

"What are you saying?" Aunt Teela caught Livira's arm in a steel grip as she emerged from the crop.

"A stranger! Someone's coming!" Livira repeated at a lower, more comprehensible volume.

Teela's face stiffened as if a deadwasp had stung her. Her hand fell to her side. "Tell everyone."

Livira ran on, shouting. Something in her aunt's expression had put a chill into her and now fear edged her cries. The summoning bell took up the alarm.


“What do they want?” Livira stood with the others out by the well. Everyone she knew was there, except those few too old, too sick, or too small to emerge from their huts. Aunt Teela held her hand in a painful grip. Livira waited, still sweating from her run. The sun seemed brighter, the dust sharper on her lungs.

"You stay close to me, Livy. Do as you're told for once in your life." Her aunt pulled Livira's face around to hers, meeting her gaze with over-bright eyes. "I love you, child." Aunt Teela was not a woman given to displays of affection and this one filled Livira with a fear far greater than any that Acmar's approaching fist had instilled.

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#Review - Immortal Longings by Chloe Gong #Fantasy

Series: Flesh & False Gods # 1
Format: Hardcover, 384 pages
Release Date: July 18, 2023
Publisher: Gallery / Saga Press
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy

#1 New York Times bestselling YA author Chloe Gong’s adult epic fantasy debut, inspired by Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, is a fiery collision of power plays, spilled blood, and romance amidst a set of deadly games.

Every year, thousands in the kingdom of Talin will flock to its capital twin cities, San-Er, where the palace hosts a set of games. For those confident enough in their ability to jump between bodies, competitors across San-Er fight to the death to win unimaginable riches.

Princess Calla Tuoleimi lurks in hiding. Five years ago, a massacre killed her parents and left the palace of Er empty…and she was the one who did it. Before King Kasa’s forces in San can catch her, she plans to finish the job and bring down the monarchy. Her reclusive uncle always greets the victor of the games, so if she wins, she gets her opportunity at last to kill him.

Enter Anton Makusa, an exiled aristocrat. His childhood love has lain in a coma since they were both ousted from the palace, and he’s deep in debt trying to keep her alive. Thankfully, he’s one of the best jumpers in the kingdom, flitting from body to body at will. His last chance at saving her is entering the games and winning.

Calla finds both an unexpected alliance with Anton and help from King Kasa’s adopted son, August, who wants to mend Talin’s ills. But the three of them have very different goals, even as Calla and Anton’s partnership spirals into something all-consuming. Before the games close, Calla must decide what she’s playing for—her lover or her kingdom. 

Chloe Gong's Immortal Longings is the first installment in the authors Flesh and False Gods series. Book is inspired by the 1990's Hong Kong Kowloon Walled City. Also inspired by Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra. This is a story that revolves around (3) key players. August Shenzhi, the apparent heir to King Kasa of the Kingdom of Talin; Calla, the mysterious young woman who committed regicide on the former royals and is supposed to be dead; and Anton Makusa, the man who can easily swap bodies and become anyone at any time.

 

Every year, thousands in the kingdom of Talin will flock to its capital twin cities, San-Er, where the palace hosts a set of games. For those confident enough in their ability to jump between bodies (transferring your consciousness into another body), competitors across San-Er fight to the death to win a prize that will allow them a life free of poverty. This year, 88 players will fight to the death in a Gladiator like game, but things are not as they seem. Not when 3 have plans to bring down the King himself, and set a new course for the combined San-Er which used to be two kingdoms until 5 years ago when the monarchs where murdered.

Princess Calla Tuoleimi lurks in hiding. Five years ago, a massacre killed her parents and left the palace of Er empty…and she was the one who did it. Before King Kasa’s forces in San can catch her, she plans to finish the job and bring down the monarchy. Her reclusive uncle always greets the victor of the games, so if she wins, she gets her opportunity at last to kill him. The most interesting part of Calla, is that she has a deep, dark secret which she hides behind by wearing a mask on the lower half of her face. But one person knows that she is alive, and she is about to be one of the 88 forced to fight to the death.

 

Enter Anton Makusa, an exiled aristocrat. His childhood love has lain in a coma since they were both ousted from the palace, and he’s deep in debt trying to keep her alive. Thankfully, he’s one of the best jumpers in the kingdom, flitting from body to body at will. His last chance at saving her is entering the games and winning. Anton wants nothing more than to kill the King and take his rightful place as the sovereign after he was exiled. Curiously, he was best friends with August Shenzhi, the current heir of the kindgom of San-Er.

 

Calla finds both an unexpected alliance with Anton and help from King Kasa’s adopted son, August, who wants to mend Talin’s ills, but is also dealing with an internal betrayal by a group which would love to she him removed and replaced. The three of them have very different goals, even as Calla and Anton’s partnership spirals into something all-consuming. Before the games close, Calla must decide what she’s playing for—her lover or her kingdom. The author has stated that this story was inspired by the 1990's Hong Kong Kowloon Walled City. This is definitely an enemies to hesitant allies to lovers to we shall see, shalt we?

 

CHAPTER 1
A living thing, when faced with a break or injury, is compelled to heal itself. A cut will clot with blood, trapping in a person’s qi. A bone will smooth over, knitting new threads at every split. And San-Er’s buildings, when an inconvenience is identified, will rush to mend the sore, pinpointing every fracture and hurling remedies with vigor. From the top of the palace, all that can be seen are the stacked structures composing the twin cities, interlocked and dependent upon one another, some attached to a neighbor from the ground level and others connected only at the highest floors. Everyone in the kingdom of Talin wants to be in its capital—in these two cities masquerading as one—and so San-Er must grow denser and higher to accommodate, covering up its offenses and stenches with utter incoherence.

August Shenzhi tightens his grip on the balcony railing, tearing his gaze away from the horizon of rooftops. His attention should be with the marketplace below, which bustles at high volume inside the coliseum walls. Three generations ago, the Palace of Union was built beside San’s massive coliseum—or perhaps it’s more apt to say it was built into the coliseum, the north side of the elevated palace enmeshed with the coliseum’s south wall, its turrets and balconies pulling apart stone and slotting itself right in to close the gap. Every window on the north side has a perfect view of the market, but none better than this balcony. Back when he still made public appearances, King Kasa stood here to make his speeches. The market would be cleared out, and his subjects would come to gather in the only plot of open space inside San-Er, cheering for their monarch.

There’s nowhere quite like the coliseum. San-Er itself is only a small protrusion of land at the edge of the kingdom, its border with rural Talin marked by a towering wall, the rest of its perimeter hemmed in by sea. Yet despite its size, San-Er functions as a world of its own—half a million inhabitants crammed into each square mile, again and again. The needle-thin alleys between every building sag, the earthen ground always muddy because it is sweating with overexertion. Prostitutes and temple priests share the same doorway; drug addicts and schoolteachers nap under the same awning. It makes sense that the only space protected from builders and squatters is the coliseum, under the vigilant eye of royalty and untouched by the desperate expansion pressing in on its walls. They could raze the coliseum and build ten—perhaps twenty—new streets on the land cleared, squeeze in hundreds more apartment complexes, but the palace won’t allow it, and what the palace says goes.

“Give me leave to strangle your uncle, August. I’m tired to death of him.”

Galipei Weisanna strolls into the room, his voice echoing out onto the balcony. He speaks as he always does: clipped, terse, honest. Galipei is rarely willing to tell a lie, yet finds it of utmost priority to be running his mouth too, even when silence is a better option. August tips his head back to look at his bodyguard, and the crown in his hair shakes loose, hanging lopsidedly to the left. By the light of the palace, the red gems resemble fragments of blood encircling his bleached blond curls, its position so precarious that one wayward breeze would sweep the band of metal right off.

“Do be careful,” August replies evenly. “High treason in the throne room tends to be frowned upon.”

“So I suppose someone ought to be frowning at you as well.”

Galipei comes to join him upon the balcony, then nudges August’s crown back into place with a practiced familiarity. His presence is domineering, shoulders wide and posture tall, in contrast to August’s lithe sharpness. Dressed in his usual dark work garb, Galipei looks a part of the night—if the night were decorated with buckles and straps holding various weapons that wouldn’t otherwise keep against heavy leather. There’s a melodic clanking when his body comes into contact with the gold-plated railing, his arms resting atop it to mimic August, but the sound is easily lost to the clamor of the market below.

“Who would dare?” August asks matter-of-factly. It’s not a boast. It’s the profoundly confident manner of someone who knows exactly how high his pedestal is because he hauled himself there.

Galipei makes a vague noise. He turns away from the walls of the coliseum, having searched for threats and finding nothing out of the ordinary. His attention shifts toward August’s line of sight instead: a child, kicking a ball beside the closest row of market stalls.

“I heard that you took over preliminary organization for the games.” The child draws nearer and nearer to the balcony. “What are you up to, August? Your uncle—”

August clears his throat. Though Galipei rolls his eyes, he takes the correction in stride.

“—your father, my apologies, is vexed enough with the whole palace these days. If you go pissing him off, he’ll disown you in an instant.”

A warm, southerly breeze blows up on the balcony, swallowing August’s skeptical huff of breath. He pulls at his collar, fingers sliding against silk, the fabric thin enough to bring a chill to his skin. Let King Kasa push his adoption papers through a shredder. It won’t matter soon. Maneuvering the last few years to get the paperwork to exist was only the first part of the plan. It is nowhere near the most important.

“Why are you here?” August asks in return, diverting the topic. “I thought Leida summoned your help for the night.”

“She sent me back. San’s border is fine.”

August doesn’t voice his immediate doubt, but he does frown. Other than the coliseum, the far edge of San right beside the wall is the only place within San-Er where civilians might have the space to gather and make a fuss, crowding around the mounds of trash and discarded tech. It never lasts long. The guards spread out and break them up, and then civilians can either spend an indeterminate amount of time in the palace cells or scatter back into the dense labyrinthine streets.

“Fascinating,” August says. “I don’t remember the last time there weren’t riots the day before the games.”

A few more steps, and the child will be directly underneath them. She pays no attention to her surroundings, weaving her ball in and out among the shoppers and sellers, her thin shoes clomping down on the uneven ground.

“This year’s games should be quick work. There were hardly any applicants who volunteered for the draw.”

By hardly, Galipei means that there were hundreds as opposed to thousands. The games used to be a far larger event, back when there were two kings funneling their coffers into the grand prize. Kasa’s father had started them in his previous reign, and what began as a yearly one-on-one battle to the death eventually grew to a multicontestant affair, expanding past the coliseum and using all of San-Er as the playing field. Once, watching skilled fighters tear each other apart in the arena was mere entertainment, something that was distant to the ordinary civilian. Now, the games are a thrill that anyone can participate in, a solution to a kingdom simmering with complaints. Don’t worry if your babies drop dead because they have hollowed into starved husks, King Kasa declares. Don’t worry that your elderly must sleep in cages because there is no more apartment space, nor that the neon light from the strip club across the alleyway keeps you awake night after night. Put your name in the lottery, slaughter only eighty-seven of your fellow citizens, and be awarded with riches beyond your wildest dreams.

“He drew his list, then?” August says. “All eighty-eight of our lucky participants?”

Eighty-eight, the number of luck and prosperity! the advertisement posters for the games declare. You must register before the deadline for your chance to be among our esteemed competitors!

“His Majesty is very proud of himself. He got through the names in record time.”

August scoffs. It is not efficiency that had Kasa going so fast. Since August suggested an entrance fee two years ago, the random draw has shrunk significantly. One would think that the worsening conditions these days mean more are throwing in their lots for a chance to win, but the people of San-Er are only increasingly terrified that the games are a sham, that the victor will be cheated out of the grand prize just as the twin cities persistently cheat them out of rewards. They’re not wrong. After all, August did fiddle with the draw this year to get one name in.

With a wince, he takes a step back from the balcony rail, releasing the tension in his neck. For only two distinct days of the year, the coliseum before him is cleared out and used as the arena it was originally built for. Today, it remains yet a marketplace. A compact, concentrated world of food hawkers splashed with oil and metalworkers clanging on blades and technicians fixing up unwieldy computers to resell. San-Er spends each moment functioning off the fumes of its last. There is no other way to survive.

“August.” A touch on his elbow. August spares a glance to his side, meeting Galipei’s steel-silver eyes. There’s a warning in the way he flings his prince’s name around, title and rank discarded. August does not take caution; he only smiles. That small quirk at his mouth, barely a change in his expression at all, and Galipei falters, taken aback by the rare expression.

August knows exactly what he’s doing. Offer that brief distraction, and when Galipei’s attention is turned elsewhere, he decides on his next move.

“Take my body inside.”

Galipei’s lips part in protest. He recovers quickly from his brief enthrallment. “Would you quit jumping like—”

But August has already left, fixing his sight onto the child and slamming right in, opening his new eyes with a quick snap. He has to adjust to the height change, off-balance for a second as the people nearby jolt in surprise. They know what has happened: the flash of light between jumps is unmistakable, marking the arc from old body to new. Though the palace has long made jumping illegal, it is still as common as a beggar swiping a rice cake from an unwatched stall. Civilians have learned to look away, especially when the light is flashing so closely to the palace.

They just don’t expect their crown prince to be the one jumping.

August looks up at the palace. His body has dropped like a stone, collapsed in Galipei’s arms to enter stasis. Without a person’s qi, the body is only a vessel. But a vessel that belongs to the heir of the throne is an incredibly valuable possession, and when Galipei’s gaze meets August’s pitch-black eyes in the girl’s body, he mouths what appears to be a threat to strangle him too.

August, however, is already walking in the other direction, giving Galipei no choice but to guard his birth body ferociously, lest someone come within ten feet and attempt to invade it. In any case, it wouldn’t be hard for him to boot an intruder out. August’s qi is strong—if his body were doubled, he could wrestle back control from the other person easily, either forcing them to find another host or subject them to being lost. When it comes to doubling other bodies, there is no vessel in the twin cities that he cannot invade as long they have come of age: twelve, maybe thirteen, when the gene for jumping manifests.

The problem isn’t so much the matter of someone using his body for pleasure or power. It’s troublemakers who might invade with the purpose of destroying his body out of protest, making one quick throw off the edge of a building before their prince can jump back.

August nearly collides with someone and flinches, ducking to find a less crowded path through the market. The sudden assault on his senses always takes some getting used to: the louder noises, the brighter colors. Perhaps he has dulled the senses of his birth body too much, and this is true normalcy. When a shoe-shiner barks at him from behind a stall and holds out a few coins, August simply reaches his small hands out and receives them, uncertain why. The child must be some sort of errand runner. All the better. Very few civilians are powerful enough to jump into children, which makes them the most trusted, darting between buildings and into every corner of San-Er without notice.

August makes quick time exiting the coliseum, emerging onto the one main street that acts as a thoroughfare from north to south of San. He is well-acquainted with the lefts and the rights of his byzantine city too, so he steps off the main street for the less populated routes, hurrying under drooping electric wires and barely wincing when the damp pipes overhead drip water down his neck. But the cold moisture irritates his skin after a while, and with a sigh, August enters a building, deciding to travel by staircase and wayward building passages instead. There isn’t enough on this body to draw any conclusions about its identity, though that is an answer in and of itself. No markings or tattoos, so no allegiance to the Crescent Societies.

“Hey! Hey, stop there.”

August—ever accommodating—stops. An elderly woman has called out to him, the picture of concern as she hovers in front of her apartment door, a water bucket clutched to her hip.

“Where are your parents?” she asks. “This area is no good. The Crescent Societies have their eye on it. You’ll get yourself invaded.”

“I have it handled.” From the girl’s body, his voice comes out high and soft and sweet. Only August’s tone is too confident. Too regal. The woman can tell, and her expression shifts into suspicion, but August is already walking again. He follows the spray-painted directions on the walls, moving through another corridor to enter a neighboring building. Low moans filter through the thin plaster. Privately run hospitals are aplenty in this area, facilities filled with unhygienic practices and dirty tools, though they still receive a constant stream of patients because they charge far less than the proper places in Er. Half of these private facilities are surely body-trafficking schemes. Still… if a body goes missing here and there, no one cares enough to find out why. Certainly not the palace, no matter what August does.

He turns the corner. The atmosphere shifts immediately, cigarette smoke permeating the low ceilings in such thickness that the dim bulbs can hardly cut through. San is a city of darkness. It is nighttime now, but even when the sun rises, the buildings are so densely packed that the streets remain shrouded in shadow. He counts the doors as he passes: One, two, three…

He knocks on the third, his small fist easily fitting between the metal bars of the exterior door. When the second wooden door opens inward, there is a man who towers above him twice over, looking down his nose with a huff of air.

“We don’t have scraps—”

August jumps again. It is instantaneous from the outside, he knows, as fast as that clap of light, but it always feels slow, like wading through a brick wall. The closer the jump, the thinner the wall; from the farthest away, at the absolute ten-foot limit, it always feels like forging through a mile of solid stone. Those who have gotten themselves lost between bodies are snagged here, condemned to wander about this incorporeal space forever.

When he opens his eyes, he’s staring at the little girl again, her bright-orange eyes wide and confused. Not everyone in Talin can jump, and even among those with the gene for it, many have such weak abilities that they don’t risk it, in case they attempt to invade a body and lose the fight for control. But at any point, gene or no gene, a body holding a single person’s qi can be invaded, especially by someone like August. The girl figures out quickly what must have happened.

“Move along,” August instructs, closing the inner door to the gambling den. The people inside saw the flash of light, aware that their bouncer is now occupied. Thankfully, August is expected.

“Your Highness!”

Though the den-keeper who runs up to him has a different face from the last time August was here, he knows it’s the same person. Bodies can be switched, but the man’s pale purple eyes remain the same.

“Have you found her?” August asks.

“Right in time, you’re right in time,” the man gushes, ignoring his question. “Come with me, please, Prince August.”

August follows, careful with his steps. This body is large, muscular. He doesn’t want to go too fast, or he might tip himself off-kilter and stumble. He closes his fists together and frowns, circling around the card dealings and mahjong tables with barely enough room to maneuver between them. His shoe crunches down on what could be a needle filled with heroin. A woman at one of the tables reaches out to touch his jacket, with no aim except to stroke its fine leather exterior.

“Right through here. The pictures should have finished developing by now.”

The man holds open the door, and August walks through, looking around in the red light. Thin drying lines crisscross at his eye level, filled with dangling photographs in various shades. The man reaches up to unclip one. His fingers tremble as he lets the line spring back, cupping the photograph in his palms. Before he can extend the offering to August, however, he hesitates, eyes pinned on the picture.

“Something wrong?”

“No. No, nothing at all.” The man shakes his head, erasing any appearance of doubt. “We scoured the records to their very roots. Not one database was left unturned. This is her, Your Highness. I promise. Your trust and sponsorship are appreciated.”

August lifts an eyebrow. It is hard to do in this body. He gestures for the photograph instead, and the man hurries to pass it over. The entire darkroom seems to hold its breath. The vents stutter to a halt.

“Well,” August says, “good job.”

Though the light overhead runs only in one shade, coloring the photograph the wrong hue and washing out the subject’s eyes, there is no doubt. The woman in the photograph is stepping off the stoop of a building—her nose and mouth covered with a mask, her hands gloved in leather, her body angled away in movement—but August would recognize her anywhere. She is not the sort to abandon her body, even under such circumstances. She would instead flaunt what she managed to keep, living in this city for five long years right under his nose.

“Oh, cousin,” August says to the photograph. “You can hide no longer.”

Princess Calla Tuoleimi, found at last.

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#Review - The Wayward Prince by Leonard Goldberg #Mystery #Historical

Series: The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Mysteries (#7)
Format: Hardcover, 336 pages
Release Date: July 11, 2023
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery / Historical

The fate of Prince Harry and the British throne lies in the hands of Joanna and the Watsons in the latest Daughter of Sherlock Holmes mystery from USA Today bestselling author Leonard Goldberg.

During the height of the Great War, playboy Prince Harry, the third in line to the British throne, vanishes in thin air while horseback riding in Hyde Park The strikingly handsome playboy prince is initially believed to have arranged his disappearance so he can enjoy a brief rendezvous with one of his secret lovers. But when his absence continues on for days, the royal family grows concerned and summons Scotland Yard, who can only recover scant, unrevealing clues.

The concern deepens when MI5 decodes a recent message from German spies in London which speaks of a captured asset that will bring great embarrassment to the Crown. There is a strong belief within the Intelligence agency that plans are underway to transport the captive prince to Berlin without delay. Despite an intensive search, no trace of the royal can be detected.

With Scotland Yard and MI5 baffled, Joanna and the Watsons are called in, and they soon find themselves entangled in a web of abortion, murder, treason, and spies, all of which is seemingly being orchestrated by an arch-enemy of the long-dead Sherlock Holmes. In their race to rescue Prince Harry, it becomes clear that the mastermind behind the maze of crimes has a singular motive in mind. He desires overdue revenge in the form of Joanna’s death.

The Wayward Prince, by author Leonard Goldberg, is the Seventh installment in the authors The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes series. During the height of the Great War, playboy Prince Harry, the third in line to the British throne, vanishes in thin air while horseback riding in Hyde Park. The strikingly handsome playboy prince is initially believed to have arranged his disappearance so he can enjoy a brief rendezvous with one of his secret lovers. But when his absence continues on for days, the royal family grows concerned and summons Scotland Yard, who can only recover scant, unrevealing clues.

The concern deepens when MI5 decodes a recent message from German spies in London which speaks of a captured asset that will bring great embarrassment to the Crown. There is a strong belief within the Intelligence agency that plans are underway to transport the captive prince to Berlin without delay. Despite an intensive search, no trace of the royal can be detected. With Scotland Yard and MI5 baffled, Joanna and the Watson's are called in by Commissioner Sir Charles Bradberry, and they soon find themselves entangled in a web of abortion, murder, treason, and spies, all of which is seemingly being orchestrated by an arch-enemy of the long-dead Sherlock Holmes. 

In their race to rescue Prince Harry, it becomes clear that the mastermind behind the maze of crimes has a singular motive in mind. He desires overdue revenge in the form of Joanna’s death. Like her own father, Sherlock, Joanna will face the wrath of Professor Moriarty, but this time, Colonel James Moriarty seems to be two steps ahead of Joanna which will eventually lead to a confrontation at the infamous Reichenbach Falls. 

Once again, Joanna's husband John Watson Jr. MD, who is a pathologist at St.Bart's Hospital, is the narrator of this story, pretty much the same as his father John Watson Sr. MD, a former British army surgeon and prolific marksman, did with Sherlock Holmes. Joanna's son Johnny from her marriage to her first husband, a student at Eton, also plays a curious role which seems to indicate that not to far away he will be taking over the reigns for his mother. Oh, and I nearly forgot, we can't forget about the Irregulars that Joanna uses in basically the same way that Sherlock did to help solve the mystery.

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#Review - Dead Letter Days by Kelley Armstrong #Mystery

Series: Rockton Series
Format: E-Book, 120 pages
Release Date: July 3, 2023
Publisher: Kelley Armstrong
Source: Amazon
Genre: Mystery

Eric Dalton spent most of his life in Rockton, a hidden town in the Yukon for people who need to disappear. Now that sanctuary is gone, and he’s holed up in a wilderness lodge with his girlfriend, Casey Duncan, and their friends, as they scout for a place to build their own Rockton. When Eric and Casey find a literal message-in-a-bottle, it leads them to the mystery of a woman who went missing decades ago, having never received that vital message. As they investigate that cold case, Dalton must finally lay to rest the ghosts of his own past and make some overdue decisions before he’s ready to step forward in his new life with Casey.

Kelley Armstrong's Dead Letter Days is a 120 page novella that takes place between the end of the Rockton series, and the beginning of the authors new Haven Rock series. This story, however, is narrated by Eric Dalton who was the Sheriff of Rockton. This story once again takes place in the Northern British Columbia area which you can call the Yukon. The new town of Haven Rock is slowly coming into existence with the help of the usual suspects like Casey, April, Will, Phil, Isabel, Kenny, and Diana with financial help from Emilie.

This book has a few threads that will eventually come together nicely. First, Storm, Casey's dog, finds a message in a bottle that seems to have been left behind some 30 years ago by a woman who wanted to escape Rockton and her abusive husband. The joke of this series, well not so much of a joke as factual evidence, is that Casey literally stumbles across bodies where ever she goes. Thankfully, with the help of the owners of a nearby lodge, Casey and Eric eventually follow leads to find out what really happened to the woman.

Second, for awhile now, readers of this series have known that Eric was kidnapped by Sheriff Gene Dalton when he was a young kid who got too close to Rockton while he was out exploring. We now know what a piece of garbage Gene Dalton was through letters found from Eric's actual birth mother, Amy Mulligan who tried really hard to get Eric back, only to fear losing Jacob. We also know that Eric hasn't found time to deal with his adoptive parents actions, especially Gene, while Eric has been avoiding all contact with Katherine Dalton, the woman who raised Eric after he was taken.

If you have read the first book in the new Haven Rock series, you are aware that a certain event happens in this book that really is a long time coming. No spoilers, but readers of the series can pretty much guess what I am referring to. Also, in the final chapters of this novella, are the first chapters of the new Haven Rock series. So, read the novella, and then read the new series that way you will be caught up with everything that happened after the Rockton series ended.

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#Review - Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros #Fantasy

Series: The Empyrean (#1)
Format: Hardcover, 528 pages
Release Date: May 2, 2023
Publisher: Entangled (Red Tower Books)
Source: Library
Genre: Fantasy / Dragons

Enter the brutal and elite world of a war college for dragon riders from USA Today bestselling author Rebecca Yarros

Twenty-year-old Violet Sorrengail was supposed to enter the Scribe Quadrant, living a quiet life among books and history. Now, the commanding general—also known as her tough-as-talons mother—has ordered Violet to join the hundreds of candidates striving to become the elite of Navarre: dragon riders.

But when you’re smaller than everyone else and your body is brittle, death is only a heartbeat away...because dragons don’t bond to “fragile” humans. They incinerate them.

With fewer dragons willing to bond than cadets, most would kill Violet to better their own chances of success. The rest would kill her just for being her mother’s daughter—like Xaden Riorson, the most powerful and ruthless wingleader in the Riders Quadrant.

She’ll need every edge her wits can give her just to see the next sunrise.

Yet, with every day that passes, the war outside grows more deadly, the kingdom's protective wards are failing, and the death toll continues to rise. Even worse, Violet begins to suspect leadership is hiding a terrible secret.

Friends, enemies, lovers. Everyone at Basgiath War College has an agenda—because once you enter, there are only two ways out: graduate or die.

 

 

"A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without its dragon is dead."-Article One, Section One. The Dragon Rider's Codex 🐉 

 

Rebecca Yarros's Fourth Wing is the first installment in the authors The Empyrean series. Friends, enemies, lovers. Everyone at Basgiath War College has an agenda—because once you enter, there are only two ways out: graduate or die. 20-year-old Violet Sorrengail trained for years to enter the Scribe Quadrant, living a quiet life among books and history. She wanted to follow in her father's footsteps. Now, however, the commanding general—also known as her tough-as-talons mother—has ordered Violet to join the hundreds of candidates striving to become the elite of Navarre: dragon riders.

Violet's older sister Mira, who has a reputation of her own as a valiant dragon rider, objects but has little say over her own mothers decision. Got to say that I adored Mira. She was very protective of Violet, and even went as far as to give her the tools in order to prevent someone from quickly killing her quickly. Unfortunately for Violet, she is smaller than everyone else and she has battled a chronic illness all her life. She has to overcome challenges that she wasn't built for using her wits and anything else at her disposal. 

In this world, death is only a heartbeat away...because dragons don’t bond to “fragile” humans. They incinerate them. With fewer dragons willing to bond than cadets, and over 300 trying to become one of the elite, Violet has a huge target on her back. More than a few of the candidates would gladly kill her just for being the daughter of a ruthless Commander. Others like Xaden Riorson, the most powerful and ruthless wingleader in the Riders Quadrant and the son of a legendary traitor who tried to bring down the monarchy, looks at Violet as payback for what her mother did. 

Violet's brother Brennan was allegedly killed by Xaden's father but was captured by Violet's mother. To make matters more dangerous for Violet, all of the children of rebellion leaders were given no choice but to join Basgiath War College to become dragon riders as punishment for their parents actions. She’ll need every edge, including a childhood friend, and a girl she saves from certain death along with her wits, just to see the next sunrise. 

Yet, with every day that passes, the war outside grows more deadly, the kingdom's protective wards are failing, and the death toll continues to rise. Even worse, Violet begins to suspect leadership is hiding a terrible secret. Certain death seems to be around every corner. Violet is not going down without a fight, and she will do everything she can to defy the odds to earn her spot. But during Presentation Day, when candidates are either chosen by a dragon, or ignored, Violet finds that she has become even more of a target after a dragon that hasn't been seen in 6 years decides to bond with her. 

To make matters more twisted, Xaden seems to be actually trying to help her survive, rather than just kill her quickly. She should stay away from him, but a fire burns between these two that is bound to consume them both. Thanks to Violet's training and her father's urging, Violet is brilliant. Her mind is her strength and what she needs to survive. This book captivated me with its compelling characters. Violet's relentless determination to become a formidable individual, even with her flaws and occasional outbursts, made her an awesome protagonist.

Skilled world building, fascinating details of dragon training, looming conspiracies, and a blazing love story make this one impossible to put down. I hear through the grapevine that the sequel will be releasing later in 2023. YAY!!! 

To approach a green dragon, lower your eyes in supplication and wait for their approval. That's what I read, right?

I drop my gaze as one chuffs another breath at me. It's hot and appallingly wet, but I'm not dead yet, so that's a plus.

The one on the right chortles deep in its throat. Wait, is that the sound of approval I'm looking for?
Shit, I wish I'd asked Mira.

Mira. She's going to be devastated when she reads the rolls.

I lift my head and suck in a sharp breath. They're even closer. The one on the left nudges my hands with its giant nose, but I somehow stand my ground, rocking back on my heels to keep from falling over.

Greens are the most reasonable.

"I cut my hands climbing the obstacle course." I lift my palms, like they can see through the black fabric binding my wounds.

The one on the right sets its nose right at my breasts and chuffs again.

What. The. Hell.

It inhales, making that noise in its throat, and the other shoves its nose into my ribs, making me raise my arms just in case they feel like taking a little nibble.

"Violet!" Rhiannon whisper-shouts.

"I'm all right!" I call back, then wince, hoping I didn't just seal my fate by screaming in their ears.

Another chuff. Another chortle, like they're talking to each other as they sniff me.

The one under my arm moves its nostrils to my back and sniffs again.

Realization hits and I choke out a tight, surreal laugh. "You smell Teine, don't you?" I ask quietly.
They both draw back, just far enough for me to look them in their golden eyes, but they keep their jaws shut, giving me the courage to keep talking.

"I'm Mira's sister, Violet." Slowly lowering my arms, I run my hands over my snot-covered vest and the armor carefully sewn into it. "She collected Teine's scales after he shed them last year and had them shrunk down so she could sew them into the vest to help keep me safe."

The one on the right blinks.

The one on the left sticks its nose in again, sniffing loudly.

"The scales have saved me a few times," I whisper. "But no one else knows they're in there. Just Mira and Teine."

They both blink at me, and I lower my gaze, bowing my head because it feels like the thing to do. Professor Kaori taught us every way to approach a dragon and exactly zero ways to disengage one.

Step by step, they retreat until I see them take up their places in line in my peripherals, and I finally raise my head.

Taking several deep breaths, I try to lock my muscles to keep from trembling.

"Violet." Rhiannon is only a few feet away, a look of terror in her eyes. She must have been right behind their heads.

"I'm fine." I force a smile and nod. "I have dragon-scale armor under the vest," I whisper. "They smell my sister's dragon." If she wants trust, there it is. "Please don't tell anyone."

"I won't," she whispers. "You're all right?"

"Other than having a few years of my life shaved off." I laugh. The sound is shaky, bordering on hysteria.

"Let's get out of here." She swallows, her gaze darting toward the line of dragons.

"Good idea."

She turns and walks back to her place, and once there's fifteen feet between us, I follow.

"I think I just shat myself," Ridoc says, and my laughter only pitches higher as we move through the field.

"Honestly, I thought they were going to eat you," Luca remarks.

"Me too," I admit.

"I wouldn't have blamed them," she continues.

"You're insufferable," Ridoc calls back.

I focus on the path and keep walking.

"What? She's obviously our weakest link after Pryor, and I don't blame them for snuffing him out," she argues. "He could never make a decision, and no one wants someone like that as their rider-"

A blast of heat singes my back and I halt.

Don't be Ridoc. Don't be-

"Guess the dragons think she's insufferable, too," Ridoc mutters.

Our squad is down to six first-years.

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