The Swift Codex
Feraline Swift finds herself outside of her home, battered and bruised, wearing shredded clothes and having no memory of how it happened. In fact, she has no memory of the last three days at all.
When bounty hunters come looking for her in the name of the Magic Constabulary, Fera runs for the man heading the case in the hopes of getting help. Instead, she finds her magic has returned and she has no control over it …
My last conscious memory was the final Amazonian life leech larvae falling from my tweezers into the earthenware spice dish, where it wriggled with the rest like animated saffron stamens. After this, incoherent maybe-dreams.
I’d been in a spook house with Railey, there had been a ghost hiding from us, and it had been a nice house, a sorcerer’s house. I remembered it was strange to see a ghost, even that of a child, living with spell-casters. The two seldom mixed. And there had been a secret room with black magic written on the walls and a book depicting ceremonial bones, and the landlord had found us and killed me, then I ran and was chased all over the country but I could never say who was chasing me, but even now I remembered the way the bones oozed foul magic when I smashed them.
Incoherent definitely-dreams. I rubbed my forehead, discovering that my hands were coated in mud and dirt was packed around my nails.
Fera killed a man and the fey community has called her to stand before them or lose her family and the magic derived of that heritage. But first, she has to survive the Verdant Wildwoods to reach them.
Can she pass the tests of the Wildwoods and face the fey assembly alike? Tricks and illusions abound and nothing will be as it appears, putting her new relationship with Mordon to the test.
The thing I remembered above all else of Gregor Cole’s death was the foul stench of burning hair.
Encompassed in darkness, I had nothing to distract me from the things I might have dreamed, might have remembered. Cole’s spell book which in some versions had a bookmark of finger bones, in other versions a bookmark of a fleshy finger. The walls bled and cried, subjected to wearing the gouges of a dark Unwritten spell upon their wallpaper. I fancied what it was like to die, and to come back again. Every now and again there was a fight with the shadow dragon. It was odd, that I was being asked after the method of Cole’s death—a thing I had been very much awake and aware for—but I was being haunted instead by when he had killed me.
In the quiet hours of closing up a shop in Merlyn’s Market, Feraline Swift, a novice agent for Death currently floundering with the rediscovery of her magic, finds something unusual: A woman running from Death’s enemy who entrusts Fera with her child—right before bursting into flames.
Swarmed with questions, Fera seeks answers no one wants to give. Who was the woman, where did she come from? Why did she self-incinerate, was it a curse, or was she a Creature? And why do the dark sorcerers want the child so badly?
She spoke. I couldn’t hear what she said. Brown hair askew, she took shuddering gasps and tried over and over to tell me something. She looked pregnant and in distress, but her sudden appearance had me wary. I approached her and leaned my ear in closer and closer, until I could make out her words.
“Are you Feraline Swift?”
She looked up, now certain I’d heard her.
How she knew my name, I could only guess, but I saw no reason to deny it. “I am. Who are you?”
“Josephina.” Wild-eyed, she grasped me by my shirt and dug talon-like nails into it. “Gregor Cole…was dead.”
I wetted my lips. “The papers say he just went missing for a time.”
“He was with Death and we both know it! He was snatched out of purgatory and placed back on the earth. And they want to do worse. Didn’t say what.”
I hadn’t felt so exposed since I’d had a classmate confront me about cheating on a college algebra pop quiz, wanting to deny all she said but being unable to do so convincingly. I ignored what she said about Death.
Josephina had the black, shining eyes of a bird of prey, one which fear had touched and driven to wit’s end. She begged, “Don’t let me fall into his hands. Promise it. Swear it! On a blood oath, swear to me you won’t let me into his hands.”
When bogey-buster Feraline Swift fell into a client’s trap, she uncovered a terrible secret, died, and was brought back with magic that wouldn’t do as it was told. Now defending herself and her reputation from Commandant Cole’s inquisition, she must prove that she’s sane—and that black magic exists in the highest places.
The rescue of a man from Commandant Cole’s dungeon tosses Fera into the middle of Death’s business, like it or not. Driven by insatiable curiousity, Fera decides to help him by finding an ancient rite which has long been intentionally forgotten. If she doesn’t, those who die will be doomed to wander the living real forever.
Fera’s only hope to help lies in piecing together Unwritten magic, however she finds herself exiled from the sorcerer’s community. She turns to the dragon-shifting Kragdomen Colony, but her fiance’s elder brother has come to take his place.
If she fails to calm Kragdomen’s turmoil, and uncover the Unwritten rite, she’ll have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide from Commandant Cole’s power.
A university student, Brandy, goes to pick up her room mate from a party house. Despite warnings from a neighbor Brandy is determined to take her friend home, but gets forcibly injected with Bliss, a drug used by the Bliss dens to steal magic from victims. She is rescued from Thaimon by Nicholas Wraithbane who works for the thaumaturgical witness protection agency which operates under the guise of the Black Kettle Cafe. Brandy becomes involved in the Kettle’s affairs and intrigued by both the magic Bliss has awoken in her and Bliss itself. Season 1 follows Brandy’s aspiration of becoming accepted into the Kettle.
Single Stand-Alone Titles
Black Locust Letters
A morning show host must unearth the truth behind the murder of a special forces operative and relay coded messages to the troops before the nukes fly on a very secret military base.
Betty Cratchet sat upon her favorite willow bench in Sunny Glenn market to watch the gremlins scurry up the tower with their wrenches to change the hands for tea time. Betty had boring blue eyes and somewhat dark hair and her father’s military jaw. She was not whiskey in a teacup, nor was she bubbly sweet soda, she was more akin to a cup of hot milk or perhaps spiced eggnog on the days she really had her wits about her. In short, she was best had alone, right before bed, in place of any dessert. Long had she accepted her solitary station in life, but that made it no easier to swallow, and it could not make her home any warmer.
Nor would the murder she is about to witness.